? 
 
 i I 
 
 THE 
 
 Twentieth Century Speaker. 
 
 \ 
 
 Readings and Recitations for Use in 
 
 Schools, Colleges, and Public 
 
 Entertainments. 
 
 COMPILED BY MINNIE QUINN, 
 
 1898. 
 
r 
 
 
 \ 
 
PN 4217 
 .05 
 Copy 1 
 
 JUN 4 W ; 
 
 THF 
 
 Twentieth Century Speaker. 
 
 Readings and Recitations for Use in 
 
 Schools, Colleges, and Public 
 
 Entertainments. 
 
 COMPILED BY MINNIE OUINN. 
 
 Atlanta, Ga 
 
 The Foote & Davies Company 
 
 Printers and Binders 
 
.Of 
 
 7695 
 
 COPYRIGHTED, 1898, 
 BY 
 
 MINNIE QTJINN- 
 
 LC Control Number 
 
 tmp96 031310 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 In arranging- this collection, the compiler has taken 
 care to use only such selections as were suitable for rendi- 
 tion in public. 
 
 Many of the pieces, in fact, have been tested by her in 
 public recitals and in class work, and have met with un- 
 varying success. 
 
 The selections intended for use with musical accompa- 
 niments .are so arranged as to be adapted to familiar airs. 
 
 The dialogue and costume recitations require simple 
 costuming, and the encores are bright and catchy. 
 
 Many of the selections appear in print for the first 
 time in this volume, and a number were written expressly 
 for it. 
 
 Thanks are due the Century Publishing Co., The South- 
 ern Magazine, and other publications, for the kind per- 
 mission to use copyrighted articles, and also to the con- 
 tributors who have so cheerfully lent their assistance to 
 the undertaking. 
 
 Respectfully, 
 
 MINNIE QUINN. 
 
 Atlanta, Ga. 
 
6 TWENTIETH' CENTUR V 8PEA KER. 
 
 Down the railroad 8he strained her eager eyes, shading 
 them with one small white hand, while the other, tight- 
 clasped, held the letter with the precious words: " I shall 
 be with you on Monday." 
 
 On the other side of the low fence, amid the sassafras 
 bushes, Mammy Dilly, black, fat and jolly, rested her arms 
 on the top rail. 
 
 " Dey be here pres'ney, honey. I'm mighty anxious to 
 see my boy and Marse Hugh. I know Isham come if Mars. 
 Hugh come. Dey'll git 'em a furlough togedder, dey's so 
 cornstan'. Dar de train now!" 
 
 It came nearer, it stopped. Isham stepped out, wearing 
 an old army cap and a soiled gray jacket, with red trim- 
 mings. 
 
 "Howdy, Isham; howdy. Whar Marse Hugh?" 
 
 " My Gord, mammy, is dat you? Is dat Miss Marg'et 
 yander? Oh, mammy, teck Miss Marg'et back to de 
 house ! ' ' 
 
 " You fool boy, how I gwine teck Miss Marge' t back to 
 de house when Marse Hugh comin' home? You's stracted. 
 chile." 
 
 Men were lowering something from the baggage oar. 
 Isham saw it through a rain of sudden tears and, taking 
 off his cap, said, with head bowed, " Marse Hugh done — 
 done come home — to stay, mammy, wid a bullet in his 
 toress'." 
 
 A gray heap lav under th( 4 china-tree; a face still and 
 pallid amid the yellow leaves shining in the sunlight. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 A CROP 0' KISSES. 
 
 FEANK L. STANTON. 
 
 TT^ROM her side I go a-singin' in the mornin' cool an' gray, 
 ■*- When the dew shines in the furrow, an' the hills climb 
 
 into day; 
 An' I kiss her at the partin' — she's the sweetest thing in 
 
 life — 
 Like I use' to kiss my sweetheart, 'fore my sweetheart was 
 
 my wife. 
 
 It's a kind o' "good-bye" kissin' — though it's kissin' 
 
 mighty soon! 
 An' I say: " I'll make it last me till the shadders point to 
 
 noon." 
 An' the keen larks sing: " He kissed her !" an' the winds 
 
 sing: " So did we!" 
 When some wild rose comes a climbin' an' jes' steals her 
 
 kiss from me! 
 
 Then the plow stands in the furrow, an' my dreamin' eyes 
 
 I shield 
 As I look where last I left her, as I sing across the field : 
 " Here's the winds a-laughin' at me; here's the larks a- 
 
 singin' this: 
 "He's kissed her, kissed her, kissed her — but the rose has 
 
 stole the kiss!'" 
 
 Then, with all the birds a-singin' an' a-twittin' me so 
 
 sweet, 
 I lose sight o' all the grasses roun' the corn-blades at my 
 
 feet, 
 An' my horse looks roun' a-wonderin' ; till he almost 
 
 seems to say: 
 " Will you make a crop o' kisses, or another crop o' hay?" 
 
8 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 An' I don't know how to answer, for I'm thinkin', an' I 
 
 seem 
 Like a' feller jes' a-wakin' from the middle of a dream; 
 An' my horse is out o' harness, with his mane a-flowin' 
 
 free, 
 An' the rose that stole her kisses — well, she kisses it an' 
 
 me ! 
 
 THE CITY OF REST. 
 
 JULIA RIORDAN. 
 
 T was weary of earth and its pleasures, 
 
 I was weary of strife and its gain; 
 I was weary of toiling and struggling, 
 
 Of dreaming and hoping in vain. 
 And my heart was impatient and restless, 
 
 For life seemed but sad at its best; 
 And I sought, with a passionate longing, 
 
 For the beautiful City of Rest. 
 
 I knew not that no one had found it, 
 
 That wise men had sought it in vain; 
 I felt but the wild, restless longing 
 
 That thrilled through my heart and my brain 
 And I sought for it all the world over, 
 
 From the east to the sun-tinted west; 
 But no one could show me the pathway 
 
 That led to the City of Rest. 
 
 I asked of the birds and the blossoms, 
 
 I asked of a cloud in the sky; 
 But the birds and the blossoms were silent. 
 
 And the cloud drifted heedlessly by. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 I asked of the murmuring breezes, 
 
 As they passed on their way to the west, 
 
 If, in their aerial journey, 
 
 They had heard of a city called " Rest." 
 
 And they paused for a moment to answer, 
 Then sped on their way with a sigh, 
 
 As they whispered, "We also have sought it- 
 . We are seeking it now — good-bye ! ' ' 
 
 I asked of a swift-flowing river, 
 
 Whose bosom the stately ships pressed, 
 
 ' l Had it passed on its way to the ocean 
 A beautiful city called ' Rest?' " 
 
 And the little waves, murmuring sadly, 
 
 Brought back the answer to me, 
 While the ships sailed on to the ocean, 
 
 And the river sailed on to the sea : 
 "I, too, am seeking the city 
 
 Where the worn and the weary are blest, 
 But I fear that I never shall find it — 
 
 The beautiful City of Rest !" 
 
 So, for long, long years, I sought it, 
 
 Till at last, one bright summer day, 
 I entered, by chance, in my rambles, 
 
 A little church, old and gray. 
 And the white-haired priest rose slowly 
 
 In the hush that followed the prayer, 
 And read from the time-worn Bible 
 
 That lay on the altar there: 
 
 " Come to me, ye who are weary, 
 
 And I will give to you rest." 
 And the burden of sorrow and longing 
 
 Was lifted, at least, from my breast. 
 
10 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 For I knew that my journey was ended, 
 And down in the mystical west, 
 
 Where life's sun was peacefully setting, 
 I found the City of Rest. 
 
 PRISCILLAPRUE.* 
 
 MINNIE QUINN. 
 
 T ITTLE Miss Priscilla Prue, 
 
 With her eyes of clearest blue, 
 And her cheeks of rosy hue, 
 
 Lived in Boston, Long Ago. 
 And the village people said 
 That this charming little maid 
 Was enough to turn one's head, 
 
 When she smiled and dimpled so! 
 
 Miss Priscilla 's yellow gown 
 Was the wonder of the town, 
 Where the leading shade was brown, 
 
 In the somber Long Ago. 
 And her dainty, tripping feet, 
 With their high-heeled boots petite, 
 Made the dullest hearts to beat; 
 
 Though they chid .her dancing so. 
 [Dance step — two measures.] 
 
 [*Very pretty costume recitation tor a little girl. Km pi re gown of Some yellow 
 material; hair in Greek knot on top of head; high-heelea slippers; mitts on 
 hands. Have a straight-barked chair on stage and recite the third stanza 
 seated. Use two bars of "Comin' Thro' the Rye" between second and third 
 stanzas, advance slowly across stage and return. Curtsy profoundly at close.] 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 11 
 
 Young and old alike she swayed, 
 
 This alluring little maid; 
 
 Tho' she was not prim and staid, 
 
 Like the folk of Long Ago. 
 Every youth, from far and wide, 
 Longed to win her for his bride. 
 But Priscilla only sighed, 
 
 And demurely answered, "No. 
 
 1 ■> 
 
 But at last there came a day 
 When her heart was charmed away, 
 When she could not answer "nay," 
 
 As one pleaded, Long Ago. 
 So, the brave eyes, clear and blue, 
 And the red lips, sweet and true, 
 Answered him who came to woo, 
 
 "Yes, — because — I love you so!" 
 
 THE CITY CHOIR DUET. 
 
 LUCIUS PERRY HILLS. 
 
 T'VE been down to Atlanta, wife, an' staid a week or 
 
 more, 
 An' thar I seed a heep o' things I never seen a-fore, 
 But I want mos' perticalar, to tell you 'bout a toon 
 I heerd a city choir sing on Sunday a'ternoon. 
 
 You know when we war boys an' gals, they had preachm' 
 
 Sunday nights 
 In the little ole log meetin'-house, at airly can'le-light; 
 
12 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 An' when it come to singin' hymns, accordin' to my 
 
 tas'e, 
 You war the captain as a trible, an' me tol'able on bass. 
 
 So I jest as't a chap I met as I war strollin' roun,' 
 Whar they had the purtiest music of any meetin '-house 
 
 in town? 
 An' he p'inted to a buildin' with a steeple, I declar', 
 Mos' as high, an' twice as peaked, as ole Sharp Top over 
 
 thai*. 
 
 A feller took me to a seat, way back agin' the wall, 
 
 I 'spose so I could see the mos' 'thout turn in' roun' a1 
 
 all, 
 An' I thought how mighty clever them 'ar city chaps 
 
 mus' be, 
 To study the convenience of a mount' ineer like me. 
 
 Well, I wasn't long to take the hint, but jest sot thai* an' 
 
 gazed 
 At the queer an' purty fixin's, till I grew so sort o' dazed. 
 That I r'ally eenamost begun to wonder if I had 
 Somehow walked right into Heaven, 'thout knowiir T war 
 
 dead. 
 
 The big, high winders that they had, to let the daylighl 
 
 through, 
 War made of queer-shaped little glasses, colored yaller, 
 
 red an' blue; 
 An' the ceilin' war all frigerceed, or whatever 'tis they 
 
 call 
 That 'ar sort of ngger paintin' that they put onto the 
 
 wa 1 1 . 
 
 The choir sot up in a loft where everyone could see, 
 An' the orgin up behind 'em war the queerest thing t<> 
 me, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 13 
 
 For I vow that it war 'bout as big as this 'ere cabin here, 
 An' the chap that played onto't, — I think they called the 
 organeer. 
 
 When the folks had ariv' an sot down, the orgineer 
 Played a perliminary toon, they called a volunteer, 
 Then he give a little signal for the choir to begin, 
 When they all riz in their places, an' together started in. 
 
 For a while it seemed to me that they war singing of a 
 
 race, 
 First the alter with the trible, then the tenor with the 
 
 bass; 
 Then the alter, bass an' trible, started a three-cornered 
 
 song, 
 Till bimeby the tenor humped hisself , an' holp the thing 
 
 along. 
 
 Then they all stopped but the trible, an' she begun to 
 
 sail, 
 With her demer-semer-quaverin', all up an' down the 
 
 scale, 
 Till the twistin's an' giratin's of her vocal acrobets, 
 'Minded me of circus fellers, turnin' double summersets. 
 
 Then the singin' stopped a minute, while the organeer, he 
 
 played 
 A toon so melancholy like, I sw'ar, it fairly made, 
 In spite of all that I could do, two little streams of brine, 
 Come gushin' from the corners of these tough ole eyes 
 
 o' mine. 
 
 Then the tenor an 1 the trible started in on a duet, 
 An' talk of soothin' music, that war soothin' you kin 
 bet; 
 
14 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 For it war as soft an' tender as the gentle mount' in 
 
 breeze, 
 
 That of a summer evenin' goes a soughin' through the 
 
 trees. 
 
 An' the longer they kept singin', the more soothin'er it 
 
 got, 
 Till they come to taper off the eend, an' theD you see, I 
 
 sot 
 An' shet my eyes an' listened, till I r'ally thought, 
 
 Marier, 
 The very angels had come down an' j'ined that city choir. 
 
 Now, I don't go much on golden streets, for't kinder 
 
 seems to me, 
 That sich pavin' stuns an' these ole feet won't mos'ly jest 
 
 agree ; 
 An' as for playin' hymns an' psalms on golden harps, 
 
 good laws! 
 My hands 'ud be as clumsy as a pair o' lobster's claws. 
 
 But when the time has come at last, for me to take the 
 
 trail 
 To the van side of the mount'n, from this sublernarv 
 
 vale! 
 An' I walk up sort o' tremblin', an' present myself 
 
 before 
 The angel that's app'inted to tote the keys to heaven's 
 
 door, 
 
 If he should grant to let me in to everlastin' bliss. 
 An' offer me my ruther thar, I'll only ask for this — 
 Through all th' indurin' ages of eternity, to set 
 An' listen while the angels sing that city choir duel. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 15 
 
 THE REASON WHY. 
 
 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. 
 
 T'D like, indeed I'd like to know 
 
 Why sister Bell, who loved me so, 
 And used to pet me day and night, 
 And could not bear me out of sight, 
 Now always looks so cross and glum, 
 If to her side I chance to come, 
 When that great, gawky man is nigh; 
 I'd like to know the reason why? 
 
 That man! I hate him! yes, I do, 
 And, in my place, you'd hate him too. 
 At first (his common name is John!) 
 He brought me boxes of bonbons, 
 With books, and dolls, and tiny rings, 
 And lots on lots of precious things, 
 And said, of all Miss Pontoon's girls, 
 Not one could match my flowing curls, 
 My rosy cheeks and rounded chin, 
 With one sly dimple nestling in. 
 But now he seems so stern and high, 
 I scarce may catch his scornful eye, 
 While as for toys! — he has ceased to buy! 
 Tell me, who can, the reason why? 
 
 It's mean! dear me! I'm sure it's mean! 
 Did I not run a "Go-between" 
 From him to Sister Bell so long, 
 (Although I feared it might be wrong) 
 AVith sweetmeats, flowers, and scented notes, 
 Sealed by two doves with curving throats? 
 
16 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Of course I thought him kind and nice, 
 But now, he's cold as arctic ice ! 
 And more than once I've heard him say, 
 "That chit's forever in the way!" 
 While Bell — she snaps ! till I could cry. 
 Will no one tell the reason why? 
 
 LATER. 
 
 Think — Mr. John's my friend again. 
 ('Twas yesternight he made it plain) 
 For most of our big household's gone 
 To Friday's lecture, — left alone, 
 But Bell and I; he came to tea, 
 (As now he's coming constantly,) 
 And spoke to me quite warmly — quite: 
 "Lizzie, you are not looking bright; 
 And since both Bell and I are here, 
 Take Nurse, and see the circus, dear: 
 I'll pay, my love ! accept of this." 
 (A wee gold dollar, and a kiss!) 
 "Why don't you come with Bell?" asked I 
 He smiled, but would not answer why. 
 
 LATER STILL. 
 
 Good news! good news! I'm almost mad, 
 I feel so pleased, so proud and glad. 
 To-morrow is the wedding-day; 
 Papa will give our Bell away, 
 And I'm a bridesmaid! oh, my dress! 
 "Soft waves of white silk loveliness," 
 Bell says, "with grace in every tuck!" 
 And isn't Brother John a duck? 
 (I call him Brother now, you see.) 
 He gave this dainty dress to me, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 17 
 
 And said, his "little friend must look 
 Fair as a picture in a book." 
 I answered gaily, "I shall try!" 
 What need to ask the reason why? 
 
 UNCLE EDOM AT THE CIRCUS, 
 
 BY MISS E. F. ANDREWS [ELZEY HAY] . 
 
 Author of "A Family Secret ," "Prince Hal," "A Mere Adventurer," 
 "The Story of an Ugly Girl," etc., etc. 
 
 UT DO AN see no call to bring me up 'fo de chu'ch, 
 brer Junifer, jes' fur gwine to dat succuSj case I 
 nuver went dar o' my own mind. I aint keer nothing 'tall 
 'bout dere foolishness, but Dilsy, she seh she wanter tek 
 •de chillun to see de anamils, an' I aint see no harm in 
 dat, 'case Noah had all de anamils in de ark, an' so dar's 
 scriptur fur dat, doan you see? 
 
 "How I come to scademize de chu'ch, you ax, by jinin' 
 in de percession wid dem shpw folks, dressed up in dat 
 scarlit robe, lak de 'oman o' Babylum? 
 
 "Well, Ise gwineter 'splain to yo 'bout dat, right now. 
 I ain't had no money, you see, but jes' a quarter an' two 
 ten centses au' a thrip, an' when I han' it to de showman, 
 he seh 'twarnt enough, I couldn't tek all dem chillun in 
 fur dat, an' so I was gwine away agin, when another man, 
 he seh: 
 
 " 'Hello", uncle, ef you'll come along heer an' do a little 
 job o' wuk, I'll let you in fur nothin'. 
 
 "An' den I seh. mighty quick, 'All right, boss; wha'you 
 want me to do.' 
 
 "An' he 'low, 'Jes' come heer,' he seh, 'an' tek Mike 
 Tooney's place in de percession while it march froo town, 
 
18 TWENTIETH CEXTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 an' when you git back, you kin tek yo' fambly in an' see 
 de show fur nothin'. 
 
 "An' fo 1 knowed what he was a-talkin' about, he had 
 done took an.' kivered me up wid one o' dem red things 
 jes' lak a 'oman's frock, an' sot dat pinted cap wid de 
 peacock's feather in it on my head, and put t'other een' 
 o' de rope what tie dat onarthly creetur, de cammle. in 
 my han', an' seh: 
 
 •• "Now, git along wid you ole nigger, an' min' you step 
 up quick.' 
 
 "Ail, my brudder, when I look at all dem beases, I feel 
 dat Saturn was close behime me, an' I git outen de way <>' 
 dat cammle quick as ever I kin, and seh: - 
 
 u ' 'No, boss, I can't go dar 'long wid all dem beas'es; 
 Ise a preacher, an 1 it would scademize de chu'ch members 
 to see me conrlomeratin' around in dese heer outlandish 
 clp'es.' 
 
 "And den he answer: 'Shet up, you ole cuss, you, an' 
 git along back in dat percession, or I'll show you how t<> 
 go about breckin' up your comtracks wid white folks.' 
 
 "An' he crack dat big whip what he hilt in his han* 
 right in my face, so dat I halter git back in dat line 
 quick. I tell you what, brer Junifer, ,twamt no fun a 
 gwine along dar wid all dem beases a trompin' along be- 
 hind me, an' I feel den dat Saturn was a pressin' of me 
 hard, sho' 'nough. De brederen all ey ■■ me mighty sor- 
 rowful as we pass along, an' shake dere heads; an' when 
 we come to Lon Eitson's cornder, Sis Beady Pounds, shu 
 come a rLimiiiT out in do street a hollerin' an 1 a cryin' fit 
 to kill herself, an 1 seji: 
 
 " Dar goes my shepherd, my shepherd, a walkin' down 
 de road to Egyp 1 Ian'! Coirie back, Brer Edom, come back 
 out ci- Egyp' lanV An' a'mos' 'fo de words was out en her 
 mouf. 1 felt subapeu a fetchin' me behime, an' dar was 
 dal ole elepnanter a retchiri' out his snout over my head. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 19 
 
 an' he ketch Sis Beady by de tail o' her coat an' histed 
 her clean over to t'other side o' de street, an' sot her 
 down dar wrong een' uppermost. An' den all dem white 
 folks, dey begin to laugh, an' dat show man, he crack his 
 big whip at me as I was a runnin' to help Sis Beady, so 
 I hatter git back in dat percession quick, en' stay dar tell 
 it come back to de succus tent agin. 
 
 " I jes' tell you, Brer Junifer, I had done had enough 
 er dem beases by dat time, but Dilsy, she 'lowed she mus' 
 tek de chillun in to see de ana mils. She seh anamils is a 
 high morril show, an' she want to 'prove dem chillun's 
 morrils, an' you know, Brer Junifer, when a 'oman git 
 her head sot to do sumpen, she ingenerly do it, an' so I 
 hatter go in fur de sake o' peace. 
 
 "What mek I didn't stay in dar wid de anamils, you 
 seh, stidder goin' in whar de sinners was a settin' lookin' 
 at de dancin' an' de ridin'? Well, Ise a gwineter tell you 
 1 bout dat right now. You see dar warn't no place to set 
 down in dar whar de anamils was, an' de chillun, dey had 
 got tired, an' so I hatter tek 'em in de succus tent whar 
 dey could set down an' res' deyselves. 
 
 "Why I didn't go 'long back home, you seh? Well, Ise 
 gwine to 'splain dat to you now. You see I was afeard de 
 man wouldn't like it, after he had gin me de ticket, ef I 
 was to jes' walk right out agin; hit wouldn't be perlite^ 
 an* you know de Scriptur tells us to do unto others what 
 we like to do ourselves, an' so I was erbleeged to go in dar 
 a little while, or go agin de Scriptur; you see dat, doan 
 you. Brer Junifer? 
 
 •"Yes. dasso; I thought you would on'erstan' when I 
 come to 'splain it all. I didn't keer nothin' 'tall about 
 seein' dere foolishness, an' shet my eyes jes' ez soon ez de 
 show begin, to keep fum seein' dere wickedness. An' a 
 powerful sight dar was to see, too, when dat white lady 
 come out dar all dressed up in red silk wid gold stars all 
 
20 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 over it jes' lak a queen, an' went to spinnin' 'roun' on dat 
 hoss's back most same ez a top, an' den turn head over 
 heels plum froo dem rings what de man hilt up befo' her. 
 Good Lord a'mighty, Brer Junifer! you never see a rabbit 
 jump outen a brier patch peerter'n her. You jes' orter a 
 ben dar to see. 
 
 ''Thought I had my eyes shet, you seh? 
 
 "Well, Ise a gwineter tell you 'bout dat now. You see 
 I was erbleeged to open 'em atter awhile, to see ef Dilsy 
 hed hern shet, 'caze de 'oman is de weaker vessel you 
 know, Brer Junifer, an' mus' be kept fum temtatium, 
 lessen her fall, an' I hatter keep my eyes open to watch 
 Dilsy an' tell her when to shet hern, an' so I couldn't 
 he'p a seein', though I ain't want to look at none o' dere 
 wickedness. But I stood up fur de Lord, Brer Junifer, I 
 stood up fur de Lord right dar in de tents o' Saturn, an' 
 Ise a gwineter tell now how it happen. Atter awhile, a 
 man come out a ridin' o' four hosses at oust, an' he hat- 
 ter stretch his legs so a straddlin' o' all dem critters an' 
 I was so skeered for fear he gwineter hurt hisse'f dat all 
 unbeknownst to myse'f I jump up outer ma seat an' hol- 
 ler out, 'Good Lord a massey, de manUl kill hisse'f!' 
 An' den all dem white folks in de succus, dey begin to 
 laugh fitten to kill deyselves, an' de ole clown, he jes' 
 took an' pinted right at me, an' he seh, sez he, 'Ladies 
 an' gemplemen,' sez he, 'dat dar brudder o' de Ethiopium 
 persuasion has been to de succus befo'. 
 
 "Well, Brer Junifer, I jes' couldn't stair dat, an' me a 
 good Babtis' as ever' body know, an' so I answer back 
 agin, loud as ever I could, an' seh, k No, boss, 'sense, me,' 
 sez I; 'I ain't no Ethiopium, 'Pisperclopium, nor authin' 
 er dat sort; Ise a Babtis', I is'. An' den all dem white 
 folks, dey laugh agin fit to kill deyselves, jes' 'caze I 
 stood up for de Lord an' de Babtis' religion. But I 
 warnM gwine to be put down by none o' dere foolishness. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 21 
 
 an' soon as ever dat show was over, I took Dilsy an' dem 
 chillun an' turn my back on de whole thing an' walk 
 right straight outer dat tent. I stan' up fur my religion 
 to de las', Brer Junifer, an' shake de dust er dere wicked- 
 ness offer my feet ez soon ez ever dat show was over. 
 Yes, I knowed as how you'd seh I was right soon ez you'd 
 heerd de trufe about it, an' now you see dar ain't no call 
 to have me up 'fo de chu'ch jes' along er gwine to dat 
 little ole one hoss show." 
 
 REWARDED 
 
 BRENT WHITESIDE. 
 
 44TI7HAT did he say now, Charlie, 
 What did the preacher say? 
 I'm sorry that I've forgotten; 
 Tomorrow is Christmas day. 
 
 "When he told us about the angels, 
 
 With their harps and their crowns of gold, 
 And a star that guided some shepherds 
 In a story sweet and old. 
 
 "What did he tell us, Charlie? 
 You remember it all, I know; 
 How some one would care for the children 
 Out in the cold and snow. 
 
 "And didn't he tell us, Charlie, 
 We ought to be brave and good, 
 
 And if folks didn't reward us, 
 That heaven certainly would? 
 
22 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 "And, Charlie, lam a-trying, 
 
 And I'll tell you what we'll do, 
 Let's make another happy, 
 Then we'll be happy too. 
 
 "I don't know how to do it, 
 But tomorrow is Christmas day, 
 
 And if we try hard, Charlie, 
 I'm certain we'll find a way." 
 
 So off through the streets they scampered. 
 
 With hearts that were light and gay, 
 In spite of their cold and hunger, 
 
 For the morrow was Christmas day. 
 
 Fast were the snownakes falling, 
 
 Icy the cold winds blew, 
 Freezing their bony fingers, 
 
 Chilling them through and through. 
 
 But they noticed it not nor felt it, 
 So intent on their work were they, 
 
 Just to make another happy, 
 Seeking to find the way. 
 
 Down they crouched in a corner, 
 
 Close to the door of a store 
 Bright with the Christmas treasures 
 They never would long for more. 
 
 Suddenly, out through the stillness, 
 
 Sounded a startled cry, 
 Wildly tearing and plunging 
 
 Two horses dashed madly by, 
 
 Dragging a broken carnage, 
 And a lady pale with fright. 
 
 The two little urchins hurried 
 And slackened their maddened Might. 
 
HEADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 Tightly, with freezing fingers, 
 
 Both to the bridles clung; 
 The horses stopped, but the urchins 
 
 Under their feet they flung. 
 
 Trampling their pale, cold bodies, 
 
 Taking their breath away, 
 But they made another happy, 
 
 And the morrow was Christmas day. 
 
 They had saved a life that evening, 
 And they surely had found the way 
 
 To be happy themselves, for in heaven 
 They spent the Christmas day. 
 
 STANLEY'S MESSAGE. 
 
 FRANK L. STANTON. 
 
 TTOW did the men with Stanley die? " 
 Under the blazing Afric sky, 
 
 Struck by the python's fangs, or slain 
 By poisoned arrows that fell like rain; 
 
 Or tracked and torn on the desert way 
 By hungry lions that watch for prey. 
 The desert's sands and the Congo's flood 
 Were crimsoned deep with their sacred blood 
 
 Brave and faithful they were; but one — 
 Though his life is ended, his mission done, 
 
 Lives in the love of our hearts again — 
 Best and bravest of Stanley's men! 
 
24 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 For lo! when the black king — savage, grim. 
 Stayed the leader and heard from him 
 
 How One called Christ on the cross had died, 
 Scourged and bleeding and crucified, 
 
 He cried: "0 brother! across the sea 
 Send this Christ of the cross to me!" 
 
 Then Stanley summoned his men and said: 
 "The way ye have traveled is reeking red 
 
 With the blood of your hearts. But who will bear 
 This message? Ho! for a volunteer!" 
 
 Then out from the ranks came one and said: 
 "Be mine the dutv," and bowed his head. 
 
 Then Stanley traced with a trembling hand 
 These words : "Send Christ to this darkened land ! *' 
 
 II. 
 
 Over the desert scorched and bare; 
 Swift through the forest wild and drear: 
 
 Leaping light by the lion's lair; 
 Coiled sleek serpents that hissed in air; 
 
 By the unseen foe that hurled the dart 
 Or winged the arrow after his heart. 
 
 Sped a brave and bleeding man 
 
 To Gordon's camp in the far Soudan. 
 
 And the goal is gained, and they crowd around 
 A bleeding form on the holy ground, 
 
 (Made holy then) and they strive to wrest 
 The poisoned shaft from his crimson breast. 
 
 No word he said as his glazing eyes 
 Looked their last on the sen and skies; 
 
EEADIXGS AND RECITATIONS. -O 
 
 But the brave hand pointed the bloody way 
 To the heart where the letter of Stanley lay. 
 
 Rent by the fierce and fatal dart 
 
 And stained by the blood of his faithful heart! 
 
 Only these words, in Stanley's hand: 
 "Send the Christ to his darkened land!" 
 
 AVas this the message of high emprise? 
 Ay! And down from the Christ's own skies 
 
 Swiftly the sorrowing angels came. 
 With wings of white and swords of flame — 
 
 Came, in the arms of love to take 
 
 The life that died for the dear Christ's sake: 
 
 The life whose record was written then: 
 •'Best and bravest of Stanley's men!" 
 
 LITTLE GIFFEN, OF TENNESSEE. 
 
 T FHE story of Little Girl'en is said to be literally true. 
 His name was Isaac Giffen, and he was born of hum- 
 ble parents in one of the hamlets of East Tennessee. His 
 father was a blacksmith. Little GifTen was terribly shot 
 in one of the battles of Tennessee, and carried with other 
 wounded far south to be cared for. Sadly mutilated, 
 and so like a child in appearance as to have seemed 
 "borne by the tide of war from the cradle to the jaws of 
 death," he was taken from the hospital to Columbus, Ga., 
 to the home of Dr. Y. 0. Tichnor, five miles south of that 
 place. He remained with the family a year, but was 
 always anxious to return to the war. which he did in time 
 
26 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 to be killed near Atlanta, it is supposed, and to be buried 
 in one of the numerous graves in Oakland cemetery which 
 bear the melancholy legend, "Unknown." The poem was 
 written by Dr. Y. O. Tichnor: 
 
 Out of the focal and foremost fire, 
 Out of the hospital walls as dire, 
 Smitten of grapeshot and gangrene, 
 (Eighteen battles and he sixteen!) 
 Spectre! such as you seldom see, 
 Little GirYen, of Tennessee! 
 
 "Take him and welcome," the surgeon said; 
 "Little the doctor can help the dead." 
 
 So we took him, and brought him where 
 
 The balm was sweet in the summer air; 
 
 And we laid him down on a wholesome bed — 
 
 Utter Lazarus from heel to head! 
 
 And we watched the war with a bated breath, 
 Skeleton boy against skeleton death, 
 Months of torture, how many such? 
 Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; 
 And still the glint of the steel-blue eye 
 Told of a spirit that wouldn't die. 
 
 And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despite 
 
 The crippled skeleton learned to write. 
 "Dear Mother," at first, of course, and then 
 "Dear Captain," inquiring about the men. 
 
 Captaiif s answer: "Of eighty and five, 
 
 Oiil'en and I are left alive." 
 
 Word of gloom from the war one day: 
 Johnson pressed at the front, they say. 
 Little Gii'l'en was up and away; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 27 
 
 A tear, his first, as he bade good-bye, 
 Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye; 
 'I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight, 
 But none of Giffen — he did not write. 
 
 I sometimes fancy that were I king 
 
 Of the princely Knight of the Golden Ring, 
 
 With the song of the minstrel in mice ear, 
 
 And the tender legend that trembles here, 
 
 I'd give the best on his bended knee, 
 
 The whitest soul of my chivalry, 
 
 For "Little Giffen, of Tennessee." 
 
 THE DULUTH CAMP-MEETING. 
 
 ALEX W. BEALER. 
 
 rrHE annual camp-meeting of the negroes was held at 
 Duluih, thirty miles from the city of Atlanta. It was 
 raining the night I went there, and the negroes had gone 
 into a little church and carried the meeting with them. In 
 order that the proceedings might not be hampered by the 
 white folks, my friend and myself took notes through an 
 open window. The church was crowded, and the opening 
 exercises came near being broken up by two little "coon- 
 lets" sitting near one of the windows. Both were chewing 
 tobacco, and both were spitting through a hole in the 
 window-pane. The furthest one made a mislick and spit 
 in the other's eye, and there came near being a riot in that 
 end of the church. It was quickly broken up by an ancient 
 colored man sitting behind them, for he reached over and 
 snatched them apart just as the wool was beginning to fly, 
 
28 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 exclaiming: "You boy! you doan quit projikin' in de 
 house er de Lawd, de debbil git you sho'." 
 
 There were two preachers in attendance, both young 
 men. One looked as solemn as a defeated candidate, and 
 it seemed as if he was burdened down with the sins of his 
 congregation. The other's face was aglow with happiness 
 and it seemed as if the Master's love for sinful man had 
 found an abiding place in his simple heart, and was shed- 
 ding itself like a sunbeam over his dusky congregation. 
 
 The church was lighted by two lamps, one being on the 
 pulpit, the light falling in flickering waves across the 
 solemn preacher's sable face as he arose and, in a very 
 stumbling manner, read Luke's account of the beggar in 
 the bosom of Abraham, and the rich man suffering in tor- 
 ment. He then began to tell about the two places in a 
 quiet, humdrum tone of voice. As he proceeded, he 
 warmed up to his subject, and exclaimed: "Youse all 
 a-gwine ter heav'n, leasterwise you orter be a-gwine dat 
 a-way, an' you orter be fixin' fer de journey. Wen you 
 gits ready to go way down yonner to Atlanty (thirty 
 miles distant), you talks 'bout hit fer munse befo' you go, 
 but I tell you heav'n ain' lak Atlanty, Duluth ain' lak 
 heav'n, dar ain' no place lak heav'n less'n hit is heav'n. 
 I tells you, my brudders, w'en you git up dar to heav'n 
 you ainter gwineter fine no mo' pain, no mo' sickness, no 
 mo' sorrow, no mo' tribulashuns, no mo' death, no mo' 
 police, no mo' cote-house, an' bless de good Gawd fum 
 whom all blessings fio', dar ainter gwineter be no mo' 
 law vers dar." 
 
 As soon as this burst of eloquence had been given the 
 services were interrupted long enough to permit an old 
 negro who had gone into a trance to be removed, and then 
 the preacher continued: "Somer dese days w'en I'm 
 a-gwine over dese vere mounting roads I see de drummers 
 gwine along wid de big trunks stropped on de waggins 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 29 
 
 behine 'em, an' somer dem wuckin' fer three an' fo' dol- 
 lars a day, an' here's somer you niggers a-wuckin' heap 
 harder fer de debbil an' yon a inter gittin' a nickle fer de 
 wuck y oil's a-doin'." 
 
 "Am' dat de Gawd's trufe," shouted an old sister in the 
 rear of the church. 
 
 "Yes, hit is, sister; gimmo your han' on dat," cried an 
 old brother behind her, and, after shaking hands most 
 heartily, they resumed their seats, and the preacher again 
 took up the thread of his discourse. 
 
 He seemed to be laboring under the disadvantage of 
 talking on an empty stomach, for he said: "Somer dese 
 days, w'en I'm a-gwine rackin' on down de road, I see 
 somer dese niggers shet de do' in my face, but I bless 
 Gawd I kin shet my eyes 'twill I pass dat house, I bless 
 Gawd I kin lif up my han' an' say, bless Gaw r d, I draws 
 my rashuns fnm on hi'; bless Gawd, de good book do 
 sholy say man sh ill not live by bread alone — " 
 
 "You rite, brudder!" shouted an old man on the front- 
 seat, "he gotter hab a slice er meat to go loDg wid it." 
 
 "Oh, my brudders, an' my blessed l'il' sisters, de day's 
 a-comiiv w'en demair niggers w'at shet de do' in my 
 face gwineter poke dere heads out'n de lil' red winders er 
 torment, way down yonner, an' holler fer me to tech my 
 finger in water fer to squinch dere bilin' thirst, des lak 
 de rich man hollered to Lazzerous w'at I bin tellin' you 
 'bout ter nite." 
 
 At this point a poetical idea seemed to strike the 
 preacher. It was poetical, as well as original, and the 
 effect was very perceptible on the congregation. 
 
 "Somer dese days," he shouted, his voice thrilling with 
 excitement, "you gwine ter see de good ole ship er Zion 
 comin' grandly round de mounting-top, you gwineter see 
 de Nunited States flag a flyin' fum de mass-head, an' den 
 w'en you see de good ship come zoonin' down to de Ian', 
 
30 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 you holler out as you clap your han'.s: 'Oh, may I be oue 
 to git ou de bode?' Deu fum. de deck you gwineter hear 
 a sweet voice sing out: 
 
 "Oh! yes, yes, you may be one, 
 Oh! yes, yes, you may be one; 
 She's a-makiug for the promist Ian'.' ' 
 
 This part of the sermon he sang, at the top of his 
 voice, his body swaying from side to side as he sang, the 
 congregation joining in with him, and the effect was very 
 perceptible. 
 
 "Bye and bye," he continued-, w'en de ole ship cornea 
 down to de landin', w'en you clam up de gang-plank an' 
 git on de deck, w'en you feel de ole "ship wobblin' so nice 
 an 1 easy — lak on de water, w T 'en you feel de sof ' sea breeze 
 a-blowin' on your neck — den, oh! my Gawd, you gwineter 
 holler out: 'Oh! tell me who's de cap'n?' You gwineter 
 hear dat same- voice sing out fum de deck — 
 
 "King Jesus is de capting, 
 King Jesus is de capting; 
 He's making for de promist Ian'.' 
 
 '"Den one mo' time you gwineter holler out: 'Oh! tell 
 me, is he ever hauled any mo'?' One mo' time you 
 gwineter hear de ans'er comin' down de wave — 
 
 'He's carried many thousands, 
 He's carried many thousan's; 
 He's a-makin' for de promist Ian'.' " 
 
 Thos<> last verses were sung by the preacher and the con- 
 gregation as the first had boon sung, and at their conclu- 
 sion tin 1 congregation was in a white boat of religious fer- 
 vor, but the climax had not come, for with a burst of 
 eloquence which set their simple souls on tire and made 
 them wild with a shouting frenzy, he cried, as he rolled 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 31 
 
 the whites of his eyes into prominence, spat upon the 
 floor and wiped it up with his foot; ' w 0h! my brudders, 
 you's heard about de sea bilin'; dar's a day comin' w'en 
 you gwineter see de sea bile fer true. You's heard about 
 de sinners howlin'; dar's a day comin' w'en you gwineter 
 hear de sinners howl fer true. You's heard about de dry 
 bones a-rattlin.'; dar's a day comin' w'en you gwineter 
 hear de dry bones rattle fer true. Oh, yes, dar's a day 
 comin 1 w'en Gawdermitey's gwineter load up his artillery 
 for the onchristian sinner. Dar's a day comin' w'en he's 
 gwineter git behine dat oie gambler, dat ole liar, dat ole 
 thief, wid dat ole gatlin' gun er his'n loaded up to de 
 muzzle wid seben peals er thunder, an' den -he's a-gwineter 
 turn her loose, an' den you gwineter hear somebody holler 
 out: 'Oh. whar Is dat gambler? whar is dat liar? whar is 
 dat thief?' Oh, onchristian sinner, Jesus is layin' at your 
 do' to nite. Wat will you do wid him? Will you tek him 
 in. or will you say to me, b Cair him back to White county 
 wid you?' " 
 
 The happy preacher then arose and made an announce- 
 ment: "My good frens," said he, "de good brudder who's 
 bin wid us fer de las' two weeks, is a-gwine away to-mor- 
 rer." ("Amen!" shouted the good sister with whom he 
 had been taking his meals.) tk Yes, he's a-gwine away to- 
 morrer, an 1 fo' he goes, I wants us all ter sing dat good 
 ole -song. 'Oh, whar is de key dat unlocks de heav'n's 
 do' fer me?' 1 ' 
 
 They sang the song, and while mourners were being in- 
 vited and even dragged to the altar, my friend and myself 
 took our departure, and I was soon being borne rapidly 
 toward Atlanta on the night express. 
 
32 T WEN TIE TH CENTUR Y SPEA KER. 
 
 MAMMY'S LITTLE BABY BOY. 
 
 H. S. EDWARDS. 
 
 Y1THO all time dodgiu' in de cotton en de corn?' 
 " Mammy's li'l boy, mammy's li'l boy! 
 Who all time stealin' Ole Massa's dinner-horn? 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy! 
 
 Byo baby boy, oh bye 
 By-oli'l boy! 
 Oh, run ter es mammy 
 En she tek 'im in 'er arms, 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy. 
 
 Who all de time runnin' ole gobble roun' de yard? 
 
 Mammy's li'l boy, mammy's li'l boy! 
 Who tek 'e stick 'n' hit ole possum dog so hard? 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy. 
 
 Byo baby boy, oh bye 
 By-o li'l boy! 
 Oh, run ter es 'mammy 
 En climb up en 'er lap, 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy. 
 
 Who all time stumpin' es toe ergin a rock? 
 
 Mammy's li'l boy, mammy's li'l boy! 
 Who all time er-rippin' a big hole en es frock'? 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy. 
 
 Byo baby boy, oh bye 
 By-o li'l boy! 
 Oh, run ter es mammy 
 En she wipe es li'l eyes, 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 33 
 
 Who all time losin' de shovel en de rake? 
 Mammy's li'l boy, mammy's li'l boy! 
 Who all de time tryin' to ride de lazy drake? 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy. 
 
 Byo baby boy, oh bye 
 By-o li'l" boy! 
 Oh, scoot fer yer mammy 
 En 'she hide yer fum yer ma, 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy. 
 
 Who all de time trottin' ter de kitchen fer a bite? 
 
 Mammy' li'l boy, mammy's li'l boy! 
 Who mess 'esef wi' taters twell es close dey look er sight? 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy. 
 
 Byo baby boy, oh bye 
 By-o li'l boy] 
 En 'e run ter es mammy 
 Ter git 'im out er trouble, 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy. 
 
 Who all time er-frettin' in de middle er de day? 
 
 Mammy's li'l boy, mammy's l'il boy! 
 Who all time er-gettin' so sleepy 'e can' play? 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy. 
 
 Byo baby boy, oh bye 
 
 By-o li'l boy! 
 
 En 'e come ter es mammy 
 
 Ter rock 'im en er arms, 
 
 Mammy's li'l baby boy. 
 
 Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo, 
 
 Shoo, shoo, shoo! 
 
 Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo, 
 Shoo, li'l baby, shoo! 
 Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo, 
 Shoo, shoo, shoo, 
 Shoo 
 
34 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Dar now, lay right down on Mammy's bed en go long 
 
 back ter sleep-shoo, shoo! Look hyar, nigger, go 
 
 way f'om dat do'! You wake dis chile up wid dat jews- 
 harp, en I'll wear yer out ter frazzles! Sh-sh-h-h-h- 
 
 THE ERL-KING. 
 
 CHARLES W. HUBNER. 
 
 T^HO rideth so late through the tempest wild? 
 
 It is the father and his child; 
 He holds the boy close in his arm — 
 He holds him safely, he holds him warm. 
 
 "My son, why hide your face in fear?" 
 "Do you not see the Erl-king there? 
 The Erl-king, father, with crown and train — " 
 "Son, 'tis the fog-drift on the, plain." 
 
 "Thou darling child, come, go with me — 
 In merry sports I'll frolic with thee. 
 Flowers brightly blooming thou shalt behold; 
 My mother hath many a robe of gold!" 
 
 "My father, my father, and hear not you 
 What Erl-king hath whispered that he will do?" 
 "Be quiet, my child, rest still and at ease — 
 In the withered branches murmurs the breeze." 
 
 "Say, dainty boy, wilt thou go with me? 
 My daughters will wait on thee royally; 
 My daughters will nightly gay festivals keep, 
 They'll rock thee, and swing thee, and sing thee r to 
 sleep." 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 35 
 
 "My father, my father, and see you not 
 Erl-king's daughters in yonder dark spot?" 
 "My son, my son, I see it all — yea, 
 Yon hoary old willows shining so gray." 
 
 "I love thee — thy beauty entrances me quite, 
 And art thou not willing, then yield to my might!" 
 "My father, my father, he graspeth my arm — 
 Erl-king, father, hath done me a harm." 
 
 In terror the father rideth with haste, 
 His moaning child by his arms embraced; 
 The court he gains with toil and dread — 
 Upon his bosom the child lay dead. 
 
 AS BONNIE RUTH GOES BY. 
 
 ELISE BEATTIE, 
 
 fTHE day-dawn pure, confessing 
 
 Her love-song to the sky, 
 Gives richer sense of blessing, 
 As bonnie Ruth goes by. 
 
 The perfume of the Maying, 
 The murmur of the bees, 
 
 And all sweet things' are staying 
 For bonnie Ruth's decrees.. 
 
 Azalea of the mountain, 
 Sweet violet by the lake, 
 
 And lily of the fountain 
 For bonnie Ruth awake. 
 
36 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 A glance from brown eyes tender, 
 Half daring and half shy — 
 
 The morn has dearer splendor 
 As bonnie Ruth goes by. 
 
 The red rose' pure completeness 
 Of scarlet petals' tips 
 
 Is dim beside the sweetness 
 Of bonnie Ruth's red lips. 
 
 The fairies in the gloaming 
 
 Earth's whitest thing do seek — 
 
 Naught whiter find they, roaming, 
 Than bonnie Ruth's soft cheek. 
 
 Life's passing days grow sweeter, 
 Its purposes more high, 
 
 And all our life completer, 
 As bonnie Ruth goes by. 
 
 AN OLD MAN'S REVERIE. 
 
 L. L. KNIGHT. 
 
 "DEFORE a bright December fire, whose ruddy light be- 
 
 ^ stowed 
 
 Its mellow warmth upon the hearth, where softer feelings 
 
 glowed, 
 An aged couple calmly mused, as memory backward ran, 
 And, with a tremor in his voice, the old man thus began : 
 
 J,i 'Twas fifty years ago, dear wife — how fast the years 
 
 have flown — 
 Since first I looked into your eyes and saw they were my 
 
 own. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 37 
 
 Oh, never can my dreams forget their soft, confiding light, 
 As lovingly we took the path in which we pause to-night. 
 
 "I promised then by every star — for rapture's wing soared 
 
 high — 
 That I would be a lover true, if you would let me try. 
 How well I do recall the blush that shone around your 
 
 mouth, 
 For never bloomed a sweeter rose in all the sunny South. 
 
 "And so we formed our partnership, just fifty years ago, 
 The hills and valleys, far and near, were covered with the 
 
 snow. 
 But. in our happy souls that night, we heard the robins 
 
 sing 
 And breathed among the violets that blossomed in the' 
 
 spring. 
 
 "But now your withered cheeks have lost the bloom they 
 used to wear, 
 
 When, in those young and ardent days, I sued your lis- 
 tening ear, 
 
 And, too, the bloom of manhood's strength has yielded 
 to his will, 
 
 But, oh, unhurt, through all the years, our love is bloom- 
 ing still. 
 
 "We've had our little ups and downs, our debts of sin to 
 
 pay, 
 
 But drawn, through grief, the closer still, we've loved the 
 
 years away. 
 And when dark shadows through my soul have trailed the 
 
 gloom of night, 
 Your smile has been the morning-star that ushered back 
 
 the light. 
 
 'But, oh, our little ones" — and here a tear gleamed in 
 his eye — 
 
38 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 "Are sleeping now, among the fields, beneath the dreary- 
 sky; 
 
 But, oh, I hope, I try to think, that what our sorrow 
 means 
 
 Is simply this: They live again among the evergreens. 
 
 "Goodnight, dear wife, perhaps again when we are both 
 
 asleep 
 Those fond old visions of the past into our dreams may 
 
 creep, 
 But whether here in dreams or not those golden dreams 
 
 return , 
 We've still that lamp the Savior lit, nor shall it cease to 
 
 burn , 
 
 " 'Till faintly on a fairer shore this dear old earth grows 
 
 dim 
 And all its glories fade away before the light of Him, 
 When you and I, both young again, shall pluck- life's 
 
 golden palm, 
 And from our lips shall break the song of Moses and the 
 
 Lamb." 
 
 WHEN JOSIAH PLAYS THE FIDDLE.* 
 
 JULIA T. RIORDAN. 
 
 TTOIJ may talk about yer orchestrys, yer operys, an' sich, 
 *- Where ther ain't no tune ter nothin', an' the folks 
 
 just howl an' screech; 
 Where they make such fuss an' racket yer caint hear yer 
 
 own self sneeze, 
 With the tootin' er the instruments, an' the bangin' er 
 
 the keys. 
 
 [*Use costume of an old lady. Knit and rock while speaking. Very taking 
 with violin played softly behind scenes, and a few Lines sung at intervals.] 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 39 
 
 But with all ther fancy music, we kin beat 'em any day, 
 When Josiah plays the fiddle, an' I sing "Nelly Gray. " 
 
 Why yer orter see Josiah, when he takes his fiddle down; 
 You'd fergit his face was wrinkled, an' his fingers stiff an' 
 
 brown ; 
 You'd fergit he's nigh ter eighty, an' his hair's es white 
 
 es snow, 
 For he plays jest lak he useter, nearly forty years ago. 
 Es fer me — well — I don't sing much, but I kinder hums 
 
 away, 
 When Josiah plays the fiddle, an' I sing "Nelly Gray." 
 
 It ain't none er these here new songs, but it's one that 
 
 kinder clings, 
 With its simple words an' music, round yer very heart, an' 
 
 brings 
 Back the mem'ry er the old times an' the old plantation 
 
 life, 
 When the darkeys used ter sing it; fore they knew of hate 
 
 er strife. 
 An' it makes yer feel so restful, though them times are far 
 
 away, 
 When Josiah plays the fiddle, an' I sing "Nelly Gray." 
 
 Sometimes, when we're botha-settin' by the kitchen fire 
 
 at night, 
 An' we gits ter seein' pictures where the coals are glowing 
 
 bright ; 
 When I see the wrinkles deepen round Josiah's mouth an' 
 
 eye; 
 An' I know what he's a-thinkin', an' he knows what makes 
 
 me sigh; 
 Then he says, "Lets have some music — it'll help us ter 
 
 feel gay"— 
 So, Josiah plays the fiddle, an' I sing "Nelly Gray." 
 
40 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 I remember when our Mary, with the curlin' golden hair, 
 Wuz first laid beneath the flowers in the church-yard over 
 
 there ; 
 When our hearts wuz almost breakin', though we knew it 
 
 was a sin, 
 Grievin' fer the sound er footsteps that would never come 
 
 agin— 
 When our tears wuz fastest fallin', yet we'd wipe 'em quick 
 
 away, 
 An' Josiah'd play the riddle, an' I'd sing "Nelly Gray." 
 
 An' when Robert — he's our eldest — when he ran away to 
 sea, 
 
 An' left not a single word ter father an' ter me ; 
 
 When the years passed on unheeded, an' we got no word 
 from him; 
 
 When we wuz so tired of watchin', an' our eyes wus get- 
 tin' dim; 
 
 When our hearts wuz over-burdened 'till we felt we 
 couldn't pray; — 
 
 Then— Josiah'd play the fiddle, an' I'd sing "Nelly Gray." 
 
 An' it allers helps us so much, though you might not think 
 
 it would; 
 Fer it teaches us a patience that no lesson ever could. 
 An' es one by one, friends leave us, yet we know thet it is 
 
 best, 
 An' the time ain't long a-comin' when we, too, shall go to 
 
 rest. 
 An' es death's dark shadows gather, closin' round our 
 
 life's pathway, 
 Then Josiah'll play the fiddle, an' I'll sing "Nelly Gray." 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 41 
 
 THE LORD DE LA GREVE. 
 
 MARY BRENT WHITESIDE. 
 
 UlVrY turn, 3 
 1TX I, who 
 
 you ask me for a story, 
 have dwelt so long 
 Apart in my cabin yonder, 
 
 Far from the surging throng. 
 
 "I could not tell a story; 
 
 I have hardly a part in things 
 That interest you, my people, 
 
 And the pleasure their memory brings. 
 
 "But stop, I had a story — 
 
 'Twas*a simple one, long ago, 
 The details are growing misty, 
 
 I tried to forget it so! 
 
 "But I could not quite forget it, 
 
 'Twould return to me now and then, 
 
 And in wild, unreasoning fancies, 
 I lived it o'er again. 
 
 "I do not pose as a hero, 
 
 I have no wish for the name, 
 I did it all for the master, 
 
 With never a thought for fame. 
 
 "I did it because I'd served him, 
 De la Greve, for many a year, 
 
 Shared in his joys and sorrows, 
 Wept when he shed a tear. 
 
 "We went to the wars together; 
 
 Through the storm of the shot and shell, 
 I left him never a moment, 
 
 God knows that I served him well. 
 
42 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 "My mother had spoken strangely, 
 She was his nurse, you see; 
 
 But I'd never a pang of envy, 
 
 Though she loved him more than me. 
 
 "I was true to my trust, and standing 
 One dreadful day by his side, 
 
 When the fatal bullet struck him, 
 It was in my arms he died. 
 
 "My God! I can never forget it — 
 
 His anguished look, as I 
 Bore him off of the battle-field 
 
 To a lonely spot to die. 
 
 " 'Harold,' he moaned, 'forgive me!' 
 
 What had I to forgive? 
 Oh, that 'twas only I dying, 
 
 That my master still might live. 
 
 " 'Harold,' he murmured faintly, 
 
 'If you only but dreamt the wrong 
 
 That I and mine have done you, 
 
 You could not have loved me long. 
 
 " 'Your love would have turned to hatred, 
 Stop me not, I must tell it all! 
 
 I have been a coward, Harold, 
 
 It has filled my life with gall. 
 
 " 'And there is my little Arthur, 
 
 So fair and so young and brave — 
 
 Oh, Harold, be kind and spare him 
 When his father is in his grave ! 
 
 " 'A true De la Greve, they tell me, 
 Heavens, how strange it is! 
 
 For not a drop of the royal blood 
 Of the De la Greves is his. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 43 
 
 " 'And not a drop of their blood is mine, 
 
 Harold, 'twas you, the heir, 
 That the old lord, dying, trusted 
 
 Unto my mother's care. 
 
 " ' 'Tis the same old story, Harold, 
 The nurse proved false to her trust; 
 
 I can not bear to tell you, 
 I do it because I must. 
 
 " 'It has lain like a weight on my spirit 
 Since the day that I learned it when 
 
 I sat at my wedding supper, 
 
 But I could not tell you then. 
 
 '" 'My bride was a lovely princess, 
 
 To this day she does not know 
 The rank of her wretched husband, 
 
 Or that he deceived her so. 
 
 " 'And she never shall know, I swear it!' 
 
 I cried with throbbing heart. 
 'I will honor her still, and serve her 
 
 In a servant's humble part!' 
 
 "He thanked me, a faint, weak murmur, 
 
 And the eyelids drooped and fell, 
 And lifeless he lay before me, 
 
 The master I loved so well. 
 
 "He was master, and Arthur 
 
 Was the new lord in his place; 
 Arthur, with curls of golden, 
 
 And a fair and boyish face. 
 
 "He grew to manhood — I served him 
 
 Faithfully, long, and well; 
 Till he took offense at something, 
 
 What it was I could not tell. 
 
44 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 "I had lost an arm in his service, 
 I was feeble and growing old, 
 
 But he hadn't his father's goodness, 
 And he turned me out in the cold. 
 
 "Penniless, poor and helpless — 
 But his father's dying face 
 
 Seemed to look down in pleading 
 To spare his son disgrace. 
 
 "So I kept my vow of silence, 
 And never a word knew he 
 
 Of the true and the rightful De la Greve, 
 And the wrong he was doing me. 
 
 "But I do not pose as a hero, 
 
 It was nature and nothing more; 
 
 I did it all for my master 
 Because I loved him so!" 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 
 
 ADAPTED FROM CHARLES READE BY MINNIE QUINN 
 
 CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE lived in the quaint, Scottish vil- 
 lage, on the Firth of Forth, known as the "New Town" 
 of New Haven. 
 
 Reared among the simple fisher-folk of the town, she 
 was with them but not of them. Noble and broad-minded, 
 her lofty soul made her, fisher-woman though she was, a 
 very queen. 
 
 She was the comforter of the distressed, the shield of 
 the erring, the helper of the weak. 
 
 And yet, beloved as Christie was by all, she had no 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 45 
 
 lover; and when the shy young couples went side by side 
 to the kirk o' Sundays, Christie, erect and independent, 
 walked alone. 
 
 Bye and bye, however, a young artist from London, 
 Chas . Gatty by name, appeared upon the scene and straight- 
 way fell in love with Christie. 
 
 An ambitious and strong-willed parent came between 
 them, and Christie, scorning to separate mother and son, 
 sent her lover from her, though it well-nigh broke her 
 heart. Gatty was disconsolate, but between two strong- 
 minded women what was he to do? 
 
 Our story begins just here. 
 
 Christie and her friend Jean, strolling into New Haven, 
 found all the natives assembled and looking seaward. 
 The fishermen were all away, but the boys and women had 
 collected. 
 
 The sight proved to be a solitary individual swimming 
 slowly in towards the shore from a much greater distance 
 than usual. A little matter excites curiosity in such 
 places. 
 
 The man's head looked like a spot of ink upon the 
 water. 
 
 A fishwife, looking through a telescope at the swimmer, 
 remarked — "He's comin' in fast; he's a gallant swimmer, 
 yon." 
 
 "Can't he swim, though! " said Christie to Sandy Liston. 
 
 "Fine that," was the reply. "He does it aye o' Sunday's 
 when ye are at the kirk. ' ' 
 
 "Run for my glass, Fluker," presently said Christie to 
 her brother, who stood by. 
 
 She swept the sea slowly with her glass, asked the time 
 of a bystander, then swept the sea again. She brought 
 the glass together with a click, jumped down from the 
 rock on which she stood. 
 
46 TWENTIETH^CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 "Who'll lend me a boat?" cried she sharply. 
 "Tut, lassie, dinna be so interferin'," said a fishwife. 
 But Christie's quick intelligence divined danger. 
 "Have none o' ye any spunk?" cried she. 
 "My uncle's yawl's at the pier-head," said a boy stand- 
 ing by, "ye can have that." 
 
 "A shilling to the first aboard!" shouted Christie, and 
 the boy and Fluker raced like the wind, followed by the 
 lass, and in a twinkling they were pulling out to sea. 
 
 The examination of the swimmer contiaued and the 
 crowd increased. Sandy Liston lifted himself lazily into 
 a herring-boat and looked seaward. His manner changed 
 in an instant. 
 
 "The deevil!" he cried, "the tide's turned." 
 "Oh!" cried the women, "he'll droon, he'll drocn!" 
 "Yes, he'll droon, if the lass does not speed to him, for 
 he is almost worn out now." 
 
 Mrs. Gatty now appeared upon the scene and asked 
 what was the matter. 
 
 "A man droonin'," was the reply. And now the 
 natives of the old town began to pour down to the beach 
 and the pier, and crowds collected like bees. 
 
 But "after-wit is everybody's wit." The affair was en- 
 tirely in Christie's hands. 
 
 "Why," exclaimed Mrs. Gatty, "that boat is not going 
 toward the poor man, it's turning away from him." 
 
 "She can not lie in the wind's eye, as clever as she is," 
 remarked a fishwife. 
 
 "Ha, I know who it is!" screamed a woman, "it's 
 Christie Johnstone's lad — it's yon daft painter from Eng- 
 land. Hech," turning to Mrs. Gatty, "it's your son, 
 woman, and it's just a race between death and Christie 
 Johnstone for his body." 
 
 The poor old woman screamed and swooned away, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. ±i 
 
 and was carried up ro Christie's house and forgotten. 
 
 •'They'll soon tack, noo." said Liston. "but they'll 
 make a mess of it. with ne'er a man in the boat." "Are 
 ye sure o' that?" drawled a woman. 
 
 '"Aye. about she comes." said Liston. as the sail came 
 down on the nrst tack. Th^y dipped the boat as cleverly 
 as any man in the town eoul I. 
 
 "Ah. look at her. haulm" on the rope like a man!" 
 cried a woman. 
 
 The sail flew up on the other tack. ,, 0h." groaned 
 Lord Ipsden. "I fear he'll give out before the boat reaches 
 him. I'd give ten thousand pounds if he could but see 
 her! God! the man will drown before our very eyes! " 
 
 The sound of a woman's voice came like an ^Eolian 
 note across the water. 
 
 "Hurraih!" cried Liston. and every creature joined in 
 the cheer. 
 
 "Oh. she'll nut itt him die. she's in the bows, wavin' 
 her bonnet at the lad to give him courage. God bless ye. 
 lass! God bless y~! " 
 
 Christie knew it was no use hailing him against the 
 wind, but the moment she got into the wind, she darted 
 into the bows and pitched in its highest key her brilliant 
 voice. After a moment of suspense she had proof that she 
 must be heard by him. for there was a wild yell of applause 
 from the pier — and the pier was further than the man. 
 
 She snatched Fluker's cap. x^lanted her foot on the gun- 
 wale, held on by a rope, hailed the poor fellow again, and 
 waved the cap round and round her head to give him 
 courage, and in a moment, at the sight, thousands of 
 voices thundered back their cheers to her across the water. 
 
 Blow, winds! Spring, boat! and you. Christie, still 
 ring hope towards those despairing ears, and wave hope 
 to those sinking eve?! 
 
48 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Cheer the boat on, you thousands of witnesess by land 
 and sea. 
 
 Hurrah from the shore! Hurrah from the pier! Hurrah 
 from the town! Hurrah now from the very ships in the 
 roads, whose crews are crowding on the yards to look! 
 
 Five minutes ago they laughed at you, Christie; three 
 thousand hearts and eyes hang upon you now. 
 
 And now, dead silence! The boat is within fifty yards. 
 The three are consulting around the mast. An error now 
 is death. His forehead only seems to show above the 
 water. 
 
 They carried on till all on shore thought they would go 
 over him or past him, but no — they were all at the sail! 
 They had it down like lightning! Fluker sprang to the 
 bows, the other boy to the helm! 
 
 The boy, in his hurry, put the helm to port instead of 
 star-board. 
 
 Christie saw the error. She sprang aft — flung the boy 
 from the helm and jammed it a' star-board with her foot! 
 
 The boat answered, but too late for Fluker — the man 
 was four yards from him as they drifted by. The crowd 
 on the shore groaned. 
 
 There was one more little chance — the boat's after-part 
 must drift nearer him. 
 
 Fluker flew aft — flung himself # on his back, and seized 
 his sister's petticoats. 
 
 "Fling yourself over the gunwale!" screamed he, "I'll 
 hold ye, ye'll no hurt, Christie!" 
 
 She flung herself boldly over. The man was sinking — 
 her nails touched his hair, her fingers entangled them- 
 selves in it, she gave a powerful wrench and brought him 
 alongside. 
 
 The boys pinned him like wildcats. 
 
READINGS AXD RECITATIONS. 49 
 
 Christie dashed forward, passed a rope around the mast, 
 flung it to the boys. 
 
 In a moment it was around his body. 
 
 Christie hauled on it, and the boys lifted him, and they 
 tumbled him, gasping, into the bottom of their boat. 
 
 Ah, draw your breath all hands on sea and shore, for 
 there was nothing to spare! 
 
 And then the Old Town cheered, and the Xew Town 
 cheered, and they all cheered together, and the John- 
 stones, lad and lass, set their sail and swept back in 
 triumph to the pier! 
 
 THE TRAPPER'S BRIDE 
 
 ADAPTED FROM NATHAN D. URXER BY MINNIE QUINN. 
 
 A | SHE was a girl, my prairie pearl, 
 
 Of the dusky Indian race; 
 And her dark eyes shone, and her mellow tone 
 Was filled with a nameless grace. 
 
 Ah! I loved her well, and I may not tell 
 
 Of the love she bore for me — 
 Of her haughty sire by his wigwam fire — 
 
 How he scorned my love and plea. 
 
 But her heart was true, and well I knew 
 That my mustang, brave and tried, 
 
 Could bear me away ere the break of day; 
 Could win me my peerless bride. 
 
 From the bristling wall of the chaparral r 
 
 AVhere I waited my prairie pearl, 
 I could see the spires of the wigwam fires 
 
 From the roofs of her kinsmen curl. 
 
50 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 By my mustang gray in the brush I lay, 
 And peered, like a panther, through, 
 
 Till the midnight spell o'er the canyon fell, 
 When I whistled, "Tuwhit, tuhoo!" 
 
 'Twas the signal clear for my dusky dear, 
 
 And the echo had hardly died 
 Ere across the line of the dim moonshine, 
 
 With the step of a fawn she hied; 
 And to saddle I leapt as she, dovelike, crept 
 
 To my bosom so glad and free, 
 And we felt the tide of the mustang's stride 
 
 As it ebbed to the open sea. 
 
 To the open main of the grassy plain, 
 
 We pressed, as a ship with sail, 
 And with never a stir but of hoof and- spur 
 
 And the far coyote's wail, 
 While the moon in the clear, like a silver deer, 
 
 Fled silently down the night, 
 And upon her track the bright-eyed pack 
 
 That hung on her haggard flight. 
 
 But, or yet the swell of the foothills fell 
 
 To the sweep of the level plain; 
 We caught the din of her wakened kin, 
 
 And a glance, o'er the crupper ta'en, 
 Showed the land alive with the redskin hive, 
 
 A curtain of dust beneath; 
 And the old mustang to his-paces sprang, 
 
 With the bit in his iron teeth. 
 
 Not a cry from her, but a nestling stir 
 As she crept to my throbbing heart. 
 
 While the upward look in her dark eyes spoke 
 That we never in life should part; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 51 
 
 And I breathed a prayer o'er the midnight hair 
 
 That was tossed by the wind below, 
 As I struck a flint in the tender-lint 
 
 And scattered the burning tow. 
 
 For dead ahead was the wind to spread 
 
 The fire if once it caught, 
 And — huzza! huzza! as I turned I saw 
 
 Where the fire snakes writhed and fought. 
 A roar — a flare — then a blood-red glare 
 
 'Twixt us and the foeman spread, 
 While away, away, still the mustang gray 
 
 From fire and warrior spread. 
 
 Ah! that was a ride to recall with pride 
 
 When the heart is less strong and brave! 
 For the steed ne'er flagged till his lariat dragged 
 
 In the grass by the Gila's wave ; 
 And the dark-eyed bride of that whirling ride, 
 
 The pearl of my life, remained 
 In my love corral by the Pimo's wall, 
 
 When the fire of youth had waned. 
 
 WHERE THE GEORGIA ROSE IS DREAMING. 
 
 LUOIEN LAMAR KNIGHT. 
 
 1_TE sleeps beneath a Georgia sky, my hero sleeps to-day, 
 -^ At rest beneath the azure dome, wrapped in his coat 
 
 of gray. 
 I wish he slumbered nearer home, beneath the tender sky 
 That arched above us in our walks, my soldier lad and I. 
 
52 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 But oh, he sleeps, no more to wake, until the dawn's bright 
 
 gleaming 
 Shall find him where the pines keep watch and the Georgia 
 
 rose is dreaming. 
 
 0, sadly do I mark the hour when first the tocsin's call 
 Sang out its cruel note of war, and changed life's spring 
 
 to fall. 
 The flowers dropped upon their stems, the waters ceased 
 
 to sing, 
 The minstrel of the air grew mute and silently took wing 
 To where the daisy's golden thread a soldier's shroud was 
 
 seaming, 
 And glory's bed awaited him, where the Georgia rose is 
 
 dreaming. 
 I see again the April sun ascend the mournful steep, 
 The saddest of all suns to me, who learned that day to 
 
 weep. 
 I hear again the martial sounds — the wild, fierce battle- 
 cry, 
 And from my heart in anguish breaks the old tumultuous 
 
 sigh. 
 The years have passed, but love remains, my eyelids still 
 
 are streaming 
 Where bends the sweet magnolia's bloom, and the Georgia 
 
 rose is dreaming. 
 I followed him across the fields, in love, at least, his 
 
 bride, 
 And on the long and lonely march I still kept at his side, 
 Till, on Atlanta's flaming hills, I saw my hero fall, 
 And, in the gentle life I loved, I gave my country all. 
 All — for the heart I gave to him in love's fond rapture 
 
 beaming 
 Lies shrouded in that coat of gray, where the Georgia rose 
 
 is dreaming. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 53 
 
 On yonder sweet, celestial shore, beyond the tide of war, 
 Where no red battle-flag unfurls its proud imperial star, 
 Where peace, the breath of love divine, dwells in a cloud- 
 less calm, 
 And foes on earth are friends at last beneath the Eden 
 
 palm, 
 I hope to meet my hero lad, these eyes no longer stream- 
 ing; 
 But until then my tears must fall, where the Georgia rose 
 is dreaming. 
 
 POLLY BIDDLE, 
 
 MRS. C. W. HUBNER. 
 
 T ITTLE squint-eyed Polly Biddle, 
 Gazed intently at the griddle, 
 
 Then within her naughty head 
 A very cruel plan she wrought 
 And to execute it brought 
 
 From the shed, her kitten, Fred. 
 
 Little squint-eyed Polly Biddle 
 Held her kitten on the griddle. 
 
 As his fur began to burn 
 He, frightened, sprang upon her back 
 And of claws he had no lack, 
 
 So she suffered in her turn. 
 
 Little squint-eyed Polly Biddle 
 Never held Fred on the griddle,. 
 
 Never, after that, to fry. 
 They soon "made up," yet in their play 
 Fred had it pretty much his way. 
 
 Can you tell the reason why? 
 
54 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 A MERMAID'S LOVE. 
 
 LEONORA BECK. 
 
 "I/TORTALS dare to question loud, 
 ■^ Whence these fitful strains; 
 
 Whence this wailing, plaintive, proud ; 
 
 Whence this sombre music shroud; 
 This, then, for their pains. 
 
 'Tis no Pascagoulian dirge — 
 
 Dirge for fallen braves ; 
 'Tis no soft caressing surge, 
 Kissing gold bed's gleaming verge, 
 
 Laughing in glad waves. 
 
 Not the mussel's murmuring song; 
 
 Nor the voice of shells; 
 Not the waters lingering long 
 Crimson coral groves among; 
 
 Not chimes of lost bells. 
 
 Once a mermaid, fair and cold, 
 
 With long amber hair, 
 Oft was wooed by mermen bold, 
 Ardently was wooed, 'tis told, 
 
 Wooed with presents rare. 
 
 Still her shining hair she combed, 
 
 Still her heart loved not; 
 Still in restless rest she roamed, 
 Through her palace, jewel-domed, 
 
 Missing what she sought. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 55 
 
 But one day the storm-fiends bore 
 
 To her palace-gate 
 Shape she ne'er had seen before, 
 Beauty such as that it wore 
 
 Ah, this form in mortal mould — 
 
 Loved she this alone! 
 Yet it lay still, white and cold, 
 Yet the love her whispers told 
 
 Waked no answering tone. 
 
 'Neath her kisses' warmth, the red 
 
 To those lips ne'er rushed. 
 Pillowed she the golden head 
 On her bosom; but the dead 
 Passion-thrills ne'er flushed. 
 
 One sad song forever now 
 From her pale lips floats. 
 
 Ne'er lists she to merman's vow. 
 
 Mournful music hearest thou? 
 'Tis the mermaid's notes. 
 
 AUNT SUKEY'S LULLABY. 
 
 ELEANOR CHURCHILL GIBBS. 
 
 YV/1TH her dark velvety eyes, little Lilian watched the 
 
 ladybug that had crawled to her slender fingers from 
 
 the stem of the cluster of purple morning-glories. Aunt 
 
 Sukey sat near her, rocking to sleep the baby whose soft 
 
56 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 white hand lay caressingly on the old woman's dusky 
 cheek. 
 
 "Don't hut dat bug, honey, ef you wants good luck. 
 Tell hit to fly away home." 
 
 "Ladybug, lady bug, fly away home, 
 
 De house is on fire, your daddy's done gone." 
 
 "Dere now, dat right. You been good little gal to-day." 
 
 "Tell me a tale, Aunt Sukey. You said you'd tell me 
 a tale if I'd be good. Tell me about the ladybug." 
 
 "Doan you know dat, honey? I 'clar to gracious you 
 all little Yankee chillern is dat ig'nant it huts me. It do 
 dat, mun. You doan 'pear to know nuthin'; you doan 
 know 'bout tar baby, an' 'bout robin, an' 'bout jay-bird, 
 nor nuthin'. Come long den, an' lemme tell you 'bout 
 de ladybug: 
 
 "Once upon a time, a long while ago, dere wuz a war, 
 an' de folks fit an' dey fit. One man an' one 'oman dey 
 lived in a little cabin; de man chop cotton, an' de 'oman 
 hoe de corn, an' de little gal she lay down in de fence 
 cornder onder de 'simmon tree, an' play an' play. ^11 
 dat time de chile watchin' de birds an' watchin' de bugs. 
 Den one day de soljeers come 'long, dey did, an' dey say: 
 'Look hyar, man, what you doin'? You think you gwine 
 to stay here all de time an' chop cotton, does you? You 
 gotter git up f'om here, an' be a soljeer; you hears dat, 
 dees you'? Den de 'oman she cry, an' de man he cry, an' 
 de little gal she jess lay down dere on de grass an' kick up 
 her heels, an' say: 'Ladybug! ladybug!' an' watch de 
 ladybug crawlin' roun' an' flyin' roun'. Dat all de chile 
 do. Den great big ole w r hite cloud come sailin' long in de 
 sky, an' hit sail an' sail. Little gal think it's a cloud; 
 little gal doan know. Dat warn't no cloud; no, dat hit 
 warn't. You ax me what 'twuz? How you 'spec I know? 
 I doan know what 'twuz for certain. Angels is mighty 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 57 
 
 cuyous dough; dey's cunnin' too; dey's cunnin' as a ol 
 coon. Dey can wrop dey selves up in a angel blanket, an 
 sail roun', an' folks what doan know '11 think dey's clouds 
 Dat what I hear tell, chile. Dem dere white clouds is 
 angels' blankets, dey is. Well, dat white cloud sail on an 
 on, an' pres'ney, when it come to whar dat little gal is 
 hit stop. 'Pear like somebody a peepin' outer dat cloud 
 same as folks peeps dere head outen a blanket when dey 
 done wrop up to lay down front de fire to go to sleep. 
 'Pear like somebody a smilin' at de little gal, an' a 
 peepin' at her thoo de top uv de simmon tree. 
 
 "Dem soljeers kep' on a talkin'; soljeer got heap of 
 jaw. Dey say: 'Come 'long, man; you gotter go to de 
 war. You done lazied roun' hyar long 'nough, you is.' 
 De man says: 'I doan want to go.' De soljeers say: 
 'Dat doan make no diffunce; you gotter go. Does you 
 hear dat?' Den de man say : 'Lemme tell my ole woman 
 good-bye, an' my little gal.' An' de soljeers say: 'Hurry 
 up, den, kase you gwine 'long wid us, I tells you.' De 
 man so hurted he cyarnt skacely talk;, he all choke up in 
 de thote. De 'oman done cotch up de eend uv her apurn, 
 an' helt hit up to her eyes an' sob an' sob. Dat didn't 
 meek no diffunce to dem soljeer men, dey so hard-hearted. 
 De 'oman cry an' de man cry an' cry. De little gal kick 
 up her heels an' look at de grass an' de flowers, an' de 
 ladybug an' de 'simmon tree an' de white cloud whar done 
 stop on top uv de 'simmon tree way up yander in de sky. 
 An' de chile smile an' smile. 
 
 "Folks tell me de chile see de angel peepin' outer de 
 cloud. I doan know 'bout dat; dat wuz long time ago, 
 'fore de children uv Israel walk out free f'om de Ian' uv 
 bondage. Dat huccome I doan know all de 'ticklars uv de 
 tale. Atter while dem soljeer men 'gin to look sorry, kase 
 de man an' de 'oman so strussed. All de same dey say: 
 'Hurry up, we gotter be gwine.' Den de man an' de 
 
58 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 'oman helt one nurr in dere arms, an' dey went to de corn- 
 der uv de fence, an' dey cotch up de little gal, an' dey 
 moan an' moan. An' de man say: 'Oh, my ladybug, 
 my ladybug, I cyarnt leave you.' He call de chile lady- 
 bug all de time, kase she sot on playin' wid ladybug. 
 Sump'n drap down outen de sky den on de man's face, an' 
 on de little gal's face, an' on de 'oman's face. Some folks 
 say 'twuz tears drop down outen de eyes uvde angel, whar 
 done wrop hisself up in white cloud same as twuz a blanket. 
 Howsomebber, dem sol jeers wuz plum strussed den, but 
 dey didn't let on; dey jess say: 'Come long, now; dat'll 
 do, dat'll do.' 
 
 Den de soljeers tuck de man off, an' de 'oman sot down 
 on de groun' an' moan an' moan. 
 
 Den night-time come, an' de 'oman sot on de back step 
 uv de house, an' helt de little gal in her lap an' wep' an' 
 wep'. She a'int got nobody ter help her 'bout nuthin'; 
 she aint got nobody ter help ter hoe de cotton, an' 
 ter tote water. She ain't got nobody ter talk ter whar got 
 understandin' uv de matter, kase de little gal aint no more 
 bigger dan dis little baby whar rockin' in my lap while 
 little Lillian leanin' up 'ginst him so hard she gwine to 
 wake him up de fust thing she knows." And Aunt Sukey's 
 voice grew very tender as she sang out: "Go to sleep, go 
 to sleep; go to sleep, little baby." 
 
 Little Lillian seated herself on a low stool, and said 
 softly: "Tell me some more, Aunt Sukey; please ma'am. 
 Aunt Sukey." 
 
 "Well, wait ontell de baby gits sound asleep, an' I'll 
 tell you de justification uv de ladybug. I will dat. (Go 
 to sleep; go to sleep, little baby!) I done tole you 'bout 
 de 'oman a-moanin' an' a-moanin' wid de chile hug up in 
 her arms. Dat aint de worse. De house cotch fire dat 
 night, an' de oman run out and toted de chile out. an' de 
 house bum down ter ashes. Dar de 'oman sot on de 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 59 
 
 groim' an'aintgot no house nornuffin'. She cry all night, 
 wid de chile hug up on her breass'; an' de little chile cry 
 long time, den she go to sleep. When de little gal wake 
 up she put her hands up on her mammy's f^ce, an' she 
 say: 'Wake up, mamma!' But dat didn't wake her up. 
 How you 'spect dead folks gwine ter wake up. when dey 
 heart done break. De chile, kep' on a-cryin' an' a-cryin'. 
 Pres'ney dat same white cloud come sailin' long, an stop 
 ober de dead 'oman. Den a ladybug come flyin' long, 
 an' de chile seed him. Den she stop cryin' an' helt out 
 her hands an' say: 'Lady-bug! lady-bug!' Den all uv a 
 suddint de cloud stop, an' a hand retch down, white an' 
 shinin', an' de fust thing you know dere want no little gal 
 dere. She done change to a ladybug, an' done gone off to 
 her daddy. De wind wuz a-blowin' sorter easy, an' a 
 sayin': 
 
 'Lady-bug, lady-bug, fly away home, 
 Your home is all burnt, an' your daddy is gone.' 
 
 'I doan zackly know how 'twuz, but I hearn tell dat de 
 ladybug fly 'long, an' fly 'long, tell it got so tired it crope 
 in under a tent, and kep' crawlin' 'long. Den de man in 
 de tent seed it, an' thought 'bout de little gal in de fence 
 cornder under de 'simmon tree, an 1 said, soft an' low: 
 'Ladybug, ladybug.' Den de fust thing he know'd dar 
 stood his little gal, done turn back f'om a ladybug. Her 
 apurn all smell scorchified an' he know'd what done hap- 
 pen. He wep' an' moan, but he glad ter git his little gal 
 back, mun; dat he wuz." 
 
 "Aunt Sukey — " "Hush, honey, de baby wakin' up. 
 Gro to sleep, go to sleep; go to sleep, little baby." 
 
60 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 THE JESTER. 
 
 MAUDE ANNULET ANDREWS. 
 
 A LL the court's in a stir 
 
 Over my mating. 
 Her Majesty made me her 
 
 Lady in waiting; 
 I had of suitors more 
 
 Than you could name them; 
 Yet, I did give them o'er, 
 
 Nor wish to claim them; 
 My heart waxed warm for none 
 Whom others smiled upon — 
 I had been wooed and won 
 
 By the king's jester. 
 
 Folk's question "How can I 
 
 Bide a fool lover?" 
 Faith! and I do not lie, 
 
 I do discover 
 Fools wearing wisdom's cloak 
 
 As though it fitted. 
 There is Sir Godfred Hoke 
 
 Quite sorry-witted; 
 He proved his peacock pate 
 When he avowed that fate 
 Meant me to be his mate — 
 
 Give me my jester! 
 
 My grandame is mad with grief 
 
 Over my choice; 
 It gives her great relief 
 
 To use her voice. 
 Harshly she chides when he 
 
 Culls me sweet posies. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 61 
 
 And all the maids, perdee! 
 
 Turn up their noses. 
 They are sore shocked, I wis, 
 But I care naught for this; 
 Flaunting at them, I kiss 
 
 My motley jester. 
 
 Those waiting maids would be 
 
 Crimson with anger 
 If they but knew how he 
 
 Scoffed at their languor 
 And silly, mincing ways. 
 
 There's Prudence Penny — 
 Of her I dislike praise 
 
 Far more than any, 
 For she's a haughty jade. 
 Alack! I am afraid 
 His gaming at first made 
 
 Me love the jester. 
 
 With love o'er flows my cup; 
 
 Still, he's not handsome, 
 Yet, I'd not give him up 
 
 For a king's ransom. 
 He will ne'er anger me 
 
 When we are married, 
 His face ne'er will be 
 
 Scowling and harried. 
 What though his wits be light, 
 I love him in despite. 
 At church, this very night, 
 
 I'll wed my jester. 
 
 [The above selection is quite pretty if given by a young girl dressed in fancy 
 court costume.] 
 
62 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 A CHILD'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 
 
 ELISE BEATTIE. 
 
 CHRISTMAS Eve throughout the earth— 
 
 Time of light and love and mirth. 
 The Christmas stars look smiling down 
 On the country and the town. 
 Santa Claus, with watchful eyes, 
 Each stocking by the chimney spies. 
 In a little cottage, not far away, 
 The stockings were hung in fine array, 
 Long and gaunt, and meek and slim, 
 Waiting for Santie to fill to the brim; 
 But 'mid them all, what meets his view? 
 A silken morsel of tender blue, 
 A finger's length from heel to toe, 
 A little finger at that. A show 
 Indeed, is this tiny thing, 
 Tied to the mantel by silken string. 
 What does it mean — tell me true — 
 This little stocking of paley blue? 
 'Tis Baby's stocking, and Baby there 
 Is waiting in dreams the Christmas cheer. 
 
 Old Santie gazed with a puzzled stare 
 At the little stocking so frail and fair. 
 He scratched his head with an earnest frown, 
 To use his words, "he was done up brown.' ' 
 He had to own, with troubled heart, 
 Here was something beyond his art. 
 Wondering thoughts upon him crowd, 
 To ease his mind, he spoke aloud — 
 "This stocking small," he murmured low, 
 "I can not fill with the diamond's glow: 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 63 
 
 Though books of love and books of fame, 
 Telling of men with honored name, 
 Though books of science the earth do fill, 
 This little stocking is larger still. 
 What to do I can not tell, 
 Though I would like to fill it well." 
 
 He spoke, he thought, to himself alone, 
 
 A voice of sweetness echoed his own — 
 
 "I come to you in right good will, 
 
 The baby's stocking I'll help you fill." 
 
 A lovely form beside him lent, 
 
 With tender eyes upon him bent. 
 
 Clothed in white was the vision fair, 
 
 Around her fell her golden hair; 
 
 It glowed and gleamed in the dim old room, 
 
 Like the rays of lamps in shadowy gloom. 
 
 In her fingers fair was a magic wand, 
 
 Tied to the white wrist with silken band; 
 
 She laid the wand on the stocking blue — 
 
 "I give its owner a heart so true, 
 
 She shall try all things by loving art, 
 
 Win to her own each noble heart. 
 
 I give her, too, a lofty mind, 
 
 Ever to God's good will resigned, 
 
 The hand of love, the heart of grace, 
 
 The tender lips, the joyous face; 
 
 The shoes of peace be on her feet, 
 
 That, where she steps, the blossoms sweet 
 
 Of all good words and works shall shine, 
 
 Over the earth, in joy divine. 
 
 I give her a life whose joys increase. 
 
 I give," said the angel, "a death of peace, 
 
 And the precious earnest of life above 
 
 Is given to her through Jesus' love." 
 
64 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 The angel ceased. The tender song 
 On the soft night air was borne along; 
 In accents of joy and peace and love 
 It reached the shining courts above. 
 
 Dear Santie rubbed his eyes so old, 
 
 He had, he said, a dreadful cold, 
 
 But a bright drop fell on the stocking blue, 
 
 And what it was the Angel knew. 
 
 "Let us go," said the Angel then, 
 "Together we visit the homes of men. 
 I give my blessing to all, but still, 
 Stockings like these you must let me fill." 
 
 BEAU BRUMMEL'S DRESSING-GOWN 
 
 MAUDE ANDREWS. 
 
 AF all pathetic stories, 
 
 ^ The pictures sad, or songs 
 
 That tell of vanquished glories, 
 
 Of undeserved wrongs; 
 Of every revelation, 
 
 Of grief in every clime, 
 The pathos of each nation, 
 
 Life's tragedies through time, 
 None come to me more keenly, 
 
 None make the heart bow down 
 In gentle human pity 
 
 Like Beau Brummel's dressing-gown, 
 
 That poor old gown — you know it — 
 
 You've seen it in the play, 
 Its wearer loth to show it 
 
 With many a hole and fray; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 65 
 
 The cold old robe, its shimmer 
 
 Has grown so very weak 
 Until there's but a glimmer 
 
 To smile at you and speak 
 And say in dying accents. 
 
 ; 'High dames did once bow down 
 Before the regal splendor 
 
 Of Beau Brummel's dressing-gown.'' 
 
 We love you. Richard Mansfield. 
 
 For all you've clone for Beau. 
 The grace, the charm, the pathos — 
 
 They all are yours. I know. 
 And to the world a lesson 
 
 That's good and true you've taught. 
 'Tis that our gentlest pity 
 
 And humanest of thought 
 Belongs to him that dieth 
 
 A gentleman brought down. 
 For that's the man you show us 
 
 In Beau Brummel's dressing-gown. 
 
 ARISTIDES' FAREWELL. 
 
 CHARLES J. BAYVE, 
 
 i THEXS. since I soon must leave thee — 
 
 Since each ostracizing shell 
 Of those who would not believe me 
 Bids me say my last farewell: 
 
 Seat of all my vanished glory. 
 
 Center of my former pride. 
 Thou, for whom I. who adore thee, 
 
 Willinslv had lived or died. 
 
66 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Hear me! for I still would save thee — 
 Doomed to exile though I stand — 
 
 From their thralls who would enslave thee 
 With a dire, relentless hand. 
 
 Legions of the tyrant Persian, 
 
 Whom Miltiades repulsed, 
 Crouch now for their dread incursion, 
 
 When all Greece shall be convulsed. 
 
 Just beyond the crystal waters 
 
 Of the Hellespont are they, 
 Now preparing for the slaughters 
 
 That shall dim an early day. 
 
 When the battle-cloud that darkens 
 O'er thee shall in fury burst 
 
 On thy heads, most noble archons, 
 With the- thunders time has nursed, 
 
 Ye must arm these waiting legions 
 Strongly, for the common cause, 
 
 That these favored native regions 
 May retain their own just laws. 
 
 Great Themistocles has told thee 
 That thy armament would be — 
 
 If the better sense controlled thee — 
 Mighty fleets upon the sea. 
 
 And of this would I address thee 
 
 In my latest moments here, 
 That the God of Wars may bless thee 
 
 When these enemies appear. 
 
 Go convert thy marine powers 
 
 Into soldiery, I pray ; 
 Build ye fortresses and towers 
 
 To withstand the coming fray 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 67 
 
 Arni them strongly: concentrating 
 
 Into land force all thy main: 
 They may stand, the foe awaiting. 
 
 In the mountains, vale and plain. 
 
 Then no tempest can destroy them: 
 
 Mutinies no more shall be : 
 Sirens 3 songs shall not decoy them: 
 
 Greece shall live and still be free. 
 
 This is all: the sun to-morrow 
 
 Shall behold me far away 
 On my pilgrimage, in sorrow 
 
 At the will of Greece to-day. 
 
 O that this degeneration 
 
 Ever should befall a land 
 Which once held a noble nation 
 
 Boasting Justice' reigning hand! 
 
 Exile lands would seem less dreary. 
 
 Since I soon must tread their dust. 
 But for knowing thou art weary 
 
 Of my being called the Just. 
 
 Athens! though my hopes have perished, 
 
 Here my soul shall ever dwell: 
 Scorned of those whom most I cherished. 
 
 Ill I fare, vet fare thee well. 
 
 AT VESPER: 
 
 LOLLIE BELLE WYLIE 
 
 YV'HEX before the Host she's kneeling. 
 
 And sweet incense steeps the air. 
 Thoughts of love are gently stealing 
 O'er her, as she breathes this prayer: 
 
TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 "God keep him safe — 
 My love — my own — 
 God keep him safe, 
 "Till Heaven is won!" 
 
 "Ava Verum" thrills the choirist, 
 
 As his voice floats through the nave — 
 "Vera passum, immolatum," 
 Rise and fall with solemn wave. 
 "God keep him safe!" 
 
 She whispers low, 
 
 "God keep him safe 
 
 Whom I love so!" 
 
 Precious blood again is flowing 
 
 And the ransom is made new — 
 "Tautum ergo, sacramentum," 
 Thus the priest doth bless the two. 
 "God keep him safe!" 
 
 She says. "Deart Heart! 
 God keep him from 
 All sin apart!" 
 
 Holy Father, raptures, lifting 
 
 High the chalice, bends and prays, 
 While the silver bells are tolling 
 On the Vespers' twilight haze. 
 "God keep him safe," 
 She pleads, "My all! 
 God keep him safe 
 
 From sorrow's thrall!" 
 
 Priest and sinner in the presence 
 Of the living God still kneel, 
 
 While the sweet Diviner Essence 
 Their adoring spirits feel. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 69 
 
 "God keep him safe — 
 
 0, Mother — Saints — 
 Plead thou for him!" 
 
 These are her plaints. 
 
 Mingles then the "Gloria Patri" 
 
 With the "Aniens" sobbing sigh. 
 Acolyte with genuflexion 
 
 Swings the silver censer high. 
 "God keep him safe!" 
 
 She lingers yet, 
 To supplicate 
 
 With eyelids wet. 
 
 [Chant the Latin phrases.] 
 
 THE LAST KISS. 
 
 CHARLES W. HUBXER. 
 
 fpHE following poem is founded on an incident, related 
 in the Boston Herald, by a survivor of the wreck of the 
 steamship ' 'City of Columbus, ' ' lost, during a terrible storm 
 some years ago, on the New England coast, and by which 
 over one hundred lives perished. 
 
 The wild sea's thunder shakes the shore, 
 
 Loud screams the icy blast, 
 And broadside dashing on the rocks, 
 
 The doomed ship strikes at last. 
 
 The ravenous billows leap on deck, 
 
 As wolves leap on their prey 
 With howl and shriek, their gaping mouths 
 
 Dripping with frothy spray. 
 
70 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 What can her bulwarks' iron strength, 
 
 Or skill of man avail, 
 Against the onset of the sea, 
 
 The fury of the gale? 
 
 Death! thy bloody banner 'wave, 
 
 Thine is the victory; 
 Fill with fresh prey thy bloody maw, 
 
 Insatiable sea! 
 
 But heeding not the struggling throng, 
 
 And clamor of the wreck, 
 Yonder a man and woman stand, 
 
 Calm on the reeling deck. • 
 
 A stalwart, tall, heroic form, 
 
 Erect in manly pride, 
 She, like a lily white and fair, 
 
 Clings closely to his side. 
 
 Scourged by the sharp sleet's stinging thongs, 
 Drenched by the ice-cold sea, 
 
 They shrink and shiver, and their cheeks 
 Are pale as dead men's be. 
 
 Calmly, with heavenward lifted eyes, 
 
 The husband and the wife, 
 Hand clasped in hand, await the end, 
 
 When Death shall conquer Life. 
 
 The vessel leeward lurches — hark! 
 
 The rock-fangs rend and rip 
 Her quivering side, with deafening roar 
 
 The waves o'erwhelm the ship! 
 
 Heart close to heart, lip pressed to lip, 
 
 In love's fond farewell kiss, 
 Husband and wife together sink 
 
 Into the sea's abyss. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 71 
 
 Love! who can thy glory tell, 
 
 Who can thy victories name? 
 They are, in life, in death, for aye, 
 
 The boast and crown of fame; 
 
 But yet, methinks, of all thy deeds 
 
 The noblest here was done, 
 And thy divinest victory 
 
 By this last kiss was won! 
 
 THE MYSTIC RIVER. 
 
 MARY BRENT WHITESIDE. 
 
 IN time's enchanted forest, 
 By the beautiful shores of day, 
 Floweth the Mystic River, 
 
 While centuries glide away. 
 
 Its waters are clearer than crystal, 
 And the foam that rises high 
 
 Is only a cloud of opals 
 
 That melts away in the sky. 
 
 Its banks are 'broidered with flowers. 
 
 Lilies of pearly white, 
 And daisies with just a shadow 
 
 Of the sun's own golden light. 
 
 Roses as red as rubies, 
 
 Violets shy and blue, 
 Snowdrops as pale as a shadow, 
 
 Heavy and wet with dew. 
 
 Willow trees grow by the water, 
 Hanging their drooping heads; 
 
 They never smile at the brightness 
 That the summer sunlight sheds. 
 
72 T WENTIE TH CENT UR Y SPEAKER. 
 
 And now there are steps through the forest, 
 And a childish laugh rings sweet, 
 
 As the little fingers gather 
 
 The flowers beneath their feet. 
 
 It passes by the lilies 
 
 And crushes the snowdrops white, 
 As it gathers with eager fingers 
 
 The roses red and bright. 
 
 Then it pauses beside the river, 
 While the flowers fade away, 
 
 And the little child drops the roses 
 On the beautiful shores of day. 
 
 Again conies a merry footstep, 
 
 And now a maiden fair 
 Trips singing along through the forest, 
 
 And gathers the blossoms there. 
 
 She passes the roses unheeded 
 And gathers the violets blue, 
 
 Then bends the tall, white lilies, 
 As she shakes away the dew. 
 
 She pauses, too,- by the water, 
 While the flowers slowly die. 
 
 And she drops them down in the grasses 
 W T here the faded roses lie. 
 
 And now comes a bent old woman, 
 
 When the maiden and child have passed, 
 She slowly stoops and gathers 
 
 The snowdrops pale at last. 
 She gazes upon the roses 
 
 With a tear in her faded eye, 
 And kisses the shy bine violets 
 
 As she slowly passes by. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 78 
 
 She gathers a branch of willow 
 
 That grows on the shores of day, 
 But she has only gladness 
 
 When her flowers fade away. 
 Then what is the Mystic River, 
 
 And the flowers that grow beside? 
 The roses that faded quickly, 
 
 And the snowdrops white that died? 
 The roses are childish pleasure, 
 
 And love is the violet blue, 
 Which hid away in the grasses 
 
 Where the gold-eyed daisies grew. 
 And the other flowers that blossomed 
 
 Out in the snow and the rain — 
 The willow trees were sadness, 
 
 And the drooping snowdrops, pain. 
 Then Life is the Mystic River. 
 
 And the flowers are things of men, 
 Their joy and pain and sorrow, 
 
 That never come back again. 
 
 *HOW THE FIDDLE SUNG. 
 
 LUCIUS PERRY HILLS. 
 
 SAY, boys, you know that city chap that's be'n a-totin' 
 rne around, 
 To see all sorts of sights an' hear most every kind of sound? 
 Well, when I war in town last week he tuck me out ag'in, 
 To hear a high-toned fiddler chap play on the violin, — 
 Leastwise, I think they called it some sich highferlutin 
 
 name, 
 But good Lord, 'twar nothin' but an ole red fiddle all the 
 same; 
 
 [*Use with violin accompaniment.] 
 
74 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Howsomever, if you chaps had heerd that fiddle sing, 
 you'ld swore 
 
 You never heerd no instrument could sing like that be- 
 fore. 
 
 The fiddler came onto the stage with a knowin' kind o' 
 
 smile, 
 An' stood a-strokin' an' a-pattin' that ole riddle for awhile, 
 Like it war a livin' critter, that could feel an' understand 
 A silent language he war talkin' by the techin' of his hand; 
 Then he put it to his shoulder, an' then he laid his chin, 
 In a sort of a caressin' way, down on that violin, 
 For all the word jest like a child ud' lay its head to rest, 
 On the soft an' soothin' piller of a lovin' mother's breast; 
 Then he shet his eyes a minute, in a dozy kind o' way, 
 Like 'twar night, an' he war jest a-goin' to fiddle in the 
 
 day, 
 While I followed suit, an' shet mine too, for music alius 
 
 'pears 
 To give me a queerish sort o' sense of seein' with my ears. 
 Then the fiddler went to fiddlin', kind o' lazy like an' slow, 
 An' the strings begun to whisper with a music sweet an' 
 
 low, 
 As if they couldn't help from singin', but sung quiet like, 
 
 to keep 
 From wakin' up the dreamin' world too sudden' from its 
 
 sleep 
 Then purty soon I seemed to see a sort o' misty light, 
 Creepin' slowly up the eastern sky, an' pushin' back the 
 
 night; 
 The birds begun to twitter in a hesitatin' style, 
 Experimentin' like, to see if it was wuth their while, 
 But whenbimeby the summits of the ole Blue Ridge begun 
 To show the ravelin's of light around the edges of the sun, 
 Why, the whole indurin' chorus jest turned in with a vim, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 75 
 
 An' sot the world rejoicin' with their airly mornin' hymn, 
 While the fiddler drew the music from them fiddle-strings 
 
 so fine, 
 That, doggone me, if I didn't think I heerd the sunbeams 
 
 shine. 
 
 Then I seed two lovers courtin' in the sh adder of a tree, 
 An'^they war jest about as spoony as lovers ever git to be. 
 I seed 'em whisperin', secret like, 'bout t'other, that an' 
 
 this, 
 An' their heads kept drawin' cluser, till bimeby I heerd a 
 
 kiss — 
 Not one o' them as pops out with a sudden plunk an' thud, 
 Like a mule a-pullin' of his foot from ole No'th Georgy 
 
 mud, 
 But a lingerin'-sweetness-long-drawn-outish kind o' kiss, 
 
 you know, 
 Like the feller tuck a pow'rful holt, an' couldn't let 'er 
 
 go; 
 It sounded like a whip-lash, jest before you hear 'er crack, 
 But it lasted ruther longer, an' ended with a smack 
 That made my ole lips tingle with the very sort o' fire 
 That ust to tickle 'em sometimes, when I war courtin' of 
 
 Marier. 
 
 Then the fiddler give the tune a turn, an' I seed a black 
 
 cloud rise, 
 Like a widder's veil unrollin' o'er the bright face of the 
 
 skies, 
 The wind turned into howlin' like a risin' hurricane, 
 The birds left off their singing', an' it begun to rain, 
 The lovers took to kivver, for lovers, you kin bet, 
 Are a-most like other critters, 'bout gittin' hungry, cold 
 
 or wet; 
 I seed the lightnin' blazin', an' I heerd the thunder crash? 
 An' for a while it seemed as if the world 'udgo to smash; 
 
76 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 But jest thar the music changed ag'in', the black cloud 
 
 rolled away, 
 An' left the sky jest curtained with a dismal sort o' gray; 
 The wind came sighin' through the trees with sich a lone- 
 some sound, 
 That I felt as if there warn't another livin' soul around. 
 Then a church bell went to tollin' for a spirit that had 
 
 fled, 
 An' somehow, you see, I seemed to know a little child war 
 
 dead; 
 I seed an' open grave, an' a baby's coffin settin' thar, 
 I heerd a mother cryin' while the parson said his pray'r; 
 Then the sexton war a-lowerin' the coffin in the ground, 
 An' I heerd the dirt fall on it with a dull, heart-sicknin' 
 
 sound; 
 An' that fiddle war a-singin' sich an agonizin' strain, 
 That it seemed as if the universe war moanin' with its pain; 
 All creation turned to weepin' an' I could a-swore, you 
 
 know, 
 That I seed the tears a-drappin' from thatquiverin' fiddle 
 
 bow, 
 While the crowd that sot thar listenin,' jest gasped an' 
 
 held their breath, 
 Till the music in that fiddle, sobbed an' sobbed itself to 
 
 death, 
 An' the world went into mournin', as its spirit riz on high, 
 To go forever an' forever, serenadin' through the sky, 
 An' I'll bet my bottom dollar, if that choir around the 
 
 throne, 
 Should ever ketch the echo of that wanderin' spirit's tone, 
 They'll hush their song awhile, an' give their golden harps 
 
 a rest, 
 While from every chamber winder in the mansions of the 
 
 blest, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 77' 
 
 A bouquet of angel heads '11 be a-stretchin' out to hear 
 The music of that serenade ring through the heavenly 
 
 sp'ere. 
 An' if them cherubs ever learn what instrument on earth, 
 Sung the airly mornin' anthem at that serenader's birth, 
 I reckon that for once they'll do a powerful human thing, 
 For they'll envy all the crowd that's heerd that ole red 
 
 fiddle sing. 
 
 
 MAID AND MATRON, 
 
 ORELIA KEY BELL. 
 
 npHUS a maiden, light and fair, 
 To a dame with silver hair : 
 " Tell me how love cometh." 
 
 "Listen," 
 Comes reply, while tear-drops glisten 
 In the memory-melting eyes: 
 ' ' You will wake one morn to see 
 A bluer blue spread o'er the skies 
 Than was erewhile wont to be; 
 On the rose a redder red, 
 A softer down upon the thistle, 
 And the skylark overhead 
 Will so soft a matin whistle 
 You will wonder why before 
 You loved not to listen more. 
 All the earth and all the air 
 Will seem so fresh, will seem so fair, 
 You will chide your unbelieving: 
 
78 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 1 Surely life is worth the living!' 
 Work for heart and work for head 
 Will spread all round you. And, 
 Since loving one, and loving much, 
 Breeds loving many — o'er you such 
 A sense of charity will steal 
 That, like Schiller, you will feel 
 A wish to rush midst its alarms 
 And snatch the world up in your arms! 
 Ah, child! you will be nearer Heaven 
 In that hour than it is given 
 Unto mortals e'er to be again." 
 
 The maiden, pensively 
 This time, with hand pressed to her brow: 
 ' ' Now that you have told me how 
 Cometh love," she said, "suppose 
 That you tell me how love goes." 
 Gravely shook the silvered head: 
 "Child, love never went," she said. 
 
 UNDER THE SPELL OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 DIALOGUE FOR TWO FEMALES, BY MRS. C. W. HUBNER. 
 
 Mrs. Jarvis, a middle-aged lady, in home dress, with large white 
 
 apron . 
 Josephine, her daughter, in a loose dress, a small rope, fringed 
 
 at the ends, tied round her waist. 
 Scene : — Mrs. Jarvis, seated at a small table, darning stockings. 
 
 MRS. JARVIS. I thought Josephine was going to be 
 the comfort of my old age, but that hope is gone forever. 
 Since her return from the school of Elocution, she con- 
 tinually rolls up her eyes, and declaims dramatic pieces 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 79 
 
 affects the Grecian costume, says it's classic. I think it's 
 slouchy; too much like a Mother Hubbard to suit me. 
 She wanted me to buy her a silk cord and tassel to tie 
 round her Grecian waist. I most emphatically told her 
 no, but she was not to be frustrated. She took my 
 clothes-line, fringed it at the ends and has been parading 
 around in it ever since. She is under the spell now. I 
 hear her raving around like a first-class lunatic, and of 
 course waving her arms like a windmill. 
 
 The other day she was dusting the pictures, when all of 
 a sudden, I heard a crash, and on opening the door I saw 
 a sight I'll never forget; there was Napoleon Bonaparte, 
 heels up, head down, hanging by one end of the cord, 
 George Washington was lying flat on his back, his gilt 
 frame shivered to pieces, the paint scratched off his nose, 
 and one eye gouged out — (crash heard outside). There ! 
 I know she's broke my china vase. Josephine — Joseph- 
 ine 1 ! Josephine ! ! ! 
 
 [Enter Josephine]. What wilt thou have? 
 
 Mrs. Jarvis. Have you broken my china vase? 
 
 Josephine. Yes, mama dear, what matters it, do you 
 not know the poet Thomas Moore said: 
 "You may shatter, you may break the vase if you will, 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still." 
 
 Mrs. J. I don't care for your Tommie Moore and his 
 poetry. Your Pa gave me that vase as long ago as when 
 we were sweethearts. 
 
 Jos. Sweethearts did you say? Oh, listen to Miss 
 Quinn's lovely poem entitled "Sweetheart." 
 
 "The sun fades out of the purple west, 
 The sleepy songsters are gone to rest, 
 The dew is over the roses breast. 
 
 Dear love, good-bye! 
 
80 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 "The shadows lengthen down the lane, 
 The crickets whistle a shrill refrain, 
 Sad night approaches with starry train. 
 
 Dear love, good-bye! 
 
 "The cold stars twinkle in yon blue sky, 
 So clear and silent, so vast and high, 
 The moon's cloud-chariot rolleth by, 
 
 Sweetheart, farewell! 
 "Day will dawn chill in the pallid morn, 
 No roseate flushes the east adorn, 
 So drear is my heart when thy smile is gone. 
 
 Sweetheart, farewell ! 
 
 "Oh, blue eyes, weave ye no sorrowful spell! 
 Oh, red lips, frame ye no sad farewell, 
 But, true heart, still love's sweet story tell. 
 
 Sweetheart, farewell! 
 "Good-night, then, and not good-bye for aye; 
 We'll meet in the future in some happy day, 
 Then be not wistful, be glad and gay. 
 
 Sweetheart, good-night!" 
 
 O, here's another beautiful creation: 
 
 "Rememberest thou the dark-eyed stranger, 
 
 That came to our gypsy tent? 
 Roaming with him, o'er the greensward, 
 
 Happy were the days we spent." 
 
 Mrs. J. I'm tired of this nonsense. 
 
 Jos. 'Tis a fearful night! Iu all my life I have not 
 seen its equal. How the storm howls through the house 
 and smites the groaning earth. Ha! see that blinding 
 flash! 
 
 Mrs. J. There you go again faster than a flying-jenny. 
 
 Jos. [sings]. "Sweet Jenny, the flower of Kildare." 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 81 
 
 Mrs. J. [emphatically]. Life is not all dreams and 
 poetry; sometime you will have to wake up to realities. 
 
 Jos. "You must wake and call me early, 
 Call me early, mother, dear, 
 For tomorrow will be the happiest time, 
 Of all the glad New Year, 
 Of all the glad New Year, mother, 
 The maddest, merriest day, 
 For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, 
 I'm to be Queen of the May." 
 
 [Josephine seizes the broom for a gun and marches.] 
 "Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching, 
 Cheer up, comrades, they will come, 
 And beneath the starry flag 
 We shall breath the air again, 
 Of the freedom of our own beloved home." 
 [Takes the scissors from the table.] Ah! is this a dagger 
 I see before me? Let me clutch thee. 
 
 Mrs. J. Are you crazy? They are my scissors. I 
 bought them at the bargain counter. Josie, hand me my 
 ball. 
 
 [Josephine sings and waltzes.] 
 
 "After the ball is over, 
 After the break of day — " 
 Mrs. J. Josephine, stop that waltzing; your father 
 does not approve of the mazy dance. 
 
 [Josephine makes a balcony by placing a screen upon the 
 table.] 
 
 Mrs. J. Josephine, what upon earth are you making? 
 Jos. A balcony. 
 Mrs. J. What for? 
 
 Jos. For Juliet. [Steps behind the screen.] Romeo! 
 Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo? Deny thy father 
 and refuse thy name, and if thou wilt not be but sworn 
 
82 TWENTIETH CENTUR Y SPEAKER. 
 
 my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet. (Mother, you 
 say, "Oh, would I were a glove upon that hand that I 
 might touch that cheek!") 
 
 Mrs. J. What glove? Whose hand are you talking 
 about ? 
 
 Jos. [despairingly]. Oh, mother, don't you know? 
 
 Mrs. J. No, I don't. 
 
 Jos. Well, never mind, it doesn't matter. This is from 
 Julius Caesar: "What means this shouting? I do fear 
 the people do choose Csesar for their king." 
 
 Mrs. J. Josephine, you make me tired. 
 
 Jos. Perhaps you would like the " Georgia Mule." 
 
 Mrs'. J. I never have yet. 
 
 Jos. 
 
 "Only a Georgia mule 
 
 Relieved of its wearisome load, 
 
 With never a thought of harm, 
 Grazing beside the road. 
 
 "Only a little boy, 
 
 Full of some frolicsome trick, 
 Carefully coming behind, 
 
 Tickles the mule with a stick. 
 
 ' k Only a shapeless mass, 
 
 Flying aloft through the air, 
 
 Where is the frolicsome boy? 
 Echo respondeth — Where ? 
 
 "Only a little grave, 
 
 With the mourners standing around, 
 Only a funeral show, 
 
 For the body was never found." 
 
 Mrs. J. [weeping]. Oh, I think that is beautiful, and 
 so pathetic. How awfully that dear little boy must have 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 83 
 
 felt flying aloft in the air. My nerves are completely 
 upset. Josie, thread this needle for me. 
 
 Jos. Call me not Josie, but Josephine, for thus was 
 the unfortunate Empress of France called. 
 , Mrs. J. Well, Empress Josephine, step down from your 
 throne and help me fix your Pa's clothes. He is going to 
 join the " Red Men " to night, and I want him to look his 
 best, and there is no time to lose. It is nearly six o'clock, 
 now. I'll brush off his Sunday clothes, and iron his cuffs 
 and you can put that new black ribbon on his hat. 
 
 Jos. With pleasure, my dear mother. 
 
 [Mrs. J., leaving the stage, looks back and sees Josephine 
 taking Delsartean poses.] 
 
 Mrs. J. [frowning] . Josephine, stop that foolishness 
 and come with me. 
 
 Jos. [Takes the dusting brush, and flourishes it over her 
 head]. Lead on, Macbeth. I'll follow. [Exit]. 
 
 WHIP POOR WILL. 
 
 MONTGOMERY M. FOLSOM. 
 
 w 
 
 "HEN purpling shadows westward creep, 
 And stars through crimson curtains peep, 
 And south winds sing themselves to sleep; 
 From woodlands heavy with perfume 
 Of spicy bud and April bloom, 
 Comes through the tender twilight gloom, 
 Music most mellow : 
 "Whip po' Will— Will, oh! 
 Whip po' Will— Will, oh! 
 Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will—Will, oh! 
 
84 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 The bosom of the brook is filled 
 
 With new alarm, the forest thrilled 
 
 With startled echoes, and most skilled 
 
 To run a labyrinthine race, 
 
 The fireflies light their lamps to chase 
 
 The culprit through the darkling space — 
 
 Mischievous fellow: 
 
 "Whip po' Will— Will, oh! 
 
 Whip po' Will— Will, oh! 
 Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will— Will, oh!' 
 
 From hill to hill the echoes fly, 
 The marshy brakes take up the cry, 
 And where the slumbering waters lie 
 In calm repose, and slyly feeds 
 The snipe among the whispering reeds, 
 The tale of this wild sprite's misdeeds 
 
 Troubles the billow: 
 
 "Whip po' Will— Will, oh! 
 
 Whippo' Will— Will, oh! 
 Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will— Will, oh!" 
 
 And where is he of whom they speak? 
 Is he just playing hide aud seek 
 Among the thickets up the creek? 
 Or is he resting from his play 
 In some cool grotto, far away, 
 Where lullaby-crooning zephyrs stay, 
 
 Smoothing his pillow, 
 
 "Whip po' Will— Will, oh! 
 
 Whippo' Will— Will, oh! 
 Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will, Whip po' Will— Will, oh!" 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 85 
 
 WHAT THEN. 
 
 D. W. GVVIN, 
 
 AFTER the fame of life, 
 
 After thy pleasure's strife, 
 
 After thy search for wealth, 
 
 After thy loss of health, 
 What then? 
 Only a discrowned king, 
 
 # Only a shadowy thing, 
 Only a shriveled germ, 
 Only an earthly worm. 
 
 After this discrowned king, 
 
 After this shadowy thing, 
 
 After this shriveled germ, 
 
 After this earthly worm, 
 What then? 
 Only a sad adieu 
 To a world found untrue; 
 Only a little spot 
 Where all men are forgot. 
 
 After this sad adieu 
 To a world found untrue; 
 After this little spot 
 Where all men are forgot, 
 What then? 
 
 Oh, then, thy God to face! 
 
 Oh, then, without His grace! 
 
 Then to thy wretched heart 
 
 He speaks thy doom, "Depart! 
 
86 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 After the Christian's sighs, 
 After his pains and cries. 
 After his care and toil, 
 With but a cruse of oil, 
 What then? 
 Oh, then, a blessed rest, 
 Leaning on Jesus' breast; 
 Oh, then, a longing thirst 
 For heavenly mansions first. 
 
 After this blessed rest, 
 This trust on Jesus' breast; 
 After this longing thirst, 
 For heavenly mansions first, 
 What then? 
 Oh, then, still harder toils — 
 For those in Satan's coils; 
 Then Jesus greets his soul 
 When waves of death o'er roll. 
 
 And when these toils are done, 
 When every saint is won; 
 When Jesus' loving arm 
 Has quenched in death all harm, 
 What then? 
 Oh, then, this shout is heard — 
 The air of Heaven has stirred, 
 And struck against its dome — 
 "Ye blessed ones, come Home! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 87 
 
 WED. 
 
 CHARLES J. BAYNE. 
 
 T1HE lights of yesternight are out. 
 
 And their extinguished ray 
 Has left a deeper gloom to flout 
 
 The scene which once was gay. ' 
 The wine-sprent board, the shattered flowers 
 Bespeak the cheer of vanished hours. 
 
 The kiss is cold upon the lips 
 
 Which swore a treacherous troth ; 
 
 The honeyed cup's deceptive sips 
 Are now a tasteless froth. 
 
 The tripping measures now are mute; 
 
 The worm is feeding on the fruit. 
 
 But in our lives a lonelier waste 
 
 And darker night succeed; 
 The flowering hope that hour effaced 
 
 Is now a withered weed. 
 The cup which held our votive wine 
 Alas! lies shattered at the shrine. 
 
 They who have never seen the light 
 
 Are but one-half so blind 
 As they whose overdazzled sight 
 
 Has left its gloom behind. 
 The heart whose feelings once were fond 
 Alone is tensioned to despond. 
 The glittering round of pledge and jest 
 
 Needs must have wrung thy soul 
 When Memory, that unbidden guest, 
 
 Pushed by, untouched, his bowl, 
 And with his sad, reproachful gaze 
 Called back the truth of other days. 
 
88 T WEN TIE TH CENTUR Y SPEA KER. 
 
 For tho' thy heart feel vaguely void, 
 
 Uncrushed lies many a seed, 
 And love will linger undestroyed — 
 
 Just bruised enough to bleed. 
 The dreams thus temporized to rest 
 Will scorn a burial so unblest. 
 
 Within that warm and roseate room 
 'Tis well that all shone bright, 
 
 For, shamed to see thee thus assume 
 The meaning veil of white, 
 
 The moon's once soft, approving rays 
 
 Were shadowed in a deepening haze. 
 
 Ah! yes, 'tis well, for that one hour 
 
 Of splendor and of pride 
 Must weigh against the crushing power 
 
 Of years unsaoctified. 
 The vows which gave our love the lie 
 Have wrought a tether, not a tie. 
 
 And when his lips shall claim their right, 
 And when his arms shall twine 
 
 The form which glowed, that parting night, 
 Responsively to mine, 
 
 Beware, lest he, poor fool! should know 
 Wherefore thy bosom trembles so. 
 
 Beware, lest sleep should lead thee back 
 
 To some familiar scene 
 Where love has left its truant track 
 
 And former fields are green; 
 For thou must "murder sleep," lest he, 
 Unsleeping, hear, and murder thee. 
 
 When infant cheeks shall press thine own, 
 
 And wake one hallowed flame, 
 How poorly will that love atone 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 89 
 
 For all he could not claim. 
 Yet warmlier nurse thine Alpine rose 
 Because it flowered amid the snows. 
 
 Down with the pandering creeds which hold 
 
 Affection's holier law 
 Subaltern to the bonds which gold 
 
 And ritual rote may draw! 
 Down with the mockers who declare 
 The incense purer than the prayer! 
 
 I hold a higher creed which scorns 
 
 The tinsel ties of lust; 
 Which neither wealth nor power suborns — 
 
 A scale forever just. 
 Belshazzar, too, with heathen fume 
 Steeped Judah's vessels. Read thy doom! 
 
 A MISSION OF CHARITY. 
 
 ORELIA KEY BELL. 
 
 TT was at the close of a sultry day 
 
 That foretaste of June had lent to May, 
 With ruthless eye the failing sun 
 Glanced askance at the havoc he'd done; 
 For the corn-blades dropt on their shrivel'd stalk, 
 And the farmer sigh'd in his homeward walk, 
 And the buff-hearted daises, that sprinkled the field 
 With joyance that morning, had sicken'd and reel'd, 
 Daz'd by the glare of his pitiless glance, 
 And the leaves on the trees had forgotten to dance, 
 JBut hung mouse-still and gaz'd below, 
 Where the runlet was almost too lazy to flow. 
 
90 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 And a sick girl lay in her dying chair 
 And pray'd for a breath of evening air 
 To enter the lattice and fan her cheek, 
 Where consumption fed with envenom'd beak. 
 1 '0, that a breeze would this way wing 
 And ease to my raging temples bring!" 
 She sighed. And away in his eastern cave, 
 Far, far, over the ocean wave, 
 A low-voice'd zephyr, ^Eolus' child, 
 
 Balmy and gentle, but brave as mild, 
 Heard this wail, and he said to himself, 
 "Now, if a little sylph-like elf 
 Like me might answer that plaintive cry, 
 I'd loose my wing and away I'd fly — 
 And why not I?" — as the voice was heard 
 A second time. So, with never a word, 
 On a sweet mission of charity bent, 
 He slipt thro' a chink, and away he went! 
 
 Now a ship was due o'er the sea that night, 
 
 But just e'er her harbor loom'd in sight, 
 
 The wind at her mast began to fail, 
 
 And flat and limp hung her every sail, 
 
 And the captain on the foredeck trod 
 
 With his hands to his brow, and he said, "My God! 
 
 Before I can reach her my child will die!" 
 
 Just then the zephyr came skimming by; 
 
 He heard this wail in a happy hour, 
 
 And he swell'd to the utmost in his power: 
 
 "What little I can do shall be done," 
 
 And he lodg'd in the sails, and the ship moved on, 
 
 Till safe at last into harbor steer'd — 
 
 Then he slipt from the mast and leeward veer'd. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 91 
 
 Now over the fields as he chances to pass 
 
 He lightly breathes on the blades of grass; 
 
 They nod their heads with conscious thanks 
 
 And toss their arms in a thousand pranks. 
 
 He kisses the daisy out of her trance, 
 
 And sprays her with dews till her gold eyes dance; 
 
 He sets the lazy leaves a-quiver, 
 
 He speeds the runlet on to the river. 
 
 And all this time he is winging to where 
 
 The poor girl lies in her dying chair. 
 
 Now he reaches the casement in time to see 
 
 Two strong arms clasp her tenderly: 
 
 "My father, my father!"— "My darling girl!" 
 And the zephyr slips in and lifts a curl, 
 A golden curl, from a crimson pool, 
 And he kisses the raging temples cool, 
 And he slips the soul from the smiling clay 
 And unto an angel bears it away. 
 
 Children, a lesson this carries for you — 
 See the good even a zephyr can do! 
 He went on an humble mission bent, 
 But on doing good was his heart intent; 
 And see what Providence dropt in his path ; 
 He revived the daisy with gentle dew bath, 
 He cheer'd the leaflet, he dimpled the water, 
 He clasped in the arms of his dying daughter 
 A poor old man — and, above all this, 
 He wafted a soul to the climes of bliss. 
 
92 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 LAUGHING EYES. 
 
 JOSEPH ALPHONSUS FARRELL. 
 
 "DAST my window every morning, 
 
 Just as I from bed arise, 
 There goes flitting like a fairy 
 Little girl with laughing eyes. 
 
 Golden curls has she full many, 
 Ruby lips that seem to speak, 
 
 And the color of the rosebud 
 Is the color of her cheek. 
 
 I have seen a world of beauty, 
 Visions bright before me rise, 
 
 But the fairest of them all is* 
 Little girl with laughing eyes. 
 
 Oh, I wonder what her name is! 
 
 I'll ne'er know it, I surmise, 
 Yet I'll be content to call her 
 
 Nothing else but Laughing Eyes. 
 
 Laughing Eyes, my little darling, 
 If I'd meet you in the skies ' 
 
 'Mong a thousand radiant angels 
 I could tell you by your eyes. 
 
 Laughing Eyes, wee cunning maiden, 
 Basking in life's sunny lawn, 
 
 I can see you, I can see you, 
 Pass my window every morn; 
 
 And your steps, so light and springy, 
 And you look so sweet and gay, 
 
 That there are times when saddened 
 You have stole my tears away. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 93 
 
 Here's a wish for thee, my beauty: 
 In this world of cares and sighs, 
 
 May your days be bright and lovely 
 As your pair of laughing eyes. 
 
 THE DINNEK-HORN. 
 
 WILLIAM T. DUMAS. 
 
 TTTHEN lazy dials point to noon, 
 " And clocks are chiming out the hour; 
 When sable Phyllis 'gins to croon, 
 And pigeoDS nod upon the tower, 
 
 Black Tom, beneath the spreading tree 
 That shades the pleasant farm-house yard, 
 
 Looks out across the shimmering lea, 
 And blows the bugle, long and hard. 
 
 Blow, bugler, let the echoes float 
 
 The fields and woodland slopes along, 
 
 Till every wild but mellow note 
 
 Bursts on the distant hills in song. 
 
 Sound thro' the valleys, cool and green, 
 Where tinkling brooklets purl and creep; 
 
 Sound where the nodding flowers are seen, 
 And wake the poppy from its sleep. 
 
 Where cattle drink by shady streams, 
 Where wave the yellow fields of wheat, 
 
 Where plowboys drive their sweating teams, 
 Send out thy notes prolonged and sweet. 
 
 The lab'rer casts aside his hoe, 
 
 The horse, delighted, 'gins to neigh; 
 
 What says the bugle, well they know, 
 Although it speaks a mile away: 
 
94 • TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 ' ; Come to the cool and dripping well, 
 And at its mossy curbstone kneel, 
 And lave thy sweaty face a spell, 
 And eat the simple noonday meal. 
 
 "There's cider from the oaken press 
 Hid in the cellar dark and old; 
 There's many a sweet you can not guess, 
 There's tempting cream the hue of gold." 
 
 Sing, bugle, sing with all thy power, 
 
 And let thy last note be the best; 
 Thou hast announced the golden hour. 
 The noonday's hour of drowsy rest. 
 % * % % * % % * % 
 
 bugle of the good old days, 
 Forever silent in the South, 
 
 Poor Tom has grown too weak to raise 
 Unto his lips thy mellow mouth! 
 
 No darkey of the younger brood, 
 
 Though he should blow his lungs away, 
 
 Can send afloat o'er field and wood 
 The notes that he was wont to play. 
 
 The songs the red-lipped maidens sing 
 Along my pulses bound and thrill; 
 
 They charm, but no such pictures bring 
 As that old bugle on the hill. 
 
 1 seem again with blushing June 
 To stand amid the fields of corn, 
 
 Whene'er, thro' languid airs of noon, 
 I hear the distant bugle-horn. 
 
 And, oh! I sigh for boyhood's tinue, 
 For our old homestead on the hill, 
 
 And for the drowsy, droning rhyme 
 Sung by the busy water-mill. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 95 
 
 The cherry's blood was richer then, 
 
 The peach was of a deeper hue, 
 And I have wondered if again 
 
 The skies can ever be so blue. 
 
 Ah, could I be again a boy, 
 
 And could I be where I was born, 
 I'd kiss thy lips with reverent joy, 
 
 And hug thee, battered bugle-horn. 
 
 THE SPECTRE'S WARNING. 
 
 MARY BREXT WHITESIDE 
 
 T AUREL-CROWNED, with smile triumphant 
 
 Through the lofty gates of Rome, 
 Strains of music sweetly swelling, 
 Poets' songs his glory telling, 
 'Neath his feet fair roses treading, 
 Comes the warrior proudly home. 
 
 Head erect and look exultant, 
 
 On a noble, prancing steed, 
 Eager crowds about him pressing, 
 Words of praise to him addressing, 
 Him the favorite of the people, 
 
 For his great and valiant deed . 
 
 Hero of a hundred battles, 
 
 Conqueror of a hundred fields, 
 For his country's fame and glory, 
 Dripping were his hands and gory; 
 To him reverence and homage, 
 
 With one voice the nation yields. 
 
96 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 'Neath a canopy of flowers, 
 
 In a lofty marble hall, 
 Led, with flattering friends surrounding, 
 Princes, noblemen abounding, 
 To a table richly laden, 
 
 Comes the lordliest of all. 
 
 Gleams the wine in crystal goblets, 
 Friendly Bacchus' gift propitious, 
 Waxen tapers brightly burning, 
 Darkness into daylight turning, 
 Roses red, abundant breathing 
 Sweetest perfume, faint, delicious. 
 
 Speed the hours like winged creatures, 
 
 Joyously and swiftly by, 
 Till the warriors flushed and heated, 
 From the chairs where they were seated, 
 'Midst the myrtle and the roses, 
 On the icy marble lie. 
 
 Waxen tapers flare and flicker, 
 With a pale and ghostly light, 
 
 Falling with a feeble glimmer, 
 
 Where the shattered goblets shimmer; 
 
 Phantoms gray, their gaunt hands wringing, 
 From the corners glide in sight. 
 
 He alone for whom the banquet 
 In the marble hall was spread, 
 Keeps his seat and scornful eyeing, 
 All his friends about him lying, 
 Feels himself far more than worthy 
 Of the laurels on his head. 
 
 But erelong the last dim taper, 
 From its sconce of silver falls, 
 
READINGS AXD RECITATIONS. 97 
 
 And with lights no longer burning, 
 Darkness from the chamber turning. 
 Proudly sat the haughty victor. 
 In a darkness that appalls. 
 
 ■•Bring me lights and bring my lyre. 
 
 Darkness suits me not." he cried: 
 But the cold walls echo dreary. 
 As the moan of sick and weary. 
 He had slain in Grecian cities. 
 
 Dismally and drear replied. 
 
 It was growing sad. oppressive. 
 
 And the heavy, stifling gloom. 
 E"en the warrior's stern heart chilling. 
 And his crystal goblet spilling. 
 Seized with dark and vague foreboding. 
 
 Staggers up across the room. 
 
 •"Stay ye, Roman proud! Oh stay ye!" 
 
 Huskily a deep voice called, 
 ;, I have come to bring a warning, 
 Which thou mayest not treat with scorning.' 
 As he paused the Roman trembled, 
 Listened to his words appalled. 
 
 "Whence comest thou. bold intruder. 
 
 Entering thus, unasked, unknown, 
 Can it be a spirit risen. 
 From the grave, the soul's dark prison. 
 Or a shade from Hades straying. 
 
 Back to earth again alone?" 
 
 "Or art thou some mad Athenian. 
 
 From the conquered land of Greece, 
 Come to bring a fabled warning. 
 Which can not be worth the scorning. 
 And to seek with threat and begging. 
 
 Once again for Athen's peace." 
 
98 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 "That thou shalt have with submission" — 
 "Hush thee, Roman, I will listen 
 To no more. I come not weary, 
 From the realms of Pluto dreary, 
 Nor from Greece. Thou canst not wound me r 
 Though thy dagger gleam and glisten. 
 
 "Pause then, Roman. Thou hast conquered 
 
 Many towns and cities fair, 
 Scorned the moans of orphans crying, 
 Starved and murdered sick and dying, 
 Till thy hands with blood are reeking, 
 
 And thou seekest for glory there. 
 
 "Thou hast found it? Surely, truly, 
 
 But the evil that men do, 
 Lives when they are dead and sleeping, 
 And their friends have ceased their weepings 
 And their glory is forgotten, 
 
 In the fame of heroes new. 
 
 "Thou hast served thy country, Roman? 
 
 Tell me, when thy life shall end, 
 True, Rome grieves, a leader losing, 
 But another will be choosing, 
 And hast thou made one man love thee, 
 
 Will one mortal mourn a friend? 
 
 "Answer'st nothing? Well, I know, 
 Thou canst not an answer give, 
 Think'st thou then life worth the living, 
 With no kindly friend's voice giving 
 Sweet encouragement and cheering, 
 Canst thou still desire to live? 
 
 "So, farewell, thou may'st consider, 
 All that I have said to-day, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 Thou may'st either turn relenting, 
 Of thy sinful ways repenting, 
 Or go forth tomorrow fighting, 
 With my warning thrown away." 
 
 Speaking thus, the spectre vanished, 
 
 Noiseless through the silent air, 
 Filled with fear, but unrelenting, 
 Of his dark deeds not repenting, 
 Slowly, awed, the warrior staggered 
 Down the dark, re-echoing stair. 
 
 Next day, on the field of battle, 
 He, the dauntless, met his death. 
 
 To the nearest tent they bore him. 
 
 Dimly, vague, rose up before him 
 
 Memories of the spectre's warning, 
 Whom he cursed with dying breath. 
 
 THE FALLING BELL. 
 
 BY GERTRUDE ELOISE BEALER. 
 
 [Suggested by the burning of the old Independent Church in Savannah, GaJ 
 
 TN that lovely Southern city 
 
 Wliere the oaks in stately might 
 Clad in all their mossy beauty 
 Stand a grandly solemn sight, 
 
 There, where woodlands in the springtime 
 
 With their yellow flowers so sweet 
 Seem o'errun and filled with fragrance 
 
 As the passing eye they greet, 
 
 Years ago, in that fair city — 
 
 Three-score years and may be ten — 
 
 Rose a grand and lofty building 
 Skillful work of skillful men. 
 
100 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 'Twas a house for God's own worship. 
 And the clear-toned silver bell 
 
 In the tall and stately steeple 
 Used the flying hours to tell. 
 
 Year by year the people worshipped — 
 Changing as the years went by — 
 
 Rang the bell for bridal parties, 
 Rang it oft for those who die. 
 
 And the church grew dear and dearer 
 To the hearts of young and old, 
 
 Not alone to those who sought it, 
 Claiming it their own sweet fold. 
 
 But one day, in gladsome springtime 
 When the wind blew long and loud, 
 
 Suddenly the cry of "Fire!" 
 Terrified the passing crowd. 
 
 And the grand old stately steeple 
 Which for many years had stood 
 
 Upward pointing to the heavens 
 Like a sentinel in wood, 
 
 Sprang ablaze in one short moment 
 And the flames spread thick and fast 
 
 Till the whole in mournful beauty 
 Flashed and roared and leapt at last. 
 
 Hark,[upon the air of evening 
 
 Sounds the clock the hour of eight! 
 
 And the bell within the steeple 
 Slowly tolls its own sad fate. 
 
 Crash it came, and clanging weirdly 
 On the air its sweet tones fell, 
 
 And, its requiem tolling sadly, 
 Sank to earth the loved old bell! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 101 
 
 THERE ARE OTHER EYES IN SPAIN. 
 
 CHARLES J. BAYNE. 
 
 rpHERE are other eyes in Spain— 
 Dark and dazzling eyes, Crucita; 
 
 Rosebud lips which wait the rain 
 Like the harvest for Demeter; 
 
 Do not distance with disdain: 
 
 There are other eyes in Spain. 
 
 Thou art fashioned in a mould 
 
 Of the most symmetric graces; 
 
 Thy brown beaut}^ is extolled 
 As alone the fairest face is; 
 
 But how foolish to be vain; 
 
 There are other eyes in Spain. 
 
 There is music in the tone 
 
 Of thy syllables, and silence, 
 
 With a sweetness all its own, 
 
 Compensates for words' exilence; 
 
 But in pride be this thy strain: 
 
 There are other eyes in Spain. 
 
 I have loved thee; yea, perhaps 
 There is still a tender feeling, 
 
 But beware the cold relapse 
 
 Of a long-neglected kneeling; 
 
 Love will spread its wings again: 
 
 There are other eyes in Spain. 
 
102 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 THE WEIRD CARILLONEUR.* 
 
 FANNIE MAY WITT. 
 
 "HOST hear the chimes from the steeple there? 
 
 'Tis a weird tune — 'tis a warning air; 
 A funeral knell from a ghostly hand 
 Shivering down to the wild lowland. 
 
 "Nanin! Nanin!" She has left her play; 
 
 "Nanin! Nanin!" She has roamed away; 
 The cows are lost up the hills, I fear — 
 Hush! Is it the chimes of their bells I hear? 
 Nanin, my pet, you must call them home, 
 
 "Co-o!" The clear call cuts the gloam. 
 
 Far up the hillside's misty blue, 
 Fast through the heather, dank with dew, 
 Nanin is calling in chanting rhyme, 
 Following ever the ghostly chime. 
 
 A wild wind tumbles her hair to gold, 
 (The same wind moans in the steeple old) 
 But a spell is on her; the cows, forgot, 
 Wind slowly home to the milking-spot. 
 
 A gray bat whirls in the purple light, 
 A horn of the moon grows silvery white, 
 As Nanin, wide-eyed, holds her breath, 
 And lists to the chimes of the ringer, Death. 
 
 "Nanin! Nanin! In the cloister old, 
 There's a bed for thee on the lichen mold, 
 And up 'mid the chimes is a ringer true, 
 Who will rock you to sleep all the long night through! 
 
 [*Note.— This piece may be made very effective by usin^ a violin accompani- 
 ment where the calling tones are introduced.] 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 108 
 
 Nanin! hie on to the Netherlands!" 
 
 The bells call clear from the ringer's hands. 
 
 All slow through the dusk, wind the cows, forgot, 
 Through the heather wet to the milking-spot. 
 "Nanin! Nanin!" Far the wild call cleaves 
 To the ringer grim 'neath the belfry eaves. 
 "Nanin! ,Nanin! Hast lost thy way?" 
 "She has found her rest!" sung the ringer gray! 
 
 "I have crossed her hands on her bosom white, 
 I have smoothed her hair all golden light, 
 I have closed her gray eyes, large and wet — 
 Her ranz de vaches she'll soon forget; 
 She is mine!" The ringer ye quake to hear 
 Will sing as he watches beside her bier: 
 
 "Sleep, sleep, Nanin, up the Netherlands, 
 I'll keep thee safe with my ghostly hands!" 
 They sought Nanin where the dank dews lay, 
 They called by night, they called by day, 
 
 "Nanin, my pet, come back to me!" 
 But far in the tower asleep lay she. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 JULIA T. RIORDAN. 
 
 HOW do I know it's spring, sir? Why here's the way 
 I tell: 
 I kin feel it in the breezes, by the faint peach-blossom's 
 
 smell; 
 I kin see the little violets a-peepin' from the leaves, 
 I kin hear the swallows murmuring underneath the eaves; 
 
104 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 But most of all, Maria — she's a perfect almanack, 
 She's ekal to a prophet — she is, sir, fur a fack! 
 When the days gits sorter lengthy, then Maria 'gins to sing~ 
 Some old song she heard in childhood, an' that's how I 
 know it's spring. 
 
 'Taint no matter bout the tune, sir, an' the name don't 
 
 matter, either, 
 Fer she never thinks about it, an' I don't think of it 
 
 neither. 
 Just some simple little melody she heard so long ago, 
 When her cheeks wus lak June roses an' her throat wus 
 
 white as snow; 
 When a daisy wouldn't bend its head beneath her little 
 
 feet, 
 An' ther never wus a mockin'-bird thet sung one-half so 
 
 sweet. 
 So I shets my eyes an' listens when Maria 'gins to sing, 
 An' I feel so full of gladness, fur I know it's almost spring. 
 
 An' I tilts my chair a little back agin the kitchen wall. 
 An' I smokes on kinder lazy, till I plum fergits it all — 
 How the years have gone and drifted since both of us were 
 
 young; 
 An' thet little tune jest takes me back to when thet song. 
 
 wus sung — 
 One sunny summer afternoon — my youth has come agin, 
 An' all the grief that time has brought, an' all the care 
 
 an' pain, 
 Hez vanished like the shadows, when Maria 'gins to sing, 
 An' my old heart keeps on dreamin' — fur now I know it's 
 
 spring. 
 
 She wus drivin' home the cows that night an' I was helpin'. 
 
 too, 
 An' when we reached the meadow bars, an' when they'd 
 
 all gone through, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 105 
 
 And while she was a-hummin' low that very same old song, 
 Until the breezes caught it up an' carried it along, 
 I whispered to her softly — an' I wan't ashamed o' tears — 
 An' I asked her if she'd walk with me through all the 
 
 comin' years. 
 She said she would; thet's why, sir, thet I listen while she 
 
 sings, 
 An thet's why we've been together through so many, many 
 
 springs. 
 
 We hev had our winters too, sir; they must alius come. 
 
 you know; 
 You can tell it by the wrinkles on our faces, an' the snow 
 Thet no summer sun has melted. In the churchyard 
 
 over there 
 Sleep our dear ones, with the grave-dust softly mingling 
 
 in their hair. 
 But whenever days wus cloudy an' I couldn't see the blue; 
 When the world wus filled with shadows an' no sunshine 
 
 peepin' through, 
 Then Maria kinder gently she would just begin to sing, 
 An' the darkness would be lifted, fur I'd know 'twus 
 
 almost spring. 
 
 But the years are gittin' by, now, an' we both are git tin' 
 
 old; 
 Every spring is gittin' shorter, an' the autumn's gittin' 
 
 cold, 
 An' we feel the winter comin' — that long winter — when 
 
 we, too, 
 Shall lie out there in the churchyard, underneath the rain 
 
 and dew. 
 But if we kin rest together through the storm an' through 
 
 the shine, 
 With her dear face on my bosom, an' her lovin' hand in 
 
 mine, 
 
106 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 I will wait in patient silence till I hear Maria sing — 
 For I know that I shall hear her — an' 'twill be forever 
 spring. 
 
 NINE HE COMES. 
 
 LOLLIE BELLE WYLIE. 
 
 iiANE I love and two I love, 
 
 Three I love," she's saying, 
 And around the maiden's lips 
 Tender smiles are playing. 
 
 "Four I love with all my heart; 
 
 Five, and six — and seven — 
 Surely to me long his heart 
 
 Hath been fondly given! 
 
 "Here I find another seed, 
 Eight both loves. I know it. 
 
 And still another? Nine he comes — 
 I find just here below it!" 
 
 Softly doth the shadows lie 
 
 Over all the grasses, 
 And the light wind whispers low 
 
 As through the trees it passes. 
 
 In the sky the cloud-fleece flies, 
 Pursued by sun-ray kisses, 
 
 For they are too cold to thrill 
 With love's delicious blisses. 
 
 But there cometh through the mead 
 The maiden's blithe young lover. 
 
 Comes — and then the apple seed 
 Many truths discover. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 107 
 
 SOXG TO THE WESTERN WIND. 
 
 MONTGOMERY FOLSOM. 
 
 WESTERN wind, when will you blow, 
 Soft and sweet, that I may know? 
 She said when April's western wind 
 Blew through the woods incarnadined. 
 And sun of spring unclouded shone, 
 That I might come and claim my own. 
 Western wind, when will you blow? 
 Western wind, when will you blow? 
 
 Western wind, when will you blow. 
 In dulcet measures, sweet and low? 
 Thy light wing on the valley green, 
 Or rippling o'er the river's sheen, 
 Or on the violet-scented lea. 
 Will mean far more than life to me! 
 Western wind, when will you blow? 
 Western wind, when will you blow? 
 
 Western wind, when will you blow, 
 While busy brown bees come and go? 
 The days lag slow, the nights so long. 
 Impatiently among the throng 
 I go about each daily task 
 My heart concealed behind a mask! 
 Western wind, when will you blow? 
 Western wind, when will you blow? 
 
 Oh, western wind, when will you blow 
 Behind Time's winding sheet of snow? 
 And heal the cruel winter scars 
 And light anew the glowing stars, 
 
108 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER 
 
 She told me — ah, each treasure tone — 
 Then I might come and claim my own! 
 Western wind, when will you blow? 
 Oh, western wind, when will you blow? 
 
 JACK'S COW. 
 
 MYRTA LOCKETT AVARY. 
 
 T'M gardening, but Jack is dead set against gardening 
 and cows. He undertook to have a garden of his own in 
 town, once upon a time before I came. The hot weather 
 and the speckled bugs took it for their own. And about 
 cows: — well, I don't blame Jack — I realty don't. He 
 bought a cow of poor but honest persons. A simple Geor- 
 gia cracker sold Jack — I mean the cow to Jack. She was 
 warranted to give three gallons of milk. She did not 
 give it. That was the cow's fault, you know, not the war- 
 rant's. A warrant can't make a cow give milk. The cow 
 must do something herself. Jack read the warrant to 
 her every time he went to milk her, but it had no effect. 
 She seemed to think that that warrant was no concern of 
 hers, but of some other cow's. Jack said that she did 
 not give three gallons of milk all put together the whole 
 time he owned her. 
 
 It was too expensive to keep her in town because of 
 handsome looks and fine reputation. So Jack farmed her 
 out, paying two dollars a week board for her. Before she 
 had been rusticating a month, a rural Georgian walked 
 into Jack's office and informed him that his cow had 
 been found in a field, or somewhere else she had no busi- 
 ness to be, and claimed fine and costs. Jack paid it. 
 This set a fashion which a number of simple and honest 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 109 
 
 ■Georgia crackers were not slow to follow. Every week 
 or two, a cow-bill was presented at the office to either 
 Jack or his brother, and paid by one or the other. One 
 day, when the guileless rustic called with the customary 
 bill, despair inspired Jack's brother, and nerved him to 
 meet the occasion. 
 
 "My friend," said Jack's brother, buttonholing the 
 cracker, "my brother is out and I'm glad of it. He has 
 become dangerous. Don't mention it to anybody, be- 
 cause of course it's mortifying to the family. I don't 
 mind saying it to you, because you seem like one of the 
 family in this matter — we see you so much. My brother 
 seems out of his mind whenever a cow is mentioned — 
 something like lunacy, you know — wants to fight right 
 away — is ready to knock down or shoot anybody who 
 mentions her. That cow has caused us too much trouble. 
 AVe have made up our minds not to pay another cent for 
 kindness done to that cow. If you will kill her, or have 
 her killed, I will pay you for the news. But not till then. 
 I am getting ready to lose my mind about that cow. I 
 am glad for your sake that you didn't meet my brother 
 here to-day. And I advise you to keep out of his way, 
 for the very sight of you makes him think of a cow." 
 
 Soon as Jack found out that the cow was not going to 
 furnish milk according to the contract which her owner 
 had made for her, he felt so aggrieved that lie made his 
 sorrows known among his acquaintances and friends, 
 receiving in return, the balm of much sympathy and con- 
 dolence. Others had suffered also. There was Mr. Giles 
 and his cow. Three gallons had been promised for his 
 cow but she also failed to carry out the contract which 
 had been made for her. And Mr. Giles went to law 
 about it. His case was so plain that he dispensed with a 
 lawyer. Besides, he wanted the privilege of relieving his 
 
1 10 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 mind before the public about this matter. The court was 
 in sympathy with Mr. Giles, but courts have to be ruled 
 by facts. These are some of the questions put to Mr. 
 Giles: 
 
 "You say that this man sold you this cow on false rep- 
 resentations?" 
 
 "I certainly do, your honor!" 
 
 "How much milk did he say this cow gave?" 
 
 "More than three gallons, your honor." 
 
 "How much more? Can you remember the exact 
 words in which he told you how much milk this cow 
 gave?" 
 
 "Not exactly. But he made the impression upon me 
 that she could be made to give even a more bountiful 
 supply than she was then giving. In short, he made me 
 believe that she was A No. 1 milch-cow of unlimited pos- 
 sibilities." 
 
 "He claims that he did not promise you that this cow 
 would yield any specific amount of milk. When you 
 asked him to tell you exactly how much milk this cow 
 would give, what did he reply?" 
 
 "He rolled his eyes up in the back of his head, and 
 said, 'You never saw the like! I couldn't tell you! 
 Don't talk!' " 
 
 It is needless to say that Mr. Giles had to pay costs, 
 and that the guileless cracker came out on top. 
 
 A GEORGIA MULE. 
 
 LUCIUS PERRY HILLS. 
 
 ANLY a Georgia mule, 
 ^ Relieved of his wearisome load, 
 With never a thought of harm, 
 Feeding beside the road. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. HI 
 
 Only a little boy, 
 
 Playing a frolicsome trick, 
 Carefully coming behind, 
 
 Tickles the mule with a stick. 
 
 Only a shapeless mass, 
 
 Flying aloft through the air, 
 Where is the little boy? 
 
 Echo respondeth, "Where?" 
 
 Only a little grave, 
 With mourners weeping around; 
 
 Only a funeral show, 
 For the body was never found. 
 
 LIEUTENANT BARNEY LEE. 
 
 MONTGOMERY M. FOLSOM. 
 
 [In 1861 Captain Purtell was the only man|in the Ful- 
 ton Blues who had attained his majority, and the next 
 oldest was Barney Lee, aged nineteen, who was commis- 
 sioned first lieutenant in the emergency. He has kept 
 the old commission on his person every day since he re- 
 ceived it.] 
 
 GCANT five feet four, a boyish form, 
 ^ A sapling youth to face the storm 
 Of war, that in its withering wrath 
 Laid strong-limbed oaks along its path. 
 But nineteen summers, mild and meek, 
 Had blown the roses on his cheek; 
 Their fairy fingers wrought the casque 
 Of soft brown locks — a dainty task — 
 That bound his forehead fair and free, 
 The boy lieutenant, Barney Lee! 
 
112 T WENTIETH CENTUR Y SPEAKER. 
 
 That boyish band in garb of gray, 
 "The Fulton Blues," drilled everyday. 
 The call was urgent; Governor Brown 
 And all his counsellors sat down 
 Discussing various means and ways 
 By which they might battalions raise. 
 "The Blues? We know their captain well, 
 A manly soldier, brave Purtell; 
 But should his fall stern fate decree 
 There's but that stripling, Barney Lee!" 
 
 
 i i 
 
 How old?" asked Governor Brown. "Nineteen, 1 
 
 Replied another. "His canteen 
 
 Will weight him down; as for his sword 
 
 I do believe, upon my word, 
 
 That as he marches with the band 
 
 He'll trail its scabbard in the sand!" 
 
 The governor stroked his long, gray beard, 
 
 Observing slowly: "I have heard 
 
 That boys make men, sometimes, and we 
 
 Will just commission Barney Lee!" 
 
 Among the bleak Virginian hills, 
 
 Whose snows were streaked with crimson rills, 
 
 The weary march, the battle's press, 
 
 Manassas and the Wilderness; 
 
 Through seven States he saw recoil 
 
 The shattered ranks who drenched the soil 
 
 With blood, from Mississippian plain 
 
 To Carolinian woods — again 
 
 Among the hills of Tennessee, 
 
 The young lieutenant, Barney Lee! 
 
 Beneath the blue Floridian sky 
 Olustee heard their battle cry; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 113 
 
 With arms and ammunition gone 
 They hurled great ponderous blocks of stone 
 Upon the struggling, surging mass 
 Hemmed in the rugged mountain pass 
 Beneath old Lookout's lofty brow, 
 And taught the advancing f oeman how 
 Each triumph dearly bought must be 
 With foes like those with Barney Lee! 
 
 With half-clad limbs and shoeless feet, 
 Driven inch by inch, that long retreat, 
 That with a trooper marked each rod 
 Of Federal march on Georgia sod; 
 The nights so drear, the days so raw, 
 From Cumberland hills to Kennesaw; 
 And wasted farm and burning town 
 Behind the army marching down 
 As Sherman's legions sough* t the sea — 
 Still in the vanguard, Barney Lee! 
 
 The fire in that dark eye grew dim 
 
 When Dixie's stirring battle-hymn 
 
 Was hushed for aye! the world grew cold; 
 
 Neglected, prematurely old 
 
 His war-worn brow! Yet mark the flash, 
 
 Of light beneath his gray mustache 
 
 As he unfolds, all stained and torn, 
 
 That old commission he has borne 
 
 Nigh thirty years of grief and glee 
 
 That made "Lieutenant Barney Lee!" 
 
114 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 PLAYIN' CHECKERS. 
 
 FRANK L. STANTON, 
 
 
 TIHERE'S lots o' fun in winter time when woods is full o r 
 
 haze, 
 An' the blue smoke comes a curlin' where the cabin fires 
 
 blaze; 
 When the squirrel shakes the hick'rynuts that tumble fur 
 
 and free; 
 But the best fun's playin' checkers by the chinyberry-tree. 
 
 That takes you back to summer time; the village heaves 
 
 in sight, 
 The sun a silverin' the leaves and burnin' 'em with light! 
 The whole town roun' the grocery-store, a-lookin' on to 
 
 see 
 The chaps a playin' checkers by the chinyberry-tree. 
 
 A pine box was the table — what they shipped the dry-goods 
 in; 
 
 It was kinder hacked an' whittled but as 'riginal as sin! 
 
 With the "board" marked out in pencil, just as plain as 
 plain could be, 
 
 For the boys that played the checkers by' the chinyberry- 
 tree. 
 
 I used to stand an' watch 'em — jest a boy with ragged hat, 
 Suspenders made o' cotton, an' me wearin' one at that I 
 It was most as good as swimmin', or as flyin' kites to me, 
 To watch 'em playin' checkers by the chinyberry-tree! 
 
 The mayor come out to see 'em an' the marshal left his 
 
 beat; 
 The preacher, kinder solemn-like, come walkin' down the 
 
 street 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 11& 
 
 An' half forgot his sermon ts of salvation full and free, 
 As he watched that game o' checkers by the chinyberry- 
 tree! 
 
 You could hear the birds a-singin' in the meadows fur 
 
 away, 
 The whistle o' the partridge an' the wranglin' o' the jay; 
 An' the trains rolled to the station just as noisy as could 
 
 be, 
 But they kept on playin' checkers by the chinyberry-tree. 
 
 I guess they're still a playin', though the years has rolled 
 
 away, 
 An' the boy that loved to watch 'em is a gittin' old an r 
 
 gray; 
 But I see the light still shinin' on the meadow-lands o' 
 
 Lee, 
 An' in dreams I'm playin' checkers by the chinyberry-tree! 
 
 A LITTLE COWHERD, 
 
 MYRTA LOCKETT AVARY. 
 
 T1HE master let me out of school, 
 
 And straight I sought the meadows, singing; 
 And in the evening, sweet and cool, 
 
 Across the brook the £ows came bringing. 
 
 I took much pride in my vocation 
 Though sister it did seem to shame, 
 
 And Jack, it put in such a passion, 
 He always called me some bad name. 
 
 "Your skin is tanned, your gown is torn," 
 
 Thus with my fun he mixed alloy; 
 "Your conduct's more than can be borne I 
 
 You're nothing but a great tomboy!" 
 
116 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 " 'Twas no right thing for girls," he said, 
 "To stroll all over the plantation 
 
 With bare feet and uncovered head! 
 And after cows! — great creation!" 
 
 Dimple and I were calves together, 
 Some several merry years before; 
 
 Good Daisy was my foster-mother, 
 For I was fed upon her store. 
 
 The kine most truly I did love, 
 In spite of sister and big brother, 
 
 Who, every time the cows I drove, 
 Severely would upbraid our mother. 
 
 I swung around their horns and tails, 
 And never did they do me harm — 
 
 Though Jack's loud shout and sister's wails 
 Just added to the danger's charm! 
 
 I never haply caught a sign 
 
 To keep from dashing sister's cup, 
 
 When by her stood her beau so fine! 
 And I — and all the cows — came up! 
 
 Then Brother Jack, with much insistence, 
 Would put me under lock and key; 
 
 But mother made a stout resistance, 
 And only had a laugh at me. 
 
 "That girl is really a disgrace! 
 
 Her looks are quite disreputable! 
 I wish you'd make her wash her face! 
 
 And keep her in, out of the stable!" 
 
 "You go with cows," my mother said, 
 "Until you soon will be a-lowing!" 
 
 (I put some camphor on my head, 
 
 To cure the horns, if they were growing!) 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. IV 
 
 days, that of the old brook prattle! 
 
 How far, how far away, you seem! 
 Meadow and child and browsing cattle 
 
 Are like a mezzo-tinted dream. 
 
 would I were let out of school, 
 
 And straight might seek the meadows, singing, 
 And in the evening sweet and cool, 
 
 Across the brook the cows come bringing. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 ANNIE H. SMITH. 
 
 A SUMMER night! moonlit night, 
 
 ^ O'er all the earth thou shed'st thy light! 
 
 A vision rare revealing. 
 Cast round this darkened soul of mine, 
 The light that makes thy face divine, 
 
 With hidden grace and feeling. , 
 
 Behind my latticed window bars 
 I watch the eager throng of stars, 
 
 Like tiny crafts go sailing — 
 Some drift past clouds like opal sea, 
 While others soon are lost to me; 
 
 Methinks I hear their wailing. 
 
 But, no; the light comes struggling through 
 Yon matchless rift of palest blue, 
 
 And then the last star's gleaming — 
 So duty leads o'er toilsome way 
 Up to the perfect light of day, 
 
 Why stand here idly dreaming? 
 
118 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 soul of mine, dost understand? 
 Then rise, obey the stern command, 
 
 There is no time for weeping. 
 E'en though thy burden ponderous prove, 
 Have courage, faith and perfect love, 
 
 Thou, too, wilt soon be sleeping. 
 
 Go bravely forth thy work to meet, 
 With willing hand, undaunted feet, 
 
 Think not of self or sorrow; 
 The long, long night will soon be past, 
 Then perfect rest will come at last — 
 
 'Twill be a bright tomorrow. 
 
 O, wondrous night! Calm Southern night! 
 Thou fill'st my soul with strange delight, 
 
 With soft and tender meaning. 
 Away with this consuming grief, 
 The midnight hour is very brief — 
 
 See! see! the stars are gleaming! 
 
 THE LOVE FEAST AT WAYCROSS, 
 
 FRANK L. STANTON. 
 
 TT was in the town o 1 Waycross, not many weeks ago, 
 
 They had a big revival thar, as like enough you know; 
 An' though many was converted an' for pardon made to 
 
 call, 
 Yet the Sunday mornin' love-feast was the happiest time 
 
 of all! 
 'Twas a great experience meetin', an' it done me good to 
 
 hear 
 The brotherin an' the sisterin that talked religion there; 
 You didn't have to ax 'em, nor to coax 'em with a song, 
 Them people had religion, an' they told it right along! 
 
/ READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 119 
 
 Thar was one — a hard old sinner — 'pears like I knowed 
 
 his name, 
 But I reckon I've forgot it — who to the altar came; 
 An' he took the leader by the hand, with beamin' face 
 
 an' bright, 
 An' said: "I'm comin' home, dear fren's; I'm comin ' 
 
 home to-night!" 
 
 Then a woman rose an' axed to be remembered in their 
 prayers : 
 
 "My husband's comin' home," said she, a-sheddin' thank- 
 ful tears; 
 
 "I want you all to pray for him; he's lived in sin's con- 
 trol, 
 
 But I think the love o' Jesus is a-breakin' on his soul!" 
 
 Then a young man rose an' told 'em he had wandered far 
 
 away, 
 But felt like comin' home ag'in, an' axed 'em all to pray; 
 An' sich a prayer they made for him! I'll hear the like 
 
 no more 
 Till I hear the sweeter music on the bright celestial 
 
 shore. 
 
 Any shoutin'? AVell, I reckon so! One brother give a 
 
 shout : 
 Said he had so much religion he was 'bliged to let it out! 
 An' the preacher joined the chorus, savin': "Brotherin, 
 
 let 'er roll! 
 A man can't keep from shoutin' with religion in his soul!" 
 
 I tell you, 'twas a happy time; I wished 'twould never 
 
 end; 
 Each sinner in the church that day had Jesus for a 
 
 friend ; 
 
120 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 But a good old deacon said to 'em, while a tear stood in 
 
 his eye: 
 "Thar's a better time than this, dear fren's, a-comin' by 
 
 and by!" 
 
 I hope some day those brotherin'll meet with one accord 
 In the higher, holier love-feast whose leader is the Lord; 
 An' when this life is over, with its sorrow an' its sighs, 
 May the little church at Waycross join the great church 
 in the skies! 
 
 THE FOOL'S COMPANY. 
 
 MYRTA LOCKETT AVARY. 
 
 UHOD save you, merry gentlemen!" 
 
 _'Twas thus the fool did say, 
 As he skipped along, with jest and song, 
 
 Upon the king's highway: 
 "God grant you, merry gentlemen, 
 
 A blessed Christmas Day!" 
 
 His feet were tired, his heart was sad, 
 
 As ever a fool's may be, 
 Yet our fool was mad in gambols glad 
 
 For the king and the court to see. 
 And loud they laughed as the wine they quaffed, 
 
 At the good fool's pleasantry: 
 "Good knave, now dine and drink thy wine, 
 
 As the King of the Fools well may!" 
 
 But the knave made answer pert and bold, 
 
 And then like a priest spake he: 
 "The Lord be with you, gentlemen, 
 
 Upon this Christmas Day!" 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 121 
 
 The laughing courtiers tossed him gold, 
 
 And thus to him did say: 
 "God bless you back, our pious knave! 
 
 "God bless you back!" quoth they, 
 "But with us dine and drink thy wine, 
 
 As the King of the Fools well may!" 
 
 But he could not dine nor drink the wine, 
 
 For lo! at his house there lay, 
 With panting breath, in the shadow of death, 
 
 His child, on Christmas Day. 
 And a wife did weep and vigil keep, 
 
 Where the poor fool's babe did lay; 
 But the fool must toast the king, his host, 
 
 And the court on Christmas Day. 
 
 The sun went down on a dizzy town, 
 
 The knights 'neath the table lay, 
 £ut the fool ran straight where his wife did wait, 
 
 To see how the child might be. 
 "God bless you, wife! The child? the child?" 
 
 "The child is well," quoth she. 
 "Now God be blessed!" quoth the happy knave, 
 
 "On His holy Christmas Day!" 
 
 Beneath the feast, like many a beast, 
 
 The king and the courtiers lay, 
 But the pure stars smiled where to tears beguiled, 
 
 Our poor knave knelt to pray. 
 "My soul, dear God, by sin defiled, 
 
 Never again may be! 
 For our Lord in the form of a little ch ild 
 
 Hath been with the fool this day!" 
 
122 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 THE PARADISE BIRD. 
 
 MINNIE QUINN. 
 
 "PAR on the desolate mountain, 
 
 Roamed we and laughed in our gladness, 
 We, the two sons of Abiron, 
 Glad in our youth and affection, 
 Straight as the arrows of cedar, 
 Sought we for sunlight and pleasure 
 Happy with earth and each other. 
 
 But, ere the summer was ended, 
 Felled by invisible fingers 
 Smitten and wan in his weakness, 
 Lay he, the strong and the comely, 
 Sick unto death and o'erpowered by the fell hand 
 of the fever. 
 
 Lonely I watched there beside him, 
 Watched with the stars for companions; 
 Called to the desert for comfort, 
 Heard but the turtle-dove's plaining, 
 Heard the sad sigh of the willows. 
 Night after night as I watched there, 
 Strong grew my heart for the trial, 
 Nor did sweet sleep woo mine eyelids, 
 Watching beside my beloved. 
 All his last wishes he told me, 
 Bade me farewell for a season, 
 Begged that I send for his loved one, 
 Tell her to fashion the garments 
 Which, in the tomb, should enshroud him, 
 Let no hands sew on the garments, 
 Save of the maiden he cherished. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 123 
 
 "When I have left this frail body, 
 Called by the ancient of ages, 
 Then I will send thee a message, 
 Send thee a song and a story, 
 From the fair gardens celestial; 
 Tell thee of all the long journey, 
 Into the land of the blessed. 
 
 "Bury me here on the mountain, 
 
 Where the soft winds whisper alway. 
 Let not the willow bend over, 
 Nor let it sigh o'er my slumbers. 
 Let the glad heavens be o'er me 
 As I lie waiting my summons 
 Into the glory of Heaven — 
 Into the presence of Allah." 
 
 So he departed forever, 
 
 And I, alone in my anguish, 
 
 Cried unto Allah for mercy; 
 
 Called, and the wild echoes mocked me, 
 
 Shouted back from every valley, 
 
 Till all the mountain resounded 
 
 With the weird ghosts of my sorrow. 
 
 Then came the desolate maiden, 
 
 Made all the burial garments, 
 
 Stood by the grave where we laid him, 
 
 Deaf to earth's voices forever, 
 
 Covered her face with her garment, 
 
 Turned from the grave of her loved one, 
 
 Passed out of sight down the valley, 
 
 Left me with sorrow and silence! 
 
 Ere yet the year was grown aged, 
 Sought I the home of my father; 
 Desolate all, and forsaken; 
 
124 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER 
 
 Vanished for aye all its inmates, 
 Stillness and gloom over all things. 
 
 Lo, sitting lone on the threshold, 
 Clothed in white, glistening plumage, 
 Was a strange bird, whose deep glances, 
 Like unto fire, glowed redly. 
 Then spake I thus to the stranger, 
 Sitting there mute on the threshold: 
 
 "0 bird, sing me a song, 
 
 A song of love and sorrow; 
 Tell me where are those 
 Who have loved me so long, 
 
 Say, shall we meet on the morrow?" 
 
 But the bird answered, 
 "0 mortal, indeed, 
 
 Once was this home a fair dwelling. 
 Now all the glory and genius is dead, 
 
 Somewhere hosannas are swelling. 
 
 "Nor is it thine to repine at thy loss, 
 
 Finite and impotent mortal ; 
 Bear thou in meekness this poor earthly cross, 
 
 Striving to reach heaven's portal. 
 Watch not again for thy loved one's return, 
 Wait thou in patience God's mysteries to learn . 
 
 "Every sword cuts when its sheath is removed, 
 
 Forth from its scabbard upspringing, 
 But thou, O messenger from my beloved, 
 
 Tidings from Paradise bringing, 
 Pierce to the soul with the glance of thine eye, 
 
 Beaming with radiance supernal. 
 So do I know thou hast come from on high , 
 
 Where life and love is eternal." 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 125 
 
 Spread he his bright wings above him, 
 
 Gazing back as he departed, \ 
 
 Soared high into the blue ether, 
 
 Back to the heart of my brother, 
 
 Back to the regions of glory! 
 
 VALERIE'S CONFESSION. 
 
 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. 
 
 rrHEY declare that I'm gracefully pretty, 
 
 The very best waltzer that whirls; 
 They say I'm sparkling and witty, 
 
 The pearl, the queen rosebud of girls. 
 But, alas for the popular blindness! 
 
 Its judgment, though folly, can hurt, 
 Since my heart that runs over with kindness, 
 
 It vows is the heart of a flirt! 
 
 How, how, can I help it, if Nature, 
 
 Whose mysteries baffle our ken, 
 Hath made me the tenderest creature 
 
 That ever had pity on men? 
 When the shafts of my luminous glances 
 
 Have tortured some sensitive breast, 
 Why, I soften their light till it trances 
 
 The poor wounded bosom to rest! 
 
 Can I help it, if, brought from all regions, 
 
 As diverse in features as gait, 
 Rash lovers besiege me in legions, 
 
 Each lover demanding his fate? 
 To be cold to such fervors of feeling 
 
 Would pronounce me a dullard or dunce; 
 And so, the bare thought sets me reeling, 
 
 I'm engaged to six suitors at once! 
 
126 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 The first, we shall call him "sweet William, ' r 
 
 He's a lad scarcely witty or wise — 
 The gloom of the sorrows of "Ilium" 
 
 Would seem to outbreathe on his sighs. 
 When I strove, half in earnest, to flout him, 
 
 Pale, pale, at my footstool he sunk; 
 But mamma, quite too ready to flout him, 
 
 Would hint that "sweet Willie" was drunk! 
 
 My second, a florid Adonis 
 
 Of forty-and-five, to a day, 
 Drives me out in his phaeton with ponies, 
 
 Making love every yard of the way. 
 Who so pleasantly placed could resist him? 
 
 Had he popped 'neath the moonlight and dew 
 That eve, I could almost have kissed him 
 
 (A confession alone, dear, for you). 
 
 Next, a widower, polished and youthful, 
 
 Far famed for his learning and pelf; 
 Can I doubt that his passion is truthful, 
 
 That he seeks me alone for myself? 
 Yet I know that some slanderers mutter 
 
 His fortune is just taking wings; 
 But I scorn the backbiters who utter 
 
 Such basely censorious things! 
 
 Could they hearken his love-whisper, dulcet 
 
 As April's soft tide on the strand, 
 Whose white curves are loath to repulse it, 
 
 So sweet is its homage and bland; 
 Could they hear how his dead wife's devotion 
 
 He praises, while yearning for mine — 
 They would own that his ardent emotion 
 
 Is something— yes — almost divine! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 127 
 
 My fourth — would to heaven I could paint him 
 
 As next the high altar he stands — 
 A Saint John, all the people besaint him! 
 
 Pale brow and immaculate hands, 
 Ah I his tones in their wooing seem holy, 
 
 Nor dare I believe it misplaced, 
 When an arm of the church, stealing slowly, 
 
 Is folded at length 'round my waist. 
 
 Behold this long list of my lovers 
 
 With a soldier and sailor complete; 
 Both swear that their hearts were but rovers 
 
 Till fettered and bound at my feet. 
 Oh dear! but these worshipers daunt me; 
 
 Their claims, their vain wishes appall; 
 'Tis sad how they harass and haunt me — 
 
 What, what, shall I do with them all? 
 
 LATER. 
 
 As the foam-flakes, when steadfastly blowing, 
 
 The west wind sweeps reckless and free, 
 Are borne where the deep billows, flowing, 
 
 Pass out to a limitless sea, 
 So the gay spume of girlish romances, 
 
 Upcaught by true Love on his breath, 
 With the fretwork and foam of young fancies, 
 
 Was borne through vague distance to death. 
 
 For he came — the true hero — one morning, 
 
 And my soul with quick thrills of delight 
 Leaped upward, renewed, and reborn in 
 
 A world of strange beauty and night; 
 I seemed fenced from all earthly disaster; 
 
 My pulses beat tuneful and fast; 
 So I welcomed my monarch, my master 
 
 The first real love, and the last. 
 
128 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 THE NUN. 
 
 LOLA MARSHALL DEAN. 
 
 rrHRO' the grim old convent casement 
 
 Peers a face, 
 Neither rapture nor abasement 
 
 Hides its grace. 
 Neither cowl not heavy veiling 
 
 Can conceal 
 Allthe opening thro' that railing 
 
 Doth reveal. 
 
 Such a wistful, sad expression 
 
 Dims her eyes, 
 In their depths a strange confession 
 
 Lurks and dies. 
 Half she wonders who have missed her — 
 
 Many? One? 
 Since she came, a fair, sweet sister, 
 
 Calm, sweet nun. 
 
 Half she wonders if her duty 
 
 Called her here, 
 Then, in mem'ry of her beauty, 
 
 One warm tear 
 Steels across the perfect sweetness 
 
 Of her cheek, 
 Perfect, in its pure completeness, 
 
 Woman — weak. 
 
 Half she ponders o'er the story 
 
 Of the years, 
 Love's sweet glamour, love's sweet glory, 
 
 Love's sweet fears. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 129 
 
 Half her fancy paints that other 
 
 Life she knew; 
 Baby voices call her "mother," 
 
 Childish, true; 
 Sweet young lips and hands caress her — 
 
 Now, there's none 
 Save the holy saints may bless her, 
 
 Life is done. 
 
 In her soul a stern reminder, 
 
 Conscience, moves; 
 Sobs that choke and tears that blind her,. 
 
 Heart that loves, 
 She must crush— no inspiration 
 
 From the past 
 Ever more must bring temptation — 
 
 'Tis the last. 
 
 'Tis the only time her meekness 
 
 Will repine, 
 Pure, pale saint with woman's weakness 
 
 Half divine. 
 Near the grim old convent casement 
 
 Droops her face, 
 Penitence and deep abasement 
 
 Hide its grace. 
 
 And the deadly cowl and veiling 
 
 Now conceal 
 All the opening in the railing 
 
 Did reveal. 
 Slow she creeps to her confession, 
 
 With dim eyes, 
 In their depths that sad expression 
 
 Never dies. 
 
130 
 
 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 THE NEW SISTER. 
 
 Phil. 
 Pete. 
 Phil. 
 Pete. 
 Phil. 
 Pete. 
 Phil. 
 Pete. 
 Phil. 
 Pete. 
 Phil. 
 
 Pete. 
 
 Phil. 
 Pete. 
 
 Phil. 
 Pete, 
 Phil. 
 
 Pete. 
 Phil. 
 
 • 
 Pete 
 
 Phil. 
 
 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. 
 
 Say, Pete, do you like her? 
 
 Love her, you mean? 
 
 Ain't she jolly and red? 
 
 And hurrah for her! just think of her head! 
 
 As big as a pippin, and round as a bullet! 
 
 And bald! oh! as bald as a newly-plucked pullet. 
 
 Did you look at her eyes, too? 
 
 Of course; they are blue. 
 
 Not a bit of it — black. 
 
 Blue, I tell you — ask Jack! 
 
 Jack! I've eyes of my own that see better than 
 
 his! 
 Brag on! but for once they have led you amiss. 
 Baby's eyes are blue — very! 
 As black as a berry! 
 Blue, you ninny! but s'pose we come down to 
 
 her nose! 
 It's as funny and fat with an end like — a 
 Like a rose? 
 
 No! a small dab of putty just tinted with pink. 
 Now, stoopid! how can you! I'm sure that I 
 
 think 
 Nothing nicer than noses so dumpy and smug — 
 Pshaw! you mean it's a boo-ti-ful, boo-ti-ful pug! 
 Well, you naughty old Pete! you can't laugh at 
 
 her chin! 
 Oh, no, it's the nattiest, sauciest, sweetest — 
 The nicest, completest, 
 Of arch little chins, with a dimple put in, 
 That winks up like a sunbeam. 
 
READINGS AND RECITA TIONS. 131 
 
 Pete. And then her wee throat! 
 
 Phil. Her throat like egg-foam, or a syllabub boat, 
 
 On a lake of clear cream! 
 Pete. And her arms; they are nice now; there's noth- 
 ing can beat them! 
 Phil. So plump, round and soft! I'm most ready to 
 
 eat them! 
 Pete. Of course, Phil, you kissed her? 
 Phil. Oh, didn't I— 
 Pete. Well! 
 
 Phil. Well, I put my mouth down; I had something 
 to tell; 
 
 Ah! close, whispered close in the little shy ear, 
 
 That seemed to turn up, Pete, half coyly to hear, 
 
 And again, as I kissed her — 
 Pete. You blessed the good Lord for so jolly a sister! 
 Phil. Yes, I did! 
 Pete. So did I! 
 Phil. And now, Pete, 'tis but right 
 
 We should go in once more and bid "Baby'' 
 good-night! 
 
 THE FALLEN SHAFT. 
 
 [Lines on the late Senator Hill, of Georgia.] 
 
 WALLACE P. REED. 
 
 A LONE the shaft of granite stood, 
 
 And raised its head on high ; 
 No rival in its neighborhood 
 Dared with its grandeur vie. 
 
 Among the shining stars its crown 
 With lustrous glory shone — 
 
 With splendor seen afar, and down 
 Where waves did fret and moan. 
 
132 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Men wondered, as it met their gaze, 
 
 And made the welkin ring 
 With loud acclaim, and words of praise — 
 
 Words such as poets sing. 
 
 Full long the stately shaft defied 
 
 The work of all the years; 
 Men thought it proof 'gainst time and tide, 
 
 And smiled away their fears. 
 
 But all at once the thunder's blight 
 
 Shattered the granite stone; 
 'Gainst all save this, its matchless might 
 Had royally held its own. 
 
 Men mourned their idol lost — when higher, 
 
 And in the self-same place, 
 There darted up a pillared fire — 
 
 Celestal sign of Grace! 
 
 OVER THAR IN GEORGY. 
 
 ROBERT LOVEMAN. 
 
 TT'S not so bad to be down here 
 
 In lower Alabam,' 
 Fer things air movin' with a hum, 
 
 From Beersheber to Dam — 
 Ef that's the proper Scripter town — 
 
 But Lord I want ter be 
 With Pap and Mam and sister Ann, 
 
 Over thar in Georgy. 
 
 I've been away, I reckon, now, 
 
 Nigh on to seven year, 
 And when the good old days come back. 
 
 I feel the risin' tear, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 133 
 
 And as my heart gits in my month, 
 
 Lord, how I want to be 
 With Pap and Mam and sister Ann, 
 
 Over thar in Greorgy. 
 
 The little house sets on a hill, 
 
 The park is jest below, 
 And further down, towards the town, 
 
 The stores are in a row; 
 But faint the dear old place alone, 
 
 I'm aching fer to see, 
 It's Pap and Mam and sister Ann, 
 
 Over thar in Greorgy. 
 
 I'm shorely goin' back this fall, 
 
 And when I go I stay. 
 I reckon Ann's a growin' gal, 
 
 And Mam's a-gittin' gray — 
 My, how Pap used to wollop us, 
 
 Not Sis, but Sam and me, 
 Then Mam 'ud up and wallow him, 
 
 Over thar in Greorgy. 
 
 A MOTHER'S FAITH. 
 
 ELIA. 
 
 WEARY with care, 
 " By burdens sore oppressed; 
 Faint, to despair, 
 
 In vain I longed for rest. 
 
 Night's soothing shade 
 
 No power had to calm 
 
 My troubled breast ; 
 
 I found in sleep no balm. 
 
134 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Restless, I tossed 
 
 Upon my couch of pain, 
 
 When to my soul 
 
 Came Mem'ry's sweet refrain. 
 
 Music heard in childhood, 
 
 Dream-angels seemed to bring — 
 The sweet, old-fashioned songs 
 I'd heard my mother sing. 
 
 Again I was a child, 
 
 Led by her tender hand, 
 
 Wanting "to be an angel, 
 
 And with the angels stand." 
 
 The dream scene changes: 
 
 Sorrow's waters o'er her roll; 
 
 But I hear my mother singing 
 "Jesus, Lover of My Soul." 
 
 Still, the scene grows dark and darker, 
 Yet, her voice sounds clear and free, 
 
 As by faith she sees the haven — 
 "Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me." 
 
 The storm scene passes, 
 
 Leaving wreckage on the shore; 
 
 Dead and dying are about her — 
 
 Sure her voice can sing no more! 
 
 But I scarce can frame the thought, 
 Ere her voice tells sweet and pure, 
 
 "Earth has no sorrow 
 
 That Heaven can not cure." 
 
 Again the scene has changed, 
 And twilight closes down 
 
 Upon the dear old homestead, 
 
 With the children gathered 'round. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 135- 
 
 Tired with her struggles, 
 
 Still her voice sounds sweet and true; 
 "There is rest for the weary, 
 
 There is rest for you." 
 
 "There's rest for you," 
 
 Seemed repeated o'er and o'er, 
 Till earth's sad cares 
 
 Could trouble me no more. 
 
 Refreshed I rose, 
 
 Strengthened by my mother's love 
 In dreamland shown, 
 
 And her faith in Heaven above. 
 
 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 FANNIE MAY WITT. 
 
 UT300H! 'tears in my eyes?' Don't chaff me, old boy! 
 
 That's a thing, friend, remember, that few can enjoy. 
 I am trying to 'muster my forces' to-day, 
 For tomorrow I must from these mountains away. 
 Life's passed like a dream since I drifted here, Czar; 
 But 'tears in my eyes,' pshaw — 'tis your cigar! 
 
 "The sight of your face, this daisy-starred plain, 
 Bring back a dead past, full of heartache and pain, 
 They bring it back clear, these blue outlines of Kent — 
 This weed my poor wits a wool-gath'ring has sent, 
 And my eyes, how they smart! Czar, hold on a minute 
 Till I'm rid of this smoke; what, 'my story — begin it?' 
 
 "How perfect this scene! You remember the Alps 
 That summer your lordship took so many scalps? 
 Ah, ^twas grand, but this is more glorious far, 
 Else I am bewildered by this fine cigar. 
 
136 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Ah, love-lilted Alps, 'tis your snows that I feel 
 
 When the thoughts of that month make my heart's blood 
 
 congeal! 
 "Don't jest, Czar on that, the wound is still sore; 
 The Alps and my love are follies of yore; 
 I have dug her a grave deep down in my heart, 
 You dare not the stone from the sepulcher part, 
 Though you tremble and jar it with each joking breath, 
 'A countess?' no matter, she sleeps here in death. 
 
 "Can you solve me a problem, Czar, just on this score? 
 
 Why are some men so confoundedly poor, 
 
 Though they bend every energy, strain every nerve, 
 
 To gain what some squander who do not deserve? 
 
 And why will a woman with soul fair as day, 
 
 Barter it and her life for a 'count' popinjay? 
 
 "When I left you — the party — I went back to work 
 
 With a heart far too glad any trial to shirk; 
 
 May had pledged me her troth; 'twas in Val de Masino, 
 
 On the devil's own rock, Sasso Di Remeno. 
 
 You remember, old friend, how I drew you aside, 
 
 And intrusted to you then my fair promised bride? 
 
 "I worked like a Trojan those hot summer days, 
 
 Enwrapped in the mem'ry of beauty and grace 
 
 That had blessed the ones spent with her 'mong the clouds, 
 
 I saw but her face in the town's surging crowds. 
 
 But that is all past! Suffice it to say 
 
 That when the blow fell, in oblivion I lay. 
 
 "She married 'le comte,' they tell me, last year, 
 Which one of the party I cared not to hear; 
 The title fell on him, and, woman-like, she 
 Forgot that she ever was plighted to me. 
 You say, let me think, ah no, I'm not faint, 
 They are doing this season the blue hills of Kent? 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 137 
 
 "We part here. Am glad to have met with yon, Czar, 
 
 But a hand-clasp, a chat, and a friendly cigar, 
 
 Have made me a fool. I am going away 
 
 With a curse on them both ! Eh? What did you say? 
 
 Don't curse them? Who's coming — 'tis she true as life!" 
 
 "It is she; allow me — la comtesse, my wife!" 
 
 FOR JUST A GLIMPSE OF YOU. 
 
 GERTRUDE ELOISE BEALER. 
 
 THE city is most splendid with its throng and blaze of 
 
 - 1 - light 
 
 Ushered into glist'ning beauty by the winged hours of 
 
 night ; 
 But my heart turns to the Southland, its flowers and skies 
 
 of blue, 
 And it almost breaks with longing for just a glimpse of 
 
 you! 
 
 You may talk to me of Broadway, its theatres so grand, 
 And the opera with its singers, the finest in the land. 
 What to me these lights and music, these sights both great 
 
 and new, 
 If my eyes are always aching for just a glimpse of you? 
 
 So, I brush away the tear-drops that will start into my e>es, 
 And I shut from out my mem'ry our laughing Southern 
 
 skies, 
 For it makes the work the harder to thus the old times 
 
 rue — 
 But there steals in still the longing for just a glimpse of 
 
 you! 
 
138 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 THE LAST NAPOLEON. 
 
 MYRTA. LOCKETT AVARY. 
 
 /\H, WHEN thy boyish hands did grasp 
 The long, strange grass, in falling, 
 Heard Chiselhu'rst or France the gasp 
 Of young Napoleon calling? 
 
 Napoleon of the young free lance 
 
 Broken before -the battle, 
 All nations pitying heard, save France, 
 
 The sob in thy death-rattle! 
 
 The boy, whose hot "baptismal fire," 
 Dauntless and cool, had found him, 
 
 Fighting by an imperial sire, 
 
 With Gallic legions round him — 
 
 Fallen, so desolate and stark, 
 
 Beneath the olden glory, 
 Which, pointing to a hopeless mark, 
 
 With pathos wove his story! 
 
 No thought to stay his sinking heart, 
 
 Of death in royal manner, 
 Dying by a barbarian's dart 
 
 Beneath an alien banner ! 
 
 Dying, not on some glorious field, 
 Where mournful trumpets shrieking, 
 
 Immortalized the fallen shield, 
 The sword with onset reeking. 
 
 Fallen too soon! O piteous death! 
 
 Leaving no deed applauded, 
 Alone upon the savage heath 
 
 Of everything defrauded! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 189 
 
 Yet, sacred to Eugenie's tears, 
 
 If not to French caresses, 
 Poor Bonaparte of tender years 
 
 And wearisome distresses! 
 
 And Hope, who stood so chill and drear 
 
 Before thy earthly vision, 
 Did ope, perchance, with hand of cheer 
 
 The palaces Elysian ; 
 
 Lifting thy spirit, sick and faint, 
 
 Amid the Zulu grasses, 
 Unto the throne of sorrow's saint 
 With grand and tender masses! 
 
 A WYOMING WEDDING. 
 
 BY MINNIE QUINN. 
 
 Dramatis Persons. 
 
 Postmaster, Dick Granger, 
 
 Justice of the Peace, Sam Starbottle, 
 
 Yankee Drummer, Jim Bledsoe, 
 
 Mail-carrier, Jack Clowers, 
 
 Bridegroom, 25 Cowboys and 
 Bride, Young Ladies, 
 
 Fiddler, Singing-master. 
 
 Scene: — A post-office in Crow City, Wyoming. Postmaster sit- 
 ting on a counter swinging his feet. Several men, in Western 
 costumes, sitting on boxes, whittling, chewing, reading, etc. Enter 
 the traveler, a Yankee drummer, with gripsack, stick, etc. He 
 hesitates at the door. 
 
 POSTMASTER. Come in, come in, stranger; we aint 
 goin' to bite you, make yerself at home — thar's a box — 
 [points to a box, and the stranger advances towards it] . 
 
140 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Stranger. Thanks, my good friend, my train is several 
 hours late, and I'll be glad to pass off an hour or two in 
 good company. Anything on foot for to-day? 
 
 Postmaster. Well, fust thing the mail has to be sorted, 
 and after that, ef you'll hang around here, you'll see some 
 excitement. 
 
 Stranger. Why, how's that? 
 
 Postmaster. Well, we're going to have a weddin' — a 
 reg'lar, ginnuwine, fust-class splicin', right here in this 
 office. One er the boys is to be spliced to the purtiest girl 
 in the county, and we're goin' ter witness it. 
 
 Stranger. How does it happen to be here — is it a run- 
 away? 
 
 Postmaster. I'll just tell you how this happens to be 
 the scene of the transaction. Bill Collins and old man 
 Stringer had a fuss along er him claimin' some of Bill's 
 cattle, and almost fit. The old man said Bill shouldn't 
 have Sary Ann, but she held out firm, and at last he had 
 to give in. Bill vowed he'd never cross that threshold 
 again. And so as marriage is a sort of government affair 
 anyhow, and this is a government office, we concluded to 
 have it here. Jes' make yerself at home' stranger, I see 
 the mail er-comin'. 
 
 Dick Granger. What did you say they call you when 
 you're at home? 
 
 Stranger. My name is Adolphus Emerson, sir — one of 
 the Emersons, of Massachusetts — and yours? 
 
 Dick Granger. Dick Granger does jest as well as any 
 for me. Lazy Dick, the boys put it. 
 
 Sam Starbottle. Mebbe you'd like to read the ''Crow 
 City Scout." It's right newsy, comes out reg'lar onc't 
 every week. [Hands him the paper.] 
 
 [Stranger takes it and begins to read, watching proceedings 
 closely in the meanwhile.] 
 
HEADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 141 
 
 [Enter boy with mail-bag. ] 
 
 Postmastee. Well, Daniel, seems like we ought er look 
 fer you some time this week. Been asleep? 
 
 Boy. You better reckon I haven't, Mr. Skaggs, I been 
 watchin' a fight down ter the station. I tell you it was 
 •bully the way Fightin' Dick jes' natu'ally cleaned up 
 Lariat Joe. 
 
 Postmaster. Here, gimme the bag — letters, gentlemen, 
 letters. Here's one for the bridegroom, to start on — Mr. 
 William Madison Collins. That'll keep till after the 
 ceremony. Mary Jane Fitsimmons — who can take that? 
 I know the old lady would be glad to get it. [Jim Bledsoe 
 offers to take it.] Mr. James Austin Bledsoe. Well, Jim, 
 here's yourn, take it, and good luck. Miss Sary Ann 
 Stringer — in a hour from now there won't be no such per- 
 son as that. Mr. Josh Billings, Esq. — that's the new 
 squire. Who'll take him his epistle? Well, here he comes 
 now. Howdy. Squire! 
 
 [Enter Squire Billings with several law books under his arm. 
 He slams the books on the counter, mops his face with his ban- 
 danna and addresses the crowd.] 
 
 Squire. Gentlemen, I tell you what, the dooties of my 
 office is pressin' heavy on me a'ready. I'll tell you the 
 statues of Wyoming is hard to onravel and heavy to carry, 
 and I can't see as they throw any light on the marryin' 
 question. I've read the blame books through half a dozen 
 times runnin', and not one word about unitin' people in 
 matrimony can I find! Skaggs, can't you help me out? 
 Sort er give me a lesson in splicin', you know. 
 
 Postmaster. I'll do the very best I can, squire. As 
 near as I can recollect it is this — but maybe I'd better tell 
 you in a quiet place. [They go behind the counter and tcdk 
 in a lou; tone several minutes. As they come out, Skaggs is 
 heard to say: "Now don't forget to wind up with, l Who the 
 Lord has joined together, let no man put asunder.' ' 
 
142 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Squire [slapping postmaster on the shoulder]. Skaggs, 
 you're a brick! A dictionary ain't nothin' ter yer — these 
 here books can't teach yer! I'm yer friend, pard! [He 
 turns to the "boys."] I say, boys, let's do this thing 
 in style. Sary Ann Stringer ain't the gal to have a slack 
 weddin'. What's your idee about trimmin' up a little? 
 Postmaster. Mebbe this stranger could tell us how they 
 manage these things out his way. 
 
 Stranger. Oh, certainly, with pleasure. We always 
 make preparations down East. We have decorations of 
 evergreens and flowers, candelabra and illuminations, 
 music, etc. Then we follow it with a social reception. 
 
 Squire. Well, I can't see why we can't do that, too. 
 Turn in, boys, and let's hustle and get ready for 'urn. 
 What's the matter with pine-tops and cottonwood fer 
 decoration? and where's candles when you speak of light- 
 in' — clear out, now, and get at it! 
 
 Postmaster. They ain't nothin' in the way of havin' 
 music. Let Eli trot out his fiddle, and he can't be beat, 
 and as fer singin', you'll say when you hear 'em that the 
 voices in this settlement can't be beat! 
 
 Squire. I'll just run down and red up a little while the 
 boys is gettin' ready. [Exit bailiff and fiddler.'] 
 
 Postmaster. You tend ter the luminary bizness, Dick, 
 and be spry about it — here's Sam and Jack with the 
 g reens — jest suit yerselves, boys; I leave it to your taste. 
 
 [Boys make a great shoiv of decorating, putting candles, 
 evergreens, etc., in the most ludicrous positio)}.] 
 
 [Enter Eli with fiddle, makes show of tuning up, plays.] 
 
 [Enter postmaster and says: "Now, when you see 'urn a-com- 
 in 1 give us 'Prettiest gal in the county, 0/' with a vengeance] 
 
 [Enter Squire with gloves and clean handkerchief.] 
 
 Squire. Skaggs, you stand by me and if I fergit, I'll 
 nudge, and you tell me what* comes next. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 143 
 
 [Skaggs nods and takes his place just as the bridal party 
 appear in the distance, fiddler strikes up " Prettiest girl in the 
 county, 0," party enter and group about.} 
 
 Squire. Feller citizens : This here couple is here with 
 the intention of bein' united in the bonds of matrimony. 
 They promise ter love and pertect one another — ain't that 
 so, Bill? 
 
 Bill. Yes. 
 
 Squire. And to be kind and oncomplainin' to one 
 another — that so, Sary? 
 
 Sary. Yes. 
 
 Squire. And to walk upright and obedient to the laws 
 of the United States. All in favor of these proceedings 
 being authorized by law, say "I." 
 
 All. I! I! I! 
 
 Squire. All opposed, say "No." 
 [ Silence . ] 
 
 Squire. Now, as they's no objections you may join 
 hands. [Bride becomes confused and finally finds her right 
 hand.} And now, feller citizens [he begins to forget], I 
 solemnly pernounce [he looks at Skaggs] Bill Collins and 
 Sary Ann Stringer ter be married, and — [nudges Skaggs, 
 ivho tries to whisper, "Who the Lord"] and — may the Lord 
 have mercy on your souls — . 
 
 [The bridegroom pays the fee, and congratulations folloio. 
 The fiddle strikes up, and then comes the iL singing-skide" .] 
 
144 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 THE VILLAGE PEDAGOGUE. 
 
 [After Longfellow.] 
 
 MAMIE L. PITTS. 
 
 TTNDER many a hacked-up hickory tree 
 
 The village schoolhouse stands, 
 The master, a mighty man is he 
 
 With the birch in both his hands, 
 And his grasp on the urchin's scrawny arm, 
 
 Is strong as iron bands. 
 
 His face is stern and dark and long, 
 
 When he begins to "tan," 
 His brow is wet with angry sweat, 
 
 And he flogs hard as he can, 
 For he recalls the "paper balls" 
 
 And is an irate man. 
 
 Week in ,week out, morn, noon, and night, 
 
 You can hear the school-bell's sound, 
 You can hear the children whoop and shout, 
 As into school they bound, 
 
 And the teacher with a weary sigh 
 Plods on his dreary round. 
 
 He'goes on Saturdays with "duns" 
 
 To the fathers of these boys, 
 He begs them for the "balance due" 
 
 In sad and doleful voice, 
 And if a dollar he receives 
 
 It makes his heart rejoice. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 145 
 
 Flogging, collecting, sorrowing, 
 
 Onward through life he goes; 
 Each morn come new annoyances, 
 
 That never find a close, 
 And all this fearful worrying 
 
 Prevents a night's repose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks, to thee my worthy friend,. 
 
 For the lessons thou hast taught, 
 When wrinkles nestled on thy brow, 
 
 And life with care was fraught, 
 You on your sounding anvils shaped 
 
 Full many a valued thought. 
 
 TWO'S COMPANY. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 "DENEATH a walnut tree they sat, 
 
 He held her hand, she held his hat, 
 I held — my breath — and lay quite flat, 
 They never knew I saw them. 
 
 He held that kissing was no crime, 
 She held her head up every time, 
 I held — my peace, and wrote this rhyme, 
 They never knew I knew it. 
 
146 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 THE DEATH OF CHEATHAM. 
 
 DR. 0. T. DOZIER. 
 
 rpHE grand old soldier, Cheatham, 
 
 Sat dying in his chair, 
 And visions of the fitful past 
 Came crowding on him there. 
 
 He saw once more the legions 
 And clans of mustering men, 
 
 And heard once more the tumult 
 Of war's wild, furious din. 
 
 He heard the trump and cannons roar, 
 
 The musket's deadly rattle; 
 The sabers clash, the yells and groans 
 
 And rush of men in battle. 
 
 He saw the rising clouds of smoke, 
 He heard the war-steed's neigh, 
 
 And sniffed upon the sulphurous breeze 
 The distant, deadly fray. 
 
 And then he heard the double-quick 
 
 Of troopers hurrying by, 
 And saw, perchance, his battle-flag 
 
 Borne bravely still on high. 
 
 And as he seemed to hear and see 
 
 Once more the battle storm, 
 And felt within his aged veins 
 
 His life-blood mounting warm, 
 
 There woke within his martial breast 
 Once more the kindling flame 
 
 That nerves the patriot's heart and hand 
 To daring deeds of fame. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 147 
 
 His chivalrous soul unyielding, too, 
 
 To sickness and to pain, 
 Broke forth in that wild dream of death 
 
 To lead his troops again. 
 
 ''Bring me my horse, my horse," he cried, 
 
 The battle sounding nearer, 
 "I'm going to the front," he said. 
 
 His wife, oh, who can cheer her! 
 
 She caught his now fast drooping head, 
 
 She saw his glazing eye; 
 He'd gone to join the great command 
 
 Of hosts beyond the sky. 
 
 A TIRED WOMAN'S EPITAPH. 
 
 JAMES PAINE. 
 
 TTERE lies a poor woman who always was tired, 
 -^ Who lived in a house where help was not hired; 
 Her last words on earth were: "Dear friends, I am going 
 Where washing ain't done, nor sweeping, nor sewing; 
 But everything there is exact to my wishes; 
 For where they don't eat there's no washing-up dishes. 
 I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing, 
 But having no voice, I'll get clear of the singing. 
 Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never, 
 I'm going to do nothing forever and ever." 
 
148 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 FOR A RAINY DAY. 
 
 LAVINIA 8. GOODWIN. 
 
 UTT may be a delicate question," 
 
 Observed the girl of his heart, 
 "But I covet no love in a cottage, 
 
 So what are you worth at the start?" 
 Prompt the answer that made her glad and gay. 
 "I've something, dear, for a rainy day." 
 
 But when the wedding was over, 
 
 And never a cottage had love, 
 Tom was taxed with false pretenses: 
 
 Said he: "Allow me to prove 
 I am void of offense, sweet Arabella," 
 And showed her a faded green umbrella! 
 
 THE EVENING PRAYER. 
 
 DR. O. T. DOZIER. 
 
 'TWAS grandma taught our little girl, 
 
 Our four-year darling May, 
 Her "Now I lay me down to sleep," 
 On bended knee to pray. 
 "If I should die before I wake, 
 I pray the Lord my soul to take ; ' ' 
 And then to close the evening prayer, 
 Would have her add thereto: 
 "God bless my grandma Smith, 
 Grandpa Smith and Uncle Joe, 
 My granpa White and grandma White, 
 And (other names) good night." 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 149 
 
 One evening at her grandma's knee, 
 
 When tired out with play, 
 
 The little darling bowed her head 
 
 Her evening prayer to say. 
 
 She finished out the little rhymes, 
 
 And blessings then began, 
 
 With "damma Smith and dampa White, 
 
 And dampa Smith," and here the light 
 
 Shut out by drooping lids, 
 
 She added in her innocence, 
 
 (Without thought of fun or jokes) 
 
 "Dam — dam — and all my dam tinfolks." 
 
 MY MOTHER'S OLD STEEL THIMBLE. 
 
 LUCIUS PERRY HILLS. 
 
 PVE been rummaging through a casket, filled with rel- 
 ics of the past, 
 And I turned them idly, /me by one, until I found, at last, 
 Wrapped in a piece of homespun and laid away with care, 
 The dingy old steel thimble that my mother used to wear. 
 
 Oh, what a flood of memories sweep in upon my soul, 
 As the coarse and faded covering I carefully unroll, 
 Till, dim with dust of useless years, I see before me there, 
 The battered old steel thimble that my mother used to 
 wear. 
 
 Rough with the toil of mother-love, in the cheerless days 
 
 of yore; 
 It was the only ornament the dear hands ever wore; 
 And I tenderly caress it as a treasure rich and rare, 
 This precious old steel thimble that my mother used to 
 
 wear. 
 
150 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 Companion of her widowhood, her faithful friend for years, 
 Made sacred by her patient toil and sanctified by tears, 
 No costly gem that sparkles on the hand of lady fair 
 Can match the old steel thimble that my mother used to 
 wear. 
 
 In a quiet little churchyard she has slumbered many a 
 
 year, 
 Yet in this holy hour I seem to feel her presence near, 
 And hear her benediction as I bow in grateful prayer, 
 And kiss the old steel thimble that my mother used to 
 
 wear. 
 
 The memory of that mother's love shall be a beacon light, 
 To guide my' wayward footsteps in the path of truth and 
 
 right 
 And the key that opens Heaven's door, if e'er I enter there, 
 Will be the old steel thimble that my mother use to wear. 
 
 MY SISTER'S BEAU. 
 
 ROY FARRELL GREENE, IN "NEW YORK TRUTH, 
 
 T^HEN you'se got a great big sister, an' your sister's got 
 
 a beau, 
 Why, you hev to mind yer manners an' mus' act jes' so 
 
 and so; 
 You'se got to pay attention to mos' everything 'at's said; 
 An' you got to be mos' careful er you're hustled off to bed. 
 I used to hev the bestest times a-rompin' 'round at night, 
 Asayin', "Bo!" to sister, an' a-growlin' like I'd bite, 
 But there ain't no fun in nothin', an' a feller ain't no 
 
 show 
 When he's got a great big sister, an' his sister's got a beau. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 151 
 
 He comes to see her Sundays an' they sit aroun' an' talk; 
 Sometimes he takes her ridin' an' sometimes 'ey take a 
 
 walk, 
 An' oncet he stayed fer dinner 'cause my mama said he 
 
 might, 
 An' he kept a-sayin', "Thank you," jes' as soft-like an' 
 
 perlite. 
 Once I jes' sort o' whistled to my ma's canary bird, 
 An' pa said, "Tommy!" cross-like, an' I hadn't said a 
 
 word . 
 I tell you, but a feller's got to act jes' so an' so 
 When he's got a great big sister, an' his sister's got a beau. 
 
 Ma says mebbe he'll marry sis an' take her off to stay; 
 I ast my pa about it an' he said: "P'raps he may!" 
 But when he comes to see her, why, I've got to be so good, 
 Sometimes I get to thinkin' that I rather wish he would. 
 'F I want to romp on Sundays why, I've got to be so sly, 
 It seems that all's so quiet, an' I feel just like I'd die. 
 A feller can't do nothin' an' he hain't got any show 
 When he's got a great big sister, and his sister's got a beau. 
 
 THE SPARTANS AT THERMOPYLAE.* 
 
 FRANKLIN E. DENTON. 
 
 A WHO would dare stand in the Persian's path? 
 
 Who, who, would dare bosom the bolts of his wrath, 
 To be scattered like chaff, to be broken like glass? 
 None but Greeks, and they stood at Thermopylae's pass. 
 "Yield, Spartans," said Xerxes, "or here find a grave!" 
 "Come, take us," the answer Leonidas gave. 
 But thrice round the world did the day chase the night, 
 Ere the legions of Asia thronged to the fight. 
 
 [*This selection has been used very effectively as a concert recitation for boys.] 
 
152 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 All the day, and the next, to the set of the sun, 
 The battle continued, at morning begun, 
 And the moon, as it stared on the heaps of the dead, 
 Saw the Greeks at their post and the enemy fled; 
 But a traitor a path in the mountains revealed, 
 And the fate of the heroes of Hellas was sealed; 
 Assailed and outnumbered in rear and in van, 
 They fought till they died and they died to a man. 
 
 They died, and the victors, with hurrying feet, 
 Pressed on to the doom of o'erwhelming defeat; 
 To melt like the drift in the glare of the sun. 
 For Athens and Sparta were welded in one, 
 They died, and, with yellow and long-flowing locks, 
 Lay stiffened and grim in the shade of the rocks, 
 With the earth for their pillow, the sky for their sheet, 
 But their conquests began when their hearts ceased to beat. 
 
 The eyes of the Median mother are dried, 
 
 And the Spartan maid's heart has forgotten its pride; 
 
 The kings and. the kingdoms have sought their dark beds, 
 
 And the ages fly over the low-lying heads; 
 
 But those dead heroes live, and they camp and they fight, 
 
 Wherever the fettered arise in their might; 
 
 The mountains may crumble, the ocean may dry, 
 
 But the good of a deed that is great can not die. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 153 
 
 THE RACE- FOR LIFE. 
 
 FROM "IN GODS COUNTRY/ 7 BY D. HIGBEE. 
 
 [Karl, a young German nobleman, working as a common laborer 
 on a farm in Kentucky, falls in love with Col. Ransome's daughter ? 
 and she, without knowing who he is, falls in love with him. The 
 Colonel, misled by circumstantial evidence, believes the young 
 German to be guilty of conduct which, in his eyes, is worthy of 
 death, and so pursues him with intent to kill. The following is 
 the description of the chase.] 
 
 rpHEY flew along the mile of lane and dashed into the 
 pike abreast. The horses were splendidly matched in 
 speed, and as they ran like the wind along the level stretch 
 of pike in the tingling air of early morning, Lydia forgot 
 the disgrace of her flight and the desperate chances of the 
 chase; forgot that she was running away with her father's 
 servant and that for one of them, at least, death was im- 
 minent — forgot everything in the exhilarating impetus of 
 their tremendous pace, but the fact that Karl rode at her 
 side like one to the manner born. 
 
 They had been on the pike five minutes when Lydia look- 
 ing back saw a single horseman, far behind them, dimly 
 sketched upon the paling sky. At first she could not tell 
 who it was, but as it grew gradually lighter she knew it 
 was her father by the color of the horse and his pose in the 
 saddle. Her surprise was equal to her relief in discover- 
 ing that he was alone. Why Bev had remained behind 
 she could not understand, for she had thought that if he 
 were unable to catch his own horse he would take some- 
 thing else. His behavior was inexplicable but it was their 
 salvation. 
 
 Her father could not overtake them and it was not 
 worth while to press the horses; it was only necessary to 
 keep at a safe distance until the gray mare gave out and 
 
154 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 then leisurely pursue their course. She drew rein and ran 
 at an easier gait, measuring her pace with the accuracy 
 born of a thorough knowledge of the horses and of the 
 country, and a shrewd calculation of what they had to 
 accomplish. 
 
 It was with many a deep imprecation that Colonel Ran- 
 some perceived the two best horses on his place flying be- 
 fore him and divined the plan of the fugitives as he saw 
 them slacken speed. The audacity of the maneuver 
 filled him with tempestuous wrath. He saw that pursuit 
 was useless, but he rode on, profane ejaculations alternat- 
 ing with the prayer that Bev might come at last. 
 
 It was some time before Lydia looked back again and 
 when she did she saw far behind her father another horse- 
 man spurring toward them, and even at that distance she 
 easily distinguished the magnificent stride of Bev's favor- 
 ite hunter. Her heart sank. She leaned towards Karl 
 and said with lips tightly drawn: "Let him go. It's 
 Bev an' he's ridin' Selim." 
 
 They could easily outrun her father but they could not 
 outrun Bev. They could not possibly reach the station 
 where they had intended taking the train before they 
 would be overtaken. What chance was left? Her stress 
 of thought in attempting to devise some other plan was as 
 tremendous as their pace. 
 
 It was getting lighter every moment and presently she 
 saw a long black line trailing across the horizon behind 
 them. It was the train from Lexington and in twenty 
 minutes it would be at Spring Station. If it stopped there 
 and they could reach the station in time, they were safe, 
 as they could easily step off at some point further down 
 the road and so throw the pursuers off the scent. The 
 plan shaped itself in her mind with the rapidity of des- 
 peration . 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 155 
 
 'This way," she called to Karl, as she wheeled and dashed 
 over a rock fence into a stubble-field. Karl followed and 
 on they went, over fences, ditches, ravines, all fear ex- 
 tinguished in the excitement of the chase. Each time that 
 she looked back Lydia could see that Bev, who was now in 
 the lead, was gaining on them, but every minute brought 
 them nearer to the static n and she now measured the dis- 
 tance with cool certainty. The engine was whistling at 
 Paine's, a single whistle, so it would not stop there. In 
 three minutes it would be at Midway, in five more it would 
 reach Spring, whose shingle roof was now showing clearly 
 above the trees. Another field and they would gain the 
 level stretch of pike that led directly to their destination. 
 
 On the other side of the fence they were approaching 
 was a ditch that made an ugly leap, but Lydia did not see' 
 it until it was too late to take the fence at another point. 
 The horses went at it gallantly and Alaric made it with 
 something to spare, but Black Fanny slipped on the edge 
 and rolled back into the ditch . 
 
 Lydia clambered out from under the horse and found 
 that she was but little hurt, just as Karl, who had ridden 
 back as soon as he missed her, was dismounting. 
 
 "Don't stop a minute," she urged. "I am not hurt, but 
 I can't go on; the mare has broken her leg. Take this," 
 she said, handing him the pistol she had secured before 
 starting and offering him her purse. Karl took only the 
 pistol. 
 
 "Get up mit me," he said. 
 
 "It is of no use, the horse can't make it with both of us 
 and it does not matter about me." Then remembering 
 his previous obstinacy, she pleaded: "Oh. do go on! I'll 
 come if you get away." 
 
 She told him hurriedly just what he was to do and that 
 he must be sure to keep straight on at the forks of the 
 road, and he sprang into the saddle and spurred Alaric to 
 
156 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 his best. It was but an instant lost, but Bev had gained 
 much. For a moment Lydia looked down at Fanny, for- 
 getful of her own misery, with a heart full of self-re- 
 proach. "If I had only seen that ditch sooner," she sobbed, 
 and then her eyes followed Karl, who had taken his last 
 fence and was careering down the pike. He rode like a 
 centaur and he was certainly getting the utmost speed out 
 of Alaric. 
 
 Close behind her there was an ominous thunder of hoofs, 
 and, as she turned, Bev rose over the shoulder of the hill 
 and spurred past her like the herald of doom. As he leaped 
 the fence his quick eye took in the mare lying in the ditch 
 and the figure of the rider standing on the brink. 
 
 Lydia now climbed into a tree that grew near the fence, 
 to get a better view of the road. Into the pike and on 
 Bev went and, standing on one limb, steadying herself by 
 another, she strained her eyes upon the horseman who 
 still led the chase. He was almost at the forks of the 
 road — now he was there. A low cry broke from her. 
 Either in his haste, or because her hurried direction had 
 not been clear to him, he had turned to the right. He 
 could not escape now, for Bev was gaining on him every 
 second, and in two minutes would be near enough to pick 
 a button off Karl's coat with the pistol she knew he had, 
 though she had not seen it. 
 
 "I don't s'pose," she said bitterly, "that he could hit a 
 flock 'o barns with a pistol if he was standin' still." 
 
 Karl saw his mistake now that it was two late, and find- 
 ing his pursuer so close upon him turned in the saddle and 
 fired. Bev rode on unhurt and Lydia saw the sweep of 
 his arm as he reached for the pistol in his hip-pocket — a 
 gesture eloquent of death. 
 
 She closed her eyes. There was a succession of sharp 
 reports like the explosion of a bunch of firecrackers and 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 157 
 
 then she could not hear even a hoof-beat. She opened 
 her eyes with an effort. Bev was nowhere to be seen. A 
 single horseman rode on into the fiery core of sunrise. 
 
 IN HIS NAME. 
 
 SELECTED. 
 
 rpHE Forum was deserted, the markets closed. 
 
 It was a common saying then, and is now, for that 
 matter, that all roads lead to Rome; and it was equally 
 true that all the roads of Rome led to the Colosseum. 
 On this fete day — the Ides of Quintilis — it seemed that 
 every animate being in the imperial city had converged 
 at the central point — the great amphitheatre. Had not 
 the lordly Nero announced that he would consummate pre- 
 vious triumphs, by giving the commons a feast of martyrs 
 such as they had never witnessed? 
 
 Three thousand Christians, who had been seized by his 
 soldiery, and torn from their weeping relatives, lay silent 
 in their noisome cells, or praised God in the sublimity of 
 their devotion. Behold yonder couple who, with hurry- 
 ing steps, force a path through the laughing crowds, feel- 
 ing no meed of merriment themselves. Mamilia turned to 
 her companion, the burly smith, Manlius, and cried: 
 
 "Oh, haste, haste, or we shall be too late !" 
 
 The big man smiled sadly, and increased his pace to 
 such purpose that she could scarcely keep step with him. 
 
 "We shall not be too late," he said, in a tone of gruff 
 sympathy, "but tell me, Mamilia — why dost thou wish to 
 look upon this scene?" 
 
 "Because I have sworn that I would see him face 
 death," replied the girl, speaking so calmly that her man- 
 
158 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 ner awed even his coarser nature. "I went to him but 
 yesterday, and offered — myself for his freedom. He re- 
 fused — ah, I knew he would — and bade me come to wit- 
 ness how a Christian could die. my Dionysius — my 
 Dionysius !'" 
 
 All her forced calmness suddenly broke down in a wild 
 burst of grief, that brought a suspicious dimness into the 
 honest eyes of the smith. With simple, homely words he 
 strove to strengthen her, imploring her to let no passer 
 see sorrow that would only draw evil upon themselves; 
 and presently Mamilia sobbed herself into quietness. It 
 was the quiet of despair. 
 
 Using his sturdy shoulders as a wedge, the smith cleared 
 a passage through the sweltering crowd, and escorted his 
 frail young charge to a seat near the areua. The crush 
 was terrible, and it was well for Mamilia that her hench- 
 man's huge bulk commanded respect on that day. 
 
 Hark ! The silver blast of a trumpet rings out, and Nero, 
 the emperor, sinks lazily upon his throne-seat. His cruel 
 eyes observe the audience a space, as noting the vastness 
 of this concourse that has come to do homage to tyranny — 
 then his imperial wand is raised on high. 
 
 The carnage begins. 
 
 First singly, or in pairs, then in platoons, come martyrs 
 and gladiators commingled together, heedless of the fierce 
 plaudits that greet them — but silent and somber as is meet 
 for those who are about to die. 
 
 "Hail, Caesar; dying, we salute thee," cry the sturdy 
 gladiators; for it is their profession to be "butchered to 
 make a Roman holiday," and their bravado is proof even 
 against the fear of death. A group of Christians raise 
 their voices in a faltering hymn to the Almighty; but the 
 words of faith are drowned in a storm of howling from 
 the galleries, and soon the lips that formulate this rhythmic 
 praise are blanched in death. So the evil work goe3 
 
• READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 159 
 
 on, and Rome — male and female — proves itself worthy of 
 descent from the wolf -weaned Twin Brethren. 
 
 Now they are clearing the arena, and fresh sand is 
 thrown down to hide the palpable evidences of butchery. 
 A straight-limbed, slim youth passes through the dark 
 portals beneath Nero's throne-seat, and steps into the 
 arena, calm and fearless of mien. Dionysius glances 
 towards that spot where he knows she will be sitting, and 
 their eyes meet in a last, silent salute. Then his gaze is 
 turned to the tyrant seated in the place of honor. 
 
 A hoarse cry emanates from the galleries— "to the wild 
 beasts with him" — and Nero hearing it smiles triumph- 
 antly as he stretches out his hand, with thumb turned 
 down. At the set signal a magnificent tiger is goaded in- 
 to the ring, and Dionysius, turning about, quietly kneels in 
 prayer. The famished animal hesitates for a brief in- 
 stant, lashing his sides fiercely with his tail; he appears 
 subdued by the devotional attitude of the young martyr, 
 who, with eyes upraised to the blue Italian sky, is murmur- 
 ing: "Lord, lay not this sin to their charge;" but the 
 savage cries of the audience maddened him into brute 
 ferocity, and with a snarl of rage he springs on Dionysius, 
 bearing him to earth. 
 
 A female scream arises above the howls of the spectators 
 as that gallant young soul goes forth to its Maker, and the 
 tiger stands over his prey growling fiercely. 
 
 A girl who, though young in years, bore traces of an age 
 of sorrow, tottered from the gallery, supported by the 
 strong arm of a burly man, and they passed from the ac- 
 cursed spot forever. 
 
160 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 TOMMY'S DREAM. 
 
 W. B. WHITESIDE. 
 
 fTOMMY was most ambitious, 
 -L And longing for deeds to do; 
 His dreamings were quite delicious, 
 
 But, oh ! would they e'er come true? 
 As he lay in front of the fire, 
 On days in the winter cold, 
 And planned for a wondrous future, 
 
 Of marvelous things untold. 
 And the favorite dream was this one, 
 'Twas taken from things he'd read 
 Out of his books of fairy tales, 
 
 At night ere he went to bed. 
 How he had hoped it would be his duty, 
 
 When at last he was fully grown, 
 To free some enchanted beauty 
 
 From a spell about her thrown. 
 By an odious magician, 
 
 In a wondrous far-off land, 
 'Twould be thrilling — that position, 
 And the world would understand. 
 But,'alas ! a shriek alarming, 
 
 Breaks discordant upoD his ear, 
 And the dream so bright and charming, 
 
 Gives way to a scene more near. 
 But 't is just his little sister, 
 Who has fallen with a roar, 
 Hard heart 'tis that could resist her, 
 
 But he leaves her on the floor ; 
 Little thinking he's a duty 
 
 To perform right then and there, 
 And should rescue that small "beauty" 
 From beneath an upset chair. 
 
READINGS AXD RECITATIONS. 161 
 
 THE SWORD OF CLEBURNE. 
 
 MONTGOMERY M. FOLSOM. 
 
 [The sword of General Pat Cleburne hangs as a sacred 
 relic on the walls of Hibernian Hall, Atlanta.] 
 
 T1HE good right hand that wielded it 
 
 Is mouldering in the dust, 
 But comrades have not yielded it 
 
 To idle, useless rust; 
 For they remember well that day 
 
 And treasured ever be 
 The sword he wore who fell that day 
 
 At Franklin, Tennessee! 
 
 Three times he turned the battle rout 
 
 And waved that brand on high, 
 • While loudly rang his battle shout 
 
 And flashed his fiery eye; 
 And then that fourth and fated ride. 
 
 His banner floating free, 
 And there, where^glory waited, died, 
 
 At Franklin, Tennessee! 
 
 The cause he loved in drear defeat, 
 
 As death, itself, went down, 
 And never did he fear to meet 
 
 Its foes, and his renown 
 Shall live with those that stood with him 
 
 And fame shall tell how he 
 Led those who shed their blood with him 
 
 At Franklin, Tennessee! 
 
1 62 T WEN TIE TH CENTUR Y SPEA KE R . 
 
 Brave Erin's blood flowed in his veins, 
 
 And his escutcheon bright, 
 Bore none save honor's sinless stains, 
 
 And never truer knight 
 Left home and country far behind, 
 
 And crossed the distant sea, 
 And left a name incarnadined, 
 
 At Franklin, Tennessee! 
 
 A NEW BARON MUNCHAUSEN. 
 
 BRENT WHITESIDE. 
 
 T'M awful busy, said Master Tom, 
 And haven't got time to talk, 
 
 But I must tell you some things I saw 
 To-day when I went to walk. 
 
 Way down the lane — it's really true — 
 
 I saw an old horse fly, 
 And a broken piece of a wagon spoke 
 
 As I was hurrying by. 
 
 A little further on, I came 
 
 To where the fence was railing; 
 
 The trouble really seemed to be 
 About a broken paling. 
 
 And though no water was in sight, 
 
 Nor any boat, you know; 
 Way over in the furtherest field 
 
 I saw a cabbage row. 
 
 And down beside a marshy spot 
 
 I saw a cat tail stalk, 
 And leading up the other side, 
 
 A crooked old rock walk. 
 
BE A DINGS A ND BE CITA TIONS . 163 
 
 'Tis truly strange, the things I see. 
 
 When I but use my eyes. 
 But strangest one — "tis three o'clock — 
 
 Is just the way time flies! 
 
 HER INVITATION 
 
 'CLEVELAND LEADER 
 
 HE. 
 
 ll'ERE I the wind, my darling. 
 And you a blushing flower. 
 I'd sigh with love forever. 
 
 And play around your bower. 
 And I would come and kiss you 
 
 And bring the fragrant shower. 
 And I would talk in whispers 
 
 That you could understand. 
 And the perfume of your petals 
 
 I'd spread o'er all the land. 
 Were I the wind, my darling. 
 
 And you a blushing flower. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Were you the wind so wanton. 
 
 And I a blushing flower. 
 You say you'd sigh forever 
 
 And play around my bower. 
 And that you'd come and kiss me. 
 
 And bring the fragrant shower. 
 And that you'd talk in whispers 
 
 That I could understand. 
 And the perfume of my petals 
 
 You'd spread o'er all the land — 
 Let's play that you're the wind, and 
 
 That I'm a blushing flower! 
 
164 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 WAR AND PEACE. 
 
 SELECTED. 
 
 HPHROUGH the physical horrors of warfare, poetry dis- 
 cerns the redeeming nobleness. Carnage is terrible. 
 Death — and insults to woman worse than death — and 
 human features obliterated under the hoof of the war- 
 horse, and reeking hospitals, and ruined commerce, and 
 violated homes and broken hearts! They are all awful. 
 But there is something .worse than death. Cowardice is 
 worse, and the decay of enthusiasm and manliness is 
 worse. And it is worse than death, ay, worse than a hun- 
 dred thousand deaths, when a people have gravitated down 
 into the creed that "wealth of nations" consists, not in 
 generous hearts, "fire in each breast and freedom in each 
 brow," in national virtue and primitive simplicity and 
 heroic endurance and preference of duty to life, not in 
 men, but in silk and cotton, and something that they call 
 "capital." 
 
 Peace is blessed, peace rising out of charity. But peace 
 springing out of calculations of selfishness is not blessed. 
 If the price to be paid for peace is this, that "wealth 
 accumulate and men decay," better — far better — that 
 every street in every town of our once noble country should 
 run blood! 
 
 A PLEA FOR CUBA. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM SPEECH OF SEN. THURSTON IN U. S. CONGRESS. 
 
 It/TR. PRESIDENT: I am here by command of silent 
 ■^ lips to speak once for all upon the Cuban agitation. 
 I trust that no one has expected anything sensational 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 165 
 
 from me. God forbid that the bitterness of a personal 
 loss should induce me to color in the slightest degree the 
 statement that I feel it my duty to make. I shall endeavor 
 to be honest, conservative and just. I have no purpose 
 to stir the public passion in any action not necessary and 
 imperative to meet the duties and necessities of American 
 responsibility, Christian humanity and national honor. 
 I would shirk this task if I could, but I dare not. I can 
 not satisfy my conscience except by speaking and speaking 
 now. 
 
 Our platform demands that the United States shall 
 actively use its influence for the independence of the 
 island. lam not here to criticise the present administra- 
 tion; I yield to no man living, in my respect, my admira- 
 tion for and my confidence in the judgment, the wisdom, 
 the patriotism, the Americanism of William McKinley. 
 When he entered upon his administration he faced a diffi- 
 cult situation. It was his duty to proceed with care and 
 caution. 
 
 It was the plain duty of the President of the United 
 States to give to the liberal ministry of Spain a reasonable 
 time in which to test its proposed autonomy. That time 
 has been given. Autonomy is conceded the wide world 
 over to be a conspicuous failure. The situation in Cuba 
 has only changed for the worse. Sagasta is powerless; 
 Blanco is powerless to put an end to the conflict, to re- 
 habilitate the island or to relieve the suffering, starvation 
 and distress. 
 
 The time for action has come. No greater reason for 
 it to-morrow more than exists to-day. Every hour's de- 
 lay only adds another chapter to the awful story of misery 
 and death. Only one power can intervene — the United 
 States of America. 
 
 It was her glorious example which inspired the Cubans 
 of Cuba to raise the flag of liberty in her eternal hills. 
 
166 T WEN TIE Til CENT UR Y SPEA KER . 
 
 We can not refuse to accept this responsibility which the 
 God of the universe has placed upon us as the one great 
 power in the new world. What shall our action be? 
 
 The American people will never consent to the pay- 
 ment of one dollar, to the guaranteeing of one bond, as 
 the price paid to Spain for her relinquishment of the 
 island she has so wantonly outraged and devastated. 
 
 Mr. President, there is only one action possible, if one 
 is taken; that is the intervention for the independence of 
 the island; intervention that means the landing of an 
 American army on Cuban soil, the deploying of an Ameri- 
 can fleet off the harbor of Havana; intervention which 
 says to Spain : "Leave the island, withdraw your soldiers, 
 leave the Cubans, these brothers of ours in the new world, 
 to form and carry on government for themselves." Such 
 intervention on our part would not of itself be war. It 
 would undoubtedly lead to war. But if war came it would 
 come by act of Spain in resistance of the liberty and the 
 independence of the Cuban people. 
 
 We are not in session to hamper or cripple the presi- 
 dent; we are here to advise and assist him. Congress 
 can alone levy taxes, and to this Congress the united peo- 
 ple of this broad land, from sea to sea, from lake to gulf, 
 look to voice their wishes and execute their will. 
 
 Mr. President, against the intervention of the United 
 States in this holy cause, there is but one voice of dissent, 
 that is the voice of the money-changers. They fear war 
 not because of any Christian or ennobling sentiment 
 against war and in favor of peace, but because they fear 
 that a declaration of war or the intervention which might 
 result in war would have a depressing effect upon the 
 stock market. 
 
 Mr. President, I do not read my duty from the ticker; 
 I do not accept my lessons in patriotism from Wall 
 street. I deprecate war. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 167 
 
 War with Spain would increase the business and earn- 
 ings of every American railway; it would iDcrease the 
 output of every American factory; it would stimulate 
 every branch of industry and domestic commerce ; it would 
 greatly increase the demand for American labor, and in 
 the end every certificate that represented a share in an 
 American business enterprise would be worth more money 
 than it is worth to-day. But in the meantime the spectre 
 of war would stride through the "stock exchange and many 
 of the gamblers around the board would find their ill- 
 gotten gains passing to the other side of the table. 
 
 Let them go; what if one man loses at the gambling- 
 table; his fellow gambler wins. Let them take their chances 
 as they can. Their weal or woe is of but little impor- 
 tance to the liberty-loving people of the United States. 
 Let the men whose loyalty is to the dollar stand aside, 
 while the man whose loyalty is to the flag come to the 
 front. 
 
 Force saved the Union, kept the stars in the flag, made 
 "niggers" men. The time forGrod's force has come again. 
 Let the impassioned lips of American patriots once more 
 take up the song: 
 
 "In the beauties of the lilies, 
 
 Christ was born across the sea, 
 With a glory in His bosom 
 
 That transfigured you and me. 
 As He died to make man holy, 
 Let us die to make men free, 
 
 For God is marching on." 
 
 Mr. President, in the cable that moored me to life and 
 hope, the strongest strands are broken. I have but little 
 left to offer at the altar of freedom's sacrifice, but all I 
 have I am glad to give; I am ready to serve my country 
 as best I can in the Senate or in the field. My dearest 
 
168 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 hope, my earnest prayer to God is this: That when death 
 comes to end all, I may meet it calmly and fearlessly as 
 did my beloved, in the cause of humanity, underneath the 
 American flag. 
 
 NOW AND -THEN 
 
 EXTRACT FROM SPEECH IN THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTA- 
 TIVES BY CASPER H. HARRISON, OF ILLINOIS. 
 
 rpHINK, Mr. Chairman, of the difference between now and 
 1776. A common eagle, extending his flight from the 
 extreme eastern limits of civilization to its western limit, in 
 1776, would have made that flight in one single day. To- 
 day the proudest monarch of the forest, lifting himself 
 from the Atlantic and looking to the setting sun, ever 
 intent in sailing onward, days — aye, weeks — will have 
 passed before he shall be able to cool his wearied pinions 
 in the spray of the Pacific; and yet we are afraid of mak- 
 ing a centennial precedent of celebrating the glorious boon 
 handed down to us by 1776. 
 
 Sir, (fill in proper number) years ago, when the first 
 anniversary of the Fourth of July was celebrated after the 
 acknowledgment of Independence, when the gun first 
 belched forth upon the eastern slopes of Maine at sunrise 
 that the day of our national birth had come, as in the sun's 
 rapid flight across the continent gun after gun was heard, 
 in less than one hour the last gun was heard on our west- 
 ern limits, and was echoed by the crack of the red man's 
 rifle, and the war-whoop of the Indian was the chorus to 
 the orator's patriotic words. What is it to-day? 
 
 When the sun shall rise on the Fourth of July next, and 
 shall gild the hilltops on the St. John's, and the boom of 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 169 
 
 the cannon is heard announcing the one-hundreth birth- 
 day of our existence, as the sun shall roll on in his march 
 of a thousand miles an hour, and gun after gun shall catch 
 up the detonation of the last gun, the national anthem will 
 swell, and. as it goes westward until reaching a line 
 stretching from the far north to the extreme south of the 
 Gulf of Mexico, one grand peal shall be heard, a peal of a 
 thousand guns, rocking the very foundations of earth, 
 echoed to the blue vaults of heaven, mingling its tones 
 with the songs of the stars as they roll in their musical 
 spheres. Aye, sir, that tone, that grand, national anthem, 
 rolling over a land teeming with population, rich in all 
 that blesses man, will take nearly five hours going from 
 our eastern to our western limits; and we can not vote 
 three and a quarter cents each of the people's money for a 
 celebration of the magnificent boon our forefathers have 
 given us. 
 
 TO THE HOUSE OF LOKDS. 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 ]i/TY lords, your house still stands, but let me say, it 
 TJ - stands in the midst of ruins — in the midst of ruins that 
 have been made by the greatest moral earthquake that 
 ever convulsed and shattered this globe of ours. My 
 lords, it has pleased Providence to place us in that state, 
 that we appear every moment to be on the verge of some 
 great mutation. There is one thing, and one thing only, 
 that defies mutation — that which existed before the 
 world itself. I mean Justice; that justice which, ema- 
 nating from the divinity, has a place, in the breast of 
 every one of us, given us for our guide with regard to 
 
170 T WEN TIE TH CENT UR Y SPEA KER . 
 
 ourselves and with regard to others, and which will stand 
 after this globe is burned to ashes, our advocate or our 
 accuser before the great Judge, when He comes to call 
 upon us for the tenor of a well-spent life. 
 
 My lords, the commons will share in every fate with 
 your lordships. There is nothing sinister which can hap. 
 pen to you in which we are not involved. And if it 
 should so happen that your lordships, stripped of all the 
 decorous distinctions of human society, should, by hands 
 at once base and cruel, be led to those scaffolds and ma- 
 chines of murder upon which great kings and glo- 
 rious queens have shed their blood, amid the prelates, 
 the nobles, the magistrates who supported their thrones, 
 may you in those moments feel that consolation which 
 I am persuaded they felt in the critical moments of their 
 dreadful agony. 
 
 My lords, if you must fall, may. you so fall! But if 
 you stand — and stand I trust you will, together with the 
 fortunes of this ancient monarchy; together with the an- 
 cient laws and liberties of this great and illustrious king- 
 dom — may you stand as unimpeached in honor as 
 in power! May you stand, not as a substitute for virtue! 
 May you stand, and long stand, the terror of tyrants! 
 May you stand, the refuge of afflicted nations; may you 
 stand, a sacred temple for the perpetual residence of 
 inviolable Justice. 
 
 THE POWER OF THE HOME. 
 
 HENRY W. GRADY, ADOPTED FROM ELBERTON SPEECH. 
 
 OURELY here — here in the homes of the people, is lodged 
 ^ the ark of the covenant of my country. Here is its 
 majesty and its strength. Here the beginning of its power 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 171 
 
 and the end of its responsibility. The homes of the people! 
 Let us keep them pure and independent and all will be well 
 with the republic. 
 
 Let us, in simple thrift and economy, make our homes 
 independent. Let us make them temples of liberty and 
 teach our sons that an honest conscience is every man's 
 first political law. That his sovereignty rests beneath his 
 hat, and that no splendor can rob him and no force justify 
 the surrender of the simplest right of a free and independ- 
 ent citizen. The home is the source of our national life. 
 Back of the national capital and above it stands the home. 
 Back of the president and above him stands the citizen. 
 
 What the home is, this and nothing else will the capital 
 be. What the citizen wills, this and nothing else will the 
 president be. 
 
 Standing here, above passion and prejudice, I invoke 
 every true citizen, righting from his hearthstone outward, 
 with the prattle of his children in his ear, and the hand 
 of his wife and mother closely clasped, to determine here 
 to make his home sustaining and independent, and to 
 pledge eternal hostility to the foe that threatens our 
 liberty. 
 
 Your fathers and mine yet live, though they speak not, 
 and will consecrate this air with their wheeling chariots, 
 and above them and beyond them, the Lord God Almighty r 
 king of hosts, will strike with us for liberty and truth. 
 
 PURPOSE. 
 
 HUBXEE. 
 
 T^HAT is it men lack most? It is not talent, but pur- 
 pose; not learned theory, but intelligent application; 
 not complicated machinery, but practical, straightforward 
 
 
172 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 work; not means to achieve, but the iron will to labor. 
 Possessing these, success will follow. A good purpose 
 must sanctify talent. Theory is useless unless tested by 
 application. Where will is, the power of achievement is 
 very apt to-be; a determined will can create the necessary 
 power out of its own forces. 
 
 There is so much wasted talent in our day. Men refuse 
 to confine their gifts and energies to legitimate channels. 
 They attempt great things spasmodically, and spurn the 
 broad and safe highroads to success for the wilderness 
 paths of the novel and the quicksands of the sensational. 
 
 Stern purpose, loyal devotion, a clear understanding of 
 the end to be attained; resolute application and hard 
 work with a contented spirit will overcome every obstacle. 
 Without these, talent is a useless possession. 
 
 COLUMBIA'S DAUGHTERS. 
 
 MINNIE QUINN, 
 
 Open with the Chorus — "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean." 
 During the singing, enter Columbia and advance to the throne, 
 accompanied by England, Holland, Spain and France. 
 COSTUMES. 
 
 France— Colors, blue and white. 
 
 Spain — Colors, red, black and yellow. 
 
 Holland — Colors, yellow, green and white. ; 
 
 England— Dressed as a gentleman of the 16th Century. 
 
 Columbia — Stars and stripes. 
 Nations stand till song is concluded. 
 
 ENGLAND. Fair Columbia, we fain would see, 
 
 The fruits of thy prosperity. 
 Spain. Lo ! the changes swift and great, 
 
 Since upon the rolling waters, 
 
 Sailed Columbus from our shores, 
 
 Sent by noblest of our daughters. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 178 
 
 Worthy prize he gained, tis true, 
 And we bow the knee to you. 
 
 France. And I, fair lady, most humbly crave 
 A sight of the land of the fathers brave, 
 Who sailed from the shores of my sunny land, 
 To«reap rich treasures from thy fair hand. 
 
 Holland. When the Half Moon sailed up the Hudson's 
 waters, 
 Freighted with Holland's brave sons and daughters, 
 Little they dreamed that the cabin homes 
 Of their island would grow into princely domes, 
 And towering spires and lofty piles, 
 Where the hum of millions the day beguiles, 
 And the trade and traffic of every shore, 
 New wealth in thy coffers combine and pour. 
 Columbia. Kind friends, my children throw wide their 
 doors, 
 To greet the strangers from other shores. 
 [Chorus — "Song of Welcome."] 
 [During the song the States march in and form a semi- 
 circle. Each bears an offering.] 
 
 Columbia. Before you displayed are earth's glorious 
 treasures, 
 The fruits of my country, my own sunny land. 
 My children have roused and have poured out their 
 
 treasures 
 With generous hearts and with bountiful hand. 
 From the warm, wave-kissed shores of the fair 
 
 Land of Flowers, 
 From the chill, wind-tossed woods of the bleak 
 
 State of Maine, 
 From the roar and the surge of the restless Atlantic 
 To the shores where the Peaceful sings sootheful 
 refrain — 
 
174 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 From the valley where flows the great Father 
 
 of Waters, 
 From the peaks of the mountains where snow- 
 wreaths gleam white, 
 From the depths of the mines, from the bed of 
 
 the rivers, 
 All nature's rich treasures are here brought to 
 light. 
 
 [Turns towards the States.'] 
 Surrounded by children whose purposes ever 
 Have been to accomplish, by earnest endeavor, 
 Great things for my good, and to banish the ill, 
 Which, like a rank weed, life's rich meadows will 
 
 fill, 
 See — I call them to come, from the lakes to the sea, 
 And exhibit the wealth of the Land of the Free. 
 [States bow and salute.] 
 
 Virginia [bearing tobacco leaves] . As oldest daughter of 
 Columbia's soil, 
 Enriched by hope, by prayer, by honest toil, 
 I lay my tribute proudly at her feet 
 Aud sing her praise with happiness complete. 
 [Chorus — "Carry me Back to Ole Virgin id. " 
 
 Floeida [with oranges]. A delicate maid in our South- 
 land's rich gardens, 
 Has seen with fond eyes these sweet blossoms 
 
 unfold, 
 Has breathed the perfume that lingers around them. 
 And watched the bright bloom turn to fruitage of 
 
 gold. 
 From Florida's groves the lush fruit has been 
 
 gathered 
 So rich in its hue and so perfect in mould. 
 [Song— u Swance Ribber."] 
 
RE A DINGS AND RECITA TIONS. 1 75 
 
 Kentucky. From the land of lovely women, 
 The blue-grass country I come, 
 To tell of the loyal devotion 
 My children feel for home. 
 
 [ Song — ' ' Old Kentucky Home . " ] 
 
 California [with minerals] . Earth's wonderful treas- 
 ures, her gold and hor silver, 
 Bright gems from her bosom, the previous and rare, 
 From the depths of the mines, from the peaks 
 
 of the mountains, 
 In virginal beauty are all gathered here. 
 
 Far out in the West, past the snow-crowned Rockies, 
 Where silver and gold fill the heart of the earth, 
 Skilled hands have worked bravely and great 
 
 minds have planned wisely 
 For the honor and weal of the land of their birth. 
 [Chorus— "My Country, 'Tis of Thee."] 
 
 Texas [with bundle of grain]. Lo! .here are the wheat 
 sheaves, all fresh from the harvest, 
 
 See, all their bright tassels droop gracefully low; 
 
 Their grain-laden heads seem to nod and to mur- 
 mur 
 
 As when the west winds waved their stalks to and 
 fro. 
 
 On the broad plains of Texas, their seeds were 
 first planted, 
 
 The tiny green stalks there looked up to the sky; 
 
 The breezes made sweet by the breath of the prai- 
 ries, 
 
 Sang around them and lulled them with sweet lul- 
 laby. 
 
176 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 South Carolina [with palmetto]. From the State 
 where the palmetto waves for all time, 
 And the rice-grain grows tall, 'mid the swamp 
 
 waters low, 
 I bring products lich, wrought with music and 
 
 rhyme, 
 As the darkies work hard with the plow and the 
 hoe. 
 [Song — "Massa's in the Cold Ground." 
 
 Georgia [with cotton]. Land of the poet's pride, 
 With fame's star gleaming, 
 Fairer than all beside, 
 With beauty beaming — 
 We call thee Empire State, 
 Crown thee the fairest, 
 'Mid all thy sisters great, 
 Thou art the rarest. 
 Georgia — thy hills and vales 
 We greet with singing, 
 Then free on welcome gales, 
 Let joy be ringing. 
 
 ["Dixie." "Hail Columbia: 1 ] 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. Ill 
 
 MY PICTURE. 
 
 JON. B. FROST. 
 Author of "Love Fugue.'''' 
 
 11/rY picture? Coquettish artful flatterer, 
 
 -*-"■ Of disdainful smiles a lavish scatterer, 
 
 Thy big black eye its roguish leer, 
 
 Thy pert rose lip, its half-born sneer, 
 
 By squint and curl enough concealed, 
 
 Thy full dire irony is revealed. 
 
 Thy double-orbed camera then turn; 
 
 Their glow one moment o'er me burn. 
 
 You spurn! And shake my likeness with a start? 
 
 I, as easily, can drop thy image from my heart! 
 
 THE DREAD OF DEATH. 
 
 JON. B. FROST. 
 
 Author of "Love Fugue." 
 
 UT\7HERE the treasure is there will the heart be 
 also." 
 
 Why dread you death, 
 
 O little child, 
 
 Heart undefiled? 
 
 In trembling fear 
 
 It huddled near 
 Its mother's throbbing breast. 
 
 The tender dear 
 
 Its mother's tear 
 Sought to soothe to rest. 
 12 
 
178 TWENTIETH CENTURY SPEAKER. 
 
 "Its happy hours are seldom broken 
 By thoughts of death so plainly spoken," 
 In kind reproof she sought to say. 
 "I fear," the wee one answered me, 
 "When comes his gloom across my glee, 
 That death will take mamma away." 
 
 Remorseless death 
 
 Shut off its breath. 
 
 Why dread you death, 
 
 O noble youth, 
 
 Heart strong in truth? 
 
 In tragic dread, 
 
 He shook his head, 
 Then launched his bitter curse, 
 
 In sad despair 
 
 With ghastly glare 
 Against God's universe — 
 That nature practiced false decoy. 
 Ne'er fulfilling promised joy. 
 "I love a rare and radiant maiden 
 Her love's return I've won," he said, 
 "And now I fear, before we're wed 
 That death will crush our hopes of Aidenn. 
 
 Then heartless death 
 
 Shut off his breath. 
 
 Why dread you death, 
 
 O prime humanity, 
 
 Heart ease serenity? 
 
 At question asked 
 
 The heart unmasked 
 Affections' agitation, 
 
 And darlings near * 
 
 Kissed off a tear, 
 Parental love's libation. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 179 
 
 Then sank my heart to realize 
 
 In deep appealing tender eyes 
 
 The troubled depth of strong affection. 
 
 "Spring dreads most keen from truest loves" 
 
 Was said, "I fear my fledging doves 
 
 Dread death will leave without protection." 
 
 Unfeeling death 
 
 Shut off her breath. 
 
 Why dread you death, 
 
 O calm old age, 
 
 Heart's barren stage? 
 
 Kegret dark frowned, 
 
 Long wreathed around 
 The heart now touched his lip. 
 
 He sadly said 
 
 "Here I and sorrow sit, 
 My heart, sad, barren and bereft 
 Of love's sweet fruit, no cause is left 
 For life, or dread of death's communion, 
 The treasure death's, the heart also; 
 Whose loves yet live does death appall so. 
 O death, thy chance of love's reunion!" 
 
 And trusted death 
 Shut off his breath. 
 
Books of all Publishers. 
 
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