•i: H I I #£31 *. ■ - -<►--.- u-r>: w ' ■ ■ • ;*« ■ ^^^H ■ '-.i ' ^^k. - ubBUhi Class ?N <4kO( Book_ 0^14. Copyright ^°_ coi^iucilt DEPoam JSSL HER FATHER'S CONSENT. The American Reciter READINGS, DECLAMATIONS AND PLAYS Original Compositions and Choice Selections of the Best Literature CONTAINING ALSO THE MOST COMPLETE AND MODERN RULES FOR VOICE AND PHYSICAL CULTURE FOR HOME, SCHOOL AND ALL PUBLIC AND SOCIAL ENTERTAINMENTS WRITTEN, COMPILED AND ARRANGED RICHARD LINTHICUM THE WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR, JOURNALIST AND CRITIC OF LITERATURE AND PLAYS .y ■ . ... ,. „ . ^ 7X WITH INTRODUCTION, SPECIAL SELECTIONS AND LESSON TALKS D . MARVIN VICTOR HINSHAW OF THE CELEBRATED HlNSHAW SCHOOL OF ELOCUTION, ORATORY AND MUSIC Sumptuously Illustrated bv i t h *Beauti_fut Full "Page "Photo "Pictures from Life ■ ' ' AMERICAN PUBLISHING HOUSE CHICAGO, IIaIa. ^ 4 \V 1^ o K v A THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, Two Copied Received JUL. 12 1902 Copyright entry pi.ASS 0>XXa No. 3U3t COPY B. COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY RICHARD LINTHICUM PREFACE ONE of the most pleasing and rational forms of entertainment is in those public and private gatherings at which selections from the best literature are read and recited, dialogues and tableaux presented, together with drills, marches, pantomime and musical features, which go to make up the programmes on such occasions. They not only afford enjoyable recreation, but are instructive and educative as well, incul- cating and developing sound patriotism, and teaching in the most pleasing way the great moral lessons of life. The publishers of this volume have learned from experience that there is a gen- eral demand for a book to supply the material for these entertainments, which shall not only contain the choicest selections in the English language, but shall have a practical value through the arrangement by an expert of these selections into pro- grammes for every occasion. In this volume, prepared by a writer of wide experience, both in literature and in the direction of home, church and school entertainments, the publishers feel confi- dent that they have met this demand. The introductory chapter on THE ART OF ELOCUTION contains complete instructions and rules laid down by the best teachers of elocution, for the guidance of those who wish to read, speak, recite, sing, act, or take part in any entertainment, public or private. This chapter teaches how to cultivate, develop, and use the voice; how to make correct gestures, how to give correct expression in recitations through the use of the head, the eyes, the arms, the body, and the lower limbs, and at the same time teaches the reader how to acquire gracefulness and self-possession, which are so necessary to a successful appearance in public. To these instructions have been added Physical Culture Exercises for the body, which are so simple that anyone can quickly learn and perform them. Many of the selections both in prose and in verse are original and appear in print in this volume for the first time. The variety of original and selected recitations and dialogues is shown by the various divisions made with reference to the subjects of which the selections treat: Juvenile Gems for the Children contains selections suitable for little folks of all ages, from the smallest tot to boys and girls who are verging on young manhood and womanhood. They are all selections which the children themselves like and were sub- mitted to the approval of children of various ages before they were compiled in this volume. Patriotism and War contains the best patriotic and stirring literature that has been written from Revolutionary days to and including our war with Spain. National and School Holidays contain appropriate selections for each day observed as a holiday either in the nation or in the school, including New Year's Day, Lincoln's Birthday, 7 8 PREFACE. Washington's Birthday, Arbor Day, Decoration Day, Flag Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas. Around the Evening Lamp is a department containing selections to be read or recited in the home circle after the evening lamp has been lit and the family has gath- ered around it for entertainment. A great deal of space has been given to dialogues and pieces in which a half dozen or more persons can take part. There is such a great variety of these that some one or more of them will be found suitable for every occasion or form of entertainment that can arise. Particular care has been used in preparing and selecting Tableaux, Pantomimes, Drills, and similar features, including the Maypole Dance and the Minuet, all ar- ranged in attractive manner, with full explanation and direction how to present them. Other attractive features and departments in this volume will be found in the depart- ments of Humorous Recitations, Religious and Moral, Dialect Selections, Temperance, Dramatic Readings, Orations of the World's Great Men, Love and Sentiment, and Mis- cellaneous Selections. For the guidance and instruction of persons getting up and directing entertain- ments at home or in the church and school, a series of programmes are presented in this volume which will be found to meet the demand of every occasion. The magnificent illustrations in this volume are not only sumptuous and beauti- ful but they have the same practical value as the selections. They are made from actual photographs of real scenes presented at public entertainments, and in addition to their beauty and appropriateness as works of art, they will serve to guide and instruct be- ginners in the art of appearing successfully in public entertainments. . It will be seen from the foregoing that the claim made for this volume as a COM- PLETE AND THOROUGHLY PRACTICAL SPEAKER AND RECITER is well founded. Very respectfully, THE PUBLISHERS. Untrobuction anb ILesson tCalh By MARVIN VICTOR HINSHAW OF THE HINSHAW SCHOOL OF ELOCUTION, ORATORY AND MUSIC ^* ^* «5* The art of elocution and oratory is not, as many erroneously suppose, an artificial combination of tones, looks and gestures, but is the scientific portrayal of thoughts and emotions by means of vocal and physical expression. A knowledge of a few fundamental rules and principles which govern these methods of expression will equip the elocutionist or orator to appear to advantage before an audience. The meas- ure of success to be attained afterward will depend upon the speaker's capacity to think the thoughts and feel the emotions to be expressed. Naturalness, ease and grace are essential to success in public speaking. The easiest and most graceful position is to stand erect, not stiffly, but naturally, with one foot slightly in advance of the other and the weight of the body on the back foot. Then speak clearly and distinctly ; do not hurry your enunciation of words, but speak every syllable plainly, sounding all of the conso- nants at the end of the words, but sustain- ing only the vowels. While speaking, support the tone entirely by the breath ; do not use the muscles of the throat for this purpose. Speak from the diaphragm, in other words let the tones come from the chest and not from the throat, otherwise the voice will not carry, and the audience will hear only a confusion of gutteral sounds. The power which propels the breath is in the diaphragm and walls of the chest, therefore diaphragmatic breathing is always correct, and not abdom- inal breathing as many suppose. Speak with forceful and compact breath, and never breathe in the middle of the phrase, — but only between phrases — all pauses which occur during the continuance of a phrase must be made without renewing the breath in order to be effective. Correct phrasing can be acquired by al- ways speaking in phrases, and not by the live or semi-phrase. While it is essential to correct speaking that there should be no hurry, it is quite as important that the delivery should not be prolonged, but that each phrase and sen- tence should be spoken with regularity. Aside from the regular pauses indicted by punctuation, the speaker should always make such pauses as will strengthen the meaning of the words. A word can fre- quently be emphasized to a greater degree by a momentary pause than it can by any stress of voice. In another chapter will be found sug- gestions concerning gesture with the most 10 INTRODUCTION. important gestures illustrated by photo- graphs. To this I wish to add that although correct gesture is one of the greatest aids of expression, too many gestures will spoil the effect of what would otherwise be a most successful effort. Therefore, I advise the use of few gestures and only such as will tend to emphasize what is said. The rules for speaking apply with the same force and exactness to reading, for reading should be a perfect facsimile of speaking. In speaking, reading, or portraying a character in a dialogue or play speak with the face as well as the voice. Exercise the facial muscles and practice until you can control them, for the emotions of Anger, Love, Grief, Fear, Surprise, Hate, etc., should be mirrored in the face as well as conveyed by the voice. Every part of the body can be made to aid expression — the arms, the hands, the eyes, the legs, the feet, the head — there is use for them all, particularly in portraying characters in dialogues and plays, where there is wider range of expression than in a single recitation. But whether the character to be por* trayed, whether in recitation, dialogue or" play, the speaker should always speak in a voice natural to such a character, and for the time being imagine himself or her- self that particular individual. The selections in this volume are ad- mirably adapted to the widest range of elocutionary, oratorical and dramatic ex- pression, and embrace a wide variety of the best literature for use in public and private entertainments. The illustrations are very effective and will greatly aid the speaker to appear before the public to the best advantage, inasmuch as they portray actual scenes in a great variety of entertainments. The photo-pic- tures which accompany the lesson on Ges- ture show the expression of various emo- tions, through the attitude, the position of the arms and other parts of the body. The facial expression is excellent in all of them and they are a safe guide to any student of elocutionary art. M. V. H. Photo by Byron, N. Y. THE SWEETEST STORY EVER TOLD. A PLEA FOE, FORGIVENESS. CONTENTS Preface 7 Introduction 9 Contents 13 Index 14 List of Illustrations 17 Art of Elocution 21 National Readings and Declamations 31 Around the Evening Lamp 55 Patriotism and War. 69 Juvenile Gems for the Children 85 Choice Humor 115 Love and Sentiment 129 Told in Dialect 141 Modern Dialogues and Plays 153 Dramatic Readings and Recitations 221 Treasure Trove — World Favorites 241 Great Orations 255 Temperance Selections 265 Religious Readings 279 Effective Tableaux 287 Miscellaneous Selections 299 Little Nature Studies 351 Clever Monologues 359 Tiny Tots 371 Descriptive Recitations 379 Encores 413 Humorous and Pathetic 439, 461 13 INDEX Jt A Bird Story 352 A Birthday Address 33 A Boy's Wish 377 A Christmas Pantomime 287 A Dream 136 A Farmer Father's Philosophy 131 A Father's Advice to His Son.. . .' 317 A Gentleman. 316 A Good Country For All 41 A Grove of Historic Trees 180 A Home Where God Is 283 A Human Question Point 90 A Legend of Bregenz 407 A Little Boy's Essay on Kats 351 A Love Song 131 A Memorial Day Exercise So A Newsboy in Church 410 A New Year's Talk 46 A Pageant of the Months 153 A Peach Pie 179 A Picture 136 A Private Rehearsal 367 A Race for Life. 236 A Sermon In Flowers 354 A Small Boy's Advice 377 A Song for Your Birthday 103 A String of Bird's Eggs 356 A Tale of Whoa 428 A Tenement House Guest 4°5 A Tragedy of the Plains 402 A Woman's Rights Meeting 195 A Wonderful Discovery 118 About Firecrackers 86 About Ready to Show Off 106 Abraham Brought to Bay 58 Absalom 449 Address for Decoration Day 52 Ain't He Cute? 416 Always Consult Your Wife 311 An April Welcome 355 An Uncomplaining Man 327 Arathusa's Brother Jack 99 Arizony Ray 331 Aunty Doleful Cheers the Sick 364 Baby on the Train 113 Babykin, Boykin ; no Baby's Opinions 122 Backbiters Bitten 183 Barbara Frietchie 70 Barcarolle .369 Battle Hymn of the Republic 71 Be Careful What You Say 427 Be in Earnest 97 Beautiful Annabel Lee 252 Because She Loved Him 130 Bedtime 328 Ben Hur's Chariot Race 221 Bill and Joe 251 Bill Smith's Courtship 124 Birth of the New South 260 Blaine's Oration on Garfield 257 Bob-o'-link 353 Borrowing Trouble 420 Boys Wanted 112 Brevities 305 Burial Urxler Fire 69 Cabin Philosophy 340 Calling a Boy in the Morning 117 Canadian Camping Song 314 Casey at the Bat 306 Cassius Against Caesar 233 Cato On Immortality 459 Caudle's Shirt Buttons 115 Charity's Meal 442 Children's Alphabet 371 Chorus of the Flowers 335 Conkling's Eulogy of Grant 259 Consolation 151 Contented Jim 319 Contentment Better Than Riches 433 Couldn't Take the Hint 94 Courtship at the Huskin' Bee 145 Dare and Do 378 Death-bed of Benedict Arnold 459 Death of Little Jo 444 Death of Little Nell 280 De Bugle on De Hill 82 Decoration Day 41 De Cote-House In De Sky 147 Der Drummer 150 Dominion Day 315 Don't 91 "Don't Cheer, Boys; They're Dying" 81 Drink and Die 267 Drinking A Home 271 Easter 422 Easter Flowers 351 Easter Morning 377 Evangeline on the Prairie 133 Evening at the Farm 98 Exercise in Pronunciation 60 Farmer Ben's Theory 128 Faro Bill's Sermon 60 Fire In the Woods 224 Flag of the Rainbow 79 Forget Me Not 354 Forty Years Ago 248 Fox and Geese 218 Garfield's Tribute to His Fallen Comrades... 37 George Washington's Little Hatchet 87 Gettysburg, 1895 78 Going Home To-day 379 Good-night, Papa 268 Got Stripes Down His Legs 326 Grandfather's Story 72 Grandma's Knitting Story 397 Grandma's Wedding Day 398 Grant's Heritage 262 Greeting 107 Grind Your Axe In the Morning 421 Hans' Registered Letter 148 Have Only Good Words for All 104 Have You Planted a Tree 43 Henry V. at Harfleur 240 Her First Party 418 Hiawatha 293 Hiawatha's Wooing 59 His Best Prayer 331 INDEX. 15 Hobson and His Chosen Seven 81 Hobson's Choice 202 Hopper and Bee 357 How Did Dis Yere World Git Yere ? 141 How Ruby Played 229 How the Children Are Taught 105 How to Act Shadow Pictures 288 I Have Drank My Last Glass 270 If in If I Were a Flower 352 Immortality , 284 In Liquor 375 In Manila Bay 447 In Many Lands 376 It's My Nature 420 Jack and the Rabbit 93 Jest 'Fore Christmas 39 Jim t 336 Jim Bludso, of "The Prairie Belle" 151 Joe 337 John Anderson 246 Katrina's Visit to New York 143 Keep a Stiff Upper Lip 339 Kindness and Cruelty 178 Kit Carson's Ride 322 Kitty in School 100 Labor 49 Larrie O'Dee 416 Leave Old Glory As It Is 449 Lessons From Scripture Flowers 332 Like Other Men 313 Limpy Tim 440 Lincoln on Slavery 258 Lincoln's Address at Gettysburg 256 Little Boy Blue 91 Little Breeches 149 Little By Little 90 Little Dot 1 108 Little Orphant Annie 95 Little Red Riding Hood 168 Lorraine Lorree 313 Love's Railway 299 Love's Year 132 Lying In China 422 Mabel and Her Mother 96 Macbeth to the Dagger 228 Making Success 380 Mammy's Hushaby 150 Marching Song of the Rough Riders 82 Mark Twain as a Farmer 413 McKinley's Eulogy of Lincoln 255 Measuring the Baby 456 Memorial Day 38 Memory 427 Minnie Had a Little Lamb 376 Misled by the Moon 7 . . 143 Mistletoe 40 Money Musk 300 Morn on the Mountain 355 Mother and Poet 461 Mother Earth and the May Queen 197 Mother's Punkin' Pies 305 Motion Song With the Hands 375 Mr. Meek's Dinner 341 Mr. Pinchem's Clerk 177 Mr. Spoopendyke's Share 57 Mrs. Rabbit's School 89 My Bob Sled 430 My Dear True-Love 373 My First Recitation 392 My Little Sister 378 Nathan Hale 77 Nearer Home 282 Nobody's Child 455 O, Captain, My Captain 426 Old Bob's Life Insurance 117 Old Ironsides 71 Old Mart and Me 307 On the Skaguay Trail 314 On Time — A Farce 186 One, Two, Three 434 Only a Boy 90 Only a Lock of Soft Gold Hair 132 Only Nation With a Birthday 417 Opening Address no Othello's Apology 232 Our Heroic Dead 40 Our Lost Treasure 129 Over the River 252 Over the Telephone 344 Papa's Sum in Fractions 55 Partnership 373 Pat Dolan's Wedding 161 Pat's Excelsior 116 Patience Works Wonders 100 Pauline Pauloona 435 Pitcher or Jug 431 Platonic 134 Playing Lovers 129 Poor Adam 374 President Lincoln's Favorite Poem 241 Pretty Groups for Children 298 Quebec 80 Queer English Language 121 Recessional .• 283 Regulas to the Romans 457 Rhoomatiz or Suthin' Else 362 Rock Me to Sleep, Mother 246 Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 249 Roger and 1 250 Running a Race 374 Sample Rooms 276 Sand 312 Saved By a Song 274 Saving Mother 321 Seth Peters' Report of Daniel Webster's Speech 234 Seven Ages of Man 228 Shake Und Der Vidder 142 She Didn't Want Much 99 Simon Soggs' Thanksgiving 38 Sister Sallie Jones 424 Somebody 326 Sometime, Somewhere 281 Spoopendyke's Bicycle 67 Sylvy Hook on Clubs and Societies 359 Taking the Census 174 Temperance Speech 269 Thanksgiving in Many Lands 35 That's Our Baby 104 The Aged Prisoner 452 The American Boy 89 The Babies' Bedtime 372 The Bad Little Boys 85 The Bald-Headed Tyrant ' 86 The Best Sewing Machine 330 16 INDEX. The Bitterness of Childhood 375 The Blue and the Gray 35 The Bootblack 454 The Boy and the Boot 378 The Boy to the Schoolmaster 328 The Brakeman at Church 61 The Bridal Pledge 265 The Broomstick Drill 285 The Brownie's Christmas 43 The Builders 423 The Cat's Bath 107 The Character and Work of Gladstone 261 The Child and the Star 108 The Child Musician 458 The Christmas Ball 37 T The Christian Gladiator 388 The Church Choir 123 The Closing Year 349 The Coming Millions 338 The Countersign Was Mary 451 The Courtin' 429 The "Coward" in Battle 76 The Creeds of the Bells 279 The Dead Doll 113 The Delinquent Subscriber 401 The Dignity of Labor 42 The Doll Queen 92 The Doll's Funeral 92 The Doll's Lesson 85 The Drummer Boy's Burial 396 The Dying Boy 441 The Dying Soldier 391 The Eagle Screams 52 The Eggs That Never Hatch ,318 The Engine Driver's Story 238 The Exile of Erin 242 The Fading Leaf ■. 439 The Farmer's Life 96 The Five Little Chickens 104 The Flying Dutchman 308 The Foolish Little Maiden 415 The Fountain of Tears 130 The Girl Behind the Man Behind the Gun. . .140 The Good Old Time Religion 426 The Harvest Queen and Her Maidens 194 The Hole in His Pocket 87 The Hurricane 253 The Huskin' 139 The Hypochondriac 361 The Last of the Choir 386 The Little German Mother 384 The Little Hunchback 97 The Little Old Log House Where We Were Born 301 The Little Rid Hin 146 The Little Speaker 108 The Man That Married 317 The Man Who Knows It All 428 The Manger of Bethlehem 37 The Masquerade 365 The May Pole 290 The Meaning of the American Flag 41 The Men Who Lose 310 The Might of Love 404 The Minuet 292 The Mites In the Cheese 431 The Name of Kate 122 The Naughty Boy 112 The Old Arm Chair 249 The Old Farm Kitchen 31 The Old Oaken Bucket 247 That Old Red Sunbonnet 425 The Old Year and the New 46 The Rail Fence 417 The Regular Army Man 74 The Resettlement of Arcadia 63 The Rough Rider 299 The Ruler Iv the Town 147 The Seasons ic6 The Shipwreck 385 The Singer's Climax 446 The Small Boy's Troubles 103 The Soldier's Wife 448 The Song of the Gun 75 The Squirrel's Lesson 114 The Streams of Life .* 310 The Street of By-and-By in The Tables Turned 433 The Three Holidays 45 The Torpedo Boat 79 The True Gentleman 319 The True Story of Little Boy Blue 109 The Two Glasses 272 The Two Great Flags 76 The Unhappy Home 166 The Usual Way 133 The Village Blacksmith 245 The Volunteer Organist 409 The Volunteer's Uniform 346 The Worn Wedding Ring 135 The Wreck of the Hesperus 387 The Young Seamstress 419 Their Preferences 377 There Is No Death 282 There Is No Unbelief 284 They All Sang Annie Laurie 325 They've Stopped Selling Liquor in Town. .. .273 Three for the Tots 376 Through Grandfather's Spectacles 334 To a Mouse In a Trap 302 Too Late for the Train 303 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp \ .275 Trekking 80 Two Women's Lives 327 Valedictory 94 Valedictories 53 Vat I Call Him 433 Watching Baby As It Sleeps 114 Watching the New Year In 36 Water 432 Washington's Birthday 453 What About the Hired Man 333 What Little Things Can Do 105 When I Built the Cabin 56 When Mamma Cleans House 93 When Pa Begins to Shave 103 When School Days Are Ended 215 When the Spanish War Broke Out 75 Where He Did It 374 Which Loved Her Best 418 Whistling in Heaven 237 Why Betty Didn't Laugh 420 Why He Wouldn't Sell the Farm 394 Why She Didn't Stay in the Poorhouse 320 Willie's Signal for Jesus 383 Yawcob Strauss , 152 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Her Father's Consent Frontispiece The Sweetest Story Ever Told " A Plea for Forgiveness * 2 Dignity 2I Ridicule 2I Awkward Imitation 22 Discernment 22 Gracefulness 2 3 The Awkward Salute 2 3 Surprise 2 4 Coquetry 2 4 Cheerfulness 25 Sauciness 2 S Fearlessness 2 6 Fear / 2 6 Anxiety 2 7 Reproach 2 7 Innocent Coyness 2 8 Wonderment 2& The Ideal Poise 29 The Soldier's Farewell 30 Telling Mother 47 Love's Doubts and Fears 48 From the Absent One 65 The Unseen Threat 66 Barbara Frietchie 83 Grandfather's Story 84 Wide Awake 101 A Day Dream 101 The Donkey Express 102 "I Wonder If It's a Valentine?" ...119 The Telltale Letter 120 The Proposal 137 "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose !" 138 The Maypole Dance 155 Children's Drill 156 A Struggle For Life 189 A Dramatic Scene From Darkest Africa 190 A Token of Love 207 The Duet , 208 "I Am Innocent; Before Heaven I Declare It!" 225 A Dark Plot 226 Sharing A Sorrow 243 The Pledge of Love and Honor 244 The Unhappy Home 277 Fairer Than the Lily 278 Enraptured 278 Our Little Artist (Plate I) 295 Our Little Artist (Plate II) 296 The Letter to Papa (Plate I) 329 The Letter to Papa (Plate II) 330 "When Grandma Danced the Minuet" 347 "Guard!" 348 The First Party 381 The Christmas Ball 382 "Don't Go. For My Sake, Don't Go" 399 The Listeners 400 17 Exercises for tbe 3Sob\> t5* (5* <5* 1. With body erect and hands at sides, move the head to right and left, and for- ward and backward ; cultivates the muscles of the neck. 2. With hands on the hips, move the upper part of the body to right and left, and forward and backward ; this cultivates the muscles of the chest and back. 3. Close the hands, extend the arms in front, and bring the hands together behind the back ; repeat at least twenty times. 4. Stand erect, with arms straight at the sides; move the arms outward from the sides, and elevate them, bringing the hands above the head; repeat at least twenty times. 5. Hold the right arm out horizontally, palm of hand upward ; double the left arm, the tips of the fingers resting on the shoul- der; then stretch out the left arm, at the same time doubling the right arm and placing the tips of the fingers on the right shoulder ; repeat, and then make the move- ments with both arms simultaneously. 6. Holding the arms straight, swing them with a rotary motion, thrusting them forward als they are elevated and back- ■ ward as they are lowered, bringing them to the sides, and then repeat. 7. Lift the hands from the sides to the shoulders, then raise the arms at full length above the head, and also extend them hori- zontally, dropping them at the sides; re- peat. 8. Standing erect, with the hands on the hips, lower the body, bending the knees, the weight resting on the toes, and rise; repeat at least fifteen times, but not too fast. 9. Placing the hands on the hips, right leg forward and left leg slightly bent; thrust the body forward, thus straighten- ing the left leg and bending the right ; then placing the left leg forward, repeat move- ments. 10. With the body bent forward, closed hands between the knees, raise the body and elevate the hands above the head, tak- ing care to keep the arms straight; repeat. 11. Place the hands on the front side of the hips, bend the body forward, and then rise to an erect position, at the same time throwing the head backward; repeat. 12. Steady yourself with one hand on a chair; place the other hand on the hip and swing the leg forward across the other ; then backward; repeat and then swing the other leg in like manner. 13. Steady yourself with one hand on a chair, place the other hand on the hip, and swing the leg forward and backward ; re- peat, and then swing the other leg in like manner. 14. Stretch the body forward, placing the hands on the bottom of a chair; then straighten the arms and raise the body. This must not be repeated so many times as to render the muscles sore and stiff. 15. Extend the arms forward at full length, palms downward ; then move the hands backward and forward as far as pos- sible ; this renders the fingers and muscles of the wrist pliant. 16. Stand erect with hands on the hips and light weight on the head ; then rise on the toes and fall. 17. Extend the arms slightly from the sides, close the hands and then rotate them ; this cultivates the muscles of the arms. 18 OTbe Hrt of Elocution How to Read and Recite Correctly with Rules for the Cultivation of the Voice ^* 6^* (5* ELOCUTION is the art of reading and speaking correctly. Its rules relate chiefly to the management of the voice in the expression of thought and emotion. The vocal qualifications, necessary to enable the reader or speaker to bring out the sense and sentiment of discourse in a pleasing and impressive manner, are: First, a clear, full, resonant voice. Second, a perfectly distinct, and correct articulation. Third, such a control of the voice, as to be able to vary its modulations at pleasure. Ignorance of the right way of using the lungs and the larynx, in speaking, reading, singing, has caused more cases of bronchi- tis and pulmonary consumption among stu- dents, vocalists, clergymen and other public speakers, than all other causes combined. The right use of the breathing apparatus, in connection with the exercise of the voice, ought, therefore, to be the first sub- ject to which the attention of the student of Elocution is called. Before the pupil is permitted to read a sentence, he must be taught, not by precept, but by example, how to manage the breath while exercising the voice. The person thus trained will speak, read or sing, in a clear, full, natural tone, and will grow up, in a great measure, free from the worst faults and defects in Elocution. BREATHING EXERCISE. Stand or sit erect ; keep the head up and the chest expanded; throw the shoulders well back; place the hands upon the hips, with the fingers pressing upon the abdo- men, and the thumbs extending backward ; inhale the breath slowly, until the lungs are fully inflated, retaining the breath for a few moments, then breathing it out as slowly as it was taken in. Let the chest rise and fall freely at every inspiration, and take care not to make the slightest aspirate sound, in taking or giving out the breath. Continue to take in and throw out the breath with increasing rapidity, until you can instantly inflate, and, as suddenly, empty the lungs. Repeat this exercise sev- eral times a day, and continue it as long as it is unattended with dizziness or other un- pleasant feelings. EXPRESSION". Expression includes the rules and exer- cise which relate to the management of the voice, the look, gesture and action, in the expression, thought, sentiment and passion. Exercises in articulation should be prac- ticed until a good control of the voice has been obtained. A good articulation consists in giving to each element in a syllable its due propor- tion of sound and correct expression, so that the ear can readily distinguish each word, and every syllable that is uttered. A full pure tone of voice, and a good articulation, constitute the basis of every other excellence in reading and oratory. TESTING THE VOICE. To obtain a full, deep, rich tone, the stu- dent must resort to every conceivable ex- pedient for modifying the voice. When- 19 20 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. ever he utters a sound that is very pleasing to the ear, or that impresses his mind as being very striking or significant, he should repeat it, until he can command it without difficulty at his pleasure. The most significant, impressive and pleasing tones of the voice can not be taught, or even described; the pupil, if he ever learns them, must find them out for himself, by careful, persevering practice. In short, he must try every plan, and resort to every appliance that he can command, in his endeavors to perfect himself in the art of reading and speaking with ease, ele- gance and impressive effect. STYLES OF ELOCUTION. One of the most important matters to be considered before engaging in a reading or declamatory exercise, is the style or man- ner in which the piece should be given. In Argument, the style must be char- acterized by directness and earnestness. In Description, the speaker must proceed in precisely the same manner that he would if he were actually describing the thing spoken of. In Narration, he must proceed as if nar- rating some part of his own experience. In Persuasion, he must use those tones, looks and gestures only, which he knows are appropriate to persuasion. In Exhortation, he must appeal, beseech and implore, as the case may require. In pieces of a mixed character, he must vary the style to suit the sentiment and character of the passage. When the reader understands the prin- ciples and rules which have been discussed, sufficiently well to be able to give a cor- rect, practical exemplification of each of them, he ought to select passages for him- self, suitable as exercises in cadence, pause, parenthesis, antithesis, climax, amplifica- tion, repetition and transition; also in pitch, force, stress, movement, quantity, in personation, in style, and in every rule in modulation and expression. He must especially practice in every kind of stress, and with every degree of force, from the most subdued whisper to the shout of enthusiastic exultation. GENERAL RULES FOR THE CULTIVA- TION OF THE VOICE. The only basis upon which a full, firm, pure tone of voice can be formed, is deep and copious breathing. To do this the chest must be well thrown out, the head erect, and the throat and mouth opened so wide that the voice will meet with no ob- struction in its course. The great object in commencing any sys- tematic course of vocal culture, ought to be to deepen and strengthen the voice. To accomplish this, the student must, in his vocal exercises, stretch the muscles about the throat and the root of the tongue, and those that regulate the action of the lower jaw, so as to form the voice lower down in the throat than he is in the habit of doing. COMPASS OF THE VOICE. To increase the compass of the voice, de- claim short passages which require intense force on a high pitch. The pupil will dis- cover, after the voice has been thus taxed to its highest capabilities, that it will per- form its office with surprisingly greater facility and ease on the natural key, and in a lower pitch than he could reach be- fore. The most contracted and superficial voice may soon be made strong and flexible by this kind of exercise ; and it cannot be im- proved in any other way. If your voice is feeble, practice singing, shouting and de- . claiming with the utmost force, at the top of the voice, whenever opportunity pre- sents itself, and it will soon acquire suffi- cient strength and resonance. THE Aj (Sestures Gesture, to be appropriate and impres- sive, must be natural. When gesture has its origin in the mere caprice of the speaker, it will appear artificial and out of place. The speaker who is unable to manage his Dignity voice, is never easy and graceful in his gestures. If the voice is exercised on too high a key, or in a harsh, aspirated, guttural, or impure tone of any kind, the attitude will be stiff and awkward, and the gestures broken, irregular and difficult. But the speaker who has a good command of his voice, if he understands his subject, and is self-possessed, will speak with ease ; and his gesticulation, if not always graceful, will be appropriate and expressive. Before the pupil can be easy and natural in his action and gesticulation, he must have perfect control of his voice. Any at- tempt, therefore, which he may give to the cultivation of gesture and action, before he has obtained a good control of his voice, will be labor spent in vain. Stand or sit erect, in an easy and grace- ful position, and hold the book in the left hand on a level with the face. Look from your book to the audience, as often and as long at a time as you can, without missing the place. Make but few gestures, and then only when you are looking at your audi- ence. To gesticulate while your eye is resting upon the book is not only inappro- priate, but ridiculous. In didactic or unimpassioned discourse, gesticulation is not necessary, farther than occasionally to slightly change the position and movement of the hands, or to move the head and body sufficiently to look at ■ if j^bk^^' 58 1 "^Sr '1^^^^^^^ "* ^ ij "^B Ridicule 22 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. your audience from right to left. In dis- course of this character the gestures and movements should be executed slowly, and as gracefully as possible. In stating un- important particulars, or speaking about matters which require a quiet, narrative style, the right arm and hand should be chiefly used. There are three positions in which the hand and arm may rest, and, by slowly changing from one to the other of these positions, stiffness and rigidity in the gest- ures of the arm will be avoided. First : Let the arm hang naturally by the side. Second : Let the hand rest upon the hip, the elbow thrown well backward. Awkward Imitation Discernment Third : Let it rest between the buttons of your vest, on your bosom. In all these positions the muscles of the arm and hand must be relaxed, so that the attitude may be, at once, easy and natural. Descriptive gestures are those used in pointing out or describing objects. The pupil will soon acquire skill in the use of these, by practicing in accordance with the following instructions : ■ Pronounce the names of a few objects near you, and, as you mention the name of THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 23 Gracefulness each, extend the arm and point the fore- finger or the open hand, in the direction of the object, completing the gesture the mo- ment you utter the accented syllable of the name of the word : thus, i. The gentleman on my right, the lady on my left, the vacant chair before me, the books, maps and pictures all around me. 2. High, Low, Left, Right : on pro- nouncing the word HIGH, raise the hand gracefully above the head ; on LOW, let it fall slowly and gracefully ; LEFT, let the arm and hand be extended to the left; on the word RIGHT, to the right. 3. Before commencing the gesture al- ways let the eye glance in the direction of the object, concerning which you are about to speak. 4. Do not move the arm and hand to the intended position by the shortest course, but describe a waving line, and let the motion be rather slow, until the position is almost reached, then let the hand move quickly to its place, in completing the gesture. The Awkward Salute 24 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. Surprise When the student has obtained a toler- able command over his arms, hands and lower limbs, let him select for himself short passages suitable as exercises in descriptive gesture and action. i. Their swords flashed in front, While their plumes waved behind. 2. His throne is on the mountain top, His fields the boundless air, And hoary hills, that proudly prop The skies, his dwelling are. 3. Mountains above, earth's, ocean's plain below. 4. Death in the front, destruction in the rear. 5. See through this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. The hanging down of the head denotes shame or grief. The holding of it up, pride or courage. To nod forward implies assent. To toss the head back, dissent. The inclination of the head implies diffi- dence or languor. The head is averted, in dislike or horror. It leans forward, in attention. Coquetry THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 25 THE EYES. The eyes are raised in prayer. They weep, in sorrow. They burn, in anger. They are downcast or averted, in shame or grief. They are cast on vacancy, in thought. They are cast in various directions, in doubt and anxiety. THE ABMS. The placing of the hand on the head, indicates pain and distress. Cheerfulness Sauciness On the eyes, shame or sorrow. On the hips, an injunction of silence. On the breast, an appeal to conscience. The hand is waved or flourished, in joy or contempt. Both hands are held supine, or they are applied, or clasped in prayer. Both are held prone, in blessing. They are clasped, or wrung in affliction. They are held forward, and received, in friendship. THE BODY. The body held erect, indicates steadi- ness and courage. 26 Til E ART OF ELOCUTION. Fearlessness Thrown back, pride. Stooping forward, condescension or com- passion. Bending, reverence or respect. Prostration, the utmost humility or abasement. THE LOWER LIMBS. The firm position of the lower limbs, sig- nifies courage or obstinacy. Bended knees indicate timidity, or weak- ness. The lower limbs advance, in desire or courage. They retire, in aversion or fear. Start, in terror. Stamp, in authority or anger. Kneel, in submission or prayer. These are a few of the simple gestures which may be termed significant. Fear THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 27 VOCAL EXERCISE PREPARATORY TO READING OR SPEAKING IN PUBLIC. A beneficial influence is exerted on the voice, by the most vigorous and sustained exercises upon the elementary sounds, and by reading and declaiming with the utmost force consistent with purity of tone, imme- diately before retiring for the night. The organs of speech are thus rendered flexible for exercise on the succeeding day. Even an interval of only an hour or two, between the preliminary exercise and the subsequent effort, will, in most cases, afford the organs of speech time to rest, and resume their natural state. Reproach The best course that can be pursued to prepare the voice for speaking within a short time, is to repeat all the elementary sounds several times in succession; then declaim a few select passages; first, with ordinary force, in the middle pitch; then, progressively elevate the pitch and increase the force and the rate of utterance ; lastly, go over them two or three times in the deepest and lowest tone you can reach. 28 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. Innocent Coyness HOW TO ACQUIRE A CONTROL OF THE VOICE IN EITHER HIGH OR LOW KEY. By exercising the voice with great force, for a short time in a low key — paradoxical as it may seem — you will immediately afterward be able to speak with much greater ease upon a high key ; and by ex- ercising the voice with great force in a very high pitch, you will be able within a short time afterward, to read or speak, with greater ease than before, on a low or very low pitch. NATURAL PITCH OF VOICE. "Every person has some pitch of voice in which he converses, sings and speaks with greater effect and facility than in any other. It should be an object of constant solicitude, with every person who desires to become a good speaker or reader, to find what is the natural pitch of his voice. Wonderment THE IDEAL POISE. THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL. National Readings and Declamations s. Selections suitable for New Year's, Lincoln's Birthday, Washington's Birthday, Easter, Arbor Day, Decoration Day, Flag Day, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas. — ^ -Jk.^ — ^ — — — — ^^ — — ] THE OLD FARM KITCHEN. IN an old New England kitchen, where a warm wood fire burned bright, Sat honest Farmer Ketcham and his wife one winter night. The wind without was wailing, with a wild and woeful sound, And the fleecy folds of the drifting snow lay deep upon the ground; But what cared Farmer Ketcham for the tumult out of doors, For he had foddered the cattle and done the other chores. And snug in the chimney-corner in his easy-chair he sat, Silently smoking his old clay pipe and pooring the purring cat; While plying her knitting-needles, his wife rocked to and fro, Humming a hymn and dreaming a dream of the long ago. Over the old-time fire-place a rusty musket hung, And a score of strings of apples from the smoky ceiling swung. While, back in the dingy corner, the tall clock ticked away, And looked like the sagging farmhouse, fast falling to decay. The knitting fell from the woman's hands, the old man turned about, He took the pipe from his mouth and slowly knocked the ashes out; And, after thinking a moment, he said, with a solemn air — " 'Tis Christmas Eve, but the stockin's don't hang by the chimbley there." The woman sighed, and then replied, in a sad and faltering tone, "The years hev come and the years hev gone, and we are ag'in alone, An', I hev jest been thinkin' o' a Christ- mas long ago, When the winders were frosted over an' the ground wus white with snow; When we sat in the chimbley-corner, by the firelight's cheerful gleam, When our lives were full o' promise, an' the futur' but a dream, When all the rest o' our folks hed gone away to bed, An' we sat an' looked an' I listened to the whispered words you said, Till home from Benson's store came rollickin' brother John, An' a peekin' thro' the winder, saw what wus agoin' on; Then how the neighbors tattled an' talked all over town, Till you an' I were married an' quietly settled down. "While a rummagin' thro' the cobwebs in the garret t'other day, I found a pile o' broken toys in a corner stowed away; An' a lot o' leetle worn out boots a layin' in a heap, Ez they used to lay on the kitchen floor 31 32 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. when the boys hed gone to sleep. I looked at the worn-out trundle-bed, an' the cradle long laid by, An' a leanin' ag'in the chimbley there, I couldn't help but cry — Fur the faces o' my children came back to me once more, An' I almost heard the patter o' their feet upon the floor. I tho't o' the'r happy voices an' the leetle prayers they said, Ez they used to gather round me when 'twas time to go to bed. "Of all the earthly treasures we prize in this world below, The ones we love the fondest are the first to fade and go. Of all the beautiful children that came to our fireside, The one we loved most dearly wus our leetle girl that died. How calm in her leetle coffin she looked in her last repose, Ez sweet ez the fairest lily, ez pure ez a tuberose. An' I can well remember the sadness o' the day, When my heart wus well nigh broken ez they carried her away. "The oldest o' our children wus a proud and han'some boy, He wus his father's fondest hope an' his mother's pride an' joy, I used to play with his chubby hands an' kiss his leetle feet, An' wonder ef ever a babe wus born more beautiful an' sweet; An' many a night, by candle light, when he was snug in bed, I've patched his leetle clo's with weary hands an' an achin' head. We sent him away to college; he did un- commonly well, Till he went to live in the city, an' married a city belle — O' all our earthly trials; o' all our worldly care; The cold neglect o' a thankless child is the hardest o' all to bear. His wife 'is a woman with only high notions in her head; She couldn't well knit a stockin', nor bake a loaf of bread. 'She plays on the grand pianner, nor works with her lily hands, An' she talks in a foreign lingo that no one understands; Whenever I go to see her, I tell you it makes me smile To see how it hurts her feelin's to look at my country style. "The youngest o' our livin' boys I never could understand; He didn't take to le'rnin' no more'n a fish to land, He wus wayward an' hard to govern, not altogether bad, He wus firm, an' proud, an' set in his ways, but not a vicious lad. An' somehow we couldn't keep him quite under our control, But I know that he had an honest heart, an' a true an' noble soul, An' a mother's prayers will go with him wherever he may be ; God keep him safe an' bring him home in His good time to me. "I miss our children's voices, fur all hev gone away — One hez gone to the better land, an' the rest hev gone astray. I wonder ef up in Heaven, where all is bright an' fair, Ef we will meet our children an' they will love us there?" NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 33 There was a rap at the outside door, the old folks gave a start; The woman sprang from her rocking-chair with a flutter at her heart; The door swung widely open and banged against the wall, And into the farmhouse kitchen strode a stranger dark and tall. The mother looked at his bearded face a moment in surprise; She saw a quiver about his mouth and a glad look in his eyes; She lifted up her hands to Heaven, she uttered a cry of joy, And bowed her white head lovingly on the breast of her wayward boy. The red flame glowed upon the hearth, the beech logs cracked and steamed; And on the floor and time-worn walls the firelight glowed and gleamed ; That old New England kitchen had never been more bright Than it was to Farmer Ketcham and his wife that winter night. — From "Original Recitations," by Eugene I. Hall. By special permission of the Author. t&& *2fr tori A BIRTHDAY ADDRESS. (Suitable for recitation GENTLEMEN :— Since nobody wishes to die everybody must be glad he was born. It is a good thing to have a birthday, but its pleasure is increased when your friends in this substantial way indi- cate their joy that you came into the world. Artemus Ward said: "It would have been ten dollars in the pocket of Jefferson Davis if he had never been born." But the only limitation upon natal festivities is the necessity of making a speech. The difficulty increases when the occasion has called together such a good company. It is ah indisputable fact that the whole people of the United States were never so powerful, or so prosperous, or collectively and individually possessed so much in op- portunity, in liberty, in education, in em- ployment, in wages, in men who from nothing have become powers in the com- munity, and boys who from poverty have secured education and attained compe- tence, as to-day. A young man who can pay a dollar for a dinner and do no in- justice to his family has started success- at any birthday party.) fully in his career. There is scarcely one now present who cannot remember the dif- ficulty, the anxieties and the work of se- curing his first surplus dollar. Everyone of you from that dollar has, because of American conditions, and a true concep- tion of American liberty, become a leader in the pulpit, at the bar, in medicine, in journalism, in art, in the management of industries, in the work of firms and cor- porations and in business of every kind. This assemblage — and its like can be gath- ered in every state, county, city and vil- lage in our country — illustrates that true spirit of commercialism which inspires am- bition and makes a career; that true de- velopment of American manhood which is ever striving for something better in its material conditions, which has time for the work of the church, for politics, for the public service, for the improvement of the home and the pleasures of and for the fam- ily. As we advance in life we appreciate more day by day the value of time. 34 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. With every revolution' of the earth there is less left. We must economize it. We who are active in affairs and must meet many people find out who are the enemies and who the friends of our time. The scatter-brain dissipates and the sure-footed man conserves it. The late Leopold Morse, while a member of Congress, was entertained at a big house on Fifth avenue. A guest said: "Delighted to see you, Morse. Where are you stopping?" Morse replied: "At the St. Cloud Hotel." His friend said: "For Heaven's sake, Morse, don't do that again; that's the San Clou." The next day Morse went into his bank- er's, who said: "Glad to see you, Morse; where are you stopping?" Morse said, "At the San Clou." The banker said: "Come off your perch. That may do in Boston, but here it's plain English, St. Cloud." Morse, much distressed, was stopped on W r all street soon after by an acquaintance, who said: "Morse, I want to come and see you this evening; where are you stopping?" Morse answered: "Hanged if I know." Morse should have been sure of himself and stuck to it. The man who ought to be killed after the first half hour is the one who, having made an engagement, uses thirty minutes in developing a matter in which he knows you are interested and then pro- ceeds, having gained, as he thinks, your confidence, to exploit the scheme for which he came. I always turn that man down. The sure-footed man is a benefactor. In the pulpit he gives your something to take home to think about and talk over at the Sunday dinner; at the bar he makes the jury in a short time think his way and the judge is influenced by his directness and lucidity. He states his business proposition to you so quickly and so clearly that you know instantly whether you can afford to embark in it or not. He dis- misses his board of directors with a ten- minute statement which reveals to them the exact condition and true prospects of the company. He tells a story so that the point punctures and delights you without giving you the horrors of knowing it long before he is through. You sit beside him if you can at dinner, you select him for your companion in travel, you take him into your business if he is free and you make him your executor in your will. My friends, we pass this way but once. We cannot retrace our steps to any pre- ceding milestone. Every time the clock strikes, it is both the announcement of the hour upon which we are entering and the knell of the one which is gone. Each night memory balances the books and we know before we sleep whether the result is on the right or the wrong side of our account. In some measure we can meet the injunc- tion of the poet who said: "Think that day lost whose low descend- ing sun, Views from thy hand no noble action done." There is no cant in this sentiment. The noble action does not mean necessarily anything in the realms of romance or hero- ism. It may be the merest commonplace in business or association, a word of sym- pathy, kindness or encouragement, a little help sorely needed and not felt by the giver, but if it has shed one beam of bright- ness into the life of another the dividend is earned. The older we grow the more we realize that life is worth the living. We think too little of the fun there is in it. We are too parsimonious of laughter. We do not appreciate as we ought the man or the woman who can make us forget while we are amused. We cannot help the past and that man is a fool who lives in it. To-day is a better day than yesterday, but to-mor- NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 35 row is the land of promise. Let us walk through our pathways be they rugged or smooth, believing in Browning's beautiful lines: The earth is crammed with Heaven, And every common bush afire with God, But only he who sees takes off his shoes. — Chauncey M. Depew. i3& c5* «5* THANKSGIVING IN MANY LANDS. THERE'S Thanksgiving turkey for you, little boy, But 'round the North Pole, where it's quiet, They're dining to-day on a slice of roast whale With fricasseed snowballs and polar bear's tail, And the milk is ice cream when it reaches the pail, For the cows have pistache in their diet. •Just listen to that, little Johnny! There's a bonny plum pudding for you, little boy, But the little boys 'round the equator Have cocoanut stew and a salad of dates, And an orange a minute as big as their pates, And a little brown monkey to hand round the plates, And bananas are used for potater! Just think about that, little Johnny! There's mince pie and doughnuts for you, little boy, But abroad all the children are living On wonderful dishes, I couldn't say what, So queer and so spicy, so cold and so hot! But the best thing of all doesn't fall to their lot— For they haven't got any Thanksgiving! You wouldn't like that, little Johnny! — luliet Wilbor Tompkins. Jr* *2& c5* THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. (The custom of decorating the graves, both of Federal and Confederate soldiers on Decora- tion Day, makes this recitation peculiarly appropriate for Decoration Day exercises.) BY the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep in the ranks of the dead: — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet: — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe: — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue, 36 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. Under the lilies, the Gray. So, with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all:- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain: — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue, Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won: — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. ^* t2& *&* WATCHING THE NEW YEAR IN GOOD old days — dear old days When my heart beat high and bold— When the things of earth seemed full of mirth And the future a haze of gold! Oh, merry was I that winter night, And gleeful our little one's din, And tender the grace of my darling's face As we watched the New Year in. But a voice — a spectre's that mocked at love — Came out of the yonder hall; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" 'twas the solemn clock That ruefully croaked to all. Yet what knew we of the griefs to be In the year we longed to greet? Love — love was the theme of the sweet, sweet dream I fancied might never fleet! But the spectre stood in that yonder gloom, And these were the words it spake: "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — and they seemed to mock A heart about to break. 'Tis New Year's eve, and again I watch In the old familiar place, And I'm thinking again of that old time when I looked on a dear one's face. Never a little one hugs my knee, And I hear no gleeful shout — I am sitting alone by the old hearth-stone, Watching the old year out. But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom That solemnly calls to me; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — for so the clock Tells of a life to be; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — 'tis so the clock Tells of eternity. — Eugene Field. NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 37 GARFIELD'S TRIBUTE TO HIS FALLEN COMRADES. IF silence is ever golden, it must be here, beside the graves of fifteen thousand men, whose lives were more significant than speech, and whose death was a poem, the music of which can never be sung. With words we make promises, plight faith, praise virtue. Promises may not be kept, plighted faith may be broken, and vaunted virtue be only the cunning mark of vice. We do not know one promise these men made, one pledge they gave, one word they spoke; but we do know they summed up and perfected by one supreme act the highest virtue of men and citizens. For love of country they accepted death, and thus resolved all doubts and made im- mortal their patriotism and their virtue. For the noblest man that lives there still remains a conflict. He must still with- stand the assaults of time and fortune; must still be assailed with temptations be- fore which lofty natures have fallen. But with these, the conflict ended, the victory was won, when death stamped on them the great seal of heroic character, and closed a record which years can never blot. At the beginning of the Christian era an imperial circus stood on the summit of what is now known as the Vatican Mount in Rome. There gladiator slaves died for the sport of Rome, and wild beasts fought with wilder men. In that arena, a Gali- lean fisherman gave up his life, a sacrifice for his faith. No human life was ever so nobly avenged. On that spot was reared the proudest Christian temple ever built by human hands. As the traveler descends the Apennines, he sees the dome of St. Pe- ter's rising above the desolate Campagna, and the dead city, long before the seven hills and ruined palaces appear to his view. The fame of the dead fisherman has out- lived the glory of the Eternal City. Seen from the western slope of our Capitol, this spot is not unlike the Vatican Mount. A few years ago the soil beneath our feet was watered with the tears of slaves. Yonder proud Capitol awakened no pride, inspired no hope. The face of the goddess was turned toward the sea, and not toward them. But thanks be to God, this arena of slavery is a scene of violence no longer! This will be forever the sacred mountain of our Capitol. Here is our temple. Its pavement is the sepulcher of heroic hearts; its dome, the bending heaven; its altar candles, the watching stars. — James A. Garfield. t£rt t3& *2& THE MANGER OF BETHLEHEM. THERE'S a song in the air! There's a star in the sky! There's a mother's deep prayer " And a baby's low cry! And the star rains its fire while the Beau- tiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a King. There's a tumult of joy O'er the wonderful birth, For the virgin's sweet boy Is the Lord of the earth, Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beau- tiful sing, For the manger of BethleliPtn cradles a King! 38 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. In the light of that star Lie the ages impearled; And that song from afar Has swept over the world. Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing, In the homes of the nations that Jesus is King! We rejoice in the light, And we echo the song That comes down through the night From the heavenly throng. Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring, And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King. ^w ^w t5* MEMORIAL DAY. THE cycling years again have brought To us, Memorial Day; The gallant men who bravely fought For us are old and gray. Their numbers, year by year, grow less, And more are laid away, Where we with flowers their graves may dress, On each Memorial Day. Then bring the blossoms fair and sweet, To deck each grass-grown bed, While reverently we all repeat: "Here lie our honored dead, Whose memory we will all revere Till time shall pass away, And sacred keep with every year A new Memorial Day." — Emma Shaw. (£• (5* (5* SIMON SOGG'S THANKSGIVING. LET Earth give thanks," the deacon said, And then the proclamation read. "Give thanks fer what an' what about?" Asked Simon Soggs when church was out. "Give thanks fer what? I don't see why; The rust got in an' spiled my rye, And hay wan't half a crop, and corn All wilted down and looked forlorn. The bugs jest gobbled my pertaters, The what-you-call-em lineaters, And gracious! when you come to wheat, There's more than all the world can eat; Onless a war should interfere, Crops won't bring half a price this year; I'll hev to give 'em away, I reckon!" "Good for the poor!" exclaimed the deacon. "Give thanks fer what?" asked Simon Soggs. "Fer th' freshet carryin' off my logs? Fer Dobbin goin' blind? Fer five Uv my best cows, that was alive Afore the smashin' railroad come And made it awful troublesome? Fer that hay stack the lightnin' struck And burnt to ashes? — thund'rin luck! For ten dead sheep?" sighed Simon Soggs. The Deacon said, "You've got yer hogs!" "Give thanks? and Jane and baby sick? I e'enmost wonder if ole Nick Ain't runnin' things!" The deacon said, "Simon! yer people might be dead!" NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 39 "Give thanks!" said Simon Soggs again. "Jest look at what a fix we're in! The country's rushin' to the dogs At race horse speed!" said Simon Soggs. "Rotten all through — in every State, — Why, ef we don't repudiate, We'll hev to build, fer big and small, A poor-house that'll hold us all. All round the crooked whisky still Is runnin' like the Devil's mill; Give thanks? How mad it makes me feel, To think how office-holders steal! The taxes paid by you and me Is four times bigger'n they should be; The Fed'ral Gov'ment's all askew, The ballot's sech a mockery, too! Some votes too little, some too much, Some not at all — it beats the Dutch! And now no man knows what to do, Or how is how, or who is who. Deacon! corruption's sure to kill! This 'glorious Union' never will, I'll bet a continental cent, Elect another President! Give thanks fer what, I'd like to know?" The deacon answered, sad and low, "Simon! It fills me with surprise, Ye don't see where yer duty lies; Kneel right straight down, in all the muss, And thank God that it ain't no wuss!" — W. A. Cr off nt. <2r* t&& t5* JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS. (Recitation for a boy from seven to ten.) FATHER calls me William, sister calls me Will, Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill. Mighty glad I ain't a girl — ruther be a boy, Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy! Love to chawnk green apples an' go swim- min' in the lake — Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache! 'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me, But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at! Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide, 'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride, But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross, He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss, An' then I Laff an' holler: "O, ye never teched me!" But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! Gran'ma says she hopes that when I get to be a man, I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother Dan, As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's He, Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile! But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd know 40 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. That Buff'lo Bill an' cowboys is good enough for me! Excep' just 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be! And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still, His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?" The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum! But I am so perlite an' tend so earnestly to biz, That mother says to father: "How im- proved our Willie is!" But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me When, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be! For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' toys, Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys; So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's, An' don't bust out your pantaloons, and don't wear out your shoes ; Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men, An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again; But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to see upon the tree, Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be! — Eugene Field. KC& K&fr tcfr OUR HEROIC DEAD. O SUN, subdue your splendor; O birds, forget your mirth; O robe of mist so tender, Enshroud a lifeless earth. O sea renew your mourning; O winds, a requiem play; O heart, with grief's intoning, December wrest from May. A nation weeps And vigil keeps O'er her heroic dead. O sun, unsheath your lances; Fling out your rainbow arch; O music that entrances, Sound a triumphal march. O flag by heaven's portals Unfurl your gleaming bars; For there earth's dear immortals Forever placed your stars. A nation's praise Its tribute pays To her heroic dead. ^* ^S t£& MISTLETOE. WHEN on the chandelier I saw The mistletoe and holly, The one conclusion I could draw Led me straight on to folly. For Marjory, with cheeks aglow And lips, each one a berry, Was smiling at the mistletoe A smile peculiar, very. I watched them both, and when above Her head the green leaves fluttered, I caught and kissed the girl I love And something tender uttered. NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 41 She blushed, of course; the deed was done Quoth she: "Since kissing's pleasant, I'll give you just another one, To be your Christmas present." Good lovers all, take note of this, The Christmas prank of Cupid. A spray of mistletoe amiss Were nothing short of stupid. t5* *5* <5* DECORATION DAY. AGAIN with reverent hands we strew Our heroes' graves with flowers of spring; How swift doth time's increasing flow, These hallowed days around us bring! And as we stand in silence near Their sacred dust, a gift we lay Upon each lowly altar here, That shall not with the flowers decay! For grateful memory twines anew Her offering with the garlands fair, Laid where long sleep the brave and true, Whose honored dust we shield with care. fgrl t&*i i£r* THE MEANING OF THE AMERICAN FLAG. (Recitation for a boy.) THE American flag means, then, all that the fathers meant in the Rev- olutionary War; it means all that the Declaration of Independence meant; it means all that the Constitution of a peo- ple, organizing for justice, for liberty, and for happiness, meant. The American flag carries American ideas, American history, and American feeling. Beginning with the colonies and com- ing down to our time, in its sacred her- aldry, in its glorious insignia, it has gathered and stored chiefly this supreme idea: Divine Right of Liberty in Man. Every color means liberty, every thread means liberty, every form of star and beam of light means liberty — liberty through law, and laws for liberty. Accept it, then, in all its fullness of meaning. It is not a painted rag. It is a whole national history It is the Constitution. It is the Govern- ment. It is the emblem of the sovereignty of the people. It is the Nation. — From a speech by Henry Ward Beecher. ttfc £r> ^?* A GOOD COUNTRY FOR ALL. (For a very little girl. The speaker should wear the national colors, either combined in a dress or as decorations to a white dress.) I WEAR these three colors to-day, The beautiful red, white and blue, Because 'tis the Fourth of July, And I thought I'd celebrate too. I know that our country began - (Though I'm sure I cannot tell why), One morning so long, long ago, And that was the Fourth of July. But one thing for certain and sure I've found out, although I'm so small, 'Tis a country good to be in For little folks, big folks, and all. 42 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. THE DIGNITY OF LABOR. (An oration for THERE is dignity in toil— in toil of the hand as well as toil of the head — in toil to provide for the bodily wants of an individual life, as well as in toil to promote some enterprise of world-wide fame. All labor that tends to supply man's wants, to increase man's happiness, to elevate man's nature — in a word, all labor that is honest — is honorable too. Labor clears the for- est, and drains the morass, and makes the "wilderness rejoice and blossom as the rose." Labor drives the plow, and scatters the seeds, and reaps the harvest, and grinds the corn, and converts it into bread, the staff of life. Labor, tending the pas- tures and sweeping the waters, as well as cultivating the soil, provides with daily sustenance the nine hundred millions of the family of man. Labor gathers the gos- samer web of the caterpillar, the cotton from the field, and the fleece from the flock, and weaves it into raiment soft and warm and beautiful, the purple robe of the prince and the gray gown of the peasant being alike its handiwork. Labor moulds the brick, and splits the slate, and quarries the stone and shapes the column, and rears not only the humble cottage, but the gorgeous palace, and the tapering spire, and the stately dome. Labor, diving deep into the solid earth, brings up its long- hidden stores of coal to feed ten thousand furnaces, and in millions of homes to defy the winter's cold. Labor explores the rich veins of deeply- buried rocks, extracting the gold and silver, the copper and tin. Labor smelts the iron, and moulds it into a thousand shapes for use and ornament, from the massive pillar to the tiniest needle, from the ponderous anchor to the wire gauze, from the mighty Labor Day.) fly-wheel of the steam engine to the pol- ished purse-ring or the glittering bead. Labor hews down the gnarled oak, and shapes the timber, and builds the ship, and guides it over the deep, plunging through the billows, and wrestling with the tem- pest, to bear to our shores the produce of every clime. Labor, laughing at difficul- ties, spans majestic rivers, carries viaducts over marshy swamps, suspends bridges over deep ravines, pierces the solid moun- tain with the dark tunnel, blasting rocks and filling hollows, and while linking to- gether with its iron but loving grasp all nations of the earth, verifying, in a literal sense, the ancient prophecy, "Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be brought low;" labor draws forth its delicate iron thread, and stretch- ing it from city to city, from province to province, through mountains and beneath the sea, realizes more than fancy ever fabled, while it constructs a chariot on which speech may outstrip the wind, and compete with lightning, for the telegraph flies as rapidly as thought itself. Labor, the mighty magician, walks forth into a region uninhabited and waste; he looks earnestly at the scene, so quiet in its desolation, then waving his wonder-work- ing wand, those dreary valleys smile with golden harvests; those barren mountain- slopes are clothed with foliage ; the furnace blazes; the anvil rings; the busy wheel whirls round ; the town appears ; the temple of religion rears its lofty front; a forest of masts rises from the harbor. On every side are heard the sounds of industry and gladness. Labor achieves grander victories, it weaves more durable trophies, it holds NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS -13 wider sway than the conqueror. His name becomes tainted and his monuments crum- ble; but labor converts his red battlefields into gardens, and erects monuments significant of better things. — Anonymous. t&* &5* <£• HAVE YOU PLANTED A TREE? (For Arbor Day.) WHAT do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the ship, which will cross the sea, We plant the mast to carry the sails; We plant the planks to withstand the gales, The keel, the keelson, and beam and knee; We plant the ship when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the houses for you and me; We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors, We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, The beams and siding, all parts that be; We plant the house when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree? A thousand things that we daily see: We plant the spire that out-towers crag; We plant the staff for country's flag; We plant the shade from the hot free ; — We plant all these when we plant the tree. the sun «■?* ^5* t5* THE BROWNIE'S CHRISTMAS. (Imagine this a real occurrence, and yourself the giver.) THE Brownie who lives in the forest — Oh, the Christmas bells they ring! He has done for the farmer's children Full many a kindly thing: When their cows were lost in the gloam- ing He has driven them safely home; He has led their bees to the flowers, To fill up their golden comb; At her spinning the little sister Had napped till the setting sun — She awoke, and the kindly Brownie Had gotten it neatly done; Oh, the Christmas bells they are ringing! The mother she was away, And the Brownie 'd played with the baby And tended it all the day; The Brownie who lives in the forest, Oil, the Christmas bells they ring! He has done for the farmer's children Full many a kindly thing. 'Tis true that his face they never, For all their watching, could see; Yet who else did the kindly service, I pray, if it were not he? But the poor little friendly Brownie, His life was a weary thing; For never had he been in holy church And heard the children sing; And never had he had a Christmas; Nor had bent in prayer his knee; He had lived for a thousand years, And all weary-worn was he. 44 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. Or that was the story the children Had heard at their mother's side; And together they talked it over, One merry Christmas-tide. The pitiful little sister With her braids of paly gold, And the little elder brother, And the darling five-year-old, All stood in the western window — 'Twas toward the close of day — And they talked about the Brownie While resting from their play. "The Brownie, he has no Christmas," The dear little sister said, And a-shaking as she spoke Her glossy, yellow head; "The Brownie, he has no Christmas; While so many gifts had we, To the floor last night they bended The boughs of the Christmas-tree." Then the little elder brother, He spake up in his turn, With both of his blue eyes beaming, While his cheeks began to burn: "Let us do up for the Brownie A Christmas bundle now, And leave it in the forest pathway Where the great oak branches bow. "We'll mark it, 'For the Brownie/ And 'A Merry Christmas Day!' And sure will he be to find it, For he goeth home that way!' " Then the tender little sister With her braids of paly gold. And the little elder brother, And the darling five-year-old, Tied up in a little bundle Some toys, with a loving care, And marked it, "For the Brownie," In letters large and fair, And "We wish a Merry Christmas!" And then, in the dusk, the three Went to the wood and left it Under the great oak tree. While the farmer's fair little children Slept sweet on that Christmas night, Two wanderers through the forest Came in the clear moonlight. And neither one was the Brownie, But sorry were both as he; And their hearts, with each fresh footstep, Were aching steadily. A slender man with an organ Strapped on by a leathern band, And a girl with a tambourine A-holding close to his hand. And the girl with the tambourine, Big sorrowful eyes she had; In the cold white wood she shivered, In her ragged raiment clad. "And what is there here to do?" she said; "I'm froze i' the light o' the moon! Shall we play to these sad old forest trees Some merry and jigging tune? "And, father, you know it is Christmas- time, And had we staid i' the town And I gone to one o' the Christmas-trees, A gift might have fallen down! "You cannot certainly know it would not: I'd ha' gone right under the tree! Are you sure that none o' the Christmases Were meant for you and me?" "These dry dead leaves," he answered her, sad, NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 45 "Which the forest casteth down, Are more than you'd get from a Christmas tree In the merry and thoughtless town. "Though to-night be the Christ's own birthday night, And all the world hath grace, There is not a home in all the world Which holdeth for us a place." Slow plodding adown the forest path, "And now, what is this?" he said; And the children's bundle he lifted up, And "For the Brownie," read, And "We wish a Merry Christmas Day!" "Now if this be done," said he, "Somewhere in the world perhaps there, is A place for you and me!" And the bundle he opened softly: "This is children^ tender thought; Their own little Christmas presents They have to the Brownie brought. "If there liveth such tender pity Toward a thing so dim and low, There is kindness sure remaining Of which I did not know. "Oh, children, there's never a Brownie — That sorry, uncanny thing; But nearest and next are the homeless When the Christmas joy-bells ring." Out laughed the little daughter, And she gathered the toys with glee: "My Christmas present has fallen! This oak was my Christmas-tree!" Then away they went through the forest, The wanderers, hand in hand; And the snow, they were both so merry, It glinted like the golden sand. Down the forest the elder brother, In the morning clear and cold, Came leading the little sister And the darling five-year-old. "Oh," he cries, "He's taken the bundle!" As carefully round he peers; "And the Brownie has gotten a Christmas After a thousand years!" «£• ^* fc5* THE THREE HOLIDAYS. (For a girl FIRST BOY. OF all the days of all the year," Cried loyal Freddy Bly, "The very splendid-est of all Comes early in July. Think of the fun! the glorious noise! That is the day — at least for boys." SECOND BOY. "Of all the days of all the year," Said little Robin Gray, "The very best, I do believe, and two boys.) Will be Thanksgiving day. A fellow has such things to eat! Thanksgiving day cannot be beat." GIRL. "Of all the days of all the year," Sang pretty Nan, "remember The dearest, happiest and best Is coming in December. What girl or boy, north, east, south, west, But knows that Christmas day is best?" — Annie L. Hannah. 46 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. RING out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow; The year is going, let him go ; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, And sweeter manners, purer laws. t5* <5* t5* A NEW YEAR'S TALK. HERE I am," said the New Year, popping his head in at the door. "Oh! there you are, eh?" replied the Old Year. "Come in and let me have a look at you, and shut the door after you, please!" The New Year stepped lightly in, and closed the door carefully. "Frosty night," he said. "Fine and clear, though. I have had a delightful journey." "Humph!" said the Old Year. "I don't expect to find it delightful, with this rheu- matism racking my bones. A long, cold, drive, I call it; but to be sure, I thought it pleasant when I was your age, youngster. Is the sleigh waiting?" "Yes," replied the other. "But there is no hurry. Wait a bit, and tell me how matters are in these parts." "So, so!" the Old Year answered, shak- ing his head. "They might be better, and yet I suppose they might be worse, too. They were worse before I came; much worse, too. I have done a great deal. Now I expect you, my boy, to follow my ex- ample, and be a good year all the way through." "I shall do my best," said the New Year, "depend upon it ! And now tell me a little what there is to do." "In the first place," replied the other, "you have the weather to attend to. To be sure, you have a clerk to help you in that, but he is not always to be depended upon; there is a great deal of work in the department. The seasons have a way of running into each other, and getting mixed, if you don't keep a sharp lookout on them; and the months are a trouble- some, unruly set. Then you must be care- ful how to turn on wet and dry weather; your reputation depends in a great meas- ure on that. But you must not expect to satisfy everybody, for that is impossible. If you try to please the farmers the city people will complain; and if you devote yourself to the cities, the country people will call you all manner of names. I had rather devote myself to apples and that sort of a thing; everybody speaks of me as 'a great apple year;' 'a glorious year for grapes!' and so on. That is very gratify- ing to me. And one thing I want you to do very carefully; that is, to watch the leaves that are turned." "I thought Autumn attended to that sort of thing," said his companion. Photo by Eyron, N. Y. TELLING MOTHER. < o 1-1 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 49 "I don't mean leaves of trees," said the Old Year. "But at the beginning of a year, half the people in the world say, 'I am go- ing to turn over a new leaf!' meaning they intend to behave themselves better in vari- ous respects. As a rule, leaves do not stay turned over. I know a great many little boys who promised me to turn over a new leaf in regard to tearing their clothes and losing their jack-knives, and bringing mud into the house on their boots, and lit- tle girls who were going to keep their bureau drawers tidy and their buttons sewed on. But I haven't seen much im- provement in most of them. Indeed, what can you expect of the children, when the parents set them the example? Why, there is a man in this neighborhood who has turned over a new leaf in the matter of smoking every year since 1868, and after the first week of each New Year he smokes like a chimney all the rest of the year." "What is his name?" inquired the New Year, taking out his note-book. "His name is Smith — John Smith," said the Old Year. "There are a great many of them, and all the rest are probably as bad as the particular one I mention, so you need not be too particular." "I'll attend to it," said the New Year. "Any other suggestions?" "Well," said the Old Year, smiling, "I have never found that young people, or young years, were very apt to profit by good advice. You must go your own way after all. Don't start any new inventions — there have been quite enough lately. Above all, take care of the children, and give them all the good weather you can conscientiously. And now," he added, ris- ing slowly and stiffly from his seat by the fire, "the horses are getting impatient, and my time is nearly up, so I start on my long drive. You will find everything in pretty good shape, I think, though, of course, you will think me an old fogy as perhaps I am. Well! well! good-bye, my boy! Good luck to you! And whenever you hear my name mentioned, try to put in a good word for old " (here give the number of the year). — Laura E. Richard. t5* t5* &5* LABOR. (Recitation for Labor Day.) PAUSE not to dream of the future be- fore us ; Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us; Hark how creation's deep, musical chorus, Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! Never the ocean wave falters in flowing; Never the little seed stops in its growing; More and more richly the rose heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. "Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; "Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ring- ing: Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breath- ing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower; 50 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS- Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin promptings that ever en- treat us, Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow Work — thou shalt ride over Care's com- ing billow; Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weep- ing willow; Work with a stout heart and resolute will! Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life cur- rent leaping! How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. Labor is wealth! In the sea the pearl groweth ; Rich the queen's robe from the frail co- coon floweth; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth; Temple and statue the marble block hides. — F. S. Osgood. . t^* t5* g3* A MEMORIAL DAY EXERCISE. ELLA M. POWERS. PATRIOTIC SONG (in zvhich all join) . Selected. ORIGINAL ADDRESS (or suitable recitation). Speaker A. — The May-day air is hushed and still, The far-off muffled drums I hear, With measured tread up yonder hill, The brave old soldiers now appear. Our flag floats solemnly above Their heads, now bent and gray, But hearts are filled with tender love, As they march on their way. These men bore sabers years ago, To-day they bear sweet flowers, These to their comrades they bestow In May-day's fairest hours. But here a train of children bright Are marching on this way With flags and flowers — a gladsome sight On each Memorial Day. Enter seven children; the fourth in order bears a large flag; the others carry wreaths of flozvers and small flags. The wreaths should be made of red, of white, and of blue flozvers (two of each color). They march in to soft, muffled drum- beats. They halt, and face about in line. Speaker A. — Why are you marching here to-day, With flags and wreaths of flowers, pray? Flag Bearer. — As long as this old flag shall wave, We'll deck with flowers each soldier's grave ; Their names we honor and revere, And loving tributes pay each year. All form semi-circle during the delivery of MEMORY GEMS : O Land of lands ! to thee we give Our prayers, our hopes, our service free ; NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 51 For thee thy sons shall nobly live, And at thy need shall die for thee. — Whittier. Oh, tell me not that they are dead, — that generous host, that airy array of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud above this nation. — Beecher. They fought to give us peace, and lo ! They gained a better peace than ours. — Phebe Cary. Selected quotations or recitations — found on other pages, or in Lyceum Night, Nos. 13 and 23 — can be given, alternately, by as many as desire, after which Numbers one and five hold up their wreaths of red: 1. — Our wreaths are of crimson — a blood-red hue, And before us our volunteers pass in re- view, For the red of defiance to battle incites, To strife and to war the hero invites. 5-— Deep sounding on the ear, there came The din of battles' dread alarms ; The muttered roll of myriad drums, The cannon's roar, the clash of arms ; The clanking squadron's measured tread, The trumpet's wild and martial notes, While proudly gleaming overhead The standard of our country floats, — The Stars and Stripes. All zvave their flags gently during the last two lines. Wreaths are lowered as two and six raise wreaths of white: 2. — We bear the wreaths of white, so pure, The conflict has ceased and peace shall en- dure; No North and no South, no East and no West, But one land, united in peace and at rest. No more sounds the trumpet or bugle's loud call, But quiet and peace now reigns over all. 6.— The earth has healed her wounded breast, The cannons plough the field no more; The heroes rest ! Oh, let them rest In peace along the peaceful shore ! They fought for peace, for peace they fell ; They sleep in peace, and all is well. — Joaquin Miller. Three and seven raise wreaths of blue: 3-— We bear the wreaths of heavenly hue, The flowers that bid us all be true, True to the soldiers now at rest, True to the land we love the best. 7-— We'll never forget those brave deeds of -old, Of heroes, — a true, loyal band, Who faced the dangers of war untold, Who fought and who died for our land. 4 (Flag Bearer). — To-day we strew these sweetest flowers O'er the mounds of our heroes brave, With reverent thought through the solemn hours, We deck each soldier's grave. Whether he fought in the blue or the gray, Under the palm or the pine, Each hero with equal love we pay, Each deed shall equally shine; And these flowers of red, and the white ones pure, And the blooms of heavenly blue, Are the colors of this old flag secure, To which each soldier was true. All (waving Hags). — We love forever the stars and stripes, Forever to them we are true, We love our land and our dear old flag, Of the red, and white, and blue. These colors have long been the nation's pride, 52 NATIONAL BLADINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. Their beauty we ever adore, By the red, white, and blue we ever abide, May they wave forevermore. All march out singing, and Blue." 'The Red, White, ic& ^5* «5* ADDRESS FOR DECORATION DAY. COMPANIONS and Friends: We meet on this solemn occasion, in the performance of a sacred duty, — to revive memories of our departed heroes, to recount their deeds of valor and self-sacrifice, and to bedeck anew their honored graves with these emblems of purity, — these beautiful flowers of May. The poet says : "After life's fitful fever he sleeps well." So, indeed, does the hero who awaits the great roll-call. Flowers spring up on his grave, and the winds of early summer fan our cheeks as we scatter tokens of love upon the grassy mound, while a voice seems to whisper : Yes, life is a fever, we are all in its heated grasp. But pause in the delirium of haste for the things of this world, and come aside from the "madding crowd," to join the kindlier procession where your brow will cool and your pulse slacken. Away with any who say this day is only a sentiment. It bears more fruit than tears and flowers. The old song, " 'Tis love that makes the world go round," answers such cavillers. So when America overflows with love and forgiveness till each earth-corner feels the glow, then can we say "How far yon little candle sheds its beams !" Only thus shall war-clouds depart and the dove of Peace fold her wings on the weary world. Only thus shall the sword be beaten into a ploughshare, — shall the bliss of Eden re- turn. Say not either that this memorial per- petuates strife ! It may be to us the high- way of Peace. It calls. Excelsior ! and that upward way is not marred by bloodstains, but strewn with lilies and forget-me-nots, — emblems of purity and remembrance. Let us, then, obey these voices which say: "Rest, and come up higher." The road may yet look steep, the black wings of War and Death may still shadow the upward path, but Memorial Day gleams out each year with sunshine that will, in time, drive all clouds away. Let America be the leader up to the purer air ! Let all nations follow her to the "Plains of Peace" ! — and in that day all people will see the full fruition of hopes and tears. Pass, then, with reverent tread Among the sleeping dead ; Whilst flowers adorn the sod Let prayers ascend to God From grateful hearts, that He Will keep us ever free. c£w &?* <&& THE EAGLE SCREAMS. I AM the American Eagle, And my wings flap together. Likewise, I roost high, And I eat bananas raw. Rome may sit on her Seven hills and howl, But she cannot Sit on me ! NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 53 Will she please put that In her organ and grind it? I am mostly a bird of peace, And I was born without teeth, But I've got talons That reach from the storm- Beaten coasts of the Atlantic To the golden shores of the Placid Pacific, And I use the Rocky Mountains As whetstones to sharpen them on. I never cackle till I Lay an egg; And I point with pride To the eggs I've laid In the last hundred years or so. I'm game from The point of my beak To the star-spangled tip Of my tail feathers, And when I begin To scratch gravel, Mind your eye! I'm the cock of the walk, And the hen bird of the Goddess of Liberty, The only gallinaceous E Pluribus Unum On record. I'm an Eagle from Eagleville, With a scream on me that makes Thunder sound like Dropping cotton On a still morning, And my present address is Hail Columbia, U. S. A. ! ! See? <5* (.?*. ^5* VALEDICTORIES. THE time has come when we must say Good-bye to all so true, And to life's field of action go, For we've a work to do. With our life's purpose e'er in view, May we with cheerful heart, And with a patient, willing hand Ever do well our part. Let vis go onward, that by us Some little good be wrought, And teach the good and beautiful That we have here been taught. Let us in all our future years Forever faithful be, And aid each good and noble work, That we in life may see. May we each moment well employ, The rich seeds daily sow Of truth, of joy, and happiness, As on through life we go. When we the victory have won, When all life's tasks are o'er, We'll meet with those we hold so true, To say good-bye no more. OH, joyous day! we gladly welcome thee; Before thy light cares fly and leave us free ; But one regret still lingers in each heart That now from Alma Mater we must part. Thus far we've walked together, side by side, Along the strand where beats the angry tide ; But now upon its waters dark and blue We must embark — life's journey to pursue. 54 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. Yet "ever onward" we will bravely steer, With God our pilot we have naught to fear ; All trials we will meet nor wear a frown — Without the cross we know there is no crown. And if adown the shadowy by and by We doubting gaze with straining, anxious eye, A moment turn aside the tide of care To breathe for each a loving, hopeful prayer. And then once more our hearts will joyful rise, Cheered by the ray of light from youth's blue skies ; While to our tasks we'll turn as ne'er before With "Onward!" as our watchword ever- rriore. TO-DAY our school-days end. A place we take 'Mong workers on a sea both large and wide. With willing hands and every power awake, We now advance to scenes by us untried. Oh, may we each as years receding glide, Have strength to toil tho' stormy waves roll high ; Life's waters may we ever safely ride, Push on with hopeful heart and watchful eye, Remembering that our Captain strong is al- ways nigh. It is with pleasure that we look ahead, Our Guide is one of love and yet of might. When all our feeble strength has from us fled, He'll pilot us across life's sea aright, And ever mid the deepest gloom send light. The sail is set but where's the shore, my friends, Which we shall reach? Oh, is it dark or bright? Which strand we gain upon ourselves de- pends — The dark or bright, when at God's call our journey ends. If but for self we live upon this earth, A dark, dark shore will greet our weary eyes, In work for others lies the truest worth, Though oft such work our love and pa- tience tries, We must not e'en the smallest task despise. As we do deeds for Christ our spirit nears A shining shore where jasper walls arise, And when our Father's throne of light ap- pears, We'll dwell in peace with Him thro' endless years. © © © •^rv^ Around the Evening Lamp «fc-A> The selections in this department have been made with a view of supplying the most enter- taining readings and recitations for the family circle when it gathers, at the end of the day, around the evening lamp. dS* «5* *5* PAPA'S SUM IN FRACTIONS. a End girl bAPA," said a little West I ■ the other evening, "I'm in fractions now, but I don't understand it. Tell me about some of these examples." "Certainly, certainly," said the father. "What's the trouble?" "Why, it says here that if a man travels 25,795 miles in 25! days, how many miles will he travel in one day?" "Say, Maria," said the old man, as he looked beamingly at his wife, "doesn't that remind us of old times? La me! It just takes me back to the little old log school- house in the woods. Why, Maria, I re- member one day — " "But, papa," interrupted the child, "I'm in a hurry. What's the answer?" "Oh! yes. Yes, of course. Give me the example again. Now I have it. If a man travels 25,795 miles i' n 25^ days, how many miles will he travel in one day? That's an easy one. Maria, do you remember that little red-headed fellow who sat in front of you and annoyed you with his bean-shoot- er, and that hideous little Mary Bennett?" "But, papa, what's the answer?" "Oh! the answer; let me see." The man figured and calculated and said "oh!" and "ah!" and scratched out and be- gan again. Then he put his pencil in his mouth, paused a long while, and at last said: "Maria, I've sorter forgotten about this fraction of a day business. How does it go ?» "Why, John," said the good woman, "You-er, you-er find the greatest common divisor, and — " "Say, Maria, that reminds me of the joke about the janitor who saw these very words on the blackboard: 'Find the great- est common divisor,' and he said: 'Well, is that durned thing lost again?' Curious how these — " "But, papa, what's the answer?" "Oh! yes; where was I? Well, you divide the 25,795 by 2 5h an d the result will be the answer." "I know, papa, but what's the result?" "Didn't I just tell you that the result would be the answer? All you have to do is to put down the multiplicand — multipli- cand! Where have I heard that word? Why, Maria, it just makes me want to get out and play marbles and hookey and things." "But, Henry, you haven't solved that problem for the child." "That's so. Well, here goes. Twenty- five goes in 25 once; 25 into 7 no times, and into 79 three times and 4. And 45 once and 20, or twenty twenty-fifths of 25 and one-halfths, or 1,031 and one-fifths, or—" 55 5G ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. "Henry, what are you talking about?" "Maria, I started out to find that great- est common divisor of yours, but 'tain't no use. I say that any man who would un- dertake to walk 25,795 miles in 25^ days is just a plain, ordinary, every-day fool. He can't do it." "But, papa, what's the — " "It hasn't got any answer. Just say to your teacher that it is preposterous — the idea of a man taking such a pedestrian tour as that. Truth is, Maria," he added con- fidentially to his wife, "I never did know anything about fractions." t£R t5* ^* WHEN I BUILT THE CABIN— TWO PICTURES. The poem which follows is from the pen of John Howard Bryant, brother of William Cullen Bryant, after he reached his ninetieth year. It was written in Princeton, 111., where his home was since he pitched his cabin as a young man more than a half century ago, and where he lived ever afterwards. HERE, five and sixty years ago, I said I'll build a shelter for the years to come; And here, upon spring's flowery sod, I laid The rude foundation of my cabin home. Words cannot paint the beauty of the scene; Fire had consumed the sere grass all around, And in advance of the returning green, Gay nodding violets covered all the ground. Then came the crimson phlox, and many a flower Unnamed, from Nature's bounteous hand was cast; The early summer brought a liberal dower, That bloomed and faded as the season passed. The teeming earth in autumn's golden hours Poured forth the glory of the waning year, And far as sight could reach, the myriad flowers, In serried ranks o'erspread the landscape here. The purple aster, and the golden-rod, In queenly dress stood rivals side by side; And there, beneath the radiant smile of God, Eay the vast splendor gleaming far and wide. My thoughts recur to that far distant day, The glory that entranced my youthful eye; Glory, alas! forever passed away, From the dear scenes that still around me lie. Ages unknown, this beauty unsurpassed, Came with the violets, died with au- tumn's sheen; But the white civilizer came at last, And with his plowshare spoiled the charming scene. For beauty spoiled, new beauty came in- stead, And stately maize soon crowned the virgin soil; White harvests gave the waiting nation's bread, Joy, peace and competence repaid the toil. AROUND TEE EVENING LAMP. 57 Orchards and gardens smiled through all the land, And happy cottage homes were every- where, And cities rose, as if a magic wand Had touched the earth, and, lo! a town was there. All this has passed before my wondering eyes; This mighty tide of life has still swept on, Scaled the vast heights that pierce our western skies, And built proud cities by the Oregon. *2rl i2rl t3* MR. SPOOPENDYKE'S SHAVE. M Y dear!" exclaimed Mr. Spoopen- dyke, dropping his razor and ex- amining his chin with staring eyes, "my dear, bring the court plaster, quick! I've ploughed off half my chin!" "Let me see," demanded Mrs. Spoopen- dyke, bobbing up and fluttering around her husband. "Great gracious, what a cut! Wait a minute!" and she shot into a closet and out again. "Quick!" roared Mr. Spoopendyke. "I'm bleeding to death! fetch me that court plas- ter!" "Oh, dear!" moaned Mrs. Spoopendyke, "I put it — on, where did I put it?" "Dod gast that putty!" yelled Mr. Spoop- endyke, who had heard his wife imperfect- ly. "What d'ye think this is, a crack in the wall? Got some sort of a notion that there is a draught through here? Court plaster, I tell ye! Bring me some court plaster before I pull out the side of this house and get some from the neighbors!" Just then it occurred to Mrs. Spoopen- dyke that she had put the plaster in the clock. "Here it is, dear!" and she snipped off a piece and handed it to him. Mr. Spoopendyke put it on the end of his tongue, holding his thumb over his wound. When it was thoroughly wetted, it stuck fast to his finger, while the carnage ran down his chin. He jabbed away at the cut, but the plaster hung to his digit until finally his patience was thoroughly ex- hausted. "What's the matter with the measly busi- ness?" he yelled. "Wher'd ye buy this plas- ter? Come off, dod gast ye!" and as he plucked it off his finger it grew to his thumb. "Stick, will ye?" he squealed, plug- ging at the cut in his chin. "Leave go that thumb !" and he whirled around on his heel and pegged at it again. "Why don't ye bring me some court plaster?" he shrieked, turning on his trembling wife. "Who asked ye for a leech ? Bring me something that knows a thumb from a chin!" and he planted his thumb on the wound and screwed it around vindictively. This time the plaster let go and slipped up to the corner of his mouth. "Now, it's all right, dear," smiled Mrs. Spoopendyke, with a fearful grin. "May be you've got the same idea that the court plaster has! P'raps you think that mouth was cut with a razor ! May be you're under the impression that this hole in my visage was meant to succumb to the persuasion of a bit of plaster! Come off! Let go that mouth!" and as he gave it a wipe it stuck to the palm of his hand as if it had been born there. "Let me try," suggested Mrs. Spoopen- dyke, "I know how to do it." "Then why didn't ye do it first?" howled 58 AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. Mr. Spoopendyke. "What did you want to wait until I'd lost three gallons of gore for? Oh, you know how to do it! You want a linen back and a bottle of mucilage up at your side to be a country hospital. Stick! Dod gast ye!" and he clapped the wrong hand over his jaw. "I'll hold ye here till ye stick, if I hold ye till my wife learns something!" and Mr. Spoopendyke pranced up and down the room with a face indicative of stern determination. "Let me see, dear," said his wife ap- proaching him with a smile, and gently drawing away his hand she deftly adjusted another piece of plaster. "That was my piece after all," growled Mr. Spoopendyke, eyeing the job and glancing at the palm of his hand to find his piece of plaster gone. "You always come in after the funeral." "I guess you'll find your piece sticking in the other hand, dear," said Mrs. Spoop- endyke pleasantly. "Of course you can tell," snorted Mr. Spoopendyke, verifying his wife's assertion with a glance. "If I had your sight and a pack of cards, I'd hire a shot tower and set up for an astronomer!" and Mr. Spoopen- dyke, who evidently meant astrology, wore that piece of blood-stained court plaster on his hand all day long, rather than admit, by taking it off, that his wife had ever been right in anything. t5* t£& i3* ABRAHAM BROUGHT TO BAY. I SAT on the seat with the colored man who drove me down to the railroad depot with a shacklety old wagon, and as we left the hotel he said: "Boss, if yo' kin dun say ober a few big words on de way down, de ole man will be 'xtremely disobleeged to yo'." "How big words do you want?" "Can't git 'em too ' big, boss. I'ze a powerful hand to 'member big words an' git 'em off when a calamitous occasion pre- dominates." "Do you expect to find use for them this morning?" "Reckon I does, sah. My son, Abraham, works down to de depot, an' whenever I cums around he tries to show off ober me an' make me feel small. He'll try it on dis mawnin', fur suah, an' I jest want to be dun fixed to paralyse his desirability. Spit 'm right out, boss, ,an' de ole man won't forgit yo' when de watermillyun sezum cums ag'n." We had about half a mile to go, and be- fore we reached the depot I gave him a large and choice assortment of Webster's longest vocabularic curiosities. When we drew up at the platform Abra- ham was there, and also a dozen white people who were to go out on the train. It was a good opportunity for the son to show off, and he realized it, and came forward and waved his arm and shouted: "Yo' dar, ole man; ha'n't I dun toled yo' 'bout four hundred times not to sagaciate dat stupendous ole vehicle in de way of de omnibus? Sum ole niggers doan seem to have no mo' idea of de consaguinity of re- cititude dan a squash." "Was yo' spokin' to me, sah?" stiffly de- manded the father, as he stood up and glared at Abraham. "Of co'se I was." "Den, sah, I want yo' to distinctly under- stand dat, when de co-operashun of de im- AROUND TEE EVENING LAMP. 59 perialism seems to assimilate a disreputa- ble infringement of hereditary avaricious- ness, I shall retract my individuality, but not befo' — not befo', sah!" Abraham's eyes hung out, his com- plexion became ash color, and his knees bent under him as if the springs were about to give way. It was a long minute before he could utter a sound, and then he reached for my trunk with the muttered ob- servation: "Befo' de Lawd, but things am gittin' so mixed up I can't dun tell whedder I'm his son or his fader!" t&fc t&fr t&M HIAWATHA'S WOOING. AT the feet of Laughing Water Hiawatha laid his burden, Threw the red deer from his shoulders ; And the maiden looked up at him, Looked up from her mat of rushes, Said with gentle look and accent, "You are welcome, Hiawatha !" Very spacious was the wigwam, Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened With the gods of the Dacotahs Drawn and painted on its curtains, And so tall the doorway, hardly Hiawatha stooped to enter, Hardly touched his eagle feathers As he entered at the doorway. Then uprose the Laughing Water, From the ground fair Minnehaha Laid aside her mat unfinished, Brought forth food and set before them, Water brought them from the brooklet, Gave them food in earthen vessels, Gave them drink in bowls of basswood, Listened while the guest was speaking, Listened while her father answered, But not once her lips she opened, Not a single word she uttered, Yet, as in a dream she listened To the words of Hiawatha, As he talked of old Nokomis, Who had nursed him in his childhood, As he told of his companions, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind And of happiness and plenty, In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful. "After many years of warfare, Many years of strife and bloodshed, There is peace between the Ojibways And the tribe of the Dacotahs :" Thus continued Hiawatha, And then added, speaking slowly, "That this peace may last forever, And our hands be clasped more closely, And our hearts be more united, Give me as my wife this maiden, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Loveliest of Dacotah women ?" And the ancient arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence, Looked at Hiawatha proudly, Fondly looked at Laughing Water ; And made answer very gravely ; "Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; Let your heart speak, Minnehaha !" And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant, As she went to Hiawatha, Softly took the seat beside him, While she said and blushed to say it, "I will follow you, my husband !" This was Hiawatha's wooing! Thus it was he won the daughter Of the ancient arrow-maker 60 AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. In the land of the Dacotahs ! From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him Laughing Water ; Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the Old Man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off, "Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!" And the ancient arrow-maker Turned again unto his labor, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying : "Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us ! Just when they have learned to love us, When we are old and lean upon them, Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger Wanders piping through the village Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her, Leaving all things for the stranger!" — H. W. Longfellow. t5» t5* ti5* EXERCISE IN PRONUNCIATION. A JOCUND, sacrilegious son of Belial, who suffered from bronchitis, having exhausted his finances at the annual joust, in order to make good the deficit, resolved to ally himself to a comely, lenient and docile young lady of the Malay or Caucas- ian race. He accordingly purchased a calliope, a coral necklace of chameleon hue, and securing a suite of rooms at a hotel, he engaged the head waiter as his coad- jutor. He then dispatched a letter of the most unexceptionable calligraphy extant, with a sentimental hemistich, inviting the young lady to an orchestral concert. She was harassed, and with a truculent look revolted at the idea, refused to con- sider herself sacrificable to his desires, and sent a polite note of refusal, on receiving which, he procured a carbine and bowie knife, said that he would not now forge fetters hymeneal with the queen, went to an isolated spot, severed his jugular vein, and discharged the contents of his carbine into his abdomen, with a grimace at the raillery of his acquaintances. He suc- cumbed and was irrefragably dead, and neither vagaries nor pageantry were per- mitted when he was conveyed to the mau- soleum followed by his enervated canine. t5* $5* ^* FARO BILL'S SERMON. (He tells the story of the Prodigal Son.) » [Faro Bill, of Leadville, had experienced religion, and soon thereafter, during the absence of the regular preacher, volunteered to preach the Sunday sermon.] ELLER citizens, the preacher bein' absent, it falls on me to take his hand and play it fur all it is worth. You all know that I'm just learnin' the game, an' of course I may be expected to make wild breaks, but I don't believe there's a rooster in the camp mean enough to take advan- tage o' my ignorance and cold deck me right on the first deal. I'm sincere in this new departure, an' I believe I've struck a game that I can play clear through without copperin' a bet, for when a man tackles ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. 61 such a lay out as this he plays every card to win, and if he goes through the deal as he orter do, when he lays down to die an' the last case is reddy to slide from the box he can call the turn every time. "I was readin' in the Bible to-day that yarn about the Prodigal Son, and I want to tell you the story. The book don't give no dates, but it happened long, long ago. This Prodigal Son had an old man that put up the coin every time the kid struck him for a stake, an' never kicked at the size of the pile, either. I recon the old man was pretty well fixed, an' when he died he in- tended to give all his wealth to this kid an' his brother. Prod gave the old man a little game o' talk one day, and induced him to whack up in advance o' the death racket. He'd no sooner got his divy in his fist than he shook the old man an' struck out to take in some o' the other camps. He had a way-up time for awhile, and slung his cash to the front like he owned the best playin' lead on earth ; but hard luck hit him at last an' left him flat. The book don't state what he went broke on, but I recon he got steered up again some brace game. But anyhow he got left without a chip or a four-bit piece to go an' eat on. An old granger then tuk him home an' set him to herdin' hogs, an' here he got so hard up an' hungry that he piped off the swine while they were feedin,' and he stood in with them on a shuck lunch. He soon weakened on such plain provender, and says to himself, says he: 'Even the old man's hired hands are livin' on square grub, while I'm worrin' along here on corn husks straight. I'll just take a grand tum- ble to myself, an' chop on this racket at once. I'll skip back to the governor and try to fix things up, and call for a new deal.' So off he started. "The old man seed the kid a-comin', and what do you reckon he did? Did he pull his gun and lay for him, intendin' to wipe him as soon as he got into range? Did he call the 'dogs to chase him off the ranch? Did he hustle round for a club and give him a stand off at the front gate? Eh? Not to any alarming extent he didn't; no sir. The Scripture book says he waltzed out to meet him, and froze to him on the spot and kissed him and then marched him off to a clothing store, and fitted him out in the nobbiest rig to be had for coin. Then the old gent invited all the neighbors, and killed a fat calf, and gave the biggest blow-out the camp ever seen." c5* t5* «(?• THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. TO me comes the brakeman, and seat- ing himself on the arm of the seat says: "I went to church yesterday." "Yes?" I said, with that interested in- flection that asks for more. "And what church did you attend?" "Which do you guess?" he asked. "Some union mission church?" I haz- arded. "Naw," he said, "I don't like to run on these branch roads very much. I don't often go to church, and when I do, I want to run on the main line, where your run is regular and you go on a schedule time and don't have to wait on connections. I don't like to run on a branch. Good enough, but I don't like it." "Episcopal?" I guessed. "Limited Express," he said; "all palace 62 AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. cars and $2 extra for a seat ; fast time, and only stop at big stations. Nice line, but too exhaustive for a brakeman. All train men in uniform, conductor's punch and lantern silverplated, and no train boys al- lowed. Then the passengers are allowed to talk back at the conductor; and it makes them too free and easy. No, I couldn't stand the palace cars. Rich road, though. Don't often hear of a receiver being ap- pointed for that line. Some mighty nice people travel on it, too." "Universalist?" I suggested. "Broad-gauge," said the brakeman, "does too much complimentary business. Every- body travels on a pass. Conductor doesn't get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at all flag-stations, and won't run into anything but a union depot. No smoking-car on the train. Train orders are vague though, and the train men don't get along well with the passengers. No, I don't go to the Universalist, though I know some awfully good men who run on that road." "Presbyterian?" I asked. "Narrow-gauge, eh?" said the brakeman, "pretty track, straight as a rule; tunnel right through a mountain rather than go round it; spirit-level grade; passengers have to show their tickets before they get on the train. Mighty strict road, but the cars are a little narrow; have to sit one in a seat and no room in the aisle to dance. Then there's no stop-over tickets allowed; got to go straight through to the station you're ticketed for, or you can't get on at all. When the car's full no extra coaches; cars built at the shops to hold just so many and nobody else allowed on. But you don't often hear of an accident on that road. It's run up to the rules." "Maybe you joined the Free-Thinkers ?" I said. "Scrub road," said the brakeman; "dirt road-bed and no ballast; no time card and no train despatchers. All trains run wild and every engineer makes his own time, just as he pleases. Smoke if you want to; kind of go-as-you-please road. Too many side-tracks, and every switch wide open all the time, with the switchman sound asleep and the target lamp dead out. Get on as you please and get off when you want to. Don't have to show your tickets, and the conductor isn't expected to do anything but amuse the passengers. No, sir, I was offered a pass, but I don't like the line. I don't like to travel on a line that has no terminus. Do you know, sir, I asked a division superintendent where that road run to, and he said he hoped to die if he knew. I asked a conductor who he got his orders from, and he said he didn't take orders from any living man or dead ghost. And when I asked the engineer who he got his orders from, he said he'd like to see anybody give him orders, he'd run that train to suit himself or he'd run it into the ditch. Now you see, sir, I'm a railroad man, and I don't care to run on a road that has no time, makes no connections, runs nowhere and has no Superintendent. It may be all right, but I've railroaded too long to understand it." "Did you try the Methodist?" I said. "Now you're shouting," he said with some enthusiasm. "Nice road, eh? Fast time and plenty of passengers. Engines carry a power of steam and don't you for- get it; steam gauge shows a hundred and enough all the time. Lively road; when the conductor shouts 'all aboard,' you can hear him to the next station. Good, whole- souled, companionable conductors; ain't a road in the country where the passengers feel more at home. No passes; every pas- senger pays full traffic rates for his ticket. Wesleyan house airbrake on all trains, too ; ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. 63 pretty safe road, but I didn't ride over it yesterday." "Maybe you went to the Congregational church?" "Popular road," said the brakeman; "an old road, too; one of the very oldest in this country. Good road bed and comfortable cars. Well managed road, too; directors don't interfere with division superintend- ents and train orders. Road's mighty pop- ular, but it's pretty independent, too. Say, didn't one of the division superintend- ents down East discontinue one of the oldest stations on this line two or three years ago? But it's a mighty pleasant road to travel on. Always has such a splendid class of passengers." "Perhaps you tried the Baptist?" I guessed. "Ah, ha!" said the brakeman; "she's a daisy, isn't she! river road; beautiful curves; sweep around anything to keep close to the river. Takes a heap of water to run it through; double tanks at every station, and there isn't an engine in the shops that can pull a pound or run a mile in less than two gauges. But it runs through a lovely country; these river roads always do; river on one side and hills on the other, and it's on a steady climb up the grade all the way till the run ends where the fountain-head of the river be- gins. Yes, sir, I'll take the river road every time for a lovely trip, sure connections and good time, and no prairie dust blowing in at the windows. And yesterday when the conductor came around for the tickets with a little basket punch, I didn't ask him to pass me, but I paid my fare like a little man — twenty-five cents for an hour's run and a little concert by the passengers throwed in. I tell you, Pilgrim, you take the river road when you want — > — " But just here the long whistle from the engine announced a station, and the brake- man hurried to the door shouting: "Zions- ville ! Zionsville ! This train makes no stops between here and Indianapolis!" >Jt St ■ <£ THE RESETTLEMENT OF ARCADIA. (From "Songs of the THE rocky slopes for emerald had changed their garb of gray, When the vessels from Connecticut came sailing up the bay, There were flashing lights on every wave that drew the strangers on, And wreaths of wild arbutus round the brows of Blomidon. Five years in desolation the Acadian land had lain, Five golden harvest moons had wooed the fallow fields in vain; Five times the winter snows caressed, and summer sunsets smiled, Great Dominion.") On lonely clumps of willows, and fruit trees growing wild. There was silence in the forest, and along the Uniac shore, And not a habitation from Canard to Beausejour, But many a ruined cellar and many a broken wall Told the story of Acadia's prosperity, and fall! And even in the sunshine of that peaceful day in June, When Nature swept her harp, and found the strings in perfect tune, 64 ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. The land seemed calling wildly for its own- ers, far away, The exiles scattered on the coast from Maine to Charleston Bay. Where, with many bitter longings for their fair homes and their dead, They bowed their heads in anguish, and would not be comforted; And like the Jewish exiles, long ago, be- yond the sea, They could not sing the songs of home in their captivity ! But the simple Norman peasant-folk shall till the land no more, For the vessels from Connecticut have anchored by the shore, And many a sturdy Puritan, his mind with Scripture stored, Rejoices he has found at last his "garden of the Lord." There are families from Jolland, from Kil- lingworth and Lyme ; Gentle mothers, tender maidens, and strong men in their prime ; There are lovers who have plighted their vows in Coventry, And merry children, dancing o'er the ves- sels' decks in glee. They come as came the Hebrews into their promised land, Not as to wild New England's shores came first the Pilgrim band, The Minas fields were fruitful, and the Gaspereau had borne To seaward many a vessel with its freight of yellow corn. They come with hearts as true as their manners blunt and cold, To found a race of noble men of stern New England mould, A race of earnest people, whom the com- ing years shall teach The broader ways of knowledge and the gentler forms of speech. They come as Puritans, but who shall say their hearts are blind To the subtle charms of Nature and the love of humankind? The Blue Laws of Connecticut have shaped their thought, 'tis true, But human laws can never wholly Heaven's work undo. And tears fall fast from many an eye long time unused to weep, For o'er the fields lay whitening the bones of cows and sheep — The faithful cows that used to feed upon the broad Grand Pre, And with their tinkling bells come slowly home at close of day. And where the Acadian village stood, its roofs o'ergrown with moss, And the simple wooden chapel with its altar and its cross, And where the forge of Basil sent its sparks towards the sky, The lonely thistle blossomed and the fire- weed grew high. The broken dykes have been rebuilt a cen- tury and more, The cornfields stretch their furrows from Canard to Beausejour, Five generations have been reared beside the fair Grand Pre Since the vessels from Connecticut came sailing up the bay. And now across the meadows, while the farmers reap and sow, The engine shrieks its discords to the hills of Gaspereau ; m o & w w m In this department are embraced the choicest patriotic literature and descriptive scenes of war from Colonial days to the present time. t,5* t7* Ci5* BURIAL UNDER FIRE. (Can be used either as HIGH on the ridge where the marines pitched their tents on the shore of Guantanamo Bay, the first Cuban soil taken by American troops, are the graves of the men who were killed in the first land fighting of our war with Spain. They were buried under fire by men who overlooked no tithe of the solemn ceremony, although the singing of Spanish bullets rose clear above the voice of the chaplain. The burial squad was composed of marines from the Texas. Wrapped in flags, the honorable winding sheet of soldiers killed in battle, the bodies were borne from a tent in which they had lain to a trench dug by men who made it deep because their fear that the drenching Cuban rains would give their comrades to the buzzards was greater than their fear of the death they risked as they plied pick and shovel. Chaplain Jones of the Texas, the firing squad, a few officers and some correspond- ents stood bareheaded about the grave. From the thick cover beyond there came the irregular "putt, putt, putt" of skirmish fire and the regular sputter of the machine guns. There marines and Spanish guer- rillas were fighting from thicket to thicket. Soon there would be more dead to bury, we thought. Gently the men of the Texas lowered the flagwound "jollies" — "Soldier and sailor, a reading or a recitation.) too," as Kipling has it — into the earth. The chaplain stood with his back to the cover from which came the rattle of musketry, and began the solemn service. Slow and deliberate fell the words, and seldom has their import been realized more fully than it was there at the edge of the bullet-threshed jungle. "Man that is born of woman " A bullet pecked the earth at his feet and sent it flying. Others sang overhead. Some leaves and twigs fell from the near- est trees. A man or two dropped behind the earth thrown out of the grave. The Spanish were firing on the burial party. The marines of the Texas raised their heads for a second and bowed them again. They made no other motion. The officer in command, pale ordinarily, flushed red as if angered by the enemy's sacrilege. The chaplain moved a pace from where he was standing and turned his face toward the thicket from which the bullets were coming. Then his words fell slowly and gravely, "Man that is born of woman," and so to the end. As he faced the fire those who had sought shelter stood up instantly and bowed their heads reverently. The fire slackened, ceased. The earth fell on the flags and covered them, and the "heroes wrapped within. A man or two dropped a tear and a tender, parting word to his 69 70 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. comrades, and the burial party, its duty fit- tingly done, moved seaward over the crest of the ridge out of range. Half way down the crooked path which led to the landing two of the men who had stood steadily at the grave were marked by a Spanish sharp-shooter, and a Mauser bullet "pinged" above them. They ran for cover like startled game, for the funeral was over and they had no desire to make another. But the men who were at the grave that day will remember long and with a solemn sense of their great lesson the words, "Man that is born of woman." (5* c5* * W2 H P O H w 1-1 w W o W w w o M «l DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 227 I blush to think upon it yet That I was such a fool ; But young folks must learn wisdom, sir, In old misfortune's school. One fatal night, I thought the wind Gave some unwonted sighs, Down through the swamp I heard a tramp Which took me by surprise. Is this an earthquake drawing near? The forest moans and shivers ; And then I thought that I could hear The rushing of great rivers ; And while I looked and listened there, A herd of deer swept by, As from a close pursuing foe They madly seemed to fly. But still those sounds, in long, deep bounds, Like warning heralds came, And then I saw, with fear and awe, The heavens were all aflame. I knew the woods must be on fire, I trembled for my crop; As I stood there, in mute despair, It seem'd the death of hope. On, on it came, a sea of flame, In long deep rolls of thunder, And drawing near, it seem'd to tear The heavens and earth asunder! How those waves snored, and raged, and roared, And reared in wild commotion! On, on they came, like steeds of flame Upon a burning ocean. How they did snort, in fiendish sport, As at the great elms dashing; And how they tore 'mong hemlocks hoar, And through the pines went crashing; While serpents wound the trunks around, Their eyes like demons gleaming, And wrapped like thongs around the prongs, And to the crests went screaming! Ah ! how they swept, and madly leapt From shrinking spire to spire, 'Mid hissing hail, and in their trail A waving lake of fire! Anon some whirlwind, all aflame, Growled in the ocean under; Then up would reel a fiery wheel And belch forth smoke and thunder! And it was all that we could do To save ourselves by flight, As from its track we madly flew, — Oh! 'twas an awful night! When all was past, I stood aghast, My crop and shanty gone, And blackened trunks 'mid smouldering chunks Like specters looking on! A host of skeletons they seemed, Amid the twilight dim, All standing there in their despair, With faces gaunt and grim ; And I stood like a specter too, A ruined man was I, And nothing left, — what could I do But sit me down and cry? A heavy heart indeed was mine, For I was ruined wholly, And I gave way that awful day To moping melancholy; I lost my all, in field and stall, And nevermore would thrive, All save those steers, — the devil's dears Had saved themselves alive. Nor would I have a farm to-day Had it not been for Molly, She cheered me up, and charmed away My moping melancholy; She schemed and planned to keep the land, And cultivate it too ; And how I moiled, and strained, and toiled, And fought the battle through! 228 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. Yes, Molly played her part full well; She's plucky, every inch, sir! It seemed to me the "deil himsel' " Could not make Molly flinch, sir; We wrought and fought, until our star Got into the ascendant; At troubles past we smile at last, And now we're independent! — Alexander M'Lachlan. ^* c5* (5* MACBETH TO THE DAGGER. IS this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee — I have thee not ; and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of my mind? a false creation Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which I draw. Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood. Which was not so before. There's no such thing! — It is the bloody business, which informs Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one-half world, Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep: now witchcraft cele- brates Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder, Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch — thus with his stealthy pace, Toward his design moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear The very stones prate of my whereabout; And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. While I threat, he lives — I go and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. — Shakespeare. t&* t5* «(5* SEVEN AGES OF MAN. ALL the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players : They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being, seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like a snail Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover, Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier, DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 229 Full of strange oaths and bearded like a bard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in a quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lined, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances : And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side ; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last seen of all, That ends this strange, eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. — Shakespeare. (5* t£* ti$* HOW RUBY PLAYED. Jud Brownin, when visiting New York, goes description of WELL, sir, he had the blamedest, big- gest, catty-cornedest pianner you ever laid eyes on; somethin' like a dis- tracted billiard-table on three legs. The lid was hoisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't been, he'd a tore the entire inside clean out and scattered 'em to the four winds of heaven. Played well? You bet he did; but don't interrupt me. When he first sit down, he 'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin', and wisht he hadn't come. He tweedle- leedled a little on the treble, and twoodle- oodled some on the bass — just foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' in the way. And I says to a man settin' next to me, says I, "What sort of fool playin' is that?" And he says, "Heish!" But presently his hands commenced chasin' one another up and down the keys like a parcel of rats scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, though, and re- minded me of a sugar squirrel turnin' the wheel of a candy cage. "Now," I says to my neighbor, "he's showin' off. He thinks he's a doin' of it, to hear Rubinstein, and gives the following his playing. but he ain't got no idee, no plan of nothin'. If he'd play me a tune of some kind or other, I'd— But my neighbor says, "Heish," very impatiently. I was just about to get up and go home, bein' tired of that foolishness, when I heard a little bird wakin' up away off in the woods, and call sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up and see that Ruby was begin- ning to take some interest in his business, and I sit down again. It was the peep of day. The light came faint from the east, the breezes blowed gentle and fresh; some more birds waked up in the orchard, then some more in the trees near the house, and all begun singin' together. People began to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a little more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was broad day; the sun fairly blazed, the birds sung like they'd split their little throats; all the leaves was movin', and flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and happy as a king. 230 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. Seemed to me like there was a good break- fast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman anywhere. It was a fine mornin'. And I says to my neighbor, "That's music, that is." But he glared at me like he'd like to cut my throat. Presently the wind turned; it began to thicken up, and a kind of gray mist came over things; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain begun to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground; some flashed up like long pearl earrings, and the rest rolled away like round rubies. It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver streams, runnin' between golden gravels, and then the streams joined each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed silent, except that you could kinder see the music, specially when the bushes on the banks moved as the music went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun didn't shine, nor the birds sing; it was a foggy day, but not cold. The most curious thing was the little white angel boy, like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music brook and led it on, and on, away out of the world, where no man ever was, certain. I could see that boy just as plain as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without any sunset, and shone on the graveyards where some few ghosts lifted their hands and went over the wall, and between the black, sharp-top trees, splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies in the lit-up windows, and men that loved 'em, but could never get a-nigh 'em, who played on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I could have cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don't know who, better than the men with the guitars did. Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could a got up then and there and preached a better ser- mon than any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing in the world left to live for, not a blame thing, and ye't I didn't want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't under- stand it. I hung my head and pulled out my handkerchief, and blowed my nose loud to keep me from cryin'. My eyes is weak, anyway. I didn't want anybody to be a-gazin' at me a-snivelin', and it's nobody's business what I do with my nose. It's mine. But some several glared at me, mad as blazes. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He ripped out and he rared, he tipped and he tared, he pranced and he charged like the grand entry at a circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt up my head, ready to look any man in the face, and afraid of nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass band, and a big ball all a-goin' on at the same time. He lit into them keys like a thousand of brick ; he gave 'em no rest day or night ; he set every livin' joint in me a-goin'; and, not bein' able to stand it no longer, I jumped, sprang onto my seat, and jest hollered: "Go it, Rube!" Every blamed man, woman, and child in the house riz on me and shouted, "Put him out! Put him out!" "Put your great-grandmother's grizzly- gray-greenish cat into the middle of next month!" I says. "Tech me, if you dare! I paid my money, and you just come a-nigh me!" DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 231 With that some several policemen run up, and I had to simmer down. But I eould 'a' fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was bound to hear Ruby out or die. He had changed his tune again. He hop-light ladies and tip-toed fine from end to end of the key-board. He played soft and low and solemn. I heard the church- bells over the hills. The candles of heaven was lit, one by one I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to play from the world's end to the world's end, and all the angels went to prayers. * * * Then the music changed to water; full of feeling that couldn't be thought, and be- gan to drop — drip, drop — drip, drop, clear and sweet, like tears of joy falling into a lake of glory. It was sweeter than that. It was as sweet as a sweetheart sweetened with white sugar mixt with powdered sil- ver and seed diamonds. It was too sweet. I tell you the audience cheered. Rubin he kinder bowed like he wanted to say, "Much obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't in- terrup' me." He stopt a moment or two to ketch breath. Then he got mad. He run his fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeves, he opened his coat-tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and sir, he just went for that old planner. He slapt her face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he scratched her cheeks, until she fairly yelled. He knockt her down, and he stampt on her shameful. She bellowed, she bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, and then he wouldn't let hef up. He ran a quarter-stretch down the low grounds of the base, till he got clean in the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, through the hol- lows and caves of perdition, and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got way out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He for'ard two'd, he crost over' first gentle- man, he chassade right and left, back to your places, he all hands'd aroun' ladies to the right, promenade all, in and out, here and there, back and forth, up and down, perpetual motion, double-twisted and turned and tacked and tangled into forty eleven thousand doublebow knots. By jinks! it was a mixtery. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fecht up his right wing, he fecht up his left wing, he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company, by regiments, and by brigades. He opened his cannon — siege guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve- pounders yonder — big guns, little guns, middle-sized guns, round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortar, mines, and magazines, every livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rokt — heavens and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninepences, glory, tenpenny nails, Samp- son in a 'simmon tree, Tump Tompson in a tumbler-cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle — ruddle-uddle-uddle-uddle — raddle-addle- addle-addle — riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle — reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle — p-r-r-r-r-r-lang ! Bang!!!! lang! per-Jang! p-r-r-r-r-r! Bang!!! With that bang! he lifted himself bodily into the air, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his el- bows, and his nose, striking every single, 232 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. solitary key on the pianner at the same time. The thing busted, and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thou- sand five hundred and forty-two hemi- demi-semi-quivers, and I know'd no mo'. When I come to, I were under ground about twenty foot, in a place they call Oyster Bay, a-treatin' a Yankee that I never laid eyes on before, and never expect to again. Day was br'akin' by the time I got to the St. Nicholas Hotel, and I pledge you my word I did not know my name. The man asked me the number of my room, and I told him, "Hot music on the half-shell for two!" «5* ^* <5* OTHELLO'S APOLOGY. M OST potent, grave and reverend seigniors : My very noble, and approved good master ; That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her: The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech, And little blessed with the set phrase of peace : For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine months wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broils and battle; And therefore, little shall I grace my cause, In speaking of myself. Yet, by your patience, I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver, Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic — For such proceedings I am charged withal — I won his daughter with. Her father loved me; oft invited me; Still questioned me the story of my life, From year to year: the battles, sieges, for- tunes, That I had past. I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it. Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances ; Of moving accidents by flood and field; Of hairbreadth 'scapes, in the imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And with it all my travel's history. All these to hear, Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house affairs would draw her thence, Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She'd come again, and with a greedy ear, Devour up my discourse. Which I observ- ing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgrimage dilate; Whereof my parcels, she had something heard, But not distinctively. DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. m I did consent; And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke, That by my youth suffered. My story being done, She gave me for my pains, a world of sighs. She swore in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful; She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man. She thanked me, And bade me, if I had a friend who loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. On this hint I spake ; She loved me for the dangers I had passed; And I loved her, that she did pity them. This is the only witchcraft which I've used. — Shakespeare. t£7» <2rl t&& CASSIUS AGAINST CAESAR. HONOR is the subject of my story, I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but for my single self, I had as lief not be, as live to be In awe of such a thing as myself. I was born as free as Csesar; so were you; We have both fed as well ; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he. For, once upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber, chafing with its shores, Csesar says to me — "Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me, into this angry flood, And swim to yonder point?" — upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow; so, indeed he did. The torrent roared, and we did buffet it; With lusty sinews, throwing it aside, And stemming it, with hearts of contro- versy. But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Csesar cried— "Help me, Cassius, or I sink." I, as yEneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy, upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves' of Tiber Did I the tired Csesar; and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod to him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake; His coward lips did from their color fly ; And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world, Did lose its luster; I did hear him groan, Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, "Alas!" it cried, "give me some drink, Titinius." Ye gods! it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world, 2U DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. Like a Colossus, and we petty men, Walk under his huge legs, and peep about, To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men, at some time, are masters of their fates : The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. Brutus and Caesar! What should be in that Caesar? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together: yours is as fair a name; Sound them: it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them: it is as heavy; conjure with 'em: Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. Now, in the name of all the gods at once, Upon what meats doth this our Caesar feed, That he hath grown so great? Age, thou art ashamed; Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods. When went there by an age, since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, That her wide walls encompassed but one man? Oh! you and I have heard our fathers say, There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked The infernal devil, to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king. — Shakespeare. t0* t&& icrl PETERS' REPORT OF WEBSTER'S SPEECH. OLD Seth Peters once heard Daniel Webster deliver an oration at an agricultural fair way back in the forties. This oration made such an impression upon Seth that he has talked about it ever since. And every time he talks about it, he see new beauties in that speech. The oration that the God-like Daniel delivered grows more and more wonderful to him ; and so every time he describes it, he tells a new story more extravagant and grotesque than the last. I once heard him describe this speech, in a country store. This is the way he did it: "Want to hear 'bout Dan'l Webster's gret lectur' I heerd at the county fair, do ye? Don't blame ye. There ain't no man alive to-day who can throw language an' sling words like Dan'l could. There ain't no man now, I say, nor never wuz, nor never will be till eternity dies of ol' age. "Wall, the only time I ever heerd Dan'l wuz at our county fair w'en I wuz a young- ster. Lemme see, thet wuz goin' on fifty year ago nex' tater diggin'; but I got elerkunce 'nough thet day to las' me all the rest er my life. I hain't never heerd a speech since then. Dan'l sp'ilt me for any other kiner speech, lectur', sermon, pr'ar- meetin' an' everythin' else. Every speech I have ever heerd sense, falls ez flat on my ear ez a hunk er putty on a pine slab. They all soun' jes' ez if you hit a feather bed with a snow shovel. There ain't no ring, no roar, no rumble, no rush, no ring-tailed thunder to 'em, the way ther wuz to Dan'l's stuff. Dan'l, I tell you, wuz a six-foot-an'-half seraph with pants on; an' w'en he opened DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 235 his mouth the music er the spheres stopped playin', fer nobody wanted to listen to sich fool, fol-de-rol music, w'en Dan'l opened up his flood-gates an' jest drowned the worl' with elerkunce. "I remember jes' ez if it wuz yes'day, w'en Dan'l riz up there on the ol' plank plat- form, bordered with punkins, at the ol' county fair. He riz an' riz, an' every time he riz, he let out another j'int, jes as you do in the new-fangled fishin' poles. Sez I to myself, 'He'll never git thro' risin' ;' but bimeby, after he had shot up inter the heavens a long ways, he suddenly stopped and stood there like Bunker Hill Monimunt in a garding er cabbages. "Dan'l warn't in no hurry 'bout be- ginnin'. He jest stood still, it seems to me, 'bout half a nour, an' looked aroun' with them awful eyes of his'n. They seemed like two mighty souls lookin' out of the winder at a worl' thet wuz afraid of 'em. I jes' hung down my head an' wouldn't look at 'em. I knew they could look right inter me, an* through me, an' see what a miser- able little cuss I wuz. So Dan'l jes' stood an' looked at his audience until he froze 'em into their tracks. The Durham bull stopped blartin', an' jest' stood and gawped at Dan'l. The prize hog stopped eatin' his corn, an' there warn't 1 a rooster crowed — they all knowed if they did they'd drop dead. Dan'l stood still so long I got awful nervous fer him. I wuz 'fraid he'd forgotten his speech. But bimeby, he opened his mouth an' words begun to rumble out like low thunder frum underneath the groun'. They come kinder slow at first, but every one on 'em wuz sent like a cannon ball, an' struck every man, woman an' child there right over the heart. Then they come faster, an' then we all knowed thet the universe wuz a big music box, an' Dan'l wuz turnin' the crank. The hull dictionary wuz a big gin filled with apple sass, honey, an' stewed quinces, an' Dan'l jest stood there jabbin' both hands into it way up to the elbow, and scatterin' the sweetness over the worl'. I jest threw out my arms an' legs like a frog in a mill- pond, an' swum through the ocean of sweet sass an' honey thet wuz sloshin' all about me. I div down to the bottom, an' brought up hundred thousand dollar pearls in my mouth, an' splashed about like a crazy luna- tic in a sea of glory. W'en Dan'l smiled it seemed ez if the sun hed been whitewashed with a mixture of melted gold, silver, jasper, saffire, emerald, chrysolite an' stuff, sich ez St. John seen on the foundations of the new Jerusalem; it seemed ez if the sun had been whitewashed with these things, an' then smiled on the earth, jest like a lovesick feller onto his best gal. W'en Dan'l frowned the sun grew ez black ez a black ink spot on a black cat hidin' in a coal bin on a dark night. Hope lef the worl' an' went on an everlastin' vacation; the bottom tumbled outer natur', an' I jest opened my mouth an' bawled like a baby. An' I jest kep' on bawlin' until Dan'l smiled agin, we'n I wuz so happy an' light thet I could hev walked on the air without bustin' through the crust, clear from here way up to the north star. "Wall, bimeby Dan'l got excited. He threw out his right han' an' pulled the mornin' star from the bosem of the sky ; he threw out his left han' an' snatched the trailin' robes from the sunset an' flapped them over the cattle shed. He threw up his head an' the §»n dodged; he stamped his foot an' the earth trembled; and the prize hog give a gasp an' dropped dead. DanTs eyes' now looked like two suns in two uni- verses; and if he only shet them once, we knew that darkness would cover the face of the deep, an' the world would roam about in the dark parsture of the universe 236 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. like a stray cow, an' git lost. Oh, them eyes ! them eyes ! they'll shine into my soul after the sun goes out, an' after the stars have dropped like loose buttons from the jacket of the sky. "But still Dan'l kep' on. Thet son of thunder stood there surrounded by punkins, and I verily believe the angels bent over the railin's of heaven an' listened to him; an' I only wonder thet they didn't lose their bal- ance an' come a-fallin' down an' sprawl out like celestial lummuxes before his feet. They might hev for all I know. We shouldn't hev noticed 'em. We wouldn't hev paid any attention to an earthquake or an Odd Fell'rs purcession. If Gabrul had blown his trumpet right then an' there, an' tooted until he wuz red in the face, we wouldn't hev heerd it any more than we could hev heerd a watch tick in a biler fac- tory. Gabrul himself would hev dropped his horn an' stood an' listened to Dan'l. We couldn't see nothin' but Dan'l, we couldn't hear nothin' but Dan'l, an', — well, there warn't nothin' but Dan'l. He filled up the whole bushel basket of the universe an' then spilled over onto the floor. "Wen Dan'l stopped, I wanted to die ; an' I almost wish I hed, for I hain't heerd a de- cent speech sense his day, an' I never ex- pect to agin until I hear Dan'l spoutin' from the platforms of paradise." fc?* t£* t5* A RACE FOR LIFE. A GUN is heard at the dead of night — "Lifeboat ready!" And every man, to the signal true, Fights for place in the eager crew; "Now, lads! steady." First a glance at the shuddering foam, Now a look at the loving home, Then together, with bated breath, They launch their boat in the gulf of death. Over the breakers wild, Little they reck of weather, But tear their way Through blinding spray. Hear the skipper cheer and say: "Up with her, lads, and lift her! All together." They see the ship in a sudden flash, Sinking ever, And grip their oars with a deeper breath; Now it's come to a fight with death, Now or never! Fifty strokes, and they're at her side, If they live in the boiling tide, If they last through the awful strife. Ah, my lads, it's a race for life! Over the breakers wild, Little they reck of weather, But tear their way Through blinding spray. Hear the skipper cheer and say: "Up with her, lads, and lift her! All together!" And loving hearts are on the shore, Hoping, fearing; Till over the sea there comes a cheer, Then the click of the oars you hear, Homeward steering — Ne'er a thought of the danger past, Now the lads are on land at last; What's a storm to a gallant crew Who race for life, and who win it, too? Over the breakers wild, Little they reck of weather, But tear their way Through blinding spray. Hear the skipper cheer and say: "Up with her, lads, and lift her! All together!" DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 237 WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. YOU'RE surprised that I ever should say so? Just wait till the reason I've given, Why I say I shan't care for the music, Unless there is whistling in heaven. Then you'll think it no very great wonder, Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit, That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, Its music will not be complete. It was late in the autumn of '40, We had come from our far Eastern home Just in season to build us a cabin, Ere the cold of the winter should come ; And we lived all the while in our wagon While husband was clearing the place Where the house was to stand; and the clearing And building it took many days. So that our heads were scarce sheltered In under its roof, when our store Of provisions was almost exhausted, And husband must journey for more; And the nearest place where he could get them Was yet such a distance away, That it forced him from home to be absent At least a whole night and a day. You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, And the nearest was more than a mile ; And we hadn't found time yet to know them, For we had been busy the while. And the man who had helped at the raising Just staid till the job was well done ; And as soon as the money was paid him, Had shouldered his axe, and had gone. Well, husband just kissed me and started, I could scarcely suppress a deep groan At the thought of remaining with baby So long in the house all alone ; For, my dear, I was childish and timid, And braver ones might well have feared, For the wild wolf was often heard howling, And savages sometimes appeared. But I smothered my grief and my terror Till husband was off on his ride, And then in my arms I took Josey, And all the day long sat and cried, As I thought of the long, dreary hours When the darkness of night should fall, And I was so utterly helpless, With no one in reach of my call. And when the night came with its terrors, To hide ev'ry ray of light, I hung up a quilt by the window, And almost dead with affright, I kneeled by the side of the cradle, Scarce daring to draw a full breath, Lest the baby should wake, and its crying Should bring us a horrible death. There I knelt until late in the evening, And scarcely an inch had I stirred, When suddenly, far in the distance, A sound as of whistling I heard ! I started up dreadfully frightened, For fear 'twas an Indian's call ; And then very soon I remembered The red man ne'er whistles at all. And when I was sure 'twas a white man, I thought were he coming for ill, He'd surely approach with more caution — Would come without warning, and still. Then the sounds coming nearer and nearer, Took the form of a tune light and gay, And I knew I needn't fear evil, From one who could whistle that way. Very soon I heard footsteps approaching, Then came a peculiar dull thump, As if some one was heavily striking An axe in the top of a stump; 238 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. And then in another brief moment, There came a light tap on the door, When quickly I undid the fast'ning, And in stepped a boy, and before There was either a question or answer, Or either had time to speak, I just threw my glad arms around him, And gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then I started back, scared at my boldness, But he only smiled at my fright, As he said, "I'm your neighbor's boy, Elick, Come to tarry with you through the night. "We saw your husband go eastward, And made up our minds where he'd gone, And I said to the rest of our people, 'That woman is there all alone. And I venture she's awfully lonesome, And though she may have no great fear I think she would feel a bit safer If only a boy were but near.' "So, taking my axe on my shoulder, For fear that a savage might stray Across my path and need scalping, I started right down this way ; And coming in sight of the cabin, And thinking to save you alarm, I whistled a tune, just to show you I didn't intend any harm. "And so here I am at your service ; But if you don't want me to stay, Why, all you need do is to say so, And should'ring my axe, I'll away." I dropped in a chair and near fainted, Just at the thought of his leaving me then, And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle As he said, "I guess I'll remain." And then I just sat there and told him How terribly frightened I'd been, How his face was to me the most welcome, Of any I ever had seen ; And then I lay down with the baby, And slept all the blessed night through, For I felt I was safe from all danger Near so brave a young fellow and true. So now, my dear friend, do you wonder, Since such a good reason I've given, Why I say I shan't 'care for the music, Unless there is whistling in heaven ? Yes, often I've said so in earnest, And now what I've said I repeat, That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, Its music will not be complete. t5* ^* ^* THE ENGINE DRIVER'S STORY. WE were driving the down express — Will at the steam, I at the coal — Over the valleys and villages ! Over the marshes and coppices ! Over the river, deep and broad ! Through the mountain, under the road ! Flying along, tearing along ! Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong, Fifty tons she was, whole and sole ! I had been promoted to the express; I warrant you I was proud and gay, It was the evening that ended May, And the sky was a glory of tenderness. We were thundering down to a midland town; It makes no matter about the name — For we never stopped there, or anywhere For a dozen of miles on either side : DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 239 So it's all the same — Just there you slide, With your steam shut off, and your brakes in hand, Down the steepest and longest grade in the land At a pace that I promise you is grand. We were just there with the express, When I caught sight of a muslin dress On the bank ahead ; and as we passed — You have no notion of how fast — A girl shrank back from our baleful blast. We were going a mile and a quarter a minute With vans and carriages down the incline, But I saw her face, and the sunshine in it, I looked in her eyes, and she looked in mine As the train went by, like a shot from a mortar, A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke ; And I mused for a minute, and then awoke, And she was behind us — a mile and a quarter. And the years went on, and the express Leaped in her black resistlessness, Evening by evening, England through. Will — God rest him! — was found, a mash Of bleeding rags, in a fearful smash He made with a Christmas train at Crewe. It chanced I was ill the night of the mess, Or I shouldn't now be here alive ; But thereafter the five-o'clock out express Evening by evening I used to drive. And I often saw her, — that lady I mean, That I spoke of before. She often stood A-top o' that bank : it was pretty high — Say twenty feet, and backed by a wood. She would pick the daises out of the green To fling down at us as we went by. We had got to be friends, that girl and I, Though I was a rugged; stalwart chap, And she a lady ! I'd lift my cap, Evening by evening, when I'd spy That she was there, in the summer air, Watching the sun sink out of the sky. Oh, I didn't see her every night : Bless you! no; just now and then, And not at all for a twelvemonth quite. Then, one evening, I saw her again, Alone, as ever, but deadly pale, And down on the line, on the very rail, While a light, as of hell, from our wild wheels broke, Tearing down the slope with their devilish clamors, And deafening din, as of giant's hammers That smote in a whirlwind of dust and smoke All the instant or so that we sped to meet her. Never, oh, never, had she seemed sweeter! I let yell the whistle, reversing the stroke Down that awful incline, and signaled the guard To put on his brakes at once, and hard — Though we couldn't have stopped. We tattered the rail Into splinters and sparks, but without avail. We couldn't stop; and she wouldn't stir, Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretch Her arms to us ; — and the desperate wretch I pitied, comprehending her. So the brakes let off, and the steam full again, Sprang down on the lady the terrible train — She never flinched. We beat her down, And ran on through the lighted length of the town Before we could stop to see what was done. Oh, I've run over more than one ! Dozens of 'em, to be sure, but none 210 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. That I pitied as I pitied her — If I could have stopped, with all the spur Of the train's weight on, and cannily — But it wouldn't do with a lad like me And she a lady — or had been — sir? Who was she? Best say no more of her ! The world is hard ; but I'm her friend, Stanch, sir, — down to the world's end. It is a curl of her sunny hair Set in this locket that I wear. I picked it off the big wheel there. Time's up, Jack. Stand clear, sir. Yes ; We're going out with the express. — W. Wilkins. c5* c5* t£* HENRY V. AT ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow over- whelm it, As fearfully as doth a galled rock Overhang and jutty his confounded base, Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nos- tril wide, Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height. Now on, you noblest English, HARFLEUR. Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof; Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn to even fought, And sheathed their swords for lack of ar- gument : Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war! And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs are made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not: For there is none of you so mean and base That hath not noble luster in your eye ; I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start: the game's a-foot; Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge, Cry, Heaven for Harry, England, and St. George. — Shakespeare. { Treasure Trove— World Favorites G ViT This department includes those immortal writings that won favor throughout the world and are as popular to-day as when they were first written many years ago. They belong to "Auld Lang Syne," and are old acquaint- ances that shall never be forgot. t*i ■ ~M»«Mte* MKk. mK(^^^^ - SHARING A SORROW. TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 245 "Erin, my country! though sad and for- saken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to de- plore ! "Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast- fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot re- call. "Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bard sings aloud with devotion, — Erin mavourneen! Erin go bragh!" — Thomas Campbell. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp and black and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat; He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell When the evening sun is low? And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing- in Paradise. He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes, 246 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing — Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted — something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. & dt x JOHN ANDERSON. JOHN Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow; John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. — Robert Burns. (5* t5» «5* "ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER. BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time! in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart, as of yore ; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep — Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! Backward, flow backward, O swift tide of years! I am weary of toil, I am weary of tears ; Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, Take them, and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay, Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away, Weary of sowing for others to reap; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother! my heart calls for you! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between; Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again; Come from the silence so long and so deep — Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Over my heart, in the days that are flown. No love like mother-love ever has shone. No other worship abides and endures Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours; None like a mother can charm away pain TREASURE TBOVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 247 From the sorrowing soul and the world- weary brain; Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep ; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it fall over my forehead to-night, Shielding my eyes from the flickering light; For oh! with its sunny-edged shadows once more, Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep — Reck me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Mother, dear mother! the years have been long Since last I was hushed by your lullaby song; Sing them again, — to my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream ; Clasp to your arms in a loving embrace, With your soft, light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! — Mrs. Elisabeth Akers. *5* q5* «5* THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. H OW dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treas- ure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- flowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 248 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupi- ter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. — Samuel Woodworth. «5* «5* ^* FORTY YEARS AGO. I'VE wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the school-house play-ground, that sheltered you and me; But none were left to greet me, Tom; and few were left to know, Who played with us upon the green, some forty years ago. The grass is just as green, Tom; bare- footed boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay. But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding-place, some forty years ago. The old school-house is altered now; the • benches are replaced By new ones, very like the ones our pen- knives once defaced; But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro; It's music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas forty years ago. The boys were playing some old game, be- neath that same old tree; I have forgot the name just now, — you've played the same with me, On that same spot; 'twas played with knives, by throwing so and so; The loser had a task to do, — there, forty years ago. The river's running just as still; the wil- lows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts, — pretty girls, — just forty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low, — 'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach; And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To see how sadly I am changed, since forty years ago. Near by that spring, upon old elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's put beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same. Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some forty years ago. My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes; TIIEA.SU HE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 249 I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties. I visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers to strew Upon the graves of those we loved, some forty years ago. Some are in the church-yard laid, some sleep beneath the sea; But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me ; And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope they'll lay us where we played, just forty years ago. tC& K6& t£T* THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm- chair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize; I've bedewed it with tears, and embraced it with sighs. Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell? — a mother sat there ; And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear; And gentle words that mother would give, To fit me to die and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watched her many a day When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray; And I almost worshiped her when she smiled, And turned from her Bible, to bless her child. Years rolled on; but the last one sped — My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled; I learned how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow. 'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died; And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek; But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. ^* ^* t5* "ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP." ROCKED in the cradle of the deep I lay me down in peace to sleep; Secure I rest upon the wave, For thou, O Lord, hast power to save. I know thou wilt not slight my call, For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall! And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep, And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep. And such the trust that still is mine, Tho' stormy winds sweep o'er the brine, Or tho' the tempests fiery breath Roused me from sleep to wreck and death, In ocean cave still safe with Thee, The germ of immortality! 250 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. ROGER AND I. WE are two travelers, Roger and I. Roger's my dog ; — come here, you scamp ! Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye! Over the table, — look out for the lamp, — The rogue is growing a little old: Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank — and starved to- gether. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you! A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! The paw he holds up there's been frozen,) Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, (This out-door business is bad for strings,) Then a few nice buckwheats, hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings ! ****** Why not reform? That's easily said; But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform ; And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking. Is there a way to forget to think? At your age, sir, home, fortune and friends, A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink, — The same old story; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic fea- tures, — You needn't laugh sir; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures: I was one of your handsome men! If you have seen her, so fair and young, Whose head was happy on this breast! If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed That ever I, sir, should be straying From door to door, with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a glass of grog! She's married since, — a parson's wife: 'Twas better for her that we should - part- Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart. I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent On the dusty road, a carriage stopped; But little she dreamed, as on she went, Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped! You've set me to talking, sir; I'm sorry; It makes me wild to think of the change ! What do you care for a beggar's story? Is it amusing? you find it strange? I had a mother so proud of me! 'Twas well she died before — Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below? Another glass, and strong, to deaden This pain; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing, in place of a heart? TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 251 He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, No doubt, remembering things that were, — A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, And himself a sober, respectable cur. I'm better now; that glass was warming, — You rascal; limber your lazy feet! We must be fiddling and performing For supper and bed, or starve in the street. Not a very gay life to lead, you think? But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals or drink; — The sooner the better for Roger and me! BILL AND JOE. COME, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by; The shining days when life was new, And all was bright with morning dew, — The lusty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe. Your name may flaunt a titled trail Proud as a cockrel's rainbow tail ; And mine as brief appendix wear As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare: To-day, O friend, remember still That I am Joe, and you are Bill. You've won the great world's envied prize And grand you lOok in people's eyes. With H. O. N. and LL. D., In big brave letters, fair to see, — Your fist, old fellow, off they go! — How are you, Bill; How are you, Joe? You've won the judge's ermined robe, You've taught your name to half the globe ; You've sung mankind a deathless strain; You've made the dead past live again; The world may call you what it will, But you and I are Joe and Bill. The chaffing young folks stare, and say, "See those old buffers, bent and gray, — They talk like fellows in their teens! Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means," — And shake their heads; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe! How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side; How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame? A fitful tongue of leaping flame ; A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust ; A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe? The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go, — How vain it seems, this empty show! Till all at once his pulses thrill — 'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!" And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears, In some sweet lull of harp and song For earth-born spirits none too long, 252 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. Just whispering of the world below Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? No matter: while our home is here, No sounding name is half so dear; When fades at length our lingering day, Who cares what pompous tombstones say? Read on the hearts that love us still, Hie Jacet Joe. Hie Jacet Bill. — Oliver W. Holmes. (5* ^* tS* 1 OVER THE RIVER. OVER the river, over the river — The river silent and deep — When the boats are moored on the shadow shore And the waves are rocked to sleep ; When the mists so pale, like a bridal veil, Lie down on the limpid tide, I hear sweet sounds in the still night-time From the flowing river's side; And the boat recedes from the earthly strand. Out o'er the liquid lea — Over the river, the deep dark river, My darlings have gone from me. Over the river, over the river, Once in summer time The boatman's call we faintly heard, Like a vesper's distant chime; And a being fair, with soft, dark hair Paused by the river's side, For the snowy boat with the golden oars That lay on the sleeping tide And the boatman's eyes gazed into hers, With their misty dreamlike hue — Over the river, the silent river She passed the shadows through. Over the river, over the river A few short moons ago Went a pale young bride with fair, slight form, And a brow as pure as snow; And music low, with a silvery flow, Swept down from the starry skies, As the shadows slept in her curling hair, And darkened her twilight eyes, Still the boat swept on to the spirit shore With a motion light and free — Over the river, the cold, dark river, My sister has gone from me. Over the river, over the river, When the echoes are asleep, I hear the dip of the golden oars, In the waters cold and deep; And the boatman's call, when the shad- ows fall, Floats out on the evening air, And the light winds kiss his marble brow, And play with his wavy hair ; And I hear the notes of an angel's harp, As they sweep o'er the liquid lea — Over the river, the peaceful river, They're calling — calling for me. t£* «5* <5* BEAUTIFUL ANNABEL LEE. IT was many and many years ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived, whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love, and be loved by me! I was a child, and she was a child, TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 253 In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee — With a love that the winged seraph of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea A wind blew out of a cloud chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me, Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we ; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bring- ing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : And so all night-time, I lie by the side Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. t5* *2& *3& THE HURRICANE. LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky! And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane! And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails, Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmos- phere, Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. They darken fast ; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray — A glare that is neither night nor day, A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound. He is come! he is v come! do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled? Giant of air! we bid thee hail! How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale; How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of the firmament, 254 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. And fold at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible space. Darker — still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air; And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder- cloud ! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow. What roar is that? — 'tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round. Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds! — ye are lost to my eyes. I seek ye vainly, and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. And I, cut off from the world, remain Alone with the terrible hurricane. Triumph The masterpieces of American eloquence and statesmanship are included in this department. The selections are particularly adapted to the anniversaries of our Great American Statesmen and to all patriotic holidays as well. McKINLEY'S EULOGY OF LINCOLN. IT is not difficult to place a correct esti- mate upon the character of Lincoln. He was the greatest man of his time, es- pecially approved of God for the work He gave him to do. "History abundantly proves his superior- ity as a leader, and establishes his constant reliance upon a higher power for guidance and support. "The tendency of this age is to exagger- ation, but of Lincoln certainly none have spoken more highly than those who knew him best. "The greatest names in American history are Washington and Lincoln. One is for- ever associated with the independence of the states and formation of the Federal Union, the other with the universal free- dom and preservation of that Union. "Washington enforced the Declaration of Independence as against England, Lincoln proclaimed its fulfillment, not only to a downtrodden race in America, but to all people, for all those who may seek the pro- tection of our flag. "These illustrious men achieved grander results for mankind within a single century — from 1775 to 1865 — than any other men ever accomplished in all the years since first the flight of time began. "Washington engaged in no ordinary revolution. With him it was not who should" rule, but what should rule. He drew his sword, not for a change of rulers upon an established throne, but to establish a new government, which should acknowledge no throne but the tribune of the people. "Lincoln accepted war to save the Union, the safeguard of our liberties, and re-es- tablished it on 'indestructible foundations' as forever 'one and indivisible.' "To quote his own grand words : " 'Now, we are all contending that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish upon the earth.' "Each lived to accomplish his appointed task. Each received the unbounded grati- tude of the people of his time, and each is held in great and ever-increasing reverence by posterity. "The fame of each will never die. It will grow with the ages, because it is based upon imperishable service to humanity — not to the people of a single generation or country, but to the whole human family, wherever scattered, forever. "The present generation knows Wash- ington only from history, and by that alone can judge him. "Lincoln we know by history also; but thousands are still living who participated in the great events in which he was leader and master. "Many of his contemporaries survive him ; some are here yet in almost every locality. So Lincoln is not far removed from us. "History has proclaimed them the two 255 25G GREAT ORATIONS. greatest and best Americans. That verdict has not changed, and will not change, nor can we conceive how the historians of this or any age will ever determine what is so clearly a matter of pure personal opinion as to which of these noble men is entitled to greatest honor and homage from the people of America. "Says the gifted Henry Watterson, in a most beautiful, truthful and eloquent trib- ute to the great emancipator: " 'Born as lowly as the Son of God, reared in penury and squalor, with no gleam of light nor fair surroundings, it was reserved for this strange being, late in life, without name or fame, or seeming prep- aration, to be snatched from obscurity, raised to supreme command at a supreme moment, and intrusted with the destiny of a nation. " 'Where did Shakspere get his genius ? Where did Mozart get his music? Whose hand smote the lyre of the Scottish plow- man and staid the life of the German priest ? " 'God alone, and as surely as these were raised by God, inspired of God was Abra- ham Lincoln; and a thousand years hence no story, no tragedy, no epic poem will be filled with greater wonder than that which tells of his life and death. " 'If Lincoln was not inspired of God, then there is no such thing on earth as spe- cial providence or the interposition of di- vine power in the affairs of men.' "My fellow citizens, a noble manhood, nobly consecrated to man, never dies. "The martyr to liberty, the emancipator of a race, the savior of the only free gov- ernment among men, may be buried from human sight, but his deeds will live in human gratitude forever." &?* t5* (5* LINCOLN'S ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG. FOUR score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this conti- nent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great bat- tlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedi- cate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hal- low this ground. The braVe'men, living and dead, who struggled here, have conse- crated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for vis, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining be- fore us; that from the same honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead should not have died in vain ; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. — Abraham Lincoln. GREAT ORATIONS. 257 FROM BLAINE'S ORATION ON GARFIELD. (Delivered in the city of Washington, Monday, February 27th, 1882.) ON the morning of Saturday, July second, the President was a con- tented and happy man — not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly hap- py. On his way to the railroad station, to which he drove slowly, in conscious en- joyment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted sense of leisure and keen antici- pation of pleasure, his talk was all in the grateful and gratulatory vein. He felt that after four months of trial his administra- tion was strong in its grasp of affairs, strong in popular favor and destined to grow stronger; that grave difficulties con- fronting him at his inauguration had been safely passed; that trouble lay behind him and not before him ; that he was soon to meet his wife whom he loved, now recov- ering from an illness which had but lately disquieted and at times almost unnerved him; that he was going to his Alma Mater to renew the most cheerful associations of his young manhood and to exchange greet- ings with those whose deepening interest had followed n' "y step of his upward progress from the day he entered upon his college course until he had attained the loftiest elevation in the gift of his country- men. Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him ; no slight- est premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an in- stant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave. Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from his hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death — and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes whose lips may tell — what brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter rending of sweet household ties! Behind him a proud expectant nation ; a great host of sustaining friends ; a cherished and hap- py mother, wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the lit- tle boys not yet emerged from childhood's day of frolic; the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day and every day rewarding a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demands. Before him, desolation and great darkness ! And his soul was not shaken. His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound and universal sympathy. Masterful in his mor- tal weakness, he became the center of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love and . all the sym- pathy could not share with him his suffer- ing. He trod the winepress alone. With 258 GREAT ORATIONS. unfaltering front he faced death. With un- failing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the Divine decree. As the end drew near his early craving for the sea returned. The stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its heaving billows, within sound of its mani- fold voices. With wan, fevered face ten- derly lifted to the cooling breeze he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders ; on its far sails, whitening in the morning light ; on its restless waves, rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noonday sun ; on the red clouds of evening, arching low to the horizon ; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a farther shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning. (5* ^* ^* LINCOLN ON SLAVERY. (Delivered at the Republican State Convention at Springfield, 111., in 1858.) I BELIEVE this government cannot en- dure permanently half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dis- solved; I do not expect the house to fall; but I do expect that it will cease to be di- vided. It will become all one thing, or all the other. Either the- opponents of slavery will arrest the further spread of it, and place it where the public mind shall rest in the belief that it is in the course of ultimate extinction ; or its advocates will push it forward till it shall become alike lawful in all the states, old as well as new, North as well as South. Have we no tendency to the latter condition? Let anyone who doubts carefully contemplate that now al- most complete legal combination piece of machinery, so to speak, compounded of the Nebraska doctrine and the Dred Scott de- cision. Let him consider not only what work the machinery is adapted to do, and how well adapted, but also let him study the history of its construction, and trace, if he can, or rather fail, if he can, to trace the evidences of design and concert of action among its chief architects from the beginning." During the course of his second inaugu- ral address, delivered on March 4th,. 1865, but a short time before his assassination, President Lincoln said: "Neither party (North or South) ex- pected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease when, or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of GREAT ORATIONS. 259 other men's faces ; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayer of both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. 'Woe unto the world because of offenses, for it must needs be that offenses come, but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh.' If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the of- fense came — shall we discern there any de- parture from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword; as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, that 'the judgments of the Lord are true and right- eous altogether.' "With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations." ( The selections in this department are intended to supplement the regular departments and are of such great variety that a selection can be made on any subject. St & 4* THE ROUGH RIDER. WHERE the longhorns feed on the sun- cured grass, 'neath the blaze of a cloudless sky, Where the cactus crawls and the sage brush spreads on a plain of alkali, Where the lone wolf prowls and makes his feast on the range calf gone astray, Where the coward coyote yelps by night and slinks near the herds by day, Where the mountains frame the pictured plain with a border line of snow, Where the chill of death in the blizzard's breath falls with a sting and blow : There rides a man of the wild wide west, blest of the sun and air, A simple man with a face of tan, and a heart to do and dare. From rope, and quirt, and ripping gaff, and the strangling hackamore, The untamed broncho learned his will and a master burden bore. Over the hills and the gophered ground; still serving his direst need, When he rides in the peril of hoof and horn at the head of the night stampede. He is slow of speech but quick of hand, and keen and true of eye, He is wise in the learning of nature's school, the open earth and sky; He is strong with the strength of an honest heart, he is free as the mountain's breath, He takes no fear of a- living thing, and dy- ing, jests with death. — Richard Linthicum. 1C& 1£T* <(?• LOVE'S RAILWAY. THE starting point on love's railway is "Timid-glances." From thence the train moves slowly, at irregular rates of speed, till it reaches the station of "Squeeze- the-hand." From "Squeeze-the-hand" to "Call-in-the-evening" is but a short dis- tance, and is made in good time. Next, on a down-grade, and after a quick passage, we reach "Moonlight- Walk ;" a long pause is made here, and a fresh supply of fuel taken aboard. Steam is then raised and the train hurried on to the little station of "Drop-letters." Then comes an up-grade and bad track to "Green-eye." At "Green- eye" some repairs are necessary before we make the trip, still up-grade, to "Faith-re- stored." Here we have a level track, and make the station of "Pop-the-question" inside of schedule time. At "Pop-the-ques- tion" we must put on all the steam, for it is a terribly stiff grade from thence up to "Pa's-consent." Between these two points more than half the accidents occur which happen on this much-traveled road. Havr 299 300 MISCELLANEOUS. ing reached "Pa's-consent," we must screw down the brakes and reverse the engine, for the decline is almost precipitous, and the speed is terrific from thence to "Tie- the-knot." There are occasional accidents between these two points, but not many. Sometimes a train is complete. From "Tie-the-knot," the train hurries on as fast as possible, in order not to be behind time in reaching the important sta- tion of "Buy-the-cradle." Here the route becomes monotonous, and little interest is felt in the movement of the train — unless it should switch off the main track and run out to a side-station called "Family-jar." From this station return trips are occa- sionally made as far as "Pop-the-question," but no farther. There are no back trains to "Timid-glances," or "Squeeze-the- hand." Accidents quite frequently happen to trains which run direct from "Timid- glances" to "Pa's-consent," without stop- ping at intermediate points; for in running back from "Pa's-consent" to "Pop-the-ques- tion" the train is frequently thrown from the track, and there occurs a great smash. I have traveled the road from "Timid- glances" to "Moonlight-walk," stopping for some time at the stations of "Squeeze- the-hand" and "Call-in-the-evening." I once ran a considerable distance toward "Pop-the-question," but a screw got loose and I couldn't proceed. • I have now the machinery in good working order, and am getting steam up for a grand rush upon "Pop-the-question" and "Pa's-consent." If I reach those points in safety, no more will be heard of my train until it arrives "At Home." If I am unable to reach that point, it will be safe to conclude that the effort has "busted" the train. t5* ^* (0& MONEY MUSK. AH, the buxom girls that helped the boys — The nobler Helens of humbler Troys — As they stripped the husks with rustling fold From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold, By the candlelight in pumpkin bowls, And the gleams that showed fantastic holes In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin, From the hermit glim set up within; By the rarer light in the girlish eyes As dark as wells, or as blue as skies. I hear the laugh when the ear is red I see the blush with the forfeit paid, The cedar cakes with the ancient twist, The cider cup that the girls have kissed, And I see the fiddler through the dusk As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk!" The boys and girls in a double row Wait face to face till the magic bow Shall whip the tune from the violin, And the merry pulse of the feet begin. In shirt of check, and tallowed hair, The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair Like Moses' basket stranded there On the brink of Father Nile. He feels the fiddle's slender neck, Picks out the notes with thrum and check, And times the tune with nod and beck, And thinks it a weary while. MISCELLANEOUS. 301 All ready! Now he gives the call, Cries, "Honor to the ladies!" All The jolly tides of laughter fall And ebb in a happy smile. D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string, "First couple join right hands and swing!' As light as any bluebird's wing, "Swing once-and-a-half times round." Whirls Mary Martin all in blue — Calico gown and stockings new, And tinted eyes that tell you true, Dance all to the dancing sound. She flits about big Moses Brown, Who holds her hands to keep her down And thinks her hair a golden crown, And his heart turns over once! His cheek with Mary's breath is wet, It gives a second somerset! He means to win the maiden yet, Alas, for the awkward dunce! "Your stoga boot has crushed my toe;" "I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe!" "You clumsy fellow!" "Pass belozv!" And the first pair dance apart. Then "Forward six!" advance, retreat, Like midges gay in sunbeam street, Tis Money Musk by merry feet And the Money Musk by heart! "Three-quarters round your partner swing !" "Across the set!" The rafters ring, The girls and boys have taken wing And have brought their roses out! 'Tis "Forzvard six!" with rustic grace, Ah, rarer far than — "Swing to place!" Than golden clouds of old point-lace They bring the dance about. Then clasping hands all — "Right and left!" All swiftly weave the measure deft Across the woof in living weft And the Money Musk is done! Oh, dancers of the rustling husk, Good-night, sweethearts, 'tis growing dusk, Good-night for aye to Money Musk, For the heavy march begun! — Benjamin F. Taylor. t£& C?* ^* THE LITTLE OLD LOG HOUSE WHERE WE WERE BORN W HEN the labors and the cares of day are over, And the shades of night are falling o'er the town, And the sleepy sparrows seek their hiding places, And the silvery moonbeams softly shim- mer down, Oft we sit and dream about the days of childhood, When the life now waning fast was in its morn, Of the faces hid forever in the church- yard, And the little old log house where we were born. We can hear the bluebirds singing in the morning, When the golden sunrays touch the for- est trees; We can hear the catbird calling in the bushes, And can hear the humming of the busy bees. There the saucy squirrels chattered to the chipmunks, 302 MISCELLANEOUS. And the Bob White whistled in the wav- ing corn, And the pheasant drummed a tattoo in the wildwood, Near the little old log house where we were born. When the King of Winter swung his icy sceptre, And the trees were draped in bridal robes of white, In the snow we tracked the rabbits through the clearing, EVery boyish heart a-quiver with de- light, We'd return with hands all scratched by bristling briars, And our homespun clothes by thorns and bushes torn, To be patched and mended by the patient mother In the little old log house where we were born. There the country boys and girls would often gather For the jolly party of the wintry night, And the fiddler, with his hair all greased and shining, Jerked the bow across the strings with muscled might. And the old folks, too, would shake their feet in rapture O'er the solid puncheon floors so smoothly worn, While the god of love lurked near in wait for victims In the little old log house where we were born. Mid the grandeur of a mansion in the city, With the choicest modern comforts at command, Oft there comes into the soul an earnest longing As the silent wings of memory expand — Comes a wish to once more hear the wood- land voices, And to hear the song-birds greet the early morn, And to lie and dream beneath the oaks and maples, Near the little old log house where we were born. ti5* t5* «5* TO A MOUSE IN A TRAP. POOR, trembling wretch, what sad mis- hap Has brought you tight within my tra Had man's vile greed so clean bereft Your bairnies that you'd stoop to theft ? Ah, who'd not lay his scruples by That heard his babies' hungered cry? Still, though to mercy I incline, Must I the ends of law resign? The crust you sought full well you knew Belonged to me and not to you. But — peace ! I'll grant your frenzied plea, Move back the bars and set you free. If man one God-like spark can claim, Then surely mercy is its, name. So, though you meant to steal my bread, I'll spend no anger on your head, But, warned by gentle mercy's flame, I'll let you go as poor's you came. As poor's you came, yet richer far By freedom's gift than now you are. Your life's to me of little worth — To you the grandest fact of earth ; So now, whilst I throw wide my door, Begone, wee neighbor — sin no more! — Frank Putnam. MISCELLANEOUS. 303 TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. WHEN they reached the depot, Mr. Mann and his wife gazed in un- speakable disappointment at the receding train, which was just pulling away from the bridge switch at the rate of a mile a minute. Their first impulse was to run after it, but as the train was out of sight and whistling for Sagetown before they could act upon the impulse, they remained in the carriage and disconsolately turned their horses' heads homeward. Mr. Mann broke the silence, very grimly : "It all comes of having to wait for a woman to get ready." "I was ready before you were," replied his wife. "Great heavens," cried Mr. Mann, with great impatience, nearly jerking the horses' jaws out of place, "just listen to that! And I sat in the buggy ten minutes yelling at you to come along until the whole neigh- borhood heard me." "Yes," acquiesced Mrs. M'ann, with the provoking placidity which no one can as- sume but a woman, "and every time I started down stairs you sent me back for something you had forgotten." Mr. Mann groaned. "This is too much to bear," he said, "when everybody knows that if I were going to Europe I would just rush into the house, put on a clean shirt, grab up my gripsack, and fly, while you would want at least six months for pre- liminary preparations, and then dawdle around the whole day of starting until every train had left town." Well, the upshot of the matter was that the Manns put off their visit to Aurora until the next week, and it was agreed that each one should get himself or herself ready and go down to the train and go, and the one who failed to get ready should be left. The day of the match came around in due time. The train was going at 10:30, and Mr. Mann, after attending to his busi- ness, went home at 9:45. "Now, then," he shouted, "only three- quarters of an hour's time. Fly around; a fair field and no favors, you know." And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged into this room and flew through that one, and dived into one closet after another with inconceivable rapidity, chuckling under his breath all the time to think how cheap Mrs. Mann would feel when he started off alone. He stopped on his way up stairs to pull off his heavy boots to save time. For the same reason he pulled off his coat as he ran through the dining room and hung it on the corner of the silver closet. Then he jerked off his vest as he rushed through the hall and tossed it on the hat-rack hook, and by the time he had reached his own room he was ready to plunge into his clean clothes. He pulled out a bureau drawer and began to paw at the things like a Scotch terrier after a rat. "Eleanor," he shrieked, "where are my shirts?" "In your bureau drawer," calmly replied Mrs. Mann, who was standing before a glass calmly and deliberately coaxing a re- fractory crimp into place. "Well, but they ain't!" shouted Mr. Mann, a little annoyed. "I've emptied everything out of the drawer, and there isn't a thing in it I ever saw before." Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, held her head on one side, and after satis- fying herself that the crimp would do, re- plied: "These things scattered around on the floor are all mine. Probably you haven't been looking into your own drawer." 304 MISCELLANEOUS. "I don't see," testily observed Mr. Mann, "why you couldn't have put my things out for me when you had nothing else to do all the morning." "Because," said Mrs. Mann, setting her- self into an additional article of raiment with awful deliberation, "nobody put mine out for me. A fair field and no favors, my dear." Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like a bull at a red flag. "Foul!" he shouted in malicious triumph. "No buttons on the neck!" "Because," said Mrs. Mann sweetly, after a deliberate stare at the fidgeting, im- patient man, during which she buttoned her dress and put eleven pins where they would do the most good, "because you have got the shirt on wrong side out." When Mr. Mann slid out of the shirt he began to sweat. He dropped the shirt three times before he got it on, and while it was over his head he heard the clock strike ten. When his head came through he saw Mrs. Mann coaxing the ends and bows of her necktie. "Where are my shirt studs?" he cried. Mrs. Mann went out into another room and presently came back with gloves and hat, and saw Mr. Mann emptying all the boxes he could find in and around the bu- reau. Then she said, "In the shirt you just pulled off." Mrs. Mann put on her gloves while Mr. Mann hunted up and down the room for his cuff-buttons. "Eleanor," he snarled, at last, "I believe you must know where those cuff-buttons are." "I haven't seen them," said the lady, set- tling her hat; "didn't you lay them down on the window-sill in the sitting-room last night?" Mr. Mann remembered, and he went down stairs on the run. He stepped on one of his boots and was immediately landed in the hall at the foot of the stairs with neatness and despatch, attended in the transmission with more bumps than he could count with Webb's Adder, and landed with a bang like the Hell Gate ex- plosion. "Are you nearly ready, Algernon?" sweetly asked the wife of his bosom, lean- ing over the banisters. The unhappy man groaned. "Can't you throw mie down the other boot?" he asked. Mrs. Mann, pityingly, kicked it down to him. "My valise?" he inquired, as he tugged at the boot. "Up in your dressing-room," she an- swered. "Packed?" "I do not know; unless you packed it yourself, probably not," she replied, with her hand on the door knob; "I had barely time to pack my own." She was passing out of the gate when the door opened, and he shouted, "Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest? It has all my money in it!" "You threw it on the hat-rack," she called. "Good-bye, dear." Before she got to the corner of the street she was hailed again. "Eleanor! Eleanor! Eleanor Mann! Did you wear off my coat?" She paused and turned, after signaling the street car to stop, and cried, "You threw it in the silver closet." The street car engulfed her graceful form and she was seen no more. But the neighbors say that they heard Mr. Mann charging up and down the house, rushing out of the front door every now and then, shrieking after the unconscious Mrs. Mann, to know where his hat was, and MISCELLANEOUS. 305 where she put the valise key, and if she had his clean socks and undershirts, and that there wasn't a linen collar in the house. And when he went away at last, he left the kitchen door, the side door, and the front door, all the down-stairs windows and the front gate, wide open. The loungers around the depot were somewhat amused, just as the train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, to see a flushed, enterprising man, with his hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned and necktie flying, and his gripsack flapping open and shut like a demented shutter on a March night, and a door key in his hand, dash wildly across the platform and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in de- jected, impotent, wrathful mortification at the departing train, and shaking his fist at a pretty woman who was throwing kisses at him from the rear platform of the last car. to& to* 10* T MOTHER'S HESE days of cool September, An' hazy night an' morn, Set me thinkin' o' the punkins Among the rustlin' corn ; An' I'm back again with mother, A lookin' in her eyes, An' thinkin' they are sweet'nin', Her famous punkin pies. Fer when from out the oven, A crispy golden brown, The crust in flaky scollops, Like lace upon a gown, She used tu take an' set 'em In rows tu feast my eyes, I jest thanked God fer mother, An' mother's punkin pies. PUNKIN PIES. Why all I've larned of natur, An' human natur's wiles, An' the rugged path tu glory, I owe tu mother's smiles, As she helped us plant the punkin An' corn, 'neath April skies, An' told me how the seasons Ripened her punkin pies. I tell you there ain't nuthin' Upon this livin' earth, A man kin larn tu treasure Of everlastin' worth, Like things his mother taught him, When his big an' honest eyes Was watchin' her contrivin' Them golden punkin pies. «5* t<5* t5* BREVITIES. THE man who insists upon conversa- tion whether you will or no was on the train with me between Detroit and Chi- cago. This time, as is often the case, he was one of those dear fellows, the com- mercial travelers. I was reading when he took a seat opposite and began to talk. "Traveling?" "Yes." "What line?" "Paper." "Wall?" I gave up. As an example of the laconic in conversation it reminded me of a story told me once by Max O'Rell. It was of a Scotsman stopping before a shop door in a Scotch village. He took a bit of cloth in his hand. "'Oo'?" he asked. 306 MISCELLANEOUS. "Aye, W," said the shopkeeper. "A' 'oo'?" "Aye, a' 'oo'." "A' ae 'oo'?" "Aye, a' ae 'oo'." Which, being interpreted, would be re- corded in ordinary English. "Wool?" "Yes, wool." "All wool?" "Yes, all wool." "All the same quality of wool ?" ^Yes, all the same wool." — Moses P. Handy. * CASEY AT THE BAT. IT looked extremely rocky for the Mud- ville nine that day; The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play. So, when Cooney died at second, and Bur- rows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the pa- trons of the game. A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast, For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that," They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake. So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a "single," to the won- derment of all, And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball." And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third. Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It rumbled in the mountain tops, it rattled in the dell ! It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face ; And, when responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then, when the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watchin' it in mighty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball un- heeded sped ; "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said. MISCELLANEOUS. 307 From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of storm waves on the stern and distant shore; "Kill him I kill the umpire!" shouted some- one on the stand; And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone ; He stilled the rising tumult, he made the game go on ; He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two." "•Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered "Fraud !" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed ; They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let the ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey's lips, his teeth are clenched in hate. He pounds with cruel vengeance his bat upon the plate ; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and some- where hearts are light ; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, But there is no joy in Mudville ; mighty Casey has struck out! — Ernest L. Thayer. t2& t&& ^* OLD MART AND ME. HIT'S been so monstrous long ago it seems jes like a dream, Sence we was only chunks er boys — a rough-an'-tumble team — That useter dam the spring-house branch an' set up flutter wheels, An' work so dead in arnest that we often missed our meals, An' sometimes fit en quarreled till we war a sight to see, • An' frequent we got licked for that, Old Mart an' me. Time come we had to go to school — some furder en a mile — But what we larnt, ontil this day, jis sorter makes me smile ; 'Twas little mo' than nuthin', en we got it, inch by inch, While the teacher lammed it to us, till we hed the mortal cinch On everything the old man knowed, plum to the rule of three, But frequent we got licked for that, Old Mart an' me. We was raised on farms adjinin', with plenty all aroun', But still we'd skip off, after dark, an' pole away to town, Three mile, up hill, ef 'twar a foot, an' jine the boys up there, To eat sardines, and smoke seegyars, an' have a sort of "tare," 308 MISCELLANEOUS. Or rob a neighbor's million patch — for dev- iltry, you see — But frequent we got licked for at, Old Mart an' me. At spellin' bees and singin' school, thar's whar we useter shine; We couldn't spell a little bit, ner sing so mighty fine, But when it come to courtin' gals an' seein' of 'em home, Why we was thar, an' you hear me, 'twas honey in the comb, Then Widder Kane got married, an' we raised a shivaree — But didn't we get licked for that, Old Mart an' me. When finally the war broke loose, an' Mart an' me went in, One time we struck a scrimmage that was livelier en sin; We had it, back an' forrards, twict, acrost a cotton patch — You never see'd, in all yo' life, a hotter shootin' match — I got a plug clean through my leg, an' him one in the knee, So, we got sorter licked at that, Old Mart an' me. We've had some ups and downs in life, and growin' kinder old, With hearts as warm as ever, an' they will never git cold, So fur as him and me's consarned ; not even over thar, When all are called to answer, at the final jedgement bar, For friendship's close to holiness, and blamed ef I can see, How we'll git licked a bit for that, Old Mart an' me. — William Lightfoot Visscher. x3r$ i&t *£& THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. \\1 HERE the tide crept up in a stealthy By the reefs and hollows of Table Bay The dwellings rude of the Dutchmen lay. And the night approached with a sign of storm, For the winds blew cold and the winds blew warm, And cloud-rack high in the skies would form. And off to the right, in the lone cape's lee, A vessel surged in the wallowing sea, And the whitecaps gleamed and the winds rose free. 'Twas the brig that carried the Holland mails Through the summer's calm or the winter gales, And her pennant streamed o'er her tawny sails. A giant she was in a giant's grip, For the dark seas clung to the struggling ship, And the salt brine down from the shrouds did drip. And her sails were wet with the glancing spray As she loomed through the gathering dark- ness gray, And her bow was headed for Table Bay. But the sea beat back with a sodden force MISCELLANEOUS. 309 The Dutchman's ship in its wandering course, And the thunder's mockery bellowed hoarse. And a woman waited beside a tree, In the moan of the winds and the branches' dree, For a letter to come that night by sea. Then shouted the mate to the skipper there, "Turn back," so sounded his trumpet's blare, "Or our seams will split and our masts stand bare." But Vanderdecken drew his blade, And the steely sheen that its flashing made Struck light from the all-surrounding shade. And his anger stood in his bristling hair While his furious sword-stroke smote the air As he stood alone in defiance there. And he swore to weather the stubborn gaie With its rattling volleys of icy hail, If it stripped from the masts each tattered sail; And to beat around for that very bay, And where was the one who could say him nay — "By God! if he sailed till the judgment day." Then the mist grew dense and the light- ning flashed, And a red bolt down on the tree-top crashed, Where a woman stood by the shore sea- lashed. And the thunder tolled in the blackening clouds, And the waves swept by in hurrying crowds, And a wan light paled in the creaking shrouds ; While a scream came by from the far-off shore That was hushed and drowned by the mad waves' roar, And the vessel passed and was seen no more. And now on that selfsame fateful night, If the seas be calm and the skies are bright, The ocean giveth a mystic sight. For a shadow-ship and a shadow-frame Goes by at twelve through the moonlight flame, Passing as suddenly as it came. And a whisper thrills through the salt- sweet breeze, While a heart-throb stirs in the moving seas And the tide fast out to the ocean flees. And a fine wind stirs in the tree-top high That ghostly stands in the starlit sky, And a sound wells up like a woman's sigh. But when on that night the clouds turn black And the huge waves follow the storm king's track, And the skies are heavy with tempest- wrack, Why, then is seen, as a spectre gray, 'Mid the shimmering mist and lightning- play, A vessel headed for Table Bay. And the ship, like a lover, keeps her troth To her skipper's pledge — 'twas a pledge for both — 310 MISCELLANEOUS. And the wild winds echo the Dutchman's oath, And a wraith waits there by the haunted tree, While the storm wails on and the wind blows free, For a letter which comes not in from the sea. — Ernest McGaffey. d5* «5* ^* THE MEN WHO LOSE. HERE'S to the men who lose! What though their work be e'er so nobly planned And watched with zealous care, No glorious halo crowns their efforts grand ; Contempt is failure's share. Here's to the men who lose ! If triumph's easy smiles our struggles greet, Courage is easy then ; The king is he who, after fierce defeat, Can up and fight again. Here's to the men who lose ! The ready plaudits of a fawning world Ring sweet in victor's ears ; The vanquished's banners never are un- furled — For them there sound no cheers. Here's to the men who lose ! The touchstone of true worth is not suc- cess: There is a higher test — Though fate may darkly frown, onward to press, And bravely do one's best. Here's to the men who lose! It is the vanquished's praises that I sing, And this the toast I choose : "A hard-fought failure is a noble thing. Here's a luck to those who lose!" — G. H. Broadhurst. t&fr t2fr i&* THE STREAMS OF LIFE. THESE Streams of Life that ever flow Through earth's unnumbered living things — Whence come they, whither do they go, And where are their exhaustless springs ? Our little lives are here to-day, Where, when these throbbing hearts are still, To me there comes no certain ray Of light, the dark abyss to fill. And do these fountains outward flow, Wherever sweeps the Almighty's wand, Farther than human thought can go, Through the Measureless Beyond? Oh, tell me why, if there are not, On far more glorious worlds than ours, Beings of broader, deeper thought, Of nobler form, and mightier powers ? Or, is it only on the earth, This little speck of love and strife, That thought and being have their birth, And matter quickens into life? Oh, Mysteries of Mysteries, Who shall the vast unknown explore? Who sail the illimitable seas That stretch beyond this earthly shore? And having scanned the realms of space, The countless worlds that circle there, MISCELLANEOUS. 311 Shall come again, and face to face, To us the wondrous truth declare. Go forth ye workers of the brain, Pierce the dark veil that hides the un- known ; There's much of truth and good to gain, There's much of fallow ground unsown. A life of idle luxury For earnest, restless, thinking mind I" cannot think would even be A happy life in heaven to find. Search then and toil, even though ye fail, Bold delvers in the mine of thought, To look beyond the parting veil ; Your labor shall not be for naught. But give me still where'er I be, All Nature's beauty bathed in light, The glory of earth, sky and sea, The solemn majesty of night. For there's no breath of common air, No ray of light from star or sun, No shade of beauty anywhere But whispers^of the Almighty One. His law supreme rules every place — The invisible dust that floats around, The mighty orbs that roll through space, All life, all motion, light and sound. ^* ^* t3* ALWAYS CONSULT YOUR WIFE. A BLUEBIRD sat on a farmhouse shed And wagged his tail as he scratched his head, While he puzzled his brain to find the best And safest spot to build his nest. A "cruel monster," this bluebird, he No counsel would take from Mrs. B b, He did not allow her in aught to have choice, Nor in family matters to raise up her voice. The consequence was that his wife's small head Was very firm set against all that he said; But he was the master, and "willy or nilly," His orders she followed — no matter how silly. "Chick-a-dee ! I have it! The very thing! We will go where the swallows built last spring "You have it, indeed!" sneered Mrs. B bj "You'd do no such thing if you listened to me! "Why not build in the shed?" "Hush! hush, my dear! You've nothing to do but sit quiet and hear." So sloth prevailed, and they quietly took A swallow's nest in the chimney nook. "Three eggs?" Mr. Bluebird hopped out in the sun To laugh at the trick he'd played. "What fun!" But as he was smoothing his little brown vest, Came a sound which soon made him fly back to the nest. The swallows had come, and their" fierce, flashing eyes Showed the anger they felt, as well as sur- prise. After some consultation they urged the re- quest 312 MISCELLANEOUS. That Blue and his wife would vacate their nest. But gentleman Blue knew the old-time saw, Possession is fully nine-tenths of the law; And he laughed in their faces, and winked his left eye, As much as to say, "You are green, not I." But Mrs. B b, with an angry burst, Said, "I told you so from the very first; And I won't stay here another day." So out she flew and hurried away. "Good riddance!" cried Bluebird. "To go you are free, But they won't find it easy to get rid of me!" Alas! for the folly that revels in sin; The swallows with mud came and coffined him in. Moral : Oh, man who wouldst flourish and prosper in life, In matters of moment consult with thy wife. ^* <5* (3* SAND. I OBSERVED a locomotive in the rail- road yards one day — It was waiting in the round-house where the locomotives stay; It was panting for the journey, it was coaled and fully manned, And it had a box the fireman was filling full of sand. It appears that locomotives cannot always get a grip On their slender iron pavement, 'cause the wheels are apt to slip; And when they reach a slippery spot, their tactics they command, And to get a grip upon the rail, they sprin- kle it with sand. It's about this way with travel along life's slippery track, If your load is rather heavy and you're al- ways sliding back; So, if a common locomotive you completely understand, You'll supply yourself, in starting, with a good supply of sand. If your track is steep and hilly and you have a heavy grade, And if those who've gone before you have the rails quite slippery made, If you ever reach the summit of the upper tableland, You'll find you'll have to do it with a lib- eral use of sand. If you strike some frigid weather and dis- cover to your cost That you're liable to slip on a heavy coat of frost Then some prompt, decided action will be called into demand, You'll slip way to the bottom if you haven't any sand. You can get to any station that is on life's schedule seen, If there's fire beneath the boiler of ambi- tion's strong machine; And you'll reach a place called Flushtown at a rate of speed that's grand, If for all the slippery places you've a good supply of sand. MISCELLANEOUS. 313 LORRAINE, LORREE. ARE you ready for your steeplechase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree? You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee, You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see, To keep him straight, and keep him first, and win the run for me." She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lor- raine, Lorraine, Lorree, "I can not ride Vindictive, as any man might see, And I will not ride Vindictive with this baby on my knee ; He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why must he kill me ?" "Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coul- terlee And land him safe across the brook and win the blank for me, It's you who may keep your baby, for you'll get no keep from me." "That husbands could be cruel," said Lor- raine, Lorraine, Lorree, "That husbands could be cruel I have known for seasons three; But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me And be killed across the fence at last for all the world to see?" She mastered young Vindictive — oh! the gallant lass was she ! — And she kept him straight and won the race, as near as near could be ; But he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow tree. Oh ! he killed her at the brook — the brute ! — for all the world to see, And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorree. — Charles Kingsley. *a* t£& t5* LIKE OTHER MEN. OH, varied are the changes, half unno- ticed, all unsung, That have passed across this world of ours since you and I were young, When all the sea, and sky, and earth, and stars that gemmed the night, Were ours by eminent domain of youth's unchallenged right — Old comrade of my boyhood, do you e'er recall the joys Of that glorious, care-free time of life when you and I were boys? We knew, perchance, that other ships o'er favoring seas had sailed, And of the harbor of success had fallen short, and failed To reach the golden shores they sought, but no such luckless fate Along the future's glittering waves for us could lie in wait — For all the good things of this world but waited our command And all there was for us to do was occupy the land. We dreamed of great and noble deeds we'd do as life sped on, When honor, fame and glory, and un- bounded wealth were won ; 314 MISCELLANEOUS. For other men, perhaps, might be a life of toil and grind, The grip of poverty might seize upon the grovelling mind — But as for us, our shining path lay upward and across The everlasting hills of Hope, where no man suffers loss ! Ah, well, we've drifted on until the even- ing shades lie long Across the afternoon of life, and all the happy throng Of boys that used to play with us upon the schoolhouse green, Have laid their tired heads to rest, and passed to the unseen, And you and I, old comrade, have suc- ceeded much the same As the hundred thousand other men un- known to wealth or fame. — Clara A. Trask. <&* t^fc 1£& CANADIAN CAMPING SONG. A WHITE tent pitched by a glassy lake, Well under a shady tree, Or by rippling rills from the grand old hills, Is the summer home for me. I fear no blaze of the noontide rays, For woodland glades are mine, The fragrant air, and that perfume rare, — The odor of forest pine. A cooling plunge at the break of day, A paddle, a row or sail; With always a fish for a midday dish, And plenty of Adam's ale; With rod or gun, or in hammock swung, We glide through the pleasant days; When darkness falls on our canvas walls, We kindle the camp-fire's blaze. From out the gloom sails the silv'ry moon, O'er forests dark and still; Now far, now near, ever sad and clear, Comes the plaint of whip-poor-will; With song and laugh, and with kindly chaff, We startle the birds above ; Then rest tired heads on our cedar beds, And dream of the ones we love. — James D. Edgar. ON THE SKAGUAY TRAIL. GOD pity the babe on the icy trail, In the arms of those who loved it best, Yet failed to shield from the withering gale That claimed its prey at the mother's breast. On the summit they mourned a lifeless child, Sobbing their grief to the mocking storm, Then left to the snows and the trackless wild The cache that cradled the frozen form. The argonaut pauses with moistened cheek And tear-dimmed eyes, who would never quail In the battle's front, for the strong grow weak, Where baby sleeps on the Skaguay trail. MISCELLANEOUS. 315 A youth with his face toward the great divide, With steady purpose that would not fail Of the hidden gold on the other side, For which he climbed up the mountain trail, — But the river, his fondest dreams to mock, Hollowed a bed 'neath the yielding wave, Then shattered his form on the tide and rock, — And instead of treasure he found a grave. In the home where is dearth of song and laugh, Where echoes a stricken mother's wail, And the father yearns for his broken staff, — An ended life on the Skaguay trail. He was three score years, with the heart of youth, A hero's courage, an athlete's strength, Who had compassed the fearful pass, for- sooth, Would traverse the mighty Yukon's length. But a messenger came, unvoiced, unsought, Whose presence darkened the golden star, He called, but the stalwart answered not, For speech was hushed and the soul afar; And she, who had periled her life with him, Who climbed the summit without avail, Turned wearily back through the shadows dim, Back from the grave on the Skaguay trail. — Mary Byron Reese. ic& (,?• c5* DOMINION DAY. "Fidelis." WITH feu-de-joie and merry bells, and cannon's thundering peal, And pennons fluttering on the breeze, and serried rows of steel, We greet, again, the birthday morn of our young giant's land, From the Atlantic stretching wide to far Pacific strand; With flashing rivers, ocean lakes, and prairies wide and free, And waterfalls, and forests dim, and moun- tains by the sea; A country on whose birth-hour smiles the genius of romance, Above whose cradle brave hands waved the lily-cross of France; Whose infancy was grimly nursed in peril, pain and woe ; Whose gallant hearts found early graves beneath Canadian snow ; When savage raid and ambuscade and fam- ine's sore distress, Combined their strength, in vain, to crush the dauntless French noblesse; When her dim, trackless forest lured again and yet again, From silken courts of sunny France, her flower, the brave Champlain. And now, her proud traditions boast four blazoned rolls of fame, — Crecy's and Flodden's deadly foes our an- cestors we claim ; Past feud and battle buried far behind the peaceful years, While Gaul and Celt and Briton turn to pruning-hooks their spears; Four nations welded into one, — with long historic past, Have found, in these our western wilds, one common life, at last; 316 MISCELLANEOUS. Through the young giant's mighty limbs, that stretch from sea to sea, There runs a throb of conscious life — of waking energy. From Nova Scotia's misty coast to far Co- lumbia's shore, She wakes, — a band of scattered homes and colonies no more, But a young nation, with her life full beat- ing in her breast, A noble future in her eyes — the Britain of the West. Hers be the noble task to fill the yet un- trodden plains With fruitful, many-sided life that courses through her veins ; The English honor, nerve, and pluck, — the Scotsman's love of right, — The grace of courtesy of France, — the Irish fancy bright, — The Saxon's faithful love of home, and home's affections blest; And, chief of all, our holy faith, — of all our treasures best. A people poor in pomp and state, but rich in noble deeds, Holding that righteousness exalts the peo- ple that it leads ; As yet the waxen mould is soft, the open- ing page is fair ; It rests with those who rule us now, to leave their impress there, — The stamp of true nobility, high honor, stainless truth; The earnest quest of noble ends; the gen- erous heart of youth; The love of country, soaring far above dull party strife; The love of learning, art, and song — the crowning grace of life; The love of science, soaring far through Nature's hidden ways; The love and fear of Nature's God — a na- tion's highest praise. So, in the long hereafter, this Canada shall be The worthy heir of British power and Brit- ish liberty; Spreading the blessings of her sway to her remotest bounds, While, with the fame of her fair name, a continent resounds. True to her high traditions, to Britain's ancient glory Of patient saint and martyr, alive in death- less story ; Strong, in their liberty and truth,, to shed from shore to shore A light among the nations, till nations are no more. t5* ^* ^* A GENTLEMAN HE could not be so poor that he would hate the rich, Nor yet so rich that he despised the poor. He is so brave and just, that not a turn nor hitch, In all of fortune's winding way, could lure Him to an act or thought of vile in- gratitude. He's true unto himself, and thus to every man And has that courage, high, and grand, and strong, That comes with kindness, and with honor leads the van To help the right, and sternly punish wrong ; To strip injustice till it shivers, shamed and nude. * MISCELLANEOUS. 317 He seeks the culture that, refining, gives a grace And comfort to himself and those around. He has no ostentation, nor would he abase Himself to thus become a monarch crowned. Clean comes his thought and from his hand a brother's grip. He comes from anywhere — aye, e'en from Nazareth — From north and south, and from the east and west; He comes as comes the cool and grateful breeze's breath. He need not be an angel from the blest, He might be, thus, too good for man's companionship. A FATHER'S ADVICE TO HIS SON. REMEMBER, my son, you have to work. Whether you handle a pick or a pen, a wheelbarrow or a set of books, digging ditches or editing a paper, ringing an auction bell or writing funny things, you must work. If you look around, you will see the men who are the most able to live the rest of their days without work are the men who work the hardest. Don't be afraid of killing yourself with overwork. It is beyond your power to do that on the sunny side of thirty. They die sometimes, but it is because they quit work at six p. m., and don't get home until two a. m. It's the interval that kills, my son. The work gives you an appetite for your meals; it lends solidity to your slumbers; it gives you a perfect and grateful appreciation of a holi- day. There are young men who do not work, but the world is not proud of them. It does not know their names, even ; it simply speaks of them as "old So-and-so's boys." Nobody likes them ; the great, busy world doesn't know that they are there. So find out what you want to be and do, and take off your coat and make a dust in the world. The busier you are, the less harm you will be apt to get into, the sweeter will be your sleep, the brighter and happier your holi- days, and the better satisfied will the world be with you. — R. J. Burdette. (,$» $5* «,?• THE MAN THAT MARRIED. THE sun's heat will give out in ten million years more," And he worried about it ; "It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before," And he worried about it ; It would surely give out, so the scientists said In all scientific books that he read, And the whole mighty universe then would be dead, And he worried about it. "And some day the earth will fall into the sun," And he worried about it ; "Just as sure, and as straight as if shot from a gun," And he worried about it ; "When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps Just picture," he said, "what a fearful col- lapse ! It will come in a few million ages, perhaps," And he worried about it. 318 MISCELLANEOUS. "The earth will become much too small for the race," And he worried about it ; "When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space," And he worried about it ; "The earth will be crowded so much, with- out doubt, That there'll be no room for one's tongue to stick out, And no room for one's thoughts to wander about," And he worried about it. "The Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torrider," And he worried about it ; "Than was ever the climate of southern- most Florida," And he worried about it. "The ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens, And crocodiles block up our mowing ma- chines, And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans," And he worried about it. "And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt," And he worried about it ; "Our supply of lumber and coal will give out," And he worried about it ; "Just when the Ice Age will return cold and raw, Frozen men will stand stiff with arms out- stretched in awe, As if vainly beseeching a general thaw," And he worried about it. His wife took in washing (a dollar a day), He didn't worry about it ; His daughter sewed shirts, the rude grocer to pay, He didn't worry about it, While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub- dub On the washboard drum in her old wooden tub He sat by the stove and he just let her rub, He didn't worry about it. — Sam Walter Foss. %£& t5* ^* THE EGGS THAT NEVER HATCH. THERE'S a young man on the cor- ner, Filled with life and strength and hope, Looking far beyond the present, With the whole world in his scope. He is grasping at to-morrow, That phantom none can catch; To-day is lost. He's waiting For the eggs that never hatch. There's an old man over yonder, With a worn and weary face, With searching anxious features, And weak, uncertain pace. He is living in the future, With no desire to catch The golden Now. He's waiting For the eggs that never hatch. There's a world of men and women, With their life's work yet undone, Who are sitting, standing, moving Beneath the same great sun ; Ever eager for the future, But not content to snatch The Present. They are waiting For the eggs that never hatch. MISCELLANEOUS. 319 EVERYTHING pleased our neighbor Jim. When it rained He never complained, But said wet weather suited him. "There never is too much rain for me. And this is something like," said he. When earth was dry as a powder mill, He did not sigh Because it was dry, But said if he could have his will It would be his chief supreme delight To live where the sun shone day and night. When winter came with its snow and ice, He did not scold Because it was cold, But said : "Now this is real nice ; If ever from home I'm forced to go, CONTENTED JIM. I'll move up North with the Esquimau." A cyclone whirled along its track, And did him harm — It broke his arm, And stripped the coat from off his back ; "And I would give another limb To see such a blow again," said Jim. And when at length his years were told, And his body bent, And his strength all spent, And Jim was very weak and old: "I long have wanted to know," he said, "How it feels to die" — and Jim was dead. The Angel of Death had summoned To heaven, or — well, I cannot tell; But I knew that the climate suited Jim; And cold or hot, it mattered not — It was to him the long-sought spot. t5* c5* ^* THE TRUE GENTLEMAN WHAT is a gentleman? Is it a thing Decked with a scarf-pin, a chain, and a ring, Dressed in a suit of immaculate style, Sporting an eye-glass, a lisp, and a smile? Talking of operas, concerts, and balls, Evening assemblies and afternoon calls, Sunning himself at "At Homes" and ba- zars, Whistling mazurkas, and smoking cigars? What is a gentleman ? Say, is it one Boasting of conquests and deeds he has done? One who unblushingly glories to speak Things which should call up a blush to his cheek ? One, who, whilst railing at actions unjust, Robs some young heart of its pureness and trust ; Scorns to steal money, or jewels, or wealth, Thinks it no crime to take honor by stealth ? What is a gentleman? Is it not one Knowing instinctively what he should shun, Speaking no word that can injure or pain, Spreading no scandal and deep'ning no stain ? One who knows how to put each at his ease, Striving instinctively always to please ; One who can tell, by a glance at your cheek, When to be silent, and when he should speak ? What is a gentleman? Is it not one Honestly eating the bread he has won, 320 MISCELLANEOUS. Living in uprightness, fearing his God, Leaving no stain on the path he has trod, Caring not whether his coat may be old, Prizing sincerity far above gold, Recking not whether his hand may be hard, Stretching it boldly to grasp its reward ? What is a gentleman ? Say, is it birth Makes a man noble, or adds to his worth? Is there a family tree to be had Spreading enough to conceal what is bad? Seek out the man who has God for his Guide Nothing to blush for, and nothing to hide ; Be he a noble, or be he in trade, This is the gentleman Nature has made. C5* t5* fcS* WHY SHE DIDN'T STAY IN THE POOR-HOUSE. NO, I didn't stay in the poor-house, and this is how, you see, It happened at the very last, there came a way for me. The Lord, he makes our sunniest times out of our darkest days, And yet we fail most always to render His name the praise. But, as I am goin' to tell you, I have a home of my own, And keep my house, an' — no, I'm not a- livin' here alone. Of course you wonder how it is, an' I'm a-goin' to tell How, though I couldn't change a jot, the Lord done all things well. I've spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Re- becca, "that lives out west;" An' Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best; An' Susan; — but not a single word I said about another one, — Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was our wayward son, An' while his father was livin' he ran away to sea, An' never sent a word or line to neither him nor me. Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there, An' what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear. But I couldn't talk of Georgie — he was too dear to blame, — It seemed as if I couldn't bear even to hear his name. But when I took my pauper's place in that old work -house grim, My weary heart was every day a-cryin' out for him. For I'd tried the love of the others, and found it weak and cold, An' I kind o' felt if Georgie knew that I was poor and old, He'd help to make it better, and try to do his part, For love and trust are last of all to die in a woman's heart. An' he used to be always tellin' when he was a man and strong, How he'd work for father and mother; and he never done no wrong, Exceptin' his boyish mischief, an' his run- nin' off to sea; So somehow now, out of them all, he seemed the best to me. And so the slow days wore along, just as the days all go, When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we know Is nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till 'twould seem That the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream. MISCELLANEOUS.. 321 And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him, And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes were dim. And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never again I should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men. When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin' up to me, Sayin', "Mother! my God! have they put you here?" An' then I see 'Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, and I knowed nothin' more, 'Cause I got faint, and but for him, I'd fallen on the floor. They say he swore some awful words — I don't know — it may be; But swear or not, I know my boy's been very, very good to me. An' he's bought the old home back again, an' I've come here to stay, Never to move till the last move — the final goin' away. An' I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie's good an' kind, An' the thought of bein' a pauper ain't wearin' on my mind; But still I never can forget until my dyin' day, That they put me in the poor-house 'cause I was in the way. t5* *5* <■?* SAVING MOTHER. THE farmer sat in his easy chair Between the fire and the lamplight's glare; His face was ruddy, and full and fair. His three small boys in the chimney nook Scanned the lines of a picture book; His wife, the pride of his home and heart, Baked the biscuit and made the tart, Laid the table and steeped the tea, Deftly, swiftly, silently; Tired and weary, and weak and faint, She bore her trials without complaint, Like many another household saint — Content, all selfish bliss above, In the patient ministry of love. At last, between the clouds of smoke That wreathed his lips, the husband spoke: "There's taxes to raise, and int'rest to pay, And if there should come a rainy day, 'Twould be mighty handy, I'm boun' to say, T' have sumpthin' put by. For folks must die, An' there's funeral bills an' gravestuns to buy — Enough to swamp a man, purty nigh. Besides, there's Edward and Dick and Joe To be provided for when we go. "So'f I was you, I'll tell you what I'd du; I'd be savin' of wood as ever I could — Extry fire don't du any good — I'd be savin' of soap, an' savin' of ile, And run up some candles once in a while; I'd be rather sparin' of coffee an' tea, For sugar is high, And all to buy, And cider is good enough for me. I'd be kind o' careful about my clo'es And look out sharp how the money goes — Gewgaws is useless, nater knows; Extry trimmin' 'S the bane of women. "I'd sell off the best of the cheese and honey, And eggs is as good, nigh about, 's the money; 322 MISCELLANEOUS. And as to the carpet you wanted new — I guess we can make the old one du. And as for the washer, an' sewin' machine, Them smooth-tongued agents so pesky mean, You'd better get rid of 'em, slick an' clean. What do they know about women's work? Du they kalkilate women was born to shirk?" Dick and Edward and Little Joe Sat in the corner in a row. RUN? Now you bet you; I rather guess so? But he's blind as a badger. Whoa, Pache, boy, whoa, No, you wouldn't think so to look at his eyes, But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise: We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride. "Forty full miles if a foot to ride, Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils Of red Comanches are hot on the track When once they strike it. Let the sun go down Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old Revels, As he peered at the sun lying low on his back, Holding fast to his lasso; then he jerked at his steed, And sprang to his feet, and glanced swift- ly around, And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground — Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride, They saw the patient mother go, On ceaseless errands to and fro; They saw that her form was bent and thin, Her temples gray, her cheeks sunk in, They saw the quiver of her lip and chin — And then, with a warmth he could not smother, Outspoke the youngest, frailest brother — "You talk of savin' wood and ile An' tea an' sugar, all the while, But you never talk of savin' mother!" (5* t3* c5* KIT CARSON'S RIDE. While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud, His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud, And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed — "Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed, And speed, .if ever .for life you would speed; And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride, For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire; And feet of wild horses hard flying before, I hear like a sea breaking high on the shore ; While the buffalo come like the surge of the sea, Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire." We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again, And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer, MISCELLANEOUS. 323 Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold, Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold, And gold-mounted Colt's, true compan- ions for years; Cast the silken serapes to the wind in a breath, And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse, As bare as when born, as when new from the hand Of God, without word, or one word of command, Turned head to the Brazos in a red race with death, Turned head to the Brazos with a breath in the hair Blowing hot from a king leaving death in his course; Turned head to the Brazos with a sound in the air Like the rush of an army, and a flash in the eye Of a red wall of fire reaching up to the sky, Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black roll- ing sea Rushing fast upon us as the wind sweep- ing free And afar from the desert, blew hollow and hoarse. Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall, Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call Of love-note or courage, but on o'er the plain So steady and still, leaning low to the mane, With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein, Rode we on, rode we three, rode we nose and gray nose, Reaching long, breathing loud, like a crev- iced wind blows, Yet we broke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer, There was work to be done, there was death in the air, And the chance was as one to a thousand for all. Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the arid earth rang, And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck Flew around like the spray on z storm- driven deck. Twenty miles! thirty miles! — a dim distant speck — Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos in sight, And I rose in my seat with a shout of de- light. I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right, But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping Herd on his breast, and his naked breast stooping Low down to the mane as so swifter and • bolder Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. To right and to left the black buffalo came, A terrible surf on a red sea of flame Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher; And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full 324 MISCELLANEOUS. Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire Of battle, with rage and with bellowing loud And unearthly, and up through its lower- ing cloud Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hid- den fire, While his keen crooked horns through the storm of his mane Like black lances lifted and lifted again; And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through, And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two. I looked to my left, then, and nose, neck, ■ and shoulder Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs ; And up through the black blowing veil of her hair Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes With a longing and love, yet a look of despair, And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her, And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's swell Did subside and recede and the nerves^fall as dead. Then she saw sturdy Pache still lorded his head, With a look of delight, for this Pache, you see, Was her father's, and once at the South Santa Fe Had won a whole herd, sweeping every- thing down In a race where the world came to run for the crown; And so when I won the true heart of my bride — My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe — She brought me this steed to the border the night She met Revels and me in her perilous flight From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos side; And said, so half-guessing of ill as she smiled, As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should pursue I should surely escape without other ado Than to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side, And await her, and wait till the next hol- low moon Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon And swift she would join me, and all would be well Without bloodshed or word. And now, as she fell From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire, The last that I saw was a look of delight That I should escape — a love — a desire — Yet never a word, not a look of appeal, ;Lest I sbbuld reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel One instant for her in my terrible flight. Then the rushing of fire around me and under, And the howling of beasts and a sound as of thunder — Beasts burning and blind and forced on- ward and over, MISCELLANEOUS. 325 As the passionate flame reached around them and wove her Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died — Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan, As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone. And into the Brazos — I rode all alone — All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, And blind and bare and burnt to the skin, Then, just as the terrible sea came in, And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide, Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. Sell Pache, — blind Pache? Now, mister, look here, You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier, For the ways they were rough and Co- manches were near; But you'd better pack up, sir! that tent is too small For us two after this! Has an old moun- taineer, Do you bookmen believe, got no tum-tum at all? Sell Pache? You buy him! A bag full of gold! You show him! Tell of him the tale I have told! Why, he bore me through fire, and is blind, and is old! Now pack up your papers and get up and spin, And never look back. Blast you and your tin! — Joaquin Miller. £ri tc>* tc™ THEY ALL SANG ANNIE LAURIE. An incident of the Crimean war. GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under ; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said, "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow." They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon: Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain's glory: Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang "Annie Laurie." Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — = Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers. 326 MISCELLANEOUS. And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars ! And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Laurie." Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing ; The bravest are the tenderest, — The loving are the daring. «5» <,$» ^» "GOT STRIPES DOWN HIS LEGS." I USED to boss him in the store And oversee his work, For I had charge of one whole floor And he was just a clerk. To-day it's different, if you please; We've changed respective pegs, I'm private in the ranks — and he's Got stripes Down His Legs. The girls, whose smiles were once for me, Now scarce vouchsafe a glance, Such great attraction can they see In decorated pants. The erstwhile clerk no longer my Indulgence humble begs. He's up on high, I'm down below. With stripes Down His Legs. It's "Private Jones, do this and that." In haste I must bestir — To Jenkins, on whom oft I've sat, I'm told to answer "Sir!" One born to rule, it's come to pass Of woe I drink the dregs — I'm in the army with, alas ! No stripes Down My Legs. — Edwin L. Sabin. SOMEBODY. SOMEBODY'S courting somebody Somewhere or other to-night ; Somebody's whispering to somebody, Somebody's listening to somebody, Under this clear moonlight. Near the bright river's flow, Running so still and slow, Talking so soft and low, She sits with somebody. Pacing the ocean's shore, Edged by the foaming roar, Words never used before Sound sweet to somebody. Under the maple tree Deep though the shadow be, Plain enough they can see, Bright eyes has somebody. No one sits up to wait, Though she is out so late, All know she's at the gate, Talking with somebody. MISCELLANEOUS. 327 Tiptoe to parlor door, Two shadows on the floor, Moonlight, reveal no more, Susy and somebody. Two sitting side by side, Float with the ebbing tide, "Thus, dearest, may we glide Through life," says somebody. Somewhere, somebody Makes love to somebody To-night. -Anonymous. HIS hoss went dead an lame; He lost six cows in a poker game; A hurricane came on a summer's day, An' carried the house whar he lived away ; Then a earthquake come when that was gone, An' swallowed the land that the house stood on! An' the tax collector, he come roun' An' charged him up for the hole in the AN UNCOMPLAINING MAN his mule went groun An' the city marshal — he came in view, An' said he wanted his street tax, too ! Did he moan an' sigh ? Did he set an' cry An' cuss the hurricane sweepin' by? Did he grieve that his ole friends failed to call When the earthquake come an' swallowed all? Never a word of blame he said, With all them troubles on top his head ! Not him! — He climbed to the top of the hill— Whar standin' room wuz left him still, An', barin' his head, here's what he said : "I reckon it's time to git up an' git ; But, Lord, I hain't had the measles yit !" — Philander Johnson. TWO WOMEN'S LIVES. TWO babes were born in the selfsame town On the very same bright day; They laughed and cried in their mother's arms In the very selfsame way, And both were pure and innocent As falling flakes of snow, But one of them lived in the terraced house And one in the street below. Two children played in the selfsame town, And the children both were fair, But one had curls brushed smooth and round, The other had tangled hair ; The children both grew up apace, As other children grow, But one of them lived in the terraced house And one in the street below. Two maidens wrought in the selfsame town, And one was wedded and loved, The other saw through the curtain's part The world where her sister moved; And one was smiling, a happy bride, The other knew care and woe, For one of them lived in the terraced house And one in the street below. 328 MISCELLANEOUS. Two women lay dead in the selfsame town, And one had had tender care, The other was left to die alone On her pallet all thin and bare, And one had many to mourn her loss, For the other few tears would flow, For one had lived in the terraced house And one in the street below. If Jesus, who died for the rich and the poor In wondrous holy love, Took both the sisters in his arms And carried them above, Then all the differences vanished quite, For in heaven none would know Which of them lived in the terraced house And which in the street below. (5* (5* <5* BEDTIME. WHEN my good-nights and prayers are said, And I am warm tucked up in bed, I know my guardian angel stands And holds my head between his hands. I cannot see his gown of light, Because I keep my eyes shut tight, For if I open them I know My pretty angel has to go. But while my eyes are shut I hear His white wings rustling very near; I know it is his darling wings, Not mother folding up my things. t5* *5* *5* THE BOY TO THE SCHOOLMASTER. YOU have quizzed me often and puzzled me long; You have asked me to cipher and spell; You have called me a dolt if I answered wrong, Or a dunce if I failed to tell Just when to say lie and when to say lay, Or what nine-sevenths may make, Or the longitude of Kamtschatka bay, Or the I-forget-what-it's-name lake, So I think it's about my turn, I do, To ask a question or so of you." The schoolmaster grim he opened his eyes, But he said not a word for sheer surprise. "Can you tell what 'phen-dubs' means? I can. Can you say all off by heart The onery, twoery, hicgory ann? Or tell 'commons' and 'alleys' apart? Can you fling a top, I would like to know, Till it hums like a bumble-bee? Can you make a kite yourself that will go Most as high as the eye can see, Till it sails and soars, like a hawk on the wing, And the birds come and light on the string?" The schoolmaster grim he looked demure, But his mouth was twitching, I'm almost sure. "Can you tell where the nest of the oriole swings, Or the color its eggs may be? Do you know the time when the squirrel brings Its young from their nest in the tree? Can you tell when the chestnuts are ready to drop, "What shall I write?" "I've got it." THE LETTER TO PAPA.— PLATE I. "I send a thousand kisses." "Now, I'll mail it." THE LETTER TO PAPA.— PLATE LT. MISCELLANEOUS. 331 Or where the best hazelnuts grow? Can you climb a tree to the very tip-top, And gaze, without trembling, below? Can you swim and dive, can you jump and run, Or do anything else we boys call fun?" The master's voice trembled as he replied: "You are right, my lad, I'm the dunce," and sighed. t5* t5* t3& HIS BEST PRAYER. THE proper way for a man to pray," Said Deacon Lemuel Keys, "And the only proper attitude, Is down upon his knees." "No; I should say the way to pray," Said Rev. Dr. Wise, "Is standing straight, with outstretched arms, And rapt and upturned eyes." "Oh, no, no, no!" said Elder Slow, "Such posture is too proud. A man should pray with eyes fast closed And head contritely bowed." "It seems to me his hands should be Austerely clasped in front, With both thumbs pointed toward the ground," Said Rev. Dr. Hunt. "Las' year I fell in Hodgkins' well Head first," said Cyrus Brown, "With both my heels a-stickin up, My head a-pintin' down, An' I made a prayer right then an' there — Best prayer I ever said, The prayin'est prayer I ever prayed — A-standin' on my head." to* t&* 1£& "ARIZONY RAY." THE wildest cowboy on the range was that same Arizony Ray, Neck deep in every crookedness that come a-driftin' 'round his way, As quick as lightnin' with the gun an' mighty handy with the rope, An' ridin' bronks he never had no equal on the Western slope. An' independent sort o' chap, but true as steel to all his pals, 'Bout halfway liked and halfway feared by all the purty rancher gals, An' when he'd flood his inner works with cactus-brier booze we found 'Twas safest to keep out o' reach o' that ol' gun he packed around. His daily work o' punchin' cows the kid was never knowed to shirk, He follered Injuns with a vim that showed he sort o' liked the work, And when we'd overtake the reds and bump again a nasty fight, That same young Arizony Ray'd seem a- bilin' with delight. His cup o' joy was alius full when he was shootin' up a town, An' somethin' alius overtook the man that tried to call him down; Was dumped in jail a hundred times, but managed to git out agin With jest the same affection fur the trail o' devilment an' sin. One day a letter come to him, an' with it came a photygraph, An' as he read the letter through us chaps that knowed him had to laugh 332 MISCELLANEOUS. To see him cry, but changed our tune when with his head at humble poise, He handed us the pictur card and said, "That's my ol' mother, boys!" Then came a most surprisin' change — per- haps a dozen times a day He'd read that letter through an' through in eager, lovin* sort o' way, An' when we'd go to bunk at night it seemed to us surprisin' odd To see him down upon his knees a-tryin' to make up with God. t5* <5* (5* LESSONS FROM SCRIPTURE FLOWERS. The assignment of parts here given can be changed to suit different cases and such other classifications adopted as may seem best. Singing could also be introduced very effectively, especially in connection with "The Rose of Sharon," by the use of H. R. Palmer's hymn by that name. The Lily of the Field. First Boy — This flower that Jesus bids us consider was the Chalcedonian Lily, very common in Palestine, with scarlet flowers, like those that grow wild in our pastures. First Girl — In upland meadows bright flowers I see, Like lilies that blossomed in Galilee; When I see them shining in gold and red, I think of the words that Jesus said: Two in concert — Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto you that even Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these. — Matt, vi; 28, 29. The Rose of Sharon. Second B. — This flower was not a rose, but the nar- cissus, like our white flowers of that name. This is the flower of which Solomon speaks when he says: "I am the Rose of Sharon." Second G. — In garden-borders, in rows of white, The dear narcissus is spring's delight; This lovely blossom in odors sweet, The promise of old still seems to repeat: Two in con. — The desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. — Isa. xxxv: 2. The True Rose. Third B. — This grows in Palestine. The hills of Jerusalem are covered with beautiful pink, white, and yellow roses. Third G. — When lovely roses, in colors fair, Are budding and blossoming everywhere, By the brook of the fields in the bright June day, Their voices to the children shall sweetly say: Two in con. — Hearken unto me, ye children, and bud forth as a rose, growing by the brool the fields. — Ecclesiasticus xxxix: 13, The Almond Tree. Fourth B. — This is the wakeful tree, because it is the first to awake from winter's sleep and put on its beautiful garment of rose-colored blossoms. Fourth G. — The flowering almond, we call it now; Spring's brightest, earliest blooming bough. MISCELLANEOUS. 333 The prophet found it a symbol true. That God would hasten his work to do. Two in con. — And I said, I see a rod of an almond tree. Then said the Lord unto me, Thou hast well seen, for I will hasten my word to perform it. — Jer. i: n, 12. Mint, Anise, Cummin. Fifth B. — These plants had small, fragrant seeds, and were those that we now call by the same name. Fifth G. — In fragrant gardens I love to go, Where mint and anise and cummin grow; But, oh! how sad it would be to hear Such words as these from the Master, dear. Two in con. — Ye pay tithe of mint, and anise, and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, — judgment, mercy and faith. — Matt, xxiii: 23. The Mustard Tree. Sixth B. — This was not our common mustard plant. It is a shrub, still found by the sea of Galilee. The seed is small but the shrub grows so large that birds can, and do, lodge in the branches. Sixth G. — Sometimes I stop by the way to heed The simple bloom of the mustard seed; And think how, from humblest things that grew, Such lessons as this our Teacher drew. Two in con. — The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field; which, indeed, is the least of all seeds; but when it is grown, it is the greatest among herbs, and becom- eth a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in the branches thereof. — Matt, xiii: 31, 32. Seventh G. — When winter goes by and spring is here, And over the earth the flowers appear, While birds are singing and breezes play, These beautiful words again we say: Two in con. — For lo! the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth. The time of the singing of birds is come. — Cant. ii. 11, 12. Eighth G. — When spring and summer have hastened on, And beautiful buds and blooms are gone, With fragrant breath, as they pass away, The autumn blossoms to us shall say: All in con. — The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the Word of the Lord endureth for- ever! — Isa. xl: 8. — M. B. C. Slade. c?* (£• «5* WHAT ABOUT THE HIRED MAN ? THEY talk about the servant girl, sug- gesting this and that, To make her life more happy in the man- sion or the flat. They say to teach her music and to :lt.i- vate her mind, And never, never speak to her in voice that is unkind; But — what about the hired man, Hired man, tired man — Frequently the fired man — What about his life? 334 MISCELLANEOUS. No one ever sighs for him; Books nobody buys for him, Or intimates that pies, for him, Should ever know a knife. The ladies sip Young Hyson at the Eso- teric clubs, And weep about the hardships of the maid who bakes or scrubs; They advocate a fashion-plate upon the kitchen wall, And "higher aspirations" they propose for one and all; But — what about the hired man, Hired man, tired man — Soon or late the fired man — What about his lot? No one ever thinks of him, Or sends out fancy drinks for him, Or talks of fashion's kinks for him, Or gives to him a thought. They write to all the papers on- the "ser- vant question" now, And Mrs. Talkso Tellum-What gets up and makes a bow, And shows the ladies how to act, the ser- vant girls to suit, And all her hearers vow that her remarks are "awful cute." But — what about the hired man, Hired man, tired man — And after while the fired man — Who's concerned for him? He must keep his hustle on, And toil, and tug, and rustle on, With work to test his muscle on, Or else his chance is slim. fc9» ^* (5* THROUGH GRANDFATHER'S SPECTACLES. YOUR boy's come home from school, Mariar, a college graduate, An' what he knows and means to do I 'low is somethin' great; But I have been observin' him ; and I ain't much impressed That when he's pressed the button the world'll do the rest. Fer thinkin' which I don't blame him, I blame his pa and ma, They've stuffed him with sech notions an' made his word a law. Course rockin' in affection's cradle's mighty pleasant to us all, [I only hope he won't rock out, — he'd be so apt to feel the fall. I only hope he won't rock out, yet I am free to say He's apt to git a jolt as '11 wake him up some day! Your boy's not bad, Mariar, I hope you'll not git mad At a few plain truths about the peart, high- steppin' lad: He's jammed his head so full o' isms, ologies, an' stuff 'At when he come to cram in sense there wasn't room enuff. You know as well, Mariar, as you know this chair I've alius sat in, That he'll ne'er keep books in Hebrew nor buy nor sell in Latin; That the German name o' jimpson weed ain't worth as much to him As a knowledge of good English which is in his case slim; That all he knows about the stars in heavenly orbits fixed Don't count for nothin' longside o' how his spellin's mixed. MISCELLANEOUS. 335 It is a common thing, Mariar, this fault that parents get in, This eclucatin' young folks up till head ex- pansion sets in; This givin' them an outside polish, which strivin' to attain, Has led in no few instances to softenin' of the brain. The world ne'er stopped on their account and ne'er would it, I ween, If half its pampered youth was taken down a notch or two while green ; And mayhap such a course pursued with them a spell, 'Ud work a revolution, tho' it's pretty hard to tell. I wouldn't have you think, Mariar, that I'm set agin a college ; There's nothin' that we need and lack so much as knowledge*. But we cannot have it all nor even have the heft, And what most we want to learn is to keep from gittin' left ! Then lend your ears my student friends to what I have to say, And heed it, too, perhaps it may come handy in its way : Remember my life's e'en most lived while yours is jest begun, And you ain't s'posed to be so sure not ever'thing's for fun. If you will take advices which I have alius given, The first thing you will learn is how to make a hones' livin' ; And havin' got the infermation you need for ever' day Then you can hustle to and git whatever else'll pay. — Emily F. Smith. ta& tc& t2& CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS. Chorus. WE are the little flowers, coming with the spring; If you listen closely, sometimes you'll hear us sing. The Honeysuckle — Red: I am the honeysuckle, with my drooping head; And early in the springtime I don my dress of red. I grow in quiet woodlands, beneath some budding tree; So when you take a ramble, — just look for me. The Dandelion — Yellozv: I am the dandelion, yellow, as you see, And when the children see me they shout for glee. I grow by every wayside, and when I've had my day, I spread my wings so silvery, — and fly away. The Forget-me-not — Blue: When God made all the flowers, He gave each one a name, And, when the others all had gone, a little blue one came And said in trembling whisper: "My name has been forgot." Then the good Father called her, "Forget- me-not." 336 MISCELLANEOUS. The Fern — Green: A fern, the people call me, I'm always clothed in green, I live in every forest; you've seen me oft, I ween. Sometimes I leave the shadow, to grow beside the way You'll see me as you pass, — some nice, fine day. Chorus. We are the little flowers, coming with the spring; If you listen closely, sometimes you'll hear us sing. SAY there ! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild ? Well, no offense: Thar ain't no sense In gittin' riled ! Jim was my chum Up on the Bar; That's why I come Down from up thar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, oir! you Ain't of that crew — Blest if you are! Money? — not much; That ain't my kind; I ain't no such. Rum ? — I don't mind, Seein' it's you. Well, this yer Jim, Did you know him? — Jess 'bout your size; Same kind of eyes? — Well, that is strange ; Why, it's two year Since he came here, Sick, for a change. Well, here's to us; Eh? ^* x&fc && JIM. The deuce you say ! Dead?— That little cuss? What makes you star' — You over thar? Can't a man drop 'S glass in yer shop But you must rar'? It wouldn't take Denied much to break You and your bar. Dead! Poor — little — Jim ! — Why, there was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben — No-account men ; Then to take him ! Well; thar — Good-bye — No more, sir — I — Eh? What's that you say ? — Why dern it! — sho! No? Yes! By Jo! Sold! Sold! Why, you limb, You ornery, Derned old Long-legged Jim ! — Bret Harte. MISCELLANEOUS. 337 JOE. WE don't take vagrants in, sir, And I am alone to-day, Leastwise, I could call the good man — He's not so far away. You are welcome to a breakfast — I'll bring you some bread and tea; You might sit on the old stone yonder, Under the chestnut tree. You're traveling, stranger? Mebbe You've got some notions to sell? We hev a sight of peddlers, But we alters treat them well, For they, poor souls, are trying, Like the rest of us to live; And its not like tramping the country And calling on folks to give. Not that I meant a word, sir — No offence in the world to you ; I think, now I look at it closer, Your coat is an army blue. Don't say? Under Sherman, were you? That was — how many years ago? I had a boy at Shiloh, Kearney — a sergeant — Joe ! Joe Kearney, you might a' met him? But in course you were miles apart, He was a tall, straight boy, sir, The pride of his mother's heart. We were off to Kittery, then, sir, Small farmers in dear old Maine ; It's a long stretch from there to Kansas, But I couldn't go back again. He was all we had, was Joseph ; He and my old man and me Had sort o' growed together, And were happy as we could be. I wasn't a-looking for trouble When the terrible war begun, And I wrestled for grace to be able To give up our only son. Well, well, 'taint no use o' talking, My old man said, said he: "The Lord loves a willing giver;" And that's what I tried to be. Well, the heart and the flesh are rebels, And hev to be fought with grace But I'd give my life — yes, willin' — To look on my dead boy's face. Take care! you are spillin' your tea, sir, Poor soul! don't cry; I'm sure You've had a good mother some time — Your wounds, were they hard to cure? Andersonville ! God help you ! Hunted by dogs, did you say? Hospital ! crazy, seven years, sir i I wonder you're living to-day. I'm thankful my Joe was shot, sir, "How do you know that he died?" 'Twas certified, sir, by the surgeon, Here's the letter, and — "mebbe he lied." Well, I never ! you shake like the ager, My Joe ! there's his name and the date ; "Joe Kearney, 7th Maine, sir, a sergeant — Lies here in a critical state — "Just died — will be buried to-morrow — Can't wait for his parents to come." Well, I thought God had left us that hour, As for John, my poor man, he was dumb. Didn't speak for a month to his neighbors, Scarce spoke in a week, sir, to me ; Never been the same man since that Mon- day They brought us this letter you see. 338 MISCELLANEOUS. And you were from Maine! from old Kit- tery? What time in the year did you go ? I just disremember the fellows That marched out of town with our Joe. Lord love ye ! come into the house, sir ! It's getting too warm out o' door. If I'd known you'd been gone for a soger, I'd taken you here afore. Now make yourself easy. We're humbler, We Kansas folks don't go for show — Set here — it's Joe's chair — take your hat off. "Call father !" My God ! you are Joe ! — Alice Robbins. i2& t&N tefr THE COMING MILLIONS. JIM CROKER lived far in the woods, a solitary place. Where the bushes grew, like whiskers, on his unrazored face; And the black bear was his brother and the catamount his chum, And Jim he lived and waited for the mil- lions yet to come. Jim Croker made a clearing, and he sowed it down to wheat, And he filled his lawn with cabbage and he planted it with beet, And it blossomed with potatoes, and with peach and pear and plum, And Jim he lived and waited for the mil- lions yet to come. Then Jim he took his ancient axe and cleared a forest street, While he lived on bear and succotash and young opossum meat. And his rhythmic axe strokes sounded and the woods no more were dumb, While he cleared a crooked highway for the millions yet to come. Then they came like aimless stragglers, they came from far and near, A little log house settlement grew round the pioneer ; And the sound of saw and broadaxe made a glad industrial hum. Jim said : "The coming millions, they have just begun to come." And a little crooked railway wound round mountain, hill and lake, Crawling toward the forest village like an undulating snake; And one morn the locomotive puffed into the wilderness, And Jim said : "The coming millions, they are coming by express." And the village grew and prospered, but Jim Croker's hair was grayer; When they got a city charter, and old Jim was chosen Mayor; But Jim declined the honor, and moved his household goods Far away into the forest, to the old prime- val woods. Far and far into the forest moved the griz- zled pioneer, There he reared his hut and murmured, "I will build a city here." And he hears the woodfox barking, and he hears the partridge drum, And the old man sits and listens for the millions yet to come. —S. W.Foss.' MISCELLANEOUS. KEEP A STIFF UPPER LIP. 339 THE summer wind is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees, And the clover in the pastur' is a big day for the bees, And they been a-swiggin' honey, above- board and on the sly, Till they stutter in their buzzin' and stag- ger as they fly. They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day, And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away, And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still; It may rain again to-morrow, but I don't think it will. Some say the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out, And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt; But the kind Providence that has never failed as yet, Will be on hand onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet! Does the medder-lark complain, as he swims high and dry, Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky? Does the quail set up and whistle in a dis- appointed way, Er hang his head in silence and sorrow all the day? Is the chipmunk's health a failure? Does he walk or does he run? Don't the buzzards ooze around up there, just like they've alius done? Is there anything the matter with the roos- ter's lungs or voice? Ort a mortal be complainin' when dumb an- imals rejoice? Then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot; The June is here this morning and the sun is shining hot. Oh, let us fill our hearts with the glory of the day, And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sor- row far away ! Whatever be our station, with Providence for guide, Such fine circumstances ort to make us sat- isfied; For the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips for me and you. — James Whit comb Riley. *5* tS* t5* THE BEST SEWING-MACHINE. Which did GOT one? Don't say so! you get? One of the kind to open and shut? Own or hire it? How much did you pay? Does it go with a crank or a treadle? S-a-y. I'm a single man, and somewhat green ; Tell me about your sewing-machine." "Listen, my boy, and hear all about it : I don't know what I could do without it ; I've owned one now for more than a year, And like it so well that I call it 'my dear ;' 'Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen, This wonderful family sewing-machine. "It's none of your angular Wheeler things, 340 MISCELLANEOUS. With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings; Its work would bother a hundred of his, And worth a thousand ! Indeed it is ; And has a way — you need not stare — Of combing and braiding its own back hair ! "Mine is not one of those stupid affairs That stands in a corner with what-nots and chairs And makes that dismal, heachy noise Which all the comfort of sewing destroys ; No rigid contrivance of lumber and steel, But one with a natural spring in the heel. "Mine is one of the kind to love, And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove ; Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot, And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot, And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, and loops, With any indefinite number of hoops. "None of your patent machines for me, Unless Dame Nature's the patentee ; I like the sort that can laugh and talk, And take my arm for an evening walk ; That will do whatever the owner may choose, With the slightest perceptible turn of the screws ; "One that can dance, and — possibly — flirt ; And make a pudding as well as a shirt ; One that can sing without dropping a stitch, And play the housewife, lady, or witch ; Ready to give the sagest advice, Or to do up your collars and things so nice. "What do you think of my machine? A'n't it the best that ever was seen ? 'Tisn't a clumsy, mechanical toy, But flesh and blood! Hear that, my boy? With a turn for gossip and household affairs, Which include, you know, the sewing of tears. "Tut, tut, don't talk. I see it all — You needn't keep winking so hard at the wall; I know what your fidgety fumblings mean ; You would like, yourself a sewing-machine ! Well, get one, then, — of the same design, — There were plenty left where I got mine !" ^* t5* ^* CABIN PHILOSOPHY. JES' turn de back-log, ober, dar — an' pull your stoo'es up nigher, An' watch dat 'possum cookin' in de skillet by de fire: Lemme spread my legs out on de bricks to make my feelin's flow, An' I'll grin' you out a fac' or two, to take befo' you go. Now, in dese busy wukin' days, dey's changed de Scripter fashions, An' you needn't look to mirakuls to furnish you wid rations ; Now, when you's wantin' loaves o' bread, you got to go and fetch 'em, An' ef you's wantin' fishes, you mus' dig your wums an' ketch 'em ; For you kin put it down as sartin dat the time is long gone by, When sassages an' 'taters use to rain fum out de sky ! Ef yo think about it keerfully, an' put it to the tes', You'll diskiver dat de safes' plan is gin'ully de bes': MISCELLANEOUS. 341 Ef you stumble on a hornet's nes' an' make de critters scatter, You needn't stan' dar like a fool an' argefy de matter ; An' when de yaller fever comes an' settles all aroun', Tis better dan de karanteen to shuffle out o' town! Dar's heap o' dreadful music in de very fines' fiddle; A ripe an' meller apple may be rotten in de middle; De wises' lookin' trabeler may be de bigges' fool; Dar's a lot o' solid kickin' in the humbles' kind o' mule ; De preacher ain't de holies' dat war's de meekes' look, An' does de loudes' bangin' on the kiver ob de book ! De people pays deir bigges' bills in buyin' lots an' lan's ; Dey scatter all deir picayunes aroun' de peanut stan's ; De twenties an' de fifties goes in payin' orf deir rents, But Heben an' de organ grinder gits de cop- per cents. I neber likes de cullud man dat thinks too much o' eatin' ; I t^* t5* ^5* But frolics froo de wukin' days, and snoozes at de meetin' ; Dat jines de Temp'ance 'Ciety, an' keeps a gittin' tight, An' pulls his water-millions in de middle ob de night ! Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in deir han's, Perradin' froo de city to de music ob de ban's, Had better drop deir guns, an' go to marchin' wid deir hoes An' git a honest libbin' as dey chop de cot- ton-rows, Or de State may put 'em arter while to drillin' in de ditches, Wid more'n a single stripe a-runnin' 'cross deir breeches. Well, you think dat doin' nuffin' 'tall is mighty so' an' nice, But it busted up de renters in de lubly Paradise ! You see, dey bofe was human bein's jes' like me and' you, An' dey couldn't reggerlate deirselves wid not a thing to do; Wid plenty wuk befo' 'em, an' a cotton crop to make, Dey'd nebber thought o' loafin' roun' an' chattin' wid de snake. MR. MEEK'S DINNER. ' i T WONDER, James," said Mrs. Meek, 1 doubtfully, to her husband one morn- ing, "if you could get your own dinner to- night ? You see, Eve had to let the servant go on her holidays for a day or two, and they want me desperately at the Woman's Aid and Relief Bazaar, to help them with their high tea from 4:30 to 8:30. If you thought you could manage by yourself — " "Ell try to survive it," observed Mr. Meek, good-naturedly. "I don't fancy it will prove fatal." "I'll get a roast and cook it this morn- ing," went on Mrs. Meek, cheerfully, "and you can have it cold for dinner." "Thank you," replied Mr. Meek, "you'll do nothing of the kind. I fancy I haven't gone camping pretty much every year of 342 MISCELLANEOUS. my life for nothing. I suspect I can man- age a hot dinner about as well as most women." Mrs. Meek had her doubts, and, unlike most wives, expressed them. Mr. Meek viewed his wife's doubts with supreme contempt, and, unlike most hus- bands, expressed it. Thus it finally resulted that Mrs. Meek abandoned all idea of preparing Mr. Meek's dinner for him and betook herself to the Bazaar. So it resulted furthermore, that Mr. Meek left his office about four o'clock that afternoon, and proceeded to collect on his way home the necessary supplies for a dainty little dinner. An alluring display of chickens was the first thing to catch his eye, and he was just on the point of securing one of them when, by good luck, or more probably through the natural sagacity of the man, he recol- lected that — well, that you don't, as a rule, cook chickens as they are. In the mo- mentary reaction that followed this feat of memory he bought a couple of mutton chops and three tomatoes. i "I'll have a good, plain, old-fashioned English dinner," thought he, as he hurried past the deceitful chickens with something almost akin to reproach. "None of your finiky poultry dinners for me!" "By Jove !" he exclaimed a moment later, "I'll have an apple pudding and some oyster soup to begin on." He was so tickled with this idea that he promptly rushed into a grocery shop and purchased half a peck of their best eating apples and then hurried home without a thought of the cab he was to order for his wife at 8 130 sharp. By five o'clock he had the fire going beautifully, and everything ready for a start. By six o'clock he was just beginning to enjoy the thing ; the tomatoes were stew- ing divinely, the potatoes were boiling to their heart's content, and the milk for the oyster soup was simmering contentedly on the back of the stove. The oysters, by- the-by, had not yet arrived. "Dear me," thought the ambitious gen- tleman, "I wish I had thought of it in time, and I'd have had some oyster patties for a sort of final dessert. Hello, what's this? If that everlasting pig-headed woman hasn't left me some cold ham and a custard pie ! By the Lord Harry, for two cents I'd throw the whole thing into the back yard !" The natural docility of his nature, how- ever, prevailed, and he left the obnoxious viands unmolested, and proceeded with his dinner. At 6:30 he put the chops on to broil, "as in the good old days of yore" — this poetic allusion to the style of cooking being occasioned by one of them accident- ally dropping into the fire, whence he res- cued it with great presence of mind by the joint assistance of the stove lifter and one of the best table napkins. By the time the chop was thus rescued both it and the table napkin were fairly well done — to say noth- ing stronger. This trifling difficulty he got over by putting the erring chop on the win- dow-sill to cool, and the napkin into the fire — to do the other thing. This accomplished, and with one chop gently cooking on the gridiron and the other one cooling on the window-sill, he started to construct the paste for his apple pudding. This proved most fascinating. He placed a large quantity of flour in a small bowl, emptied a jug of water on top of it, added butter to taste, and proceeded to mould it deftly into shape, as he had often seen his wife do. The flour and water promptly forsook the bowl and be- took themselves to his hands. Then the milk for the soup began to burn, just as the potatoes boiled dry. He rushed to the MISCELLANEOUS. 343 rescue and left the major portion of the paste fairly evenly divided between the handles of the two saucepans and the stove lifter. At this juncture the tomatoes start- ed to see if they couldn't surpass the milk in burning. They succeeded. The cat, which was accustomed to a 6:30 dinner, walked off with the chop on the window sill, while the chop on the lire grew beauti- fully black on the "down side." So many things were now burning all at the same time that Mr. Meek gave up all hope of trying to discover just which one was burn- ing most. "Let the plaguy things burn till they're sick of it !" was the extremely broad- minded way in which he summed up the situation. With the astuteness that char- acterized him as distinguished from his fel- low men, he at once gave up all efforts to track the truant paste, and simply popped his apples into the oven to bake. It was now about 7:30, and the fire was getting hotter than pretty much anything on earth unless, perhaps, it was Mr. Meek. He turned all the dampers, opened all the doors, and took off all the lids. This re- sulted most satisfactorily, and the fire be- gan to cool. It didn't stop. It got, if anything, a little low. After that it got very low. Then it went out. He rushed for a kindling, and nearly took his head off on a clothes-line. Just as he had got nicely through expressing his views on clothes-lines in general, and that clothes- line in particular, he went about twice as far towards taking his head off on the same clothes-line on his way back. The gentlest of natures when roused is often the most terrible. Mr. Meek became very terrible. He vised up enough kindling, profanity and coal oil to have ignited the pyramids of Egypt. He stamped and shoved, and poked and banged, and howled and shook till even the cat — and it had had its dinner — was displeased with him, and departed to the outer kitchen to try the oysters, which the dilatory grocer had just deposited on the table without waiting to parley with Mr. Meek. He was a wise grocer and had heard enough. When about five minutes later Mr. Meek discovered that the cat had found the oysters to its taste, he became even less calm. Had the cat been around (but, like the grocer, it had heard enough, and taken an unobtrusive departure) it is highly prob- able that a majority of its nine lives would have come to an abrupt termination. At this stage, to console the unfortunate man, the fire began to go again. Once started it didn't stop. In about five minutes it had burnt up what remained of pretty much everything except a large pot of green tea and a small portion of Mr. Meek. The chop that the cat hadn't eaten was especially well done. It could be quite safely left on the window sill with a whole legion of cats around it. Mr. Meek, however, simply left it in the coal bin. In point of either color or hardness it would have been difficult to have found a more fitting resting place for it. Then there came over Mr. Meek's face a terrible expression. He brought in a pail (it was the scrubbing pail which he had mistaken for the scrap pail, but no matter) and poured the soup carefully into it, throw- ing the pan about five feet, into the sink; next he scraped the potatoes into the same pail, and again another pan followed the course of the first in getting to the sink ; then he poured the tomatoes on top of the potatoes, and still a third pan got to the sink with unusual rapidity. It cannot be definitely stated whether or not Mr. Meek, in doing this, was actuated by the desire to prepare some famous hunter's dish relished in the dear old camping days gone by, but 344 MISCELLANEOUS. certain it is, no sooner did he get the toma- toes nicely on top of the potatoes than he took the whole thing and tossed it, pail and all, into the outer lane. This accomplished, he proceeded to make a meal off the cold ham and some bread and butter — the cooking butter, of course. Just as he was finishing, Mrs. Meek re- turned. "Why, James," she cried, cheer- fully, "you never sent the cab for me and I waited nearly an hour." "No," said her husband, calmly. "I've been terribly busy. Men from New York — just got home a little while ago. This is a very good ham — a shade overdone, though, isrft it?" "Perhaps a shade less wouldn't have hurt it. Let me get you a piece of pie ?" "No, thank you! No cold pie for me when there're hot apples in the oven. I'll tell you what you might do; you might bring 'em in if you're not too tired." Mrs. Meek departed on her mission. In a few moments she reappeared, and, with- out moving a muscle, placed the plate of baked apples before her lord and master. They were about the size of walnuts and the color of ebony. Judging by the way they rattled on the plate they were rather harder than flint. Mr. Meek rose with an awful look in his eye. "I'm afraid," observed his wife, "they're like the ham — just a shade overdone." "If ever I catch that cat," remarked Mr. Meek as that sleek feline purred past him with a playful frisk of his tail, "I'll break every bone in its body" — only he described its body with sundry adjectives that were very strange to the ears of Mrs. Meek. At least, so she said when she described the occurrence to her bosom friend, Mrs. Mug- gins, next day. t5* ^* *&* OVER THE TELEPHONE. I CONSIDER that a conversation by tele- phone — when you are simply sitting by and not taking any part in that conversation — is one of the solemnest curiosities of this modern life. Yesterday I was writing a deep article on a sublime philosophical subject while such a conversation was going on in the next room. I notice that one can always write best when somebody is talking through a telephone close by. Well, the thing began in this way. A member of our household came in and asked me to have our house put into communication with Mr. Bagley's down town. I have observed, in many cities, that the gentle sex always shrink from calling up the Cen- tral Office themselves. I don't know why, but they do. So I rang the bell, and this talk ensued: Central office — "What-number-do-you- want ?" I.— "Main 24-68." C. O.— "Main 2-4-6-3 ?" I.— "No, 2-4-6-8." Then I heard a k-look, k-look, k'look — klook-klook-klook-look-look ! Then a hor- rible "gritting" of teeth, and finally a pip- ing voice : "Hello?" (rising inflection). I.— "Hello, is this Mr. Bagley's?" "Yes, did you wish to speak to me?" Without answering, I handed the receiver to the applicant, and sat down. Then fol- lowed the queerest of all things in the world — a conversation with only one end to it. MISCELLANEOUS. 3-15 You hear questions asked; you don't hear the answer. You hear invitations given ; you hear no thanks in return. You have listening pauses of dead silence, followed by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations of glad surprise, or sorrow or dismay. You can't make head or tail out of the talk, because you never hear anything that the person at the other end of the wire says. Well, I heard the following series of remarkable observations, all from the one tongue, and all shouted, — for you can't ever persuade the gentle sex to speak gently into a telephone: "Hello, is that you, Daisy?" Pause. "Yes. Why, how did that happen?" Pause. "What did you say?" Pause. "Oh, no, I don't think it was." Pause. "No! Oh, no, I didn't mean that. I did think of getting it, but I don't believe it will stay in style, and — what? — and Charlie just hates that shade of blue, any- way." Pause. "What's that?" "You wouldn't let him dictate to you, at least before you were married?" Pause. "Why, my dear, how childish! You don't suppose I'd let him afterwards, do you ?" Pause. "I turned it over with a back stitch on the selvage edge." Pause. "Yes, I like that way, too ; but I think it better to baste it on with valenciennes, or something of that kind. It gives such an air." Pause. "Yes, you know he did pay some attention to Celia." Pause. "Why, she threw herself right at his head." Pause. "And he told me he always admired me." Pause. "Well, he said it seemed as if he never could get anybody to introduce him." Pause. "Perhaps so; I generally use a hairpin." "What did you say?" (Aside) "Chil- dren, do be quiet !" Pause. "Oh! B flat! Dear me, I thought you said it was the cat !" Pause. "Since when?" Pause. "Why, I never heard of it." Pause. "You astound me! It seems utterly im- possible !" Pause. "Who did?" Pause. "Goodness gracious !" Pause. "Well, what is the world coming to? Was it right in church?" Pause. "And was her mother there?" Pause. "Why, Daisy, I should have died of hu- miliation ! What did they do?" Long pause. "I can't be perfectly sure, because I haven't the notes by me ; but I think it goes something like this : To-tolly-loll-loll- lee-ly-li-i-do ! And then repeat, you know." Pause. "Yes, I think it is very sweet — and very 316 MISCELLANEOUS. solemn and impressive, if you get the andantino and the pianissimo right." Pause. "Did he really say that?" Pause. "Yes, I do care for him — what? — but mind you don't tell him I don't want him to know it." Pause. "What?" Pause. "Oh, not in the least — go right on. Papa's here, writing, — it doesn't bother him." Pause. "Very well, I'll come if I can." (Aside) "Dear me, papa, how it does tire a person's arm to hold this thing up so long! I wish she'd " Pause. "Oh, no, not at all; I like to talk — but I'm afraid I'm keeping you from your af- fairs." Pause. "Visitors?" Pause. "No, we never use butter on them." Pause. "Yes, that is a very good way; but all the cook-books say they are very unhealthy when they are out of season. And papa doesn't like them, anyway, — especially canned." Pause. "Yes, I'm going to the concert with him to-night." "Engaged ? why, certainly not." Pause. "You know, dear, you'd be the very first one I'd tell." Pause. "No, we really are not engaged." Pause. "Must you go? Well, good-bye." Pause. "Yes, I think so. Good-bye." Pause. "Four o'clock, then — I'll be ready. Can Charlie meet us then?" Pause. "Oh, that's good. Good-bye." Pause. "Thank you ever so much. Good-bye." Pause. "Oh, not at all! Just as fresh— which ?" "Oh, I'm glad to hear that. Good-bye." (Hangs up the receiver and says: "Oh, it does tire a person's arm so.") A man delivers a single brutal "Good- bye," and that is the end of it. Not so with the gentle sex — I say it in their praise, they cannot abide abruptness. <,y* (5* &5* THE VOLUNTEER'S UNIFORM. MY papa's all dressed up to-day, He never looked so fine, I thought when I first looked at him, My papa wasn't mine. He's got a beautiful new suit — The old one was so old — It's blue, with buttons, O, so bright, I guess they must be gold. And papa's sort o' glad and sort O' sad — I wonder why? And every time she looks at him It makes my mamma cry. Who's Uncle Sam? My papa says That he belongs to him; But papa's joking, 'cause he knows My uncle's name is Jim. 'WHEN" GRANDMA DANCED THE MINUET.' <5 MISCELLANEOUS. 349 My papa just belongs to me And mamma. And I guess The folks are blind who cannot see His buttons, marked U. S. U. S. spells us. He's ours — and yet My mamma can't help cry, And papa tries to smile at me And can't. I wonder why? i5* t5* «5* THE CLOSING YEAR. T IS midnight's holy hour, — and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling, — 'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, — Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with its aged locks, — and breathe, In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touch- ing wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the Earth forever. 'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have passed away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful, — And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man, — and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged The bright and joyous, — and the tearful wail Of stricken ones, is heard where erst the song And reckless shout resounded It passed o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield Flashed in the light of mid-day, — and the strength Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 350 MISCELLANEOUS. Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crushed and moldering skeleton. It came, And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time ! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe! — what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on, He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern Hurricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag, — but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weari- ness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow, — cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water, — fiery isles Spring blazing from the Ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns, — Mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain, — new Em- pires rise, Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations, — and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter a while in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away To darkle in the trackless void, — Yet, Time, Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, -and pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, To sit and muse like other conquerors Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. — George D. Prentice. A love of nature is inherent in all, and the selections in this department will be found particu- larly adapted to the wishes of children, young and old, who are always interested in the affairs of Mother Nature. EASTER FLOWERS. M ESSAGES of God's dear love Do these flowers bear ; He who with gracious hand Gives these colors rare, Will remember you and me With as true a care. So I bring love's offering On this Easter Day, Flowers fair that to each heart Softly seem to say: "Death no more can over you Hold eternal sway." As the tender plants escaped From the pris'ning mold, So has' Christ death's bondage burst, Death so grim and cold. This I think the message true That these blossoms hold. — Clara J. Denton. fgr* t£r* <&& A LITTLE BOY'S "ESSAY ON KATS." (Regardless of method AKAT is an animile. Ov coarse it iz. Any student of Grammur nose that. Sum kats don't yuze good Grammur. Thare ar tu kinds ov kats, maskuline, and the uther kind. Yu no what that iz. Thare ar black kats, white kats, malteze kats, awlso mixed culurs ovboath jenders. Moast awl kan fite. Sumtimes thay get beet. Usuly thay doant. Thay ar yuzed for doughmestick purr-pussies, except the Kat of Nign Tales. When sircumstances are bad, kats hav two liv on Ratts and Katnipp. Sum fokes yews katnipp as a bevurij. Eye doant. Kats have fasillytiz for mewzik. Eye saw nign kats under mie windur , and original in spelling.) wun nite. Eye thawt thay wur the nign mewses. Eye gess thay war. It sounded sow. Once in a while thay wood taik a rest. A rest denoats a mewzical silents. Thay wur quarter-rests, I guess. Eye tried to taik a rest, but Eye coodn't. Finully, eye through the water-pitchur out the win- dur. That had sum effekt. It broak the pitchur. Eye must hav lade awaik thurtie or fortie owrz, when the klok struk wun. Eye hoaped it wuld skair them aweigh, but it didn't. Eye through a chare at them. Eye gess it hit 'em all, and kind ov en- kurijed them. Thay went and browt a lot ov moar kats, eye gess. Sow eye laiy in bed, waiting for mornin to kum. It wuz 3Si 352 LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. geting coled, and a happy thawt struck me. Eye put down the windur. Eye awlso re- tired tu a room on the opozit sighed ov the hows, up stares. Finally eye saw a goast. It wuz a white kat, with a black i, siting in the windur. Then eye went two slepe. In the morning eye got up, and what dew yew sopohs eye saw ? Why, eye saw a chare and a lot uv water-pitchur outsighed the win- dur. What puzuls owr hole family iz how it cairn thare. Doant yew evur tell. Lizzy Taylor found a kitun undur her desk the uthur day. I wundur if sum teecher put it thare to skair her. She didn't faint, thoh, and neethur did the kitun. c5* *5* t5* IF I WERE A FLOWER." IF I were a flower, fair, I would try to bloom At Easter-tide, and scatter Sweetest of perfume. For on the Easter morning, Night was turned to Day, When the angels from the tomb Rolled the stone away. And now, we fear no longer Death and all its tears, We shall with the Savior live Through the countless years. So, if I were a flower, I would for Easter grow, And that life must conquer death, Would my beauty show. — Clara J. Denton. t5* ^* ^* A BIRD STORY. (For Christian Endeavor entertainment.) FOUR little birds in a nest too small, Only one mamma to care for all ; Twas twitter and chirp the livelong day, No wonder the mammas soon grew gray. Papa-bird was a dashing fellow, Coat of black with a flash of yellow; Never a bird in the early spring Could rival him when he chose to sing. He helped the mamma-bird hang the nest Where the winds would rock it the very best, And while she sat on her eggs all day, He'd cheer her up with a roundelay. But when from each egg in the swinging bed, A little birdie popped its head, He said to his wife, "I've done my share Of household duties; they're now your care." Then off he'd go to a concert fine In the apple trees and bright sunshine, Without a thought of the stupid way His poor little wife must pass her day. At last the mamma-bird fell ill, And the papa was forced, against his will, To take her place with the birdies small, Ready to answer their chirp and call. Sorry day for the wretched fellow, Dressed so gay with a scarf of yellow ! Shut in the house from morning till night, Was ever a bird in such a plight ? LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 353 Tie on a hood, or fasten a shoe, Or mend a dolly as good as new, Or tell a story over again, Or kiss the finger that had a pain. Or settle dispute of which and who, Or sew on a button to baby's shoe — These were a part of the calls he had In that single day to drive him mad. At even he said, "Another day Would turn my goldenest plume to gray; Or else, in a fit of grim despair, I'd fling these children into the air I" Have I mixed up birds with human folks? And homes with nests in the lofty oaks ? The story is true, and I overheard Those very words of the papa-bird ; But who he was, and where he did dwell, I'll never, no never, no never tell ! The truth for once is truth for aye, And this is the reason mammas grow gray. — Mrs. Maggie B. Peeke. to* t5* «5* BOB-O'-LINK. MERRILY swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name ; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers, Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note ; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Look what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine, Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear Thieves and robbers, while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat ; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man ; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might ; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for .food ; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. 354 LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. Robert of Lincoln at last is made Sober with work and silent with care Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten, that merry air, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; Fun and frolic no more he knows ; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes ; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. — William Cullen Bryant. t?* (5* ^* FORGET-ME-NOT. A LOVELY little flow'ret Blooms on our meadow green; Its eye, just like the heaven, So blue and clear, is seen. Although you hear no voices In that far lonely spot, The flower is something saying: It says, "Forget me not !" So, when I see two dear eyes So shining and so blue, I think of our green meadow And of my flow'ret too. My heart then something sayeth- Oh, can you tell me what? All timidly and softly It says, "Forget me not !" (£• t£& t5* A SERMON IN FLOWERS. JUST beyond this field of clover, in a pasture rough and rocky, Where the golden-rod and thistles and the trailing woodbine grow, There, one day, I heard this sermon, most pathetically simple, Yet so fraught with truth and wisdom that it set my heart aglow : "I am just a little flower, — just the plainest, wildest flower, Growing here upon a rock, with very lit- . tie soil or shade; I am stunted, pale and crooked, — quite un- like my brothers yonder, With their tall, green stalks and yellow plumes that never droop nor fade. "But I care not; He who planted knew just how much soil and sunshine, How much rain and wind were needful to unfold the flower He planted, So He gave them, and I grew, to tell my story with its lesson ; What am I, that I should murmur at His wise and just command? "Quite enough for me to know that I am just as He designed me ; So I never lose my joy in sighs for what I might have been; God looks down in love and mercy — I look up in perfect trusting, And I love the earth and air, the pain as well as joy therein." LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 355 Man may sing a song most sweetly, which his inmost soul despises ; He may preach a sermon boldly, which his heart has never known ; All have sinned — and this sad knowledge makes us loth to look for guidance To ourselves or to our brothers — and we cannot walk alone. But a bird can thrill a message, or a thunder-burst proclaim it, Far beyond the faintest shade of doubt, with meaning, full and broad ; And the modest little wild flowers, though we crush them with our footsteps, Bruised and dying, preach their sermon, and we know it comes from God. — Addie F. Davis. AN APRIL WELCOME. COME up, April, through the valley, In your robes of beauty drest, Come and wake your flowery children From their wintry beds of rest ; Come and overthrow them softly With the sweet breath of the south ; Drop upon them, warm and loving, Tenderest kisses of your mouth. Call the crowfoot and the crocus, Call the pale anemone, Call the violet and the daisy, Clothed with careful modesty; Seek the low and humble blossoms, Of their beauties unaware, Let the dandelion and fennel Show their shining, yellow hair. Bid the little homely sparrows Chirping in the cold and rain, Their important sweet complaining Sing out from their hearts again ; Bid them set themselves to nesting, Cooing love in softest words, Crowd their nest, all cold and empty, Full of little callow birds. — Phebe Cary. f&*l i2r* to* MORN ON THE MOUNTAINS. THERE is beauty in this world of ours for him with eyes to see, There are beauty smiles at harvest on the prairies broad and free, There is beauty in the forest, there is beauty on the hills, There is beauty in the mottled light that gleams along the rills, And a beauty out of heaven over all the landscape spills When the sun shines on the mountains in the morning. There is beauty where the ocean rolls ma- jestic on the shore, There is beauty in the moonlight as it gleams the waters o'er, There is beauty in the sunrise where the clouds blush rosy red, There is beauty in the sunset with its ban- ners flung o'erhead, And a beauty past expression o'er the snowy peaks is shed When the sun shines on the mountains in the morning. There is beauty when the green returns and glistens in the showers, There is beauty in the summer, as she gar- lands earth with flowers, 356 LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. There is beauty in the autumn, with the mellow afterglow, There is beauty in the winter, with this dia- dem of snow, But a beauty more enchanting than the sea- sons ever know Gilds the sunshine on the mountains in the morning. There is beauty in the rainbow as it gleams above the storm, There is beauty in the sculptor's vision frozen into form, There is beauty in the prophet's dream and in the poet's thought, There is beauty in the artist's rapture on the canvas wrought, But a beauty more divine than art can ever tell is caught From the sunshine on the mountains in the morning. Oh, the sunshine on the mountains ! How a golden web is spun O'er the topmost peaks that glisten from the yet unrisen sun. With their bases yet in shadow, but their faces glowing bright, With their foreheads turned to heaven and their locks so snowy white, They are high priests of the sunrise, they are prophets of the light, With the sunshine smiling o'er them in the morning. A STRING OF BIRDS' EGGS. (A short sermon WHO knows Hebrew? Who knows Greek? Who the tongue the birdies speak? Here's a set of meanings hid As records on a pryamid. What is meant by all these freckles, Bluish blotches, brownish speckles? These are words, in cipher printed, On each egg-shell faintly tinted ; Changeless laws the birds must heed, What if I should try to read ? On the Oriole's, scratched and scarred, This to trace I find not hard : "Breasted bright as trumpet flower; Builder of a swinging bower, Airest dwelling ever seen In the elm-trees' branches green ; Careless caroler shall be The little bird that sleeps in me." On the Blue Jay's greenish gray, Dottings fine would seem to say: on ornithology.) "Chattering braggart, crested thief, Jester to the woods in chief, Dandy gay in brilliant blue, Cruel glutton, coward, too, Screaming, gleaming rogue shall be The little bird that sleeps in me !" On Bob Lincoln's browny-white This is writ, if I read right: "Gallant lover in the clover, With his gladness bubbling over; Waltzes warbling liquid notes, — Yes, and one that hath two coats ! Nimble, neat, and blithe shall be The little bird that sleeps in me!" On the King-bird's creamy-hued Runs this legend : "Sulky, nude, Tiny tyrant, winged with black, Big of head and gray of back, Teaser of the hawk and crow, And of flies the deadly foe, — Short and sharp of note shall be The little bird that sleeps in me." LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 357 On the Mockbird's bluish green, In spot and blot these words are seen: "Prince of singers, sober clad, Wildly merry, wildly sad, Mocking all the feathered throng, Bittering still each bird's own song,- Madcap mocker he shall be, The little bird that sleeps in me !" HOPPER AND BEE. A GRASSHOPPER met a bumblebee In a field of sweet red clover. "Oh, why this flurry and haste ?" cried he ; "I've brought my fiddle along with me. Let's dance till the summer's over!" "I'm gathering stores for the winter time," The bee cried over his shoulder. "I like your fiddling, it is sublime ; But, living here in this changeable clime, I must think of days that are colder." The grasshopper laughed in a mocking way, As gayly he flourished his fiddle ; A troop of butterflies, merry and gay, Danced in a ring through the livelong day, While the grasshopper stood in the mid- dle. The bumblebee, too, was fond of a dance, And the day was hot for working, But he never gave them a second glance And hastened away (if near them by chance), For he knew the danger of shirking ! He gathered his stores through the sunny hours And felt that his pleasures were coming ; He felt that soon there would be no flowers, He knew that in winter the cold sky lowers, And he kept up a cheerful humming. The cold winds came, and the days grew dark, And frozen were flower and berry ; The fiddler and dancers lay stiff and stark In lonely graves, with never a mark, But the wise little bee made merry. 358 LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. DAISIES. OVER the shoulders and slopes of the dune I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, A host in the sunshine, an army in June, The people God sends us to set our hearts free. The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell, The orioles whistled them out of the wood: And all of their singing was, "Earth, it is well!" And all of their dancing was, "Life, thou art good !' (5* ^* ^* ONE DAY. OCOME, sweet wind of the South, In the arms of awakening spring ; You have kissed the violet's mouth, Ere she hid it, the sly little thing ; You have kissed the blossoming violet's mouth. And her perfume kisses bring. Oh, gay little dancing stream, Whose waves with the sunbeams play; From the land of a beautiful fairy's dream, Did your silvery music stray — From the land of a fairy's dream To float to the earth and stay? O, white clouds floating on high, Far up in the heavenly blue — The joyous blue of the sky, The blossoming spring's own hue, Bend tenderly out of the sweet blue sky, For the flowers are calling you. SEE the meadows white with daisies, Hear the Bob o'Lincoln's song, While he passes through the grasses, While he sings the whole day long. Daisies, daisies, daisies white, Meadows white with daisies ; Bob o', Bob o,' Bob o' bright, Singing sweet June's praises. t2& t5* c5* A DAY IN JUNE. See the meadows white with clover, Hear our robin redbreast's song. While he flashes through the ashes, While he sings the boughs among. Clover, clover, clover white, Meadows white with clover; Robin, robin, now it's night, Day of June is over. i3* t&* %0* SONG OF THE GRASS BLADES. PEEPING, peeping, here and there, In lawns and meadows everywhere, Coming up to find the spring And hear the robin redbreast sing ; Creeping under children's feet, Glancing at the violets sweet ; Growing into tiny bowers, For the dainty meadow flowers : We are small, but think a minute Of a world with no grass in it. The selections in this department give the speaker unusual opportunities for a display of elocutionary, vocal and dramatic powers. •h i) » a 8 g * £ u 2 o 9-1 o o s « ■3.8 1-1 Hi n 03 > L> en " at .s« ft cS cS ^ U 86 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. And from the wreck on oars and rafts de- scend. Now on the mountain wave on high they ride, Then downward plunge beneath the involv- ing tide, Till one, who seems in agony to strive, The whirling breakers heave on shore alive ; The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, And pressed the stony beach, a lifeless crew! — William Falconer. X&R t&M t&* THE LAST OF THE CHOIR. THERE was a gathering a short time ago at a neat house in an Ohio vil- lage of about a hundred people. The mis- tress of the house was in the parlor, and one by one they went to her side, but she did not speak or lift her hands. They were toil-worn hands, that for forty years had done daily work for the children, but she wore a new dress now, and the work was ended. Thirty-five years ago, when the church choir met for practice, she played the melo- deon, while they sang "Ware" and "Shir- land" and "Dundee." But the choir was gone, save two ladies who stood near her holding an old singing-book. There was a piano near, but it was closed. A minister, younger than the book they held, read how "Man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward," and closing, looked at the two ladies. Many a time since the treble was fifteen and the alto thirteen they had sung for their silent friends. The treble breathed a low note, that only the alto heard ; and then the listeners heard an old melody, with the words : "There is a land mine eye hath seen In visions of enraptured thought, So bright that all which spreads between Is with its radiant glory fraught." Out in the rooms beyond all was so still that every one could hear the voices as they sang the assurance that — "The wanderer there a home may find Within the paradise of God." The voice of prayer rose for comfort and endurance, a pleading voice in behalf of the household, and again he looked toward the two with the old book. They held it open, but they were not looking at it ; they did not appear to think of it. They were re- viewing the years in the moment when they lifted up their voices in the words : "If through unruffled seas Toward heaven we calmly sail, With grateful hearts — " How strong their faith ! "—0 God, to thee We'll own the favoring gale !" The audience, thinking only of the needs of their hearts, noticed not the useless book. "But should the surges rise," They sang faintly now, for the surges had been over them. The alto bent over a dying husband, and had buried him in a dis- tant city. Like a bolt from a clear sky came the death of her manly boy one evening when he had just left her side. Waves of trouble had come upon the treble ; fair young children had been taken from her embrace — sons and daughters had been swept away. The voices faded away, but gained again with the line: "And rest delav to come," DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 387 Rest! Their hearts were aching and tired. A young lady near the door feared they might break down; but her neighbor, who was old, could have told her the old choir were never known to break down. Ah, no ! The voices are full of hope again as they sing : "Blest be the sorrow, kind the storm, That drives us nearer home." Home ! The voices, blended by long prac- tice, lingered till they died in faint harmony at last on the word. In the evening the two singers sat by the open fire. Again, as in childhood, they lived on the same street. "We did not need a book to-day," said the alto. "It would be impossible to forget the songs we learned when we were young." "Do you know," responded the treble, "that as we sing those pieces I hear the voices of those who used to be in the choir with us ? Sometimes I hear the tenor voice of the leader, then the voice of the bass who used to make us laugh so when we ought not; then the voice of the girl who sang with me, and then I hear all of them, and see their faces. They are all young. We only are old ; but we shall soon rejoin the choir." t^w fe5» (5* THE WRECK OF THE "HESPERUS." IT was the schooner "Hesperus" That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daugh- ter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm His pipe was in his mouth — ; And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now west, now south. Then up and spake an old sailor Who had sailed the Spanish main; "I pray thee put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. "Last night the moon had a golden ring And to-night no moon we see !" The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind A gale from the northeast; The snow fell in the hissing brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. "Come hither, come hither, my little daugh- ter, And do not tremble so ; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, Against the stinging blast ; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. "O father, I hear the church bells ring! O say, what may it be?" " 'Tis a fog bell on a rock bound coast," And he steer'd for the open sea. 388 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. "O father, I hear the sound of guns ! O say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" "O father, I see a gleaming light! O say, what may it be !" But the father answer'd never a word — A frozen corpse was he ! Lash'd to the helm all stiff and stark, With his face to the skies, The lantern gleam'd thro' the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasp'd her hands and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who still'd the waves On the lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept, Toward the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever, the fitful gusts between, A sound came from the land ; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks, and the hard sea sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew, Like icicles from her deck. She struck, where the white and fleecy waves Look'd soft as carded wool ; But the cruel rocks they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheath 'd in ice, With the masts, went by the board ; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank — "Ho! ho!" the breakers roar'd. At daybreak, on the bleak sea beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair Lash'd close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes ; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea weed On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow; Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. i2& (5* <5* THE CHRISTIAN GLADIATOR. STILLNESS reigned in the vast am- phitheater, and from the countless thousands that thronged the spacious in- closure not a breath was heard. Every tongue was mute with suspense, and every eye strained with anxiety toward the gloomy portal where the gladiator was mo- mentarily expected to enter. At length the trumpet sounded and they led him forth into the broad arena. There was no mark of fear upon his manly countenance, as with majestic step and fearless eye he entered. He stood there, like another Apollo, firm and unbending as the rigid oak. His fine proportioned form was matchless, and his turgid muscles spoke his giant strength. "I am here," he cried, as his proud lip curled in scorn, "to glut the savage eye of DESCIilPTIVE RECITATIONS. 389 Rome's proud populace! Aye, like a dog you throw me to a beast; and what is my offense? Why, forsooth, I am a Christian. But know, ye cannot fright my soul, for it is based upon a foundation stronger than the adamantine rock. Know ye, whose hearts are harder than the flinty stone, my heart quakes not with fear; and here I aver, I would not change conditions with the blood-stained Nero, crowned though he be, not for the wealth of Rome. Blow ye your trumpet — I am ready !" The trumpet sounded, and a long, low growl was heard to proceed from the cage of a half-famished Numidian lion, situated at the farthest end of the arena. The growl deepened into a roar of tremendous volume, which shook the enormous edifice to its very center. At that moment the door was thrown open, and the huge monster of the forest sprang from his den with one mighty bound to the opposite side of the arena. His eyes blazed with the brilliancy of fire as he slowly drew his length along the sand and prepared to make a spring upon his formid- able antagonist. The gladiator's eye quailed not ; his lip paled not ; but he stood immov- able as a statue, waiting the approach of his wary foe. At length the lion crouched himself into an attitude for springing, and with the quickness of lightning leaped full at the throat of the gladiator. But he was pre- pared for him, and bounding lightly on one side, his falchion flashed for a moment over his head, and in the next it was deeply dyed in the purple blood of the monster. A roar of redoubled fury again resounded through the spacious amphitheater as the enraged animal, mad with the anguish from the wound he had just received, wheeled hastily round and sprang a second time at the Naz- arene. Again was the falchion of the cool and intrepid gladiator deeply planted in the breast of his terrible adversary ; but so sud- den had been the second attack, that it was impossible to avoid the full impetus of his bound, and he staggered and fell upon his knee. The monster's paw was upon his shoulder, and he felt its hot fiery breath upon his cheek, as it rushed through his wide distended nostrils. The Nazarene drew a short dagger from his girdle, and endeavored to regain his feet. But his foe, aware of his design, precipitated himself upon him threw him with violence to the ground. The excitement of the populace was now Wrought up to a high pitch, and they waited the result with breathless suspense. A low growl of satisfaction now announced the noble animal's triumph, as he sprang fiercely upon his prostrate enemy. But it was of short duration; the dagger of the gladiator pierced his vitals, and together they rolled over and over, across the broad arena. Again the dagger drank deep of the monster's blood, and again a roar of an- guish reverberated through the stately edi- fice. The Nazarene, now watching his oppor- tunity, sprang with the velocity of thought from the terrific embrace of his enfeebled antagonist, and regaining his falchion, which had fallen to the ground in the strug- gle, he buried it deep in the heart of the infuriated beast. The nooie king of the for- est, faint from the loss of blood, concen- trated all his remaining strength in one mighty bound ; but it was too late ; the last blow had been driven home to the center of life, and his huge form fell with a mighty crash upon the arena, amid the thundering acclamations of the populace. 390 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. jry-u IN THE AMEN CORNER 'WAS a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown, And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town, And the chorus, all the papers favorably commented on it, For 'twas said each female member had a forty-dollar bonnet. Now in the "amen corner" of the church sat Brother Eyer, Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir; He was poor, but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white, And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might. His; voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords, And nearly every Sunday he would mispro- nounce the words Of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind, And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind. The chorus stormed and blustered, Brother Eyer sang too slow, And then he used the tunes in vogue a hun- % dred years ago ; At last the storm-cloud burst, and the church was told, in fine, That the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign. Then the pastor called together in the lec- ture-room one day Seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay, And having asked God's guidance in a printed prayer or two, They put their heads together to determine what to do. They debated, thought, suggested till at last "dear Brother York," Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork, Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer, And proceed to rake him lively for "dis- turbin' of the choir." . Said he: "In that 'ere organ I've invested quite a pile, And we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style; Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hard- est thing For to make God understand him when the brother tries to sing. "We've got the biggest organ, the best- dressed choir in town, We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor Brother Brown; But if we must humor ignorance because it's blind and old, — If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek an- other fold." . Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four, With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer's door; And the sleek, well-dressed committee, Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb, As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jamb. They found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm-chair, And the summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair ; He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a voice both cracked and low, But the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know. DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 391 Said York: "We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbation, To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation ;" "And the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge, "And the choir too!" he echoed with the graveness of a judge. "It was the understanding when we bar- gained for the chorus That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us ; If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother, It will leave our congregation and be gob- bled by another. "We don't want any singing except that what we've bought ! The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught ; And so we have decided — are you listen- ing Brother Eyer? — That you'll have to stop your singin', for it flurrytates the choir." The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear, And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear ; His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow, As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low : "I've sung the psalms of David for nearly eighty years, They've been my staff and comfort and calmed life's many fears ; I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong ; But when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep back a song. "I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, In the far-off heavenly temple, where the Master I shall greet, — Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up higher, If the angel band will church me for dis- turbing heaven's choir." A silence filled the little room ; the old man bowed his head ; The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead ! Yes, dead ! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us, And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus. The choir missed him for awhile, but he was soon forgot, A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not. Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sings his heart's desires, Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs. ^5* *2fr *£& THE DYING SOLDIER. IT was the evening after a great battle. All day long the din of strife had echoed far, and thickly strewn lay the shattered forms of those so lately erect and exultant in the flush and strength of manhood. Among the many who bowed to the con- queror, Death, that night was a noble youth in the freshness of his early life. The strong limbs lay listless and the dark hair was matted with gore on the pale, broad forehead. His eyes were closed. As one who ministered to the sufferer bent over 392 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. him, he, at first, thought him dead ; but the white lips moved, and slowly, in weak tones, he repeated: " Now I lay me down to sleep ; I pray the Lord my soul to keep ; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take ; And this I ask for Jesus' sake." As he finished, he opened his eyes, and meeting the pitying gaze of a brother sol- dier, he exclaimed, "My mother taught me that when I was a little boy, and I have said it every night since I can remember. Be- fore the morning dawns I believe God will take my soul for Jesus' sake; but before I die I want to send a message to my mother." He was carried to a temporary hospital and a letter was written to his mother which he dictated. It was full of Christian faith and filial love. His end was calm and peace- ful. Just as the sun arose his spirit went home, his last articulate words being : " I pray the Lord my soul to take ; And this I ask for Jesus' sake." So died the noble volunteer. The prayer of childhood was the prayer of manhood. He learned it at his mother's knee in his far distant Northern home, and he whispered it, in dying, when his young life ebbed away on a Southern battle-field. It was his nightly petition in life, and the angel who bore his spirit home to heaven, bore the sweet prayer his soul loved so well. God bless the saintly words, alike loved and repeated by high and low, rich and poor, wise and ignorant, old and young, only sec- ond to our Lord's Prayer in beauty and simplicity. Happy the soul that can repeat it with the holy fervor of our dying soldier. ^* e5* ^* MY FIRST RECITATION. I WAS seized with an ambition to appear in public once, I would study elocution and in public would recite ; So I bought a recitation and I read it night and day, Until without a single break, I every word could say. I bought a book on action, and studied ease and grace, And practiced well, before the glass, each tragical grimace, For I was of a somber turn and loved dra- matic rhyme, Of haunted towers, and lovers' sighs, and deeds of horrid crime. I joined a concert company, and had my name put down, And thought my first appearance was the talk of half the town ; The piece I had selected was a splendid one to "go," I had heard it oft recited by a fellow that I know. And when you hear the title, I am sure you'll say "that's good," 'Twas the most dramatic poem ever writ- ten by Tom Hood; I had seen the ladies clap their hands, and give a little scream — Now, can't you guess the title? It was "Eugene Aram's Dream !" The spacious hall was crowded with an audience most select, And some most distinguished visitors whom we did not expect — DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 393 And one, I must confess it, the adored one of my heart, It was for her I tried to shine in this most tragic part. There was carpet on the platform, and banners trailed the ground, And a scented water fountain threw its per- fumed spray around; And plants of tropic beauty in pots were blooming there, You scarcely could imagine a scene more wondrous fair. I looked at my adored one, with the glor- ious hazel eyes, And felt that her applause would be an all- sufficient prize. First a grand piano solo, then a chorus by the choir — I always had a notion that sweet music could inspire, And give a soldier courage; but the more I now reflect, I am quite sure that the music had an op- posite effect, For although my head was burning I was trembling like a leaf ; Then I thought the songs might soothe me, but the songs were all too brief. When I looked upon the programme, and had marked off every name, It seemed as if my time t' appear like a flash of lightning came. I tried to feel collected, and as if I didn't care, But I felt my face was burning right away into my hair. I stood just behind the platform, trying vainly to keep cool, And whispering softly to myself, "Be calm, don't be a fool !" When, smiling, our conductor round the corner popped his head, "Come, look sharp, Mr. Whiffim, the plat- form waits !" he said. Then I rushed upon the platform, nearly falling on my face, And stood before the audience, glaring wildly into space. When I saw the upturned faces, I'd have given the world to say, "Please don't stare at me so rudely! Oh, do look the other way !" Where were all my tragic actions, which their feelings must have stirred? And, O horror ! more important, where, oh where, was the first word ! Vainly stared I at the ceiling, vainly stared I at the floor ; Yes, the words were quite forgotten, I had known so well before. And I saw my own adored one hide her face behind her fan, And a stout old lady murmured, "Dear me, what can ail the man?" Then suddenly I remembered part of that most tragic rhyme, And I waved my arms and shouted, "In the prime of summer time." Why the audience laughed I know not, but they did and I got mad, It was not a comic poem, and to laugh was much too bad; Then I thought about my action, when "some moody turns he took," And I tramped along the platform till the very rafters shook. Then I reached the thrilling portion where the ladies ought to scream, Then I said, "My lad, remember, this is nothing- but a dream." 394 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. But to me it was a nightmare, awful, but, alas ! too true ; How I wished the creaking platform would but break and let me through ! Oh ! but for one drink of water, one to cool my burning tongue. Then I stooped to lift the body, then again I upward sprung; I had clasped a splendid rose-bush, on my shoulder held it tight, Then I plunged into the audience, scattering it wildly left and right. And I dropped the splendid rose-bush on a stout old lady's lap, And the branches got entangled with the ribbons of her cap. Then I pulled it, waved it wildly, like a palm-branch high in air, Wig and cap hung in the branches — the old lady's head was bare. Wildly then I flung it from me, flung it ere I turned and fled, And it struck the portly rector, struck him on his shiny head. Then the fierce mustachioed captain seized me with an angry shout, Lifted me by the coat collar, and, yes, really kicked me out. Angelina, my adored one, passes me and does not bow, Angelina goes out walking with another young man now. How I hate my wild ambition! I detest dramatic rhyme, And the art of elocution I would punish as a crime. For reciting may be pleasant if you don't aspire too high, But before you say it's easy, do as I did — go and try. — W. A. Eaton. «5* t5* *£• WHY HE WOULDN'T SELL THE FARM. HERE, John! you drive the cows up while your mar brings out the pails ; But don't ye let me ketch yer ahangin' onter them cows' tails, An' chasin' them across that lot at sich a tarin' rate; An' John, when you cum out, be sure and shet that pastur gate. It's strange that boy will never larn to notice what I say, I'm 'fraid that he'll git to rulin' me, if things goes on this way ; But boys is boys, and will be boys, till ther grown up to men, An' John's about as good a lad as the aver- age of 'em. I'll tell ye, stranger, how it is : I feel a heap o' pride In that boy — he's our only one sence little Neddy died; Don't mind me, sir, I'm growin' old, my eyesight's gettin' dim ; But 't seems sumhow a kind o' mist cums long o' thoughts of him. Jes' set down on the doorstep, Squar, an' make yerself to hum ; While Johnny's bringin' up the cows I'll tell ye how it cum That all our boys ha' left us, 'ceptin' Johnny there, An' I reckon, stranger, countin' all, we've had about our share. Thar was our first boy, Benjamin, the old- est of them all, He was the smartest little chap, so clipper, peart and small ; DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 395 He cum to us one sun-bright morn, as merry as a lark, It would ha' done your soul good, Squar, to a seen the little spark. An' thar was Tom, "a hansum boy," his mother alius said, He took to books, and larned so spry, we put the sprig ahead — His skoolin' cleaned the little pile we'd laid by in the chest, But I's bound to give the boy a chance to do his level best. Our third one's name was Samuel; he growed up here to hum, An' worked with me upon the farm till he was twenty-one. Fur Benjamin had larned a trade — He didn't take to work ; Tom, mixin' up in politics, got 'lected County Clerk. We ken all remember, stranger, the year o' sixty-one, When the spark that teched the powder off in that Confed'rat gun Flashed like a streak o' lightning up acrost from east to west, An' left a spot that burned like fire in every patriot's breast. An' I tell you what it was, Squar, my boys cum up to the scratch. They all had a share o' the old man's grit, with enough of their own to match. They showed their colors, an' set ther flint, their names went down on the roll, An' Benjamin, Thomas an' Sam was pledged to preserve the old flag whole. They all cum hum together at the last, rigged up in their soldier clothes ; It made my old heart thump, thump with pride, an' ther mother's spirits rose, Fur she'd been "down in the mouth" sum- what sense she'd heard what the boys had done, Fur it took all three, an' it's hard enough fur a mother to give up one. But ther warnt a drop of coward's blood in her veins, I ken tell you first, Fur she'd send the boys, an' the old man, too, ef the worst had cum to worst ; I shall never furgit the last night, Squar, when we all kneeled down to pray, How she give 'em, one by one, to God, in the hush of the twilight gray. An' when the morning broke so clear — not a cloud was in the sky — The boys cum in with sober looks to bid us their last good-by; I didn't spect she would stand it all, with her face so firm an' calm, But she didn't break nor give in a peg till ( she cum to kissin' Sam, An' then it all cum out at onct, like a storm from a thunder cloud, — She jest set down on the kitchen floor, broke out with a sob so loud Thet Sam give up, and the boys cum back, and they all got down by her there ; An' I'm thinkin' 'twould a made an angel cry to hev seen that partin', Squar ! I think she had a forewarnin', fur when they brought back poor Sam, She sot down by his coffin there, with her face so white and calm, Thet the neighbors who cum a pourin' in to see our soldier dead, Went out with a hush on ther tremblin' lips, an' the words in ther hearts un- said. Stranger, perhaps you heard of Sam, how he broke through thet Secesh line, 396 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. An' planted the old flag high an' dry, where its dear old stars could shine ; An' after our soldiers won the day, an' a gatherin' up the dead, They found our boy with his brave heart still, and the flag above his head. An' Tom was shot at Gettysburg, in the thickest .of the fray — They say thet he led his gallant boys like a hero thro' thet day ; But they brought him back with his clear voice hushed in the silent sleep of death, An' another grave grew grassy green 'neath the kiss of the Summer's breath. An' Benjamin, he cum hum at last; but it made my old eyes ache To see him lay with thet patient look, when it seemed thet his heart must break With his pain and wounds, but he lingered on till the flowers died away, An' then he laid him down to rest, in the close of the autumn day. Will I sell the old farm, stranger, the house where my boys were born? Jes' look down through the orchard, Squar, beyond thet field of corn — Ken ye see them four white marble stuns gleam out through the orchard glade? Wall, all thet is left of our boys on earth rests unner them old trees' shade. But there cums John with the cows, ye see, an' it's 'bout my milkin' time; If ye happen along this way agin, jes' drop in at any time. Oh, ye axed if I'd eny notion the old farm would ever be sold; Wall ! may be, Squar, but I'll tell ye plain, 'twill be when the old man's cold. &?•* i!5* ^* THE DRUMMER BOY'S BURIAL. ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept ; All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept. O, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night, O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light. One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke Once again the night dropped round them — night so holy and so calm That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm. On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest, Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast. Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep ; E'en his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep. For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face, And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace To the marble limbs so perfect in their pas- sionless repose, Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes. And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told : How he did his duty bravely till the death- tide o'er him rolled. DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 397 Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars. Hark ! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low, Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow? Clinging closely to each other, striving ne'er to look around, As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground, Came two little maidens — sisters — with a light and hasty tread, And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread. And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood Where the drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude. They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store, And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore. Then they quickly knelt beside him, crush- ing back the pitying tears, For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears. And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame. For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need, And they felt that death was holy, and it sanctified the deed. But they smiled and kissed each other when their new, strange task was o'er, And the form that lay before them its un- wonted garments wore. Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about. But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the sun. Gently then those little maidens — they were children of our foes — Laid the body of our drummer boy to un- disturbed repose. t£* <£• «i5* GRANDMA'S KNITTING STORY. THE supper is o'er, the hearth is swept, And in the wood-fire's glow The children cluster to hear a tale Of that time so long ago, When grandma's hair was golden brown, And the warm blood came and went O'er the face that could scarce have been sweeter then Than now in its rich content. The face is wrinkled and careworn now, And the golden hair is gray ; But the light that shone in the young girl's eyes Never has gone away. And her needles catch the firelight As in and out they go, With the clicking music that grandma loves, Shaping the stocking toe, 398 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. And the waiting children love it, too, For they know the stocking song Brings many a tale to grandma's mind Which they shal 1 have ere long. But it brings no story of olden time To grandma's heart to-night, — Only a refrain, quaint and short, Is sung by the needles bright. "Life is a stocking," grandma says, "And yours is just begun; But I am knitting the toe of mine, And my work is almost done. "With merry hearts we begin to knit, And the ribbing is almost play ; Some are gay-colored, and some are white, And some are ashen-gray. "But most are made of many hues, With many a stitch set wrong; And many a row to be sadly ripped Ere the whole is fair and strong. "There are long, plain spaces, without a break, That in life are hard to bear ; And many a weary tear is dropped As we fashion the heel with care. "But the saddest, happiest time is that We count and yet would shun, When our Heavenly Father breaks the thread, And says that our work is done." The children came to say good-night, With tears in their bright young eyes, But in grandma's lap, with broken thread, The finished stocking lies. c5* «5* ^* GRANDMA'S WEDDING-DAY. WHEN we were merry children, eyes of blue and hair of gold, We listened to a story by a sweet-faced lady told; Yes, in the twilight of her life, when she was old and gray, We loved to hear the story of Grandma's wedding-day. There was a lack of bridal gifts — no gold and silver fine, No jewels from across the sea, upon her brow to shine; A man in homespun clothes stood up and gave the bride away — For all was sweet simplicity on Grandma's wedding-day. There was no surpliced minister, no bell above them hung, They stood upon the forest sward, this couple, fair and young; And when the parson called them one and wished them years of bliss, The groom received his only gift — a soft and holy kiss. A cabin in the forest stood to welcome home the pair, And happy birds among the trees made music on the air ; She was the reigning backwoods belle — the bride so fair and gay — And that is why the birds were glad upon her wedding-day. Thus life began for Grandma, in the forest dim and old, And where she lived a city stands, with stateliness untold; Photo by Byron, N. Y. THE UNHAPPY HOME. DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 401 She told us how the Indian came the set- tler brave to fight, And how she rocked the cradle to the wolf's long howl at night. The cradle was an oaken trough, un- trimmed with costly lace, But in it nestled, now and then, a bright, cherubic face; And Grandma was as happy then as though a mansion grand Above her rose like some we see through- out our lovely land. I cherish now a lock of hair — 'tis not of sil- ver gray, | She clipped it in the sunlight fair, though years have passed away — It is a tress of Grandma's hair, as bright as when she stood, And blushing took her bridal vows within the pathless wood. On yonder hill, this golden morn, she takes her dreamless rest; The wrinkled hands, so often kissed, lie crossed upon her breast; And gently on her finger, e'er we laid her form away, We placed the simple ring she wore upon her wedding-day. THE DELINQUENT SUBSCRIBER. WORN and weary, seedy and sad, an editor sat him down 'Mid work and rubbish, paper and dust, with many a wrinkled frown, He sighed when he thought of his paper bills, his rent, and board and wood, And groaned when the copy fiend yelled out, as he there in the doorway stood. "What do people fancy," he said, "an editor lives upon ? Air and water, glory and debt, till his toil- some life is done ? I'll stop their papers, every one, till their honest debts they pay, And mark their names off the mailing book for ever and ever aye. "Take this copy, double lead, and mark with a pencil blue, And send to all who are in arrears, from ten years down to two." And then to the copy-hungry boy he handed a penciled scrawl Of hieroglyphics, straggling, wild, all tangled, and lean and tall. When scarce a fortnight had dragged its length of tired-out hours away, There came to the heart of the editor a glad- some joy one day ; 'Twas only a letter from Gordon's Mill, in a hand both weak and old, But out of it fell a treasured coin of solid beautiful gold ! The letter claimed his interest then, and so he slowly read The scrawled, but simple and honest words, and this is what they said : "Dear Editor: I read the lines you marked and sent to me, So I send this piece of gold and ask if you will agree "To send my paper right along, and forget the debt I owed, For I've took your paper for twenty year, and so far as e'er I know'd, I never owed no man a cent till about four years ago, When my poor wife died, and the crops was bad, and the fever laid me low. 402 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. "And times hain't never been the same to lit- tle Liz and me — For we are all that's left behind — -and since my eyes can't see, She always reads the paper, and it's been our only cheer And brought us all the news and fun we've . had for many a year. "I'm gettin' old and feeble, now, and down with the rheumatiz, And there's the paper left to me; just that and little Liz. We couldn't bear to lose it now, it's been with us so long, Till its very name is music, like an old time happy song. "This twenty-dollar piece of gold will pay for all I owe, And what is over and above, just keep, and let it go Toward paying for the paper till a brighter, better day; And send to Liz, she'll need it then, when I am called away." Glad and thankful the editor was, as he knew that there was one Who loved and could appreciate the work that he had done. He felt that life was not in vain, and smiled through happy tears ; And then on the mailing book he wrote: "Paid up for twenty years." — Margaret A. Oldham. t&* t&rl t£rl A TRAGEDY OF THE PLAINS. WHAT is that? Look closer and you will see that it is a gaunt, grim wolf, creeping out of the little grove of cotton- woods towards a buffalo calf gamboling about its mother. Raise your eyes a little more, and you will see that the prairie beyond is alive with buffalo. Count them! You might as well try to count the leaves on a giant maple ! They are moving foot by foot as they crop the juicy grass, and living waves rise and fall as the herd slowly sweeps on. Afar out to the right and left, mere specks on the plain, are the flankers — brave old buf- faloes which catch a bite of grass and then sniff the air and scan the horizon for inti- mation of danger. They are the sentinels of the herd, and right well can they be trusted. The wolf creeps nearer! All the after- noon the herd has fed in peace, and as it now moves toward the distant river it is all unconscious that danger is near. Look you well and watch the wolf for you are going to see such a sight as not one man in ten thousand has ever beheld. Creep — crawl — skulk — now behind a knoll, now drawing himself over the grass, now raising his head above a thistle to mark the locality of his victim. It is a lone, shambling, skulking wolf, lame and spite- ful and treacherous. Wounded or ailing, he has been left alone to get on as best he may, and his green eyes light up with fiercer blaze as he draws nearer and nearer to his unconscious prey. There! No, he is yet too far away. Creep, creep, creep ! Now he is twenty feet away — now fifteen — now ten. He hugs the earth, gathers his feet under him, then leaps through the air as if shot from a gun. He is rolling the calf over and over on the grass in three seconds after he springs. Now watch! A cry of pain from the calf — a furious bellow from the mother as she wheels and DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 403 charges the wolf — a startled movement from a dozen of the nearest animals, and a rush begins. The one wolf is magni- fied into a hundred, the hundred into a thou- sand. Short, sharp bellows, snorts of alarm, a rush, and in fifty seconds after the wolf has wet his fangs with blood that living mass is in motion to get away from an un- known terror. The waves rise higher and higher as the confusion spreads. One in- stant it seems as if ten thousand solid acres of prairie were moving bodily away ; again waves rise and fall as the cowards behind rush upon those in front who wait to sniff the air and learn the danger. In one min- ute the alarm runs down the herd to the leaders — further than the eye can see, and the entire herd if off at a mad gallop, heads down, eyes rolling, and no thought but that of escape. If Lake Erie were to dash itself against a wall the shock would be no greater than the awful crash with which this mass of rattling hoofs, sharp horns and hairy bodies would meet it. The clatter of hoofs and rattle of horns would drown the noise of a brigade of cavalry dashing over a stone-paved road. Ride out on their trail. Here where the stampede began the ground is torn and furrowed as if a thousand cannon had been firing solid shot at targets. Here and there are calves which have been gored or crushed, here and there older animals with broken legs and disabling wounds. Here, where the herd was fairly off, you might as well hunt for a gold dollar as a blade of grass. You look for three miles as you look across it. It is a trail of dirt and dust and ruts and furrows, where half an hour ago was a carpet of green grass and smiling flowers. The most dreadful cyclone known to man could not have left more horrible scars behind. Miles away, on the bank of a winding, growling river, are three white-topped emi- grant wagons. A camp-fire blazes up to boil the kettles ; men, women and children stand about, peering over the setting sun at the distant mountains and glad that their journey is almost done. Butterflies come and go on lazy wing, the crickets chirp cheerily in the grass, and the eagles sailing in the blue evening air have no warning to give. Hark ! Is that thunder ? Men and women turn in their tracks as they look in vain for a cloud in the sky. That rumble comes again as they look into each other's faces. It grows louder as women turn pale and men reach for their trusty rifles. The ground trembles, and afar off comes a din which strikes terror to the heart. "Indians!" they whisper. No! A thousand times better for them if the savage Pawnee dared ride down where those long-barreled rifles could speak in defence of a peaceful camp. "A stampede of buffaloes !" gasps one of the men as he catches sight of the advance guard under the awful cloud of dust. Rifles are held ready for a shot, and the children climb up on the heavy wagon wheels to see the strange procession gallop past. Here they come ! Crack ! crack ! crack ! from three rifles, and a shout as each bullet tells. Next instant a shaggy head, followed by a dust-covered body, rushes through the camp. Then another and another. The men shout and wave their hands; the women and children turn paler yet. The roar and din shut out every other sound, and the wagons jar and tremble with the concussion. Now another shaggy head — another — half a dozen — a score — a hun- dred — a great living wave which sweeps along with the power of a tornado, followed by others more fierce and strong, and the camp is blotted off the face of the earth as 404 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. completely as by the power of Heaven. Nothing to be seen, no shout to be heard. Wave followed wave across the spot, over the bank, into the stream and across, and when the last of the herd has passed, the keenest hunter can find on that spot nothing of wood or iron or cloth or bone or flesh to prove that a dozen men, women and children were there wiped out of ex- istence. t5* t3* t3* THE MIGHT OF LOVE. THERE is work, good man, for you to- day!" So the wife of Jamie cried, ' "For a ship at Garl'ston, on Solway, Is beached, and her coal's to be got away At the ebbing time of tide." "And, lassie, would you have me start, And make for Solway sands? You know that I, for my poor part, To help me, have nor horse nor cart — I have only just my hands !" "But, Jamie, be not, till ye try, Of honest chances baulked; For, mind ye, man, I'll prophesy That while the old ship's high and dry Her master'll have her caulked." And far and near the men were pressed, As the wife saw in her dreams. "Aye," Jamie said, "she knew the best," As he went under with the rest To caulk the open seams. And while the outward-flowing tide Moaned like a dirge of woe, The ship's mate from the beach-belt cried : "Her hull is heeling toward the side Where the men are at work below !" And the cartmen, wild and open-eyed, Made for the Solway sands — Men heaving men like coals aside, For now it was the master cried : "Run for your lives, all hands !" Like dead leaves in the sudden swell Of the storm, upon that shout, Brown hands went fluttering up and fell, As, grazed by the sinking planks, pell-mell The men came hurtling out! Thank God, thank God, the peril's past ! "No ! no !" with blanching lip, The master cries. "One man, the last, Is caught, drawn in, and grappled fast Betwixt the sands and the ship !" "Back, back, all hands ! Get what you can — Or pick, or oar, or stave." This way and that they breathless ran, And came and fell to, every man, To dig him out of his grave ! "Too slow! too slow! the weight will kill! Up, make your hawsers fast !" Then every man took hold with a will — A long pull and a strong pull — still With never a stir o' the mast! "Out with the cargo!" Then they go At it with might and main. "Back to the sands ! too slow, too slow ! He's dying, dying ! yet, heave, ho ! Heave ho ! there, once again !" And now on the beach at Garl'ston stood A woman whose pale brow wore Its love like a queenly crown ; and the blood Ran curdled and cold as she watched the flood That was racing in to the shore. DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 405 On, on it trampled, stride by stride. It was death to stand and wait; And all that were free threw picks aside, And came up dripping out o' th' tide, And left the doomed to his fate. But lo ! the great sea trembling stands ; Then, crawling under the ship, As if for the sake of the two white hands Reaching over the wild, wet sands, Slackened that terrible grip. "Come to me, Jamie ! God grants the way," She cries, "for lovers to meet." And the sea, so cruel, grew kind, they say, And, wrapping him tenderly round with spray, Laid him dead at her feet. *£& (5* t£& A TENEMENT HOUSE GUEST. IN a tenement house, on west side of New York City, lives Mrs. M'Ginnis, and she earns her bread over a wash-tub. She had just put her washing into the boiler, and sat down to take an "aisy breath or two," when she saw a curious appari- tion in her doorway. It was the figure of an old man, but so bent, so thin, so tattered, so shaggy and unshorn, that, for an instant, Mrs. M'Ginnis thought she confronted something that was not of flesh and blood. "And is it anything ye wahnt of me, me gude man?" "Is she here?" "Who, me gude man? Who do you mane ?" "Me little girl," he answered ; and the dim old eyes began to brighten. Then Mrs. M'Ginnis' eyes became ob- scured. She thought her guest's mind was wandering, and was touched. She was frightened, too, but she spread her humble board with the best she had, and urged him to eat. Then she flew to summon her im- mediate and intimate neighbors. This was an event that called for outside counsel and support. Billy Blair, his mother's eldest, twenty years old, and as big as any giant in the "Pilgrim's Progress," was at home enjoy- ing a holiday, because of a death in the firm that employed him. Being the only repre- sentative of male wisdom present, he as- sumed control of the meeting without op- position. The old man, refreshed by food and rest, rocked softly and began to talk. "I wahnt to find me little girl." "Who is yer little girl?" asked Billy. "What's her name?" "Her name ? It's Nora Grady, of course ; and me own name, it's Thomas." "When did yer little girl lave ye?" "Whin did she lave me?" echoed the old man. "Sure it's bin menny a long year ; but I've got the figgers here, and a mark in the paper for ivery year she's been gone," and he fished from some invisible pocket among his tatters a folded paper, as worn and soiled as himself. "It were in the year 1850 she sailed for Ameriky," he said, looking intently at the figures on the paper, "and she's been gone all that time, has me little girl." "And how old is she ?" asked Billy. "Sixteen, — me little girl's sixteen, and she had the purtiest face and curliest hair of any lass in the country." "But she's grown older, ye know, poor mon ; she's an old woman now, surely," said Mrs. Blair. "No ; she's me little girl," he answered, •with pitiful assurance in his voice. "Does she expect ye?" asked Mrs. Nolan. 406 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. "Naw," said the old man, with a childish twinkle in his faded eyes, "naw ; it's a sur- prise I'll give her. She'll be glad to see me ; she'll be plazed at me bein' here, indade." "When did ye last hear from her ?" asked Mrs. M'Ginnis. "In Siptimber, and here's the letter she sent, wid her own name at the bottom." Billy, the superior brain of the council, took the letter and pored intently over its grimy surface, at last reaching the name at the end. There it was, to be sure, as plain as a stone wall, "Nora Grady, No. 167 Street, Jersey City." "But what will Nora do wid ye, me mon, if she hez nary a home of her own ?" asked far-seeing Mrs. Blair. - "She writ me long ago that she had money in the bank ; she'll be glad to see me, I know," he answered, a look of trust in his faded eyes. His new friends soon set about improv- ing his personal appearance. Billy made some donations from his own limited ward- robe, and the others supplied the remaining deficiencies from stores as scanty. A bath was administered, with Billy as chief opera- tor and medical adviser, and a barber's ap- prentice in the basement cheerfully added his skill to complete the transformation. These experiences exhausted the old man. When he had been made over, externally, he was too weak to sit up, and was trans- ferred to Billy's bed, a decent but not dainty couch. Then Mrs. M'Ginnis went to Jersey City in search of the "little girl," taking with her the precious letter as -evidence of the truth of her story. How strange it was that these men and women, who in the morning had been unaware of his existence, were now more interested in his fortunes than in any- thing else in the world. They tiptoed in and out of Mrs. Blair's room, not wishing to disturb the sick guest. Yet the old man was not asleep. His dim eyes were fixed on the dull wall of Billy's little room, though, in reality, they were looking backward through the long years, groping in the mists of memory for faces and figures that had vanished from the earth. Mrs. Blair came out with a cup in her hand and tears in her eyes. "I'm afraid he's sinking," she whispered to the hushed group. "He hez no strength at all." . " The hours went by slowly, very slowly. Nine, ten, at last eleven o'clock struck, and still Mrs. M'Ginnis did not come, nor did the "little girl." Suddenly every pulse quickened, every eye dilated. They were coming; the watchers heard the sound of two pairs of feet on the stairs, and the swish of women's garments. The door opened, and Mrs. M'Ginnis en- tered. Behind her came — not the "little girl" who had so long held a place in the old man's memory; not the curly-headed, girlish Nora, but an old woman, bent and broken by toil, with furrowed face and rough, work-worn hands. They had all known that she must look like this. They had talked it over and pre- pared themselves for .it, yet the reality was a shock to them. The weeping women took her in their arms, and the men shook her hand with a hearty "God bless ye." "Here's Nora, here's yer daughter," said Mrs. M'Ginnis to the old man, a_s she led Nora to the bedside. He made no reply. She touched his hand and bent over him, speaking softly : "Here's your 'little girl.' " His eyes lighted up with joy as they wandered round the bleak room, passing by Nora and looking out through the open door. "Where? Where? I don't see me DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 407 little girl. Where is she?" he gasped, try- ing to lift his head from the pillow. "Feyther, feyther, don't you know me? I'm Nora, feyther; don't you know me?" said the woman, over whose seamed face the tears were falling like rain. "Nora's a little girl," he answered, trembling, moving his shrunken head as though trying to disperse the mists of mem- ory. "She has bright eyes, and curly hair as black as night." They raised his head that he might see Nora better. "Feyther, feyther," she cried, stroking his thin hands, "Feyther, I'm Nora, I'm your little girl." Something in her voice scattered the mists that obscured him mind — some tone be- longing to the little girl was still heard in the voice of the woman, and his ear caught it. The faded eyes became very bright, and he reached out both hands with the glad cry, — "Me little girl, me Nora!" and sud- denly let them fall. Bending close to his white face, they saw that he was no longer with them. He had gone into a new country, the beautiful new country of our dreams, lighted thither by the joy of sudden recognition. Love knows neither age nor time. Others saw Nora as an old woman ; but by the light of love, and that other light which cometh from afar, he saw a bright-faced little girl, and while his glad eyes dwelt hungrily on hers, he de- parted to the wonderful, new "Ameriky," where the sun shall always shine. ttjfc *2m *2fi A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. GIRT round with rugged mountains the fair Lake Constance lies ; In her blue heart reflected, shine back the starry skies; And watching each white cloudlet float si- lently and slow, You think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below ! Midnight is there ; and silence enthroned in heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleep- ing town; For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance a thou- sand years and more. Her battlements and towers, upon their rocky steep, Have cast their trembling shadows of ages on the deep; Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred legend know, Of how the town was saved one night, three hundred years ago. Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for daily bread; And every year that fleeted so silently and fast, Seemed to bear farther from her the mem- ory of the past. She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for rest or change ; Her friends seemed no more new ones, their speech seemed no more strange ; And when she led her cattle to pasture every day, She ceased to look and wonder on which side Bregenz lay. 408 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. She spoke no more of Bregenz, with long- ing and with tears ; Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist of years ; She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war or strife; Each day she rose contented, to the calm toils of life. Yet, when her master's children would clustering round her stand, She sang them the old ballads of her own native land; And when at morn and evening she knelt before God's throne, The accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone. And so she dwelt; the valley more peace- ful year by year ; When suddenly strange portents of some great deed seemed near. The golden corn was bending upon its fragile stalk, While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down in talk. The men seemed stern and altered, with looks cast on the ground; With anxious faces, one by one, the women gathered round; All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put away; The very children seemed afraid to go alone to play. One day, out in the meadow with strangers from the town, Some secret plan discussing, the men walked up and down, Yet now and then seemed watching a strange uncertain gleam, That looked like lances 'mid the trees that stood below the stream. At eve they all assembled, all care and doubt were fled ; With jovial laugh they feasted, the board was nobly spread. The elder of the village rose up, his glass in hand, And cried, "We drink the downfall of an accursed land! "The night is growing darker, ere one more day is flown, Bregenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz shall be our own !" The women shrank in terror (yet pride, too, had her part), But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within her heart. Before her, stood fair Bregenz, once more her towers arose; What were the friends beside her? Only her country's foes ! The faces of her kinsfolk, the day of child- hood flown, The echoes of her mountains reclaimed her as their own ! Nothing she heard around her (though shouts rang out again) ; Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the pasture and the plain; Before her eyes one vision, and in her heart one cry, That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz, and then if need be, die !" With trembling haste, and breathless, with noiseless step she sped ; Horses and weary cattle were standing in the shed; She loosed the strong white charger, that fed from out her hand, She mounted and she turned his head toward her native land. DESCRIPTIVE -RECITATIONS. 409 Out — out into the darkness — faster, and still more fast; The smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut wood is passed; She looks up ; clouds are heavy : Why is her steed so slow ? — Scarcely the wind beside them, can pass them as they go. "Faster !" she cries. "Oh, faster !" Eleven the church-bells chime ; "O God," she cries, "help Bregenz, and bring me there in time !" But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the kine, Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the Rhine. Shall not the roaring waters their headlong gallop check? The steed draws back in terror, she leans above his neck To watch the flowing darkness, the bank is high and steep, One pause — he staggers forward, and plunges in the deep. She strives to pierce the darkness, and looser throws the rein ; Her steed must breast the waters that dash above his mane. How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles through the foam, And see — in the far distance, shine out the lights of home ! Up the steep bank he bears her, and now they rush again Towards the heights of Bregenz, that tower above the plain. They reach the gate of Bregenz, just as the midnight rings, And out come serf and soldier to meet the news she brings. Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight her battle- ments are manned ; Defiance greets the army that marches on the land. And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid, Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol maid. Three hundred years are vanished, and yet upon the hill An old stone gateway rises, to do her honor still. And there, when Bregenz women sit spin- ning in the shade, They see the quaint old carving, the charger and the maid. And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gate- way, street, and tower, The warder paces all night long, and calls each passing hour; "Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud and then (O crown of fame!) When midnight pauses in the skies he calls the maiden's name. *£& (5* ^* THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST. THE gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk, An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' stovepipe hats were there, An' doods 'ith thouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer. The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: "Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, An' as we hev no substitoot, as Brother Moore aint here, Will some'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?" 410 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, Give an interductory hiccup, an' then stag- gered up the aisle. Then through thet holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, An' through thet air of sanctity the odor uv old gin. Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge; "This man pur fanes the house er God! W'y, this is sacrilege!" The tramp didn't hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, An' sprawled an' staggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat. He then went pawin' through the keys, an' soon there rose a strain Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 'lectrify the brain ; An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys. The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry; It swelled into the rafters an' bulged out into the sky, The ol' church shook an' staggered an' seemed to reel an' sway, An' the elder shouted "Glory !" and I yelled out "Hooray !" An' then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears, Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears ; An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens 'ith Tabby on the mat, Uv home an' luv an' baby-days an' mother an' all that! An' then he struck a streak uv hope — a song from souls forgiven — Thet burst from prison-bars uv sin an' stormed the gates uv heaven; The morning stars they sung together, — no soul wuz left alone, — We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God wuz on his throne ! An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness come again, An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men ; No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, An' then — the tramp, he staggered down an' reeled into the night! But we knew he'd tol' his story, though he never spoke a word. An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; He hed tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day, Wen the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let us pray." (5* <5* *5* A NEWSBOY IN CHURCH. WELL, ye see, I'd sold my papers, Every bloomin', blessed one, And was strollin' round the corner, Just a prospectin' for fun.. I was loafin' by the railin' Of that church you see right there, With its crosses and its towers, Kind o' settin' off the square. And I got a sort o' lonesome, For the gang — they weren't round, When I heard a noise of music, Seemed like comin' from the ground. DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 411 It was nothin' but some singin', But it sounded mighty fine ; Course, I ain't no judge o' them things, An' it's no affair o' mine. Then it seemed to kind o' weaken And I didn't hear it plain, Till the band struck up a-whoopin', And I heard it all again. Well, there seemed to be a show there, That I thought I'd like to see, An' there was so many goin', I jest says : "I'll bet it's free." So I looks around the corner An' I makes a careful search, For I knew the kids 'ud "guy" me, If they heard I'd been to church. Well, there weren't a soul a-lookin' So I up and walks right in, An' I sat down in a corner While they finished up their hymn. Well, sir, blow me, if I ever Was so taken all aback — There was marching up the aisle a Gang of kids, in white and black. They were singin' just like angels, And they looked so slick and nice That I wondered where they got 'em ; Were they always kept on ice. And they wore a long, black cloak, sir, Comin' to their very feet, And an overall of white stuff, Just like what is in a sheet. Then some men came up behind them Singin' loudly, as they came, But, although the kids was weaker, They all got there, just the same. Then, behind the whole procession, Came two men, 'most all in white, And they wore some fancy biz'ness, An' they looked just out o' sight. But they didn't do no singin', Jest kept still, and looked ahead. An' sez I, I'll bet they're runnin' All the show — that's what I said. Then they all got up in front there, And the music sounded grand, But, to save my neck, I couldn't Get a sight, sir, of the band. I could hear it as distinctly, So I guessed it must be near, But I saw no men, nor nothin', An' I thought it very queer. Well, a man was standin' near me, An' I touched him with my hand, Then he looked aroun' and saw me, An' sez I, "Say, where's the band?" An' he looked at me a-grinnin', Just as tho' I'd make a joke, — That 'ere look he gave me made me Kind o' sorry that I'd spoke. Then he says : "Why, that's the organ, All those pipes you see up there, One man plays it with his fingers, And another pumps the air." Here the music stopped so sudden That I 'most forgot myself; And I heard some man a-talkin' From a book laid on a shelf. Then they all got up and read some, First the man, and then the crowd, After that they knelt down softly, And I see their heads were bowed, So I bows my head down, too, sir, And I listens t' every word ; But I didn't understand them Every time they said, "Good Lord." Well, they kept that up some longer, Till a plate came down the aisle, And some people dropped in money An' some others dropped a smile. (I suppose they'd come on passes For they were allowed to stay.) So I gave 'em my four pennies, That was all I had that day. 412 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. Then a kid got up in front there With a paper in his hand — All the rest was sittin' quiet — And the man tuned up the band, Then that kid began a-singin' Till I thought my heart 'ud break, For my throat was full o' chokin' And my hands began to shake. Well, I never seen no angels, And their songs I've never heard, But I'll bet that there's no angel Beats that kid — for he's a bird. He was lookin' like a picture, With his robes of white and black, And I felt my tears a-comin', For I couldn't keep 'em back, And I wondered if he always Was as good as he looked there, Singin' all about the angels, "Angels ever bright and fair." Well, thinks I, I guess it's easy To be good and sing so sweet, But, you know, it's kind o' different Sellin' papers on the street. When the kid got through his singin' I got up and made a sneak, And I got outside the church there, And, indeed, I couldn't speak. Then I ran across the gang, sir, They were hangin' round for me. But I somehow didn't want them, And just why, I couldn't see. So I said I couldn't join 'em 'Cos I had another date, And I went on walkin' homeward, Like a kid without a mate. And I sneaked in just as quiet And I lay down on my bed, Till I slept and got a-dreamin' About angels overhead. And they wore such shiny garments, And they sang so sweet and fine, And the one right in the middle Was that singin' kid of mine. Now, I kind o' want to know, sir (So I'm asking you, ye see), If them kids can all be angels, Is there any show for me? £— "^l 3 Encores i This department is supplementary to all the other departments in this work, and contains pieces suitable for recitation when a speaker has been recalled by the audience. g5* c5* (i?* MARK TWAIN AS A FARMER. I HAVE been introduced to you as an experienced agriculturist. I love the farm. Adam loved the farm. Noah loved his vineyards. Horace loved the farm, as is shown by that great book, "What I Know- About Farming." Washington, Webster and Beecher were allured by the attractions of agriculture. Some one said to Beecher : "Keep your cows out of my shrubbery." "Keep your shrubbery out of my cows," re- plied Beecher. "It spoils the milk." Hogs are hard animals to drive over a bridge. I once saw a man carried several miles on the back of a hog that turned back in op- position to the solicitations of the driver on approaching a bridge. I will tell you of a safe way to get hogs over a bridge. Kill them and draw them over in a wagon. Hogs are fond of spring lambs and spring chick- ens. Hogs will eat their own offspring if no lambs or chickens are offered in the market. When a boy I was solicited to escort a pig to a neighbor's farm. A strong rope tied to the pig's leg was placed in my hand ; I did not know before the speed and strength of a pig. But they do not run the way you want them to run. A pig can draw a canal-boat with the tow-line tied to his hind leg, but I would not insure the canal- boat. Hogs are cleanly, orderly, silent and not bent on mischief — when cut up and salted and in a tight barrel, with a heavy weight on the lid. This is all I know about hogs. I love cows. What is so meek and low-ly as a mooley cow? City people are foolish to be frightened at cows. I was never hurt by a cow but once. He shook his head at me from behind a strong gate. I felt the security of my position and shied a pump- kin at him. He came through the gate as though it were a spider's web, and then I was sorry I did it. This kind of a cow should not be fooled with unless you are tired of monotony. The poet loves to dwell upon milkmaids, milking-time and lovers sparking over the farmyard gate, but no such poet could ever have milked a cow in fly time. I cannot imagine a successful love suit at such a season. I milked the cows one night when the boys were off on a Fourth of July. That is, I milked one and one-half cows. The last one was so busy knocking off flies with her hind foot I thought I had better not disturb her longer. A pail of fresh milk kicked over a boy does not im- prove his clothes or temper. Some say I milked from the wrong side. I thought I would be sure and be right, so I milked half on one side and half on the other. I was on the other side when she knocked off most flies. Can any one tell me why a cow should be permitted to dictate which side a man shall milk from? I claim the right of my choice at least half of the time. Sheep are my special delight. How grace- fully the lambs gambol over the green. I trust you never gamble over the green. 413 414 ENCORES. Nothing so patient and modest as a sheep. Some say a scamp is the black sheep of the flock, but a black sheep is just as respectable as any, and the color line should not thus be drawn. I once fished on a bluff and cas- ually discovered a sheep with large crooked horns coming at me with head down and fire in his eyes. The fish were not biting well, so I left my sport and dodged behind a stump. The sheep fell on the rocks below and broke her neck. For this act I have since been accused of non-protection in the wool traffic. This reminds me of a com- missioner of agriculture in old times who purchased six hydraulic rams for the im- provement of American flocks. Feather beds are made from geese, but all woolen goods and drums are made from sheepskins. I take great pride in the horse. "He is the noblest Roman of them all." I once led Stephens' horse to water. How proudly he arched his neck and tail. He was so fond of me that he tried to embrace me with his front feet. But I was so shy he turned about and playfully knocked my hat off with his heels. I told Stephens I thought horses looked much better walking on four feet than on two feet. A horse presses hard when your toe is caught under the hoof. I speak not from theory, but from actual ex- perience. I went riding with Stephens' horse and he shied and danced provoking- ly. "Treat him kindly," said Stephens ; "never beat a horse." By and by Stephens thought he would get out and walk for ex- ercise. "You may let him feel the lash a little now," said Stephens. "A little dis- cipline now will do him good." Here is a composition I wrote on farming when a boy : Farming is healthy work ; but no man can run a farm and wear his best clothes at the same time. Either the farm- ing must cease while the new clothes con- tinue or the new clothes must cease while the farming continues. This shows that farming is not so clean work as being a congressman or schoolmaster, for these men can wear good clothes if they can find money to pay for them. Farmers get up early in the morning. They say the early bird catches the worm. If I was a bird, I had rather get up late and eat cherries in place of worms. Farmers don't paint their wagons when they can help it, for they show mud too quick. The color of their boots is red, and don't look like other people's boots, because they are twice as big. Farmers' wives have a hard time cooking for hired men, and the hired men find fault with the farmers' wives' cooking. Why don't farm- ers' wives let the hired men do the cooking while they do the finding fault?. Farmers don't get as rich as bank pres- idents, but they get more exercise. Some ask, "Why don't farmers run for Con- gress?" They run so much keeping boys out of their peach orchards and melon patches they don't have any time to run after anything else. If Congress should run after farmers, one might be caught now and then. Lawyers can beat farmers at running for most anything. I know a farm- er who tried to run a line fence according to his notion. The other man objected and hurt the farmer. The farmer hired a law- yer to run his line fence, and now the lawyer runs the farmer's farm and the farmer has stopped running anything. Speaking of running reminds me of our calf that ran away to the woods. There were not enough men in the county to catch that calf. We turned the old cow loose in the woods, and she caught the calf, proving the old saying that it takes a cow to catch a thief. — Samuel L. Clemens. ENCORES. 415 THE QUEER LITTLE HOUSE. THERE'S a queer little house And it stands in the sun. When the good mother calls The children all run. While under her roof They are cozy and warm, Though the cold wind may whistle And bluster and storm. In the daytime, this queer Little house moves away, And the children run after it, Happy and gay; But it comes back at night, And the children are fed, And tucked up to sleep In a soft feather-bed. This queer little house Has no windows nor doors— The roof has no shingles, The rooms have no floors — No fireplace, chimney, Nor stove can you see, Yet the children are cozy And warm as can be. The story of this Funny house is all true, I have seen it myself, And I think you have, too; You can see it to-day, If you watch the old hen, When her downy wings cover Her chickens again. ^* ^* i2rt THE FOOLISH LITTLE MAIDEN. A FOOLISH little maiden bought a fool- ish little bonnet, With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it; And, that the other maidens of the little town might know it, She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday just to show it. But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime, The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time; So when 'twas fairly tied, and the bells had stopped their ringing, And when she came to meeting, sure enough, the folks were singing. So this foolish little maiden stood and wait- ed at the door; And she shook her ruffles out behind and smoothed them down before. "Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head. "Hardly knew you! Hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said. This made the little maiden feel so very, very cross, That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss ; v. For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet, With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it. And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer, But pattered down the silent street, and hurried down the stair, Till she reached her little bureau, and in a band-box on it, Had hidden, safe from critic's eye, her fool- ish little bonnet. 416 ENCORES. Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind ; ARRAYED in snow-white pants and vest And other raiment fair to view, I stood before my sweetheart Sue — The charming creature I love best. "Tell me, and does my costume suit?" I asked that apple of my eye, And then the charmer made reply — "Oh, yes, you do look awful cute!" Although I frequently had heard My sweetheart vent her pleasure so, And the silly little head, that's filled with silly little airs, Will never get a blessing from sermon or from prayers. <5* J* &5* AIN'T HE CUTE. I must confess I did not know The meaning of that favorite word. But presently at window side We stood and watched the passing throng. And soon a donkey passed along With ears like sails extending wide. And gazing at the doleful brute My sweetheart gave a merry cry — I quote her language with a sigh — "Oh, Charlie, ain't he awful cute?" NOW the Widow McGee, And Larrie O'Dee, Had two little cottages out on the green, With just room enough for two pigpens be- tween. The widow was young and the widow was fair, With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair; And it frequently chanced when she came in the morn With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn. And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand, In the pen of the widow were certain to land. One morning said he : "Och! Misthress McGee, It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs, t5* c5* (5* LARRIE O'DEE. Wid a fancy purtition betwane our two pigs!" "Indade sur, it is!" answered Widow Mc- Gee, With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee. "And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane, Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near That whinever one grunts the other can hear. And yit kape a cruel partition betwane." "Shwate Widow McGee," Answered Larrie O'Dee, "If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs, Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs? Och! it made me heart ache whin I paped through the cracks ENCORES. 417 Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez swingin' yer axe ; An' a bobbin' yer head an' a sthompin' yer fate, Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate, A-sphlittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm, When one little shtove would kape us both warm !" "Now, piggy," said she, "Larrie's courtin' o' me, Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you ; So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do: For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid yer snout ; But if I'm to say no, ye must kape your nose out. Now, Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a Pig By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig !" "Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered he. And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee. W. W. Fink. t2& *2fc £ft ONLY NATION WITH A BIRTHDAY. THE United States is the only country with a known birthday. All the rest began, they know not when, and grew into power, they know not how. If there had been no Independence Day, England and America combined would not be so great as each actually is. There is no "Republican," no "Democrat," on the Fourth of July — all are Americans. All feel that their country is greater than party. — James G. Blaine. t5* t5* t5* THE RAIL FENCE. IN the merry days of boyhood when we never knew a care Greater than the mumps or measles or a mother's cut of hair, When a sore toe was a treasure and a stone bruise on the heel Filled the other boys with envy which they tried not to conceal, There were many treasured objects on the farm we held most dear, Orchard, fields, the creek we swam in and the old spring cold and clear, Over there the woods of hick'ry and of oak so deep and dense, Looming up behind the outlines of the old rail fence. On its rails the quail would whistle in the early summer morn, Calling to their hiding fellows in the field of waving corn, And the meadow larks and robins on the stakes would sit and sing Till the forest shades behind them with their melody would ring. There the catbird and the jaybird sat and called each other names, And the squirrels and the chipmunks played the chase and catch me games, And the garter snake was often in unpleas- . ant evidence In the grasses in the corners of the old rail fence. 418 ENCORES. As we grew to early manhood when we thought the country girls In the diadem of beauty were the very fair- est pearls Oft from spelling school or meeting or the jolly shucking bee Down the old lane we would wander with a merry little "she." On the plea of being tired (just the country lover lie), On a grassy seat we'd linger in the moon- " light, she and I, And we'd paint a future picture touched with colors most intense As we sat there in the corner of the old rail fence. There one night in happy dreaming we were sitting hand in hand, Us so near the gates of heaven we could almost hear the band, When she heard a declaration whispered in her lis'ning ear — One she often since has told me she Was mighty glad to hear. On my head there's now a desert fringed with foliage of gray, And there's many a thread of silver in her dear old head to-day, Yet the flame of love is burning in our bosoms as intense As it burned in the corner of that old rail fence. t5* ^* <5* WHICH LOVED BEST? I LOVE you, mother," said little Ben, Then forgetting his work, his cap went on. And he was off to the garden swing, And left her the water and wood to bring. "I love you, mother," said rosy Nell — "I love you better than tongue can tell ;" Then she teased and pouted full half the day, Till her mother rejoiced when she went to play. "I love you, mother," said little Fan, "To-day I'll help you all I can ; How glad I am school doesn't keep ;" So she rocked the babe till it fell asleep. Then, stepping softly, she fetched the broom, And swept the floor and tidied the room ; Busy and happy all day was she, Helpful and happy as child could be. "I love you, mother," again they said Three little children going to bed ; How do you think that mother guessed Which of them really loved her best ? ^* ^* t£pt HER FIRST PARTY. M ISS Annabel McCarty Was invited to a party, "Your company from four to ten," the invi- tation said; And the maiden was delighted To think she was invited To sit up till the hour when the big folks went to bed. The crazy little midget Ran and told her news to Bridget, Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, to Annabel's delight, And said, with accents hearty, " 'Twill be the swatest party If ye're there yerself, me darlint! I wish it was to-night !" ENCORES, 419 The great display of frilling Was positively killing; And, oh, the little booties! and the lovely sash so wide ! And the gloves so very cunning! She was altogether "stunning," And the whole McCarty family regarded her with pride. They gave minute directions, With copious interjections Of "sit up straight !" and "don't do this or that — 'twould be absurd!" But, with their caressing, And the agony of dressing, Miss Annabel McCarty didn't hear a sin- gle word. There was music, there was dancing, And -the sight was most entrancing, As if fairyland and floral band were hold- ing jubilee ; There was laughing, there was pouting; There was singing, there was shouting ; And young and old together made a carni- val of glee. Miss Annabel McCarty Was the youngest at the party, And every one remarked that she was beau- tifully dressed ; Like a doll she sat demurely On a sofa, thinking surely It would never do for her to run and frolic with the rest. The noise kept growing louder; The naughty boys would crowd her; "I think you're very rude, indeed !" the little lady said; And then, without a warning, Her home instructions scorning, She screamed : "I want my supper — and I want to go to bed !" t5* <5* *5* THE YOUNG SEAMSTRESS. (For a girl I AM learning how to sew, though I'm such a little maid; I push the needle in and out, and make the stitches strong; I'm sewing blocks of patchwork for my dolly's pretty bed, And mamma says the way I work it will not take me long. It's over and over — do you know How over-and-over stitches go? "I have begun a handkerchief. Mamma turned in the edge, And basted it with a pink thread to show me where to sew ; It has Greenaway children on it stepping staidly by a hedge ; of seven.) I look at them when I get tired, or the needle pricks, you know; And that is the way I learn to hem With hemming stitches — do you know them? "Next I shall learn to run, and darn, and back-stitch, too, I guess. It wouldn't take me long, I know, if 'twasn't for the thread ; But the knots keep coming, and besides — I shall have to confess — Sometimes I slip my thimble off, and use my thumb instead ! When your thread knots, what do you do? And does it turn all brownish, too? 420 ENCORES. "My papa, he's a great big man, as much as six feet high ; He's more than forty, and his hair has gray mixed with the black; Well, he can't sew — he can't begin to sew as well as I. If he loses off a button, mamma has to set it back ! You mustn't think me proud, you know, But I'm seven, and I can sew!" ^W i£& ta*l BORROWING TROUBLE. THERE'S many a trouble Would break like a bubble, And into the waters of Lethe depart, Did we not rehearse it, And tenderly nurse it, And give it a permanent place in the heart. There's many a sorrow Would vanish to-morrow, Were we but willing to furnish the wings ; So sadly intruding, And quietly brooding, It hatches out all sorts of horrible things. ^* &5* *5* WHY BETTY DIDN'T LAUGH. WHEN I was at the party," Said Betty (aged just four), "A little girl fell off her chair, Right down upon the floor; And all the other little girls Began to laugh, but me — / didn't laugh a single bit," Said Betty, seriously. 'Why not ?" her mother asked her, Full of delight to find That Betty — bless her little heart ! — Had been so sweetly kind. "Why didn't you laugh, darling? Or don't you like to tell ?" "I didn't laugh," said Betty, "Cause it was me that fell!" i3* t5* ^* IT'S MY NATURE. AN aged colored man rose to a standing position and a point of order the other night with a tremulous voice and a feeble mien, and combated a sentiment adverse to the crushing out of old King Alcohol. Said he: "You 'mind me, my bredern and sistern, of a nannecot I wonse heerd when I was nigh a pickaninny. Dar was a sh't ho'n kalf a ramblin' ob hisself down a shady lane, when wot should he see but a snaik a lying on the ground with a big rock on his hed. "Says Mr. Kalf: 'Wot de matter ob you?' "Says Mr. Snaik: 'Please, Mr. Kalf, to take dis stone off my hed.' "'Dunno,' says Mr. Kalf, "spec you'll bite me.' " 'Deed, no,' says Mr. Snaik ; 'you take de stone off on' sure I'll neber bite you.' "So Mr. Kalf he knocked de stone off Mr. Snaik's hed. " 'Which way you gwine, Mr. Kalf, says Mr. Snaik. " 'Down dis way,' said Mr. Kalf. "So dey started off togedder. ENCORES. 421 "Bine by, Mr. Snaik says: 'Mr. Kalf, guess I'll bite you.' " 'Why,' said Mr. Kalf, 'you said you wouldn't bite if I turned you loose.' " 'I know dat,' says Mr. Snaik, 'but I kan't help it; it's my nature.' " 'Well,' says Mr. Kalf, 'we'll leave that queschun to de fust niggah we meet.' "Well, de fust niggah they met was a fox. "'Mr. Fox,' says Mr. Kalf, 'I took a stone offen Mr. Snaik's hed awhile back, an' he promised he wouldn't bite me; an' now he wants to bite anyhow.' " 'Well,' says Mr. Fox, 'de only way I can arborate de matter is to see de 'rig'nal per- sishuns ob de parties.' "So dey went back, an' Mr. Snaik laid hisself down and Mr. Kalf put de stone on his hed. " 'Now,' says Mr. Fox, 'dat am de 'rig'- nal persishuns ob de 'sputants, am it?' "Dey boff said it was. "'Well,' said Mr. Fox, 'Mr. Kalf, you just go 'bout yo' bis'ness and Mr. Snaik won't bite you.' "Dass it, my bredern, dass it. You mus' put de stone on de hed an' gwine about yo' bis'ness, an' de Snaik won't bite you." ^w ^* ^w GRIND YOUR AXE IN THE MORNING. GRIND your axe in the morning, my boy !" 'Twas a gray old woodcutter spoke, Beneath whose arm, on his backwoods farm, Had fallen the elm and oak. The hickory rough and the hornbeam tough Had yielded to wheat and corn, Till his children played 'neath the apple- tree's shade, By the cabin where they were born. "Grind your axe in the morning, my boy," He said to his lusty son ; "Or the hearts of oak will weary your stroke Long ere the day is done. The shag-bark's shell and the hemlock knot Defy the dull, blunt tool; And maul as you may, you may waste your day If your strength is the strength of a fool. "Grind your axe in the morning, my boy; Bring the hard, bright steel to an edge ; The bit, like a barber's razor, keen ; The head like a blacksmith's sledge; And then, through maple, and ironwood, and ash, Your stroke resistless shall drive, Till the forest monarchs around you crash, And their rugged fibers rive. "Grind your axe ere the sunrise shines, With long and patient care, And whet with the oil-stone, sharp and fine, Till the edge will clip a hair. And what though you reel o'er the stub- born steel, Till the toil your right arm racks, Pray, how could you cut the white-oak butt, If you had but a pewter axe? "Grind your axe and be ready, my lad ; Then afar in the forest glen, With a steady swing your stroke shall ring, Keeping time with the stalwart men ; And if you miss your grinding at dawn, You'll never know manhood's joys ; No triumphs for you the long days through ; You must hack the bush withjhe boys." "Grind your axe in the morning," I heard Life's watchword, rude but clear; 422 ENCORES. And my soul was stirred at the homely word Of the backwoods sage and seer; O, youth, whose long day lies before, Heed, heed, the woodman's warning ! Would you fell life's oaks with manly strokes, You must grind your axe in the morning. And he who dawdles and plays the fool, Nor longs for virtue and knowledge ; Who shirks at work, plays truant from school, Or "cuts" and "ponies" at college ; Whose soul no noble ambition fires — No hero-purpose employs — He must hoe life's fence-row among the briers, Or hack the brush with the boys. — George Lansing Taylor. *2rl ^* ^* LYING IN CHINA. PEE CHEE and Hung Li and Wun Fang and Chin Lo Are lying around in China ; They lie on the banks of the winding Pei- ho And in other dark spots in China; Gum Shoo and Dun Kee and Wun Lung and Yip Ye And Hung Lo and Hip La and Sam Yu and Ong We Are all kept as busy as they can be Just lying around in China. When the guns cease to roar and the smoke drifts away They will still lie around in China ; Hung Hi and Li Lo and Wun Chin and Kin Say Will be lying around in China ! They hate caused us to hope and then left us to grieve, And the lies that they tell and the fibs that they weave Are things that the world must decline to believe ; Now let them lie down in China ! %2& te* ^* EASTER. ANIGHT, a day, another night had passed Since that strange day of sorrow and amaze When, on the cruel cross of Calvary, The pure and holy Son of Man had died. Scattered were they who once had followed Him: Silent the tongues that once had hailed Him king; Heavy the hearts that loved Him as their Lord. A few sad women who had followed close When Joseph bore Him from the cross away, And saw the sepulcher made fast and sure, Came early when the Sabbath day was past, Bringing sweet spices to the sacred tomb ; And lo ! the heavy stone was rolled away. They looked within and saw the empty place, And mournfully unto each other said, "Where have they laid the body of our Lord?" But as they drew with lingering steps away, An angel, clad in shining garments, said, ENCORES. 423 "Why seek among the dead, the risen Lord ? Did He not say that He would rise again ! He is arisen ; quickly go and tell The great glad tidings to His followers." With joyful haste they bore the wondrous news, And on from lip to lip the story passed : "The Lord is risen, risen from the dead." So broke the morning of the gospel day; So came the heavenly springtime to the world. As in the trembling light of early dawn, And in the first faint pulsings of the spring, We read the promise of the day's high sun, And the glad gathering of the harvest sheaves, So in the dawning of that Easter morn, There shone the brightness that was yet to be. The day has risen to its noontide hour, And still the joyful message is as sweet As when, on Easter morning long ago, The women told it in Jerusalem, — "The Lord is risen, risen from the dead." Repeat the message, O ye happy ones, Upon whose hearts no darkness ever fell 1 Repeat it, ye upon whose rayless night, The brightness of His shining has come in ! And ye who are afar, take the refrain, "The Lord is risen, risen from the dead," And with the joyful news the light will come. O lily white, yield all your rich perfume ! O bird, sing ever sweet your vernal song! O brook, glance brightly in the morning sun ! Lend all your charms to grace the hallowed day Wherein we sing the ever-new, glad song, "The Lord is risen, risen from the dead." Christ is risen ! Let the swell Of the holy Easter bell All the wond'rous story tell. Sound, O bell, your dulcet ring! Lift, O child, your voice, and sing, For again has come the King. And, fair lily, lift your head; All your sweetest incense shed; Christ is risen from the dead! — Marion Riche. THE BUILDERS. O NCE there was a sort of a sailor man- Kind that loves to study an' plan ; Had no reverence under the sun For a thing that's only half-way done. Made no difference to him, it 'pears, If it'd been that way ten thousand years. So he sailed, one day, out into the sea, Past the bound of all seas that used to be; Past the rim of the world; past the edge of things, Down the slant of the sky where chaos springs ; Past the hem of the twilight's dusky robe ; Down the slope of the globe — 'fore there was a globe ! And what do" you reckon he goes and does ? Spoiled every map of the world there was ! But he made a better one. Once was a man who had an idee That everything was 'cause it had to be. An' every "must," he used to say, Had a law behind it, plain as day ; An' he used to argy, if you could find The law that gave the "thing" its mind, 424 ENCORES. By using your brains, and hands, and eyes, You could break the "must" to be bridle wise; To "haw" an' "gee," "geddap" an' "whoa!" To stand an' back ; to come an' go ; Jest learn to use, this man, says he, " Your "think" instead of your memory. So he got to thinkin' one day 'bout steam ; An' he'd think, an' study, an' whittle, an' dream — An' 'fore he got through, what you reckon he'd done? Wrecked every stage-coach under the sun ! But he made a better one. t5* «5* g5* SISTER SALLIE JONES. IN big revival-meetin' time, when sinners * crowded round The mourner's bench to git their feet sot onto solid ground, To git 'em pulled by Christian faith from out the mire an' clay An' have their strayin' footsteps sot toward eternal day, One voice 'd rise above the rest in clear and searchin' tones, — The wonderful arousin' voice of Sister Sal- lie Jones ; 'T'd cheer the mourners, prayin' there, to hear her glad refrain : There is a land o' pure delight where saints immortal reign! 01' Jonas Treat 'd start the tune, pitched in the proper key, An' then Aunt Sallie she'd break in, an' goodness ! mercy me ! But how that meetin'-house 'd ring till every head 'd swim To hear her jerk the music from some ol' revival hymn! She'd look 'way back towards the door, where unsaved sinners sot, An' sing right at 'em till they seemed all rooted to the spot : There is a fountain tilled with blood drawn from Immanuei's veins, An' sinners plunged beneath that Hood lose all their guilty stains. She'd long to stand where Moses stood, an' view the lan'scape o'er, Would some day set her ransomed feet on Canaan's happy shore, An' sometimes sing ontil I thought the angels all could hear: Amaziri grace, how sweet the sound in a believer's ear! An' every heart 'd feel a thrill o' sympa- thetic pain When she would raise her tender eyes an' sing the sad refrain : Alas, an' did my Savior bleed an' did my sovereign die? Would He devote that sacred head fur sich a worm as I? I've of'n heerd the preacher say that voice to her was given To rescue sinners from their sins an' start 'em up to heaven, An' cheer the droopin' hearts o' them whose burdens bent them down An* fill them full o' new resolves to fight an' win the crown. Sometimes I sit in wakin' dreams an' memory takes wing Back to the long ago an' I kin hear Aunt Sallie sing: When I can read my title clear to mansions in the skies, I'll bid farwcll to every fear an' wipe my weepin' eyes. ENCORES. 425 She's been at rest fur many years beside the church that she Once filled with sweet an' soul-felt strains o' sacred melody ; An' I've an idee 'fore she died the mourn- ers heerd her sing: 0, grave, where is thy victory? 0, death, where is thy sting t An' when she entered heaven's gate, with glad, triumphant tongue, I bet she clapped her saintly hands an' rapturously sung: Here will I bathe my wearied soul in seas o' heavenly rest, An' not a zuave o' trouble roll across my peaceful breast. <5* *5* t5* THAT OLD RED SUNBONNET HOW dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood And every fond spot which my infancy knew." So sang the old poet in rhythmical measure, And millions have dreamed of his picture so fair, But never a word of that one crowning treasure, The old red sunbonnet our girls used to wear. The bells of to-day in their scorn would deride it And wonder how maidens could wear such a fright! But when 'twas protecting a dear head in- side it To old-fashioned boys 'twas a heavenly sight. No ornaments decked it, it bore no fine laces) No ribbons of bright colored hues did it bear, But hid in its depths was the sweetest of faces — That old red sunbonnet our girl used to wear. When school was dismissed, on her head we would set it And tie the long strings in a knot 'neath her chin, Then claim from her red lips a kiss and would get it, For kissing in old days was never a sin. Then homeward we'd speed where the brooklet was plashing Down through the old wood and the meadow so fair, The skies not more blue than the eyes that were flashing Inside that sunbonnet our girl used to wear. In front of her mirror a proud dame is standing Arranging a prize on her head, now so white ! She turns, while her bosom with pride is expanding, And asks if it is not a dream of delight! I speak of the past as I make the inspec- tion, Of days when to me she was never more fair, And tears gem her eyes at the fond recol- lection Of that old sunbonnet she once used to wear. — James Barton Adams. 426 encores: O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! (This exquisite poem refers to our martyred Lincoln.) O CAPTAIN, my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart, heart, heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies Fallen, cold and dead. O Captain, my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths, for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning: Here, Captain ! dear father ! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck — my Captain lies Fallen, cold and dead. tSfr c5* ^* THE GOOD OLD TIME RELIGION. THE good old time religion that we have in Bowerville; This is the kind that suits me, an' the kind that always will. There ain't no pew that isn't free — the same as heav'nly grace — But then I sort of claim a seat up in the "Amen" place. An' it is good to hear the way the old-time stanzas ring When Parson Brown lines out the hymn an' says, "Arise an' sing." The good, old-time religion, an' the old- time music, too, It sets your soul a-singin' 'fore the verse is half way through. There ain't no high priced singer, who seems too good fer earth, A-warblin just enough to give the folks their money's worth. The congregation sings the song; it may get off the key, But still the old-time praise an' song is good enough for me. The good, old-time religion — the new kinds are too strange, But, thank the Lord that heaven hasn't suf- fered any change! We still believe that heaven is our home up in the skies, An' it is still old fashioned when we call it "paradise." We've got new streets an' 'lectric lights an' waterworks, but still We've got old-time religion in the church at Bowerville. ENCORES. 427 BE CAREFUL N speaking of a person's faults, Pray don't forget your own; Remember those with homes of glass, Should seldom throw a stone. If we have nothing else to do But talk of those who sin, Tis better we commenced at home, And from that point begin. We have no right to judge a man Until he's fairly tried ; Should we not like his company, We know the world is wide. Some may have faults — and who not?— The old as well as young; Perhaps we may, for aught we know, Have fifty to their one. WHAT YOU SAY. I'll tell you of a better plan, And find it works full well: To try my own defects to cure Before of others' tell; And though I sometimes hope to be No worse than some I know, My own shortcomings bid me let The faults of others go. Then let us all, when we commence To slander friend or foe, Think of the harm one word may do has To those we little know. Remember, curses sometimes, like Our chickens, "roost at home ;" Don't speak of others' faults until We have none of our own. 4?* <£• t5* MEMORY. (The following poem was written by President Garfield during his senior year in William's College, Mass.) T IS beauteous night; the stars look brightly down Upon the earth decked in her robe of snow. No lights gleam at the windows save my own Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me. And now with noiseless step sweet memory comes And leads me gently through her twilight ; What poet's tuneful lyre has ever sung realms Or delicatest pencil e'er portrayed The enchanted shadow land where memory dwells ? It has its valleys, cheerless, lone and drear, Dark, shaded, mournful, cypress tree; And yet its sunlit mountain tops are bathed In heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs Robed in the dreamy light of distant years, Are clustered joys serene of other days. Upon its gently sloping hillsides bend The weeping willows o'er the sacred dust Of dear departed ones ; yet in that land, Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore. They that were sleeping rise from out the dust Of death's long, silent years, and round us stand As erst they did before the prison tomb Received their clay within its voiceless halls. The heavens that bend above that land are hung With clouds of various hues, and chill, Some dark 428 ENCORES. Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre shade Upon the sunny, joyous land below. Others are floating through the dreamy air, White as the falling snow, their margins tinged With gold and crimson hues ; their shadows fall Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes, Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing. When the rough battle of the day is done, And evening's peace falls gently on the heart, I bound away, across the noisy years, Unto the utmost verge s of memory's land, Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet, And memory dim with dark oblivion joins ; Where woke the first remembered sound that fell Upon the ear in childhood's early morn ; And, wandering thence along the rolling years, I see the shadow of my former self, Gliding from childhood up to man's estate ; The path of youth winds down through many a vale, And on the brink of many a dread abyss, From out whose darkness comes no ray of light, Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf And beckons toward the verge. Again the path Leads o'er the summit where the sunbeams fall: And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom, Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along. — James Abram Garfield. %6& 10& t&& A TALE OF "WHOA." MORNING. GOODBY, old horse, we'll turn you out To roam o'er hill and plain ; We've bought a horseless carriage, and We'll never need you again. With naphtha, oil or gasoline We'll ride from morn till dark And on a Sunday afternoon Go puffing through the park. You're hardly worth a piece of pie ! Goodby, old horse, goodby! EVENING. Come here, old horse, we need your pull To get us home to-night ; This nasty, stinking, puffing thing Is not perfected — quite. Ten miles from home it fussed and fumed And then refused to go, And, minus both a push and pull, It was a case of whoa ! If you'll return, so will our joy, Good boy, old horse, good boy. £fr (5* <5* THE MAN WHO KNOWS IT ALL. His egotism never yet was known to slip YOU bump against him everywhere, in country and in town ; Upon his sadly swollen head he wears the knowledge crown. His bump of self-esteem stands out like knots upon a log; His self assurance has its stamp forever in his eyes ; No gray and patriarchal owl could ever look so wise ; ENCORES. 429 He is a constant sufferer from enlargement of the gall And petrifaction of the cheek, the man who knows it all. He has an unimpeded flow of language at command ; His active, tireless tongue is of the auto- matic brand. His nasal organ he inserts in every one's affairs ; He sows the grain of knowledge, while his neighbors sow the tares. No matter what the theme may be, he's posted up to date ; The information that he bears would wreck a common pate. He thinks without his guidance this ter- restrial whirling ball Would cease to take its daily spin, the man who knows it all. — James Barton Adams. £& t5* <5* THE COURTIN'. GOD makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten. Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, Tth no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in — There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur; A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o' man, Ai, Clear grit an' human natur' ; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighten He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — All is, he couldn't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, — The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in April. She thought no voice hed such a swing Ez hisn in the choir ; My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher. An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin' bunnet Felt somehow thru its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it. 430 ENCORES. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper, — All ways to once her feelin's flew, Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle ; His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a juerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ?" "Wal — no — I come dasignin' — " "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin." To say why gals acts so or so, Or don't 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, "I'd better call agin," Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' — wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes. For she was jest the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. The blood clost 'roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin' Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'. Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay of Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In' meetin' come nex' Sunday. %£* 1&& tgr* MY BOB-SLED. MADE it all myself, you see ; it wasn't much fer fine; Fellers all began to laugh at that ol' sled uv mine, When they see me climbin' up ther hill we used to slide, A-draggin' it along behin', all ready for a ride- Then they shouted, scornful like: "Say, Jimmie, what it is?" Didn't feel like sayin' much, so 'tended to my biz; Jes' let 'em keep on laughin' an' a-tauntin' me, until I squared my ol' bob-sled around fer my first slide down ther hill. The runners were of hickory, and the top was made uv oak. When I got her finished, wa'n't no part could be broke ; But the other fellers' sleds were all so bang-up slick and fine, Kinder knocked the spots all off that home- made one uv mine ; The bottoms were so slippery, an' polished up so bright, ENCORES. 431 I was ready to bet she'd go ahead uv every thing in sight ; But I never answered back a word, an' was mighty quiet till I laid right down an' hugged her tight, fer my first run down ther hill. Didn't have a mite uv paint on bottom, sides, or top; Knew if she once got started though, 'twould be mighty hard to stop. 'Twas seasoned stuff she was made uv, an' jes' ther shape fer speed, Might keep a-pokin' lots uv fun, I knew she'd take ther lead. There was Clipper, Comet, Reindeer, an' Dexter there, an' Dart — All lined up on ther hillside, an' ready fer the start. My ol' bob-sled didn't hev no name. I'se bound she wouldn't till I found out which would suit her best, by my first slide down ther hill. An' then we shouted : "One, two, three, an' altogether. Go!" Gee whiz! the way that bob-sled flew was anything but slow : She shot ahead like a rocket that's got lots uv powder behin'; None uv the rest was in it, when you looked back up ther line. She beat 'em like a thoroughbred, if she did look like a scrub, 'Twas my turn now ter laugh an' shout: "Gimme yer heads to rub !" "Say, Jimmie, won't yer let us ride?" an' I said : "Course I will ;" For they owned my bob-sled beat 'em all a-slidin' down ther hill. «■?* t^T (5* THE MITES IN THE cheese mites asked how the cheese got there, And warmly debated the matter. The orthodox said it came from the air, And the heretics said from the platter. They argued it long, and they argued it strong, THE CHEESE. And I hear they are arguing it now, But of all the choice spirits who lived ifc the cheese Not one of them thought of a cow. — A. Conan Doyle. (£• t.5* c?* PITCHER THEY toiled together side by side, In the field where the corn was grow- ing; They paused awhile to quench their thirst, Grown weary with the hoeing. "I fear, my friend," I said to one, . "That you will ne'er be richer ; You drink, I see, from the little brown jug, Whilst your friend drinks from the pitcher. OR JUG. "One is filled with alcohol, The fiery drink from the still; The other with water clear and cool From the spring at the foot of the hill. "In all of life's best gifts, my friend, I fear you will ne'er be richer, Unless you leave the little brown jug, And drink, like your friend, from the pitcher." 432 ENCORES. My words have proved a prophecy, For years have passed away ; How do you think have fared our friends That toiled in the fields that day ? <5* *5* ^* One is a reeling, drunken sot, Grown poorer instead of richer; The other has won both wealth and fame, And he always drank from the pitcher. VAT I CALL HIM. DER leddle boy vot yust arrived Aboud some veeks ago, His voice was learning for to make Dot noise vich is a crow. Und also somedimes ven I vent Und sboke mit him a vile, He tvists his leddle face arount Und makes vot is a smile ! — I vonder vot to call him? Some say Thomas, Some say Tim ; Some say Stephen, Some say Jim ; Some say Diederich, Some say Matt; Some say Daniel, Some say Pat; Some say Goethe, Some say Choe ; Vot to call him I doan'd know. I ask dot leddle boy himself Vot name he dinks vill do, Und den he makes a funny vink Und says py me, "Ah, Goo!" Ah Goo! dot is a Chinese name! I guess vot he doan'd like To be called dot ven he grows up, Much bedder id vas Mike ! I wonder vot I call him? Some say Heinrich, Some say Net; Some say Villum, Some say Fret; Some say Dewey, Some say Schley, Some say Sampson, Some say Si; Some say Chasper, Some say Snitz; So I dink I Call him Fritz. ^* c5* «5* WATER. WINE, wine, thy power and praise Have ever been echoed in minstrel lays; But water, I deem, hath a mightier claim To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame. Ye who are bred in Anacreon's school May sneer at my strain, as the song of a fool; Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn How the tongue can cleave, and the veins can burn. Should you ever be one of a fainting band, With your brow to the sun and your feet to the sand I would wager the thing I'm most loth to spare, That your Bacchanal chorus would never ring there. Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell What treasures exist in the cold, deep well ; Sink in despair on the red, parched earth, And then you may reckon what water is worth. ENCORES. 433 Famine is laying her hand of bone On the ship becalmed in a torrid zone ; The gnawing of Hunger's worm is past, But fiery Thirst lives on to the last. The stoutest one of the gallant crew Hath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue ; The hot blood stands in each glassy eye ; And, "Water, O T-od !" is the only cry. There's drought in the land, and the herbage is dead, No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed : The herd's low bleat, and the sick man's pant, Are mournfully telling the boon we want. Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold, How soon we find it is better than gold ; And water, I say, hath a right to claim The minstrel's song, and a tithe of Fame. <<5* *£& ttfr CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN RICHES. Arthur Rich: YOUR hat is too big for your head, Martin Lee, Your jacket is threadbare and old, There's a hole in your shoe and a patch on your knee, Yet you seem very cheerful and bold. Martin Lee: Why not, Arthur Rich ? for my lesson I say, And my duty I try hard to do ; I have plenty of work, I have time, too, to play, I have health, and my joys are not few. Arthur Rich: See my vest, Martin Lee, and my boots how they shine ! My jacket, my trousers, all new ! Now, would you not like such a nice ring as mine? Come, give me the answer that's true. Martin Lee: Such clothes, Arthur Rich, would become me, and please, But I'm content in the thought, Since my mother is poor, that I'd rather wear these Than make her work more than she ought. Arthur Rich: You are right, Martin Lee^ and your way is the best; Your hat is now handsome to me ; I look at the heart beating under your vest, And the patches no longer I see. t^w t5* *5* THE TABLES TURNED. (Can be used as a dialogue.) 1KNOW what you're going to say," she said, And she stood up, looking uncommonly tall ; "You are going to speak of the hectic fall, And say you are sorry the summer's dead, And no other summer was like it, you know, And can I imagine what made it so ? Now, ain't you, honestly ?" "Yes," I said. "I know what you're going to say," she said; "You're going to ask if I forget That day in June when the woods were wet, 434 ENCORES. And you carried me" — here she dropped her head — "Over the creek; you are going to say, Do I remember that horrid day ? Now, ain't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said. "I know what you're going to say," she said; "You are going to say that since that time You have rather tended to run to rhyme ; And," — her clear glance fell, and her cheek grew red, — "And have I noticed your tone was queer ; Why, everybody has seen it here ! Now, ain't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said. "I know what you're going to say," I said, "You are going to say you've been much annoyed, And I'm short of tact — you will say, de- void — And I'm clumsy and awkward, and call me Ted, And I'll bear abuse like a dear old lamb, And you'll have me, anyway, just as I am? Now, ain't you, honestly?" "Ye — es," she said. ^w t£* ^* "ONE, TWO, THREE." IT was an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy who was half-past three ; And the way that they played together Was beautiful to see. She couldn't go running and jumping, And the boy no more could he, For he was a thin little fellow, With a thin, little, twisted knee. They sat in the yellow sunlight, Out under the maple tree ; And the game they played, I'll tell you, Just as it was told to me. It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were play- ing, Though you'd never known it to be, With an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy with a twisted knee. The boy would bend his face down, On his one little sound right knee, And he'd guess where she was hiding, In guesses One, Two, Three ! "You are in the china-closet !" He would cry, and laugh with glee, It wasn't the china-closet, But he still had Two and Three. "You are up in Papa's big bedroom, In the chest with the queer old key !" And she said : "You are warm and warmer ; But you're not quite right," said she. "It can't be the little cupboard, Where Mamma's things used to be — So it must be the clothes-press, Grandma !" And he found her with his Three. Then she covered her face with her fingers, That were wrinkled and white and wee, And she guessed where the boy was hiding, With a One and a Two and a Three. And they had never stirred from their places, Right under the maple-tree — This old, old, old, old lady, And the boy with the lame little knee — This dear, dear, dear, old lady, And the boy who was half-past three. — H. C. Banner. ••I »»— $gae«e»a»« p» «— »o«s<»— # Pauline Pavlovna ►^»»©& 0»«©««€©® T. B. ALDRICH. Period: 77?£ present time. Scene: 5Y. Petersburg. A ballroom in the winter palace of the Prince. The ladies in character costumes and masks. The gentlemen in official dress and un- masked, with the exception of six tall figures in scarlet- kaftans, who are treated with marked distinction as they move here and there among the promenaders. Quadrille music throughout the dialogue. Count Sergius Pavlovich Panshine, who has just arrived, is standing anxiously in the doorway of an antechamber zvith his eye fixed upon a lady in. costume of a maid of honor in the time of Catherine II. The lady presently disengages herself from the crowd, and passes near Count Panshine, who impulsively takes her by the hand and leads her across the thres- hold of the inner apartment, which is unoccupied. He. Pauline ! You knew me? She. He. How could I have failed? A mask may hide your features, not your soul. There's an air about you like the air that folds a star. A blind man knows the night, and feels the constellations. No coarse sense of eye or ear had made you plain to me. Through these I had not found you; for your eyes, As blue as violets of our Novgorod, look black behind your mask there, And your voice — I had not known that either. My heart said, "Pauline Pavlovna." She. Ah, your heart said that? You trust your heart, then ! 'Tis a serious risk! How is it you and others wear no mask? He. The emperor's orders. She. Is the emperor here ? I have not seen him. He. He is one of the six in scarlet kaftans and all masked alike. Watch — you will note how every one bows down Before those figures, thinking each by chance May be the Tsar; yet none know which is he. Even his counterparts are left in doubt. Unhappy Russia ! No serf ever wore Such chains as gall our emperor these sad days. He dare trust no man. She. All men are so false. He. Spare one, Pauline Pavlovna. She. No! All, all! I think there is no truth left in the world, In man or woman. Once were noble souls Count Sergius, is Nastasia here to-night? 435 436 PAULINE PAVLOVNA. He. Ah, then you know ! I thought to tell you first. Not here, beneath these hundred curious eyes, In all this glare of light ; but in some place Where I could throw me at your feet and weep. In what shape came the story to your ears ? Decked in the tellers' colors, I'll be sworn ; The truth, but in the livery of a lie, And so must wrong me. Only this is true : The Tsar, because I risked my wretched life To shield a life as wretched as my own, Bestows upon me as supreme reward — irony ! — the hand of this poor girl. Says : "Here I have the pearl of pearls for you, Such as was never plucked from out the deep By Indian diver for a Sultan's crown ; Your joy's decreed." And stabs me with a smile. She. And she — she loves you. He. 1 know not, indeed. Likes me, perhaps. What matters it? — her love! Sidor Yurievich, the guardian, consents, and she consents. No love in it at all — a mere caprice, A young girl's spring-tide dream. Sick of her earrings, weary of her mare, She'll have a lover — something ready-made Or improvised between two cups of tea — A love by imperial -ukase! Fate said the word — I chanced to be the man ! If that grenade the crazy student threw Had not spared me as well as spared the Tsar All this would not have happened ; I'd have been a hero, But quite safe from her romance. She takes me for a hero — think of that ! Now, by our holy Lady of Kazan, When I have finished pitying myself I'll pity her. She. Oh, no; begin with her; she needs it most. He. At her door lies the blame, whatever falls. She, with a single word, with half a tear, Had stop't it at the first, This cruel juggling with poor human hearts. She. The Tsar commanded it — you said the Tsar. He. The Tsar does what she wills — God fath- oms why. Were she his mistress now! but there's no snow Whiter within the bosom of a cloud ; Nor colder, either. She is very haughty, For all her fragile air of gentleness; With something vital in her, like those flowers That on our desolate steppes outlast the year. Resembles you in some things. It was that First made us friends. I do her justice, see! For we were friends in that smooth sur- face way We Russians have imported out of France. Alas ! from what a blue and tranquil heaven This bolt fell on me ! After these two years, My suit with Ossip Leminoff at end, The old wrong righted, the estates restored, And my promotion, with the ink not dry ! Those fairies which neglected me at birth Seemed now to lavish all good gifts on me — Gold roubles, office, sudden dearest friends. PAULINE PAVLOVNA. 437 The whole world smiled ; then, as I stooped to taste The sweetest cup, freak dashed it from my _ lip. This very night — just think — this very night I planned to come and beg of you the alms I dared not ask for in my poverty. I thought me poor, then. How stript am I now! There's not a ragged mendicant one meets Along the Nevski Prospekt but has leave to tell his love, And I have not that right! Pauline Pavlovna, why do you stand there Stark as a statue, with no word to say? She. Because this thing has frozen up my heart. I think that there is something killed in me, A dream that would have mocked all other bliss. What shall I say? What would you have me say? He. If it be possible, the word of words ! She (very slowly). Well, then — I love you. I may tell you so This once — and then forever hold my peace. We cannot stay here longer unobserved. No — do not touch me, but stand further off, And seem to laugh, as if we jested — Eyes, eyes everywhere! Now turn your face away — I love you! He. With such music in my ears I would death found me. It were sweet to die listening! You love me — prove it. She. Prove it — how? I prove it saying it. How else? He. Pauline, I have three things to choose from; you shall choose. This marriage, or Siberia, or France. The first means hell ; the second, purgatory ; The third — with you — were nothing less than heaven ! She (starting). How dared you even dream it! He. I was mad. This business has touched me in the brain. Have patience ! the calamity 's so new. Pauses — There is a fourth way, but the gate is shut To brave men who hold life a thing of God. She. Yourself spake there; the rest was not of you. He. Oh, lift me to your level ! So, I'm safe. What's to be done? She. There must be some path out. Perhaps the Emperor He. Not a ray of hope! His mind is set on this with that insistence Which seems to seize on all match-making folk— The fancy bites them, and they straight go mad. She. Your father's friend, the metropolitan — A word from him. He. Alas, he, too, is bitten ! Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly wise, he sees This marriage makes me the Tsar's protege And opens every door to preference. 438 PAULINE PAVLOVNA. She. Think while I think. There surely is some key Unlocks the labyrinth, could we but find it. Nastasia ! He. What, beg life of her? Not I. She. Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air. Were she told all would she not pity us ? For if she love you — as I think she must — Would not some generous impulse stir in her, Some latent, unsuspected spark illume? How love thrills even commonest girl-clay ! Ennobling it an instant, if no more! You said that she is proud ; then touch her pride, And turn her into marble with the touch. But yet the gentle passion is the stronger. Go to her, tell her in some tenderest phrase That will not hurt too much — ah, but 'twill hurt !— Just how your happiness lies in her hand To make or mar for all time ; hint, not say, Your heart is gone from you, and you may find He. A casemate in St. Peter and St. Paul For, say, a month; then some Siberian town. Not this way lies escape. At my first word That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire In every vein. She. How blindly you read her Or any woman ! Yes, I know, I grant How small we often seem to our small world Of trivial cares and narrow precedents — Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men — Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse ; But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs, The weakest of us measures pulse with you. He. Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height ! But there's no martyr wrapt in her rose flesh. There should have been, for Nature gave you both The self-same purple for your eyes and hair, The self-same southern music to your lips — Fashioned you both, as 'twere, in the same mold, Yet failed to put the soul in one of you ! I know her wilful — her light head quite turned In this court atmosphere of flatteries ; A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there, And since, spoiled here; as soft as swan's down, now, With words like honey melting from the comb, But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold. I fancy her between two rosy smiles Saying, "Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines !" That is the sum of her. She. You know her not. Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask Could hide the soul ; yet how you have mis- taken The soul these two months — and the face to-night ! (She remove mask.) He. You ! — it was you ! She. Count Sergius Pavlovich, go find Pauline Pavlovna — she is here — And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. (Goes out hurriedly.) awamwiinmaB Historical and Pathetic In this department have been grouped many choice selections adapted to the highest forms of emotional expression. t£fc ^w ^w THE FADING LEAF. WE all do fade as a leaf." The sad voice whispers through my soul, and a shiver creeps over from the church- yard. "How does a leaf fade?" It is a deeper, richer, stronger voice, with a ring and an echo in it, and the shiver levels into peace. I go out upon the October hills and question the genii of the woods. "How does a leaf fade?" Grandly, magnificently, impe- rially, so that the glory of its coming is eclipsed by the glory of its departing ; thus the forests make answer to-day. The ten- der bud of April opens its bosom to the wooing sun. From the soft airs of May and the clear sky of June it gathers greenness and strength. Through all the summer its manifold lips are open to every passing breeze, and great draughts of health course through its delicate veins and meander down to the sturdy bark, the busy sap, the tiny flower and the maturing fruit, bearing life for the present, and treasuring up prom- ise for the future. Then its work is done, and it goes to its burial, not mournfully, not reluctantly, but joyously, as to a festival. Its grave-clothes wear no funereal look. It robes itself in splendor. Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. First there was a flash of crimson in the lowlands, then a glimmer of yellow on the hillside, then, rushing on exultant, reckless, rioting in color, grove vies with grove till the woods are all aflame. Here the sunlight streams through the pale gold tresses of the maple, serene and spiritual, like the aureole of a saint ; there it lingers in bold dalliance with the dusky orange of the walnut. The fierce heart of the tropics beats in blood-red branches that surge against deep, solemn walls of cypress and juniper. Yonder a sober, but not sombre, russet tones down the flaunting vermilion. The intense glow of scarlet struggles for su- premacy with the quiet sedateness of brown, and the numberless tints of year-long green come in everywhere to enliven and soothe and subdue and harmonize. So the leaf fades — brilliant, gorgeous, gay, rejoicing — as the bride adorned for her husband, as a king goes to his coronation. But the frosts come whiter and whiter. The nights grow longer and longer. Ice glitters in the morning light, and clouds shiver with snow. The forests lose their flush. The hectic dies into sere. The little leaf can no longer breathe the strength-giv- ing air, nor feel juicy life stirring in its veins. Fainter and fainter grows its hold upon the protecting tree. A strong wind comes and loosens its clasp, and bears it tenderly to earth. A whirl, an eddy, a rustle, and all is over — no, not all ; its work is not yet done. It sinks upon the protect- ing earth, and, Antaeus like, gathers strength from the touch, and begins a new life. It joins hands with myriads -of its mates, and takes up again its work of be- nevolence. No longer sensitive itself to frosts and. 439 UQ HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. snows, it wraps in its warm bosom the frail little anemones, and the delicate spring beauties that can scarcely bide the rigors of our pitiless winters, and, nestling close in that fond embrace, they sleep securely till the spring sun wakens them to the smile of the blue skies and the song of dancing brooks. Deeper into the earth go the happy leaves, mingling with the moist soil, drink- ing the gentle dews, cradling a thousand tender lives in theirs, and springing again in new forms — an eternal cycle of life and death "forever spent, renewed forever." We all do fade as a leaf. Change, thank God, is the essence of life. "Passing away" is written on all things, and passing away is passing on from strength to strength, from glory to glory. Spring has its growth, sum- mer its fruitage, and autumn its festive in- gathering. The spring of eager preparation waxes into the summer of noble work ; mel- lowing, in its turn, into the serene autumn, the golden-brown haze of October, when the soul may robe itself in jubilant drapery, awaiting the welcome command, "Come up higher," where mortality shall be swallowed up in life. Let him alone fear who does not fade as the leaf — him whose spring is gathering no strength, whose summer is maturing no fruit, and whose autumn shall have no vintage. — Gail Hamilton. «5* «5* *5* "LIMPY TIM." ABOUT the big post-office door Some boys were selling news, While others earned their slender store By shining people's shoes. They were surprised the other day By seeing "Limpy Tim" Approach in such a solemn way That they all stared at him. "Say, boys, I want to sell my kit; Two brushes, blacking-pot And good stout box — the whole outfit; A quarter buys the lot." "Goin' away ?" cried one. "O no," Tim answered, "not to-day ; But I do want a quarter so, And I want it right away." The kit was sold, the price was paid, When Tim an office sought For daily papers ; down he laid The money he had brought. "I guess, if you'll lend me a pen, I'll write myself," he sighed; With slowly moving fingers then He wrote this notice, "died — Of scarlet fever — Litul Ted — Aged three — gon up to heven — One brother left to mourn him dead- Funeral to-morrow — eleven." "Was it your brother?" asked the man Who took the notice in ; Tim tried to hide it, but began To quiver at the chin. The more he sought himself to brace The stronger grew his grief ; Big tears came rolling down his face, To give his heart relief. "By selling out — my kit — I found — That quarter — " he replied ; "B — but he had his arms around My neck — when he d — died." HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 441 Tim hurried home, but soon the news Among the boys was spread; They held short, quiet interviews Which straight to action led. He had been home an hour, not more, When one with naked feet Laid down Tim's kit outside his doo~ With flowers white and sweet. Each little fellow took a part, His penny freely gave To soothe the burdened brother's heart And deck the baby's grave. Those flowers have faded since that day, The boys are growing men, But the good God will yet repay The deed he witnessed then. The light which blessed poor "Limpy Tim" Descended from above — A ladder leading back to Him Whose Christian name is Love. i£fc t&& (5* THE DYING BOY. A FRIEND of mine, seeking for objects of charity, reached the upper room of a tenement house. It was vacant. He saw a ladder pushed through a hole in the ceil- ing. Thinking that perhaps some poor creature had crept up there, he climbed the ladder, drew himself through the hole, and found himself under the rafters. There was no light but that which came through a bull's eye in the place of a tile. Soon he saw a heap of chips and shavings, and on them lay a boy about ten years old. "Boy, what are you doing here?" "Hush, don't tell anybody, please, sir." "What are you doing here?" "Hush, please don't tell anybody, sir ; I'm a-hiding." "What are you hiding for ?" "Don't tell anybody, please, sir." "Where's your mother?" "Please, sir, mother's dead." "Where's your father?" "Hush, don't tell him. But look here." He turned himself on his face, and through the rags of his jacket and shirt my friend saw that the boy's flesh was terribly bruised, and his skin was broken. "Why, my boy, who beat you like that ?" "Father did, sir." "What did he beat you for?" "Father got drunk, sir, and beat me 'cos I wouldn't steal." "Did you ever steal?" "Yes, sir; I was a street-thief once." "And why won't you steal any more?" "Please, sir, I went to the mission school, and they told me there of God and of heaven, and of Jesus, and they taught me, 'Thou shalt not steal,' and I'll never steal again, if my father kills me for it. But please don't tell him." "My boy, you mustn't stay here. You'll die. Now you wait patiently here for a little time. I'm going away to see a lady. We will get a better place for you than this." "Thank you, sir; but please, sir, would you like to hear me sing my little hymn?" Bruised, battered, forlorn, friendless, motherless, hiding from an infuriated father, he had a little hymn to sing. "Yes, I will hear you sing your little hymn." He raised himself on his elbow and then sang : "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look upon a little child, 442 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. Pity my simplicity, Suffer me to come to Thee. "Fain would I to Thee be brought Gracious Lord, forbid it not; In the kingdom of Thy grace, Give a little child a place." "That's the little hymn, sir. Good-bye." The gentleman hurried away for restora- tives and help, came back again in less than two hours, and climbed the ladder. There were the chips, there were the shavings, and there was the little motherless boy with one hand by his side and the other tucked in his bosom — dead. Oh, I thank God that he who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me," did not say "respectable chil- dren," or "well-educated children." No, he sends his angels into the homes of poverty and sin and crime, where you do not like to go, and brings out his redeemed ones, and they are as stars in the crown of rejoicing to those who have been instrumental in en- lightening their darkness. tSrt t2ri ta& CHARITY'S MEAL. A RICH man sat by his chamber window, Viewing the skies, where the clouds hung low ; 'Twas a darksome day in raw December, And the air was filled with the falling snow. But he was rich in worldly treasure, And none of the outside cold did feel ; Fortune had blest him with heaping measure, And he knew not the chill of a charity meal. A wayfaring man in rags and tatters, Weary and hungry, sick and sore — Clothes all covered with muddy spatters, Came knocking at the rich man's door. A plate of cold potatoes was given, (The snow on the window panes con- geal), But, oh, there is nothing 'twixt earth and heaven, So cold to the heart as a charity meal. Ask the winds why poor men wander, Ask the storm why the wild geese fly; Or, why does the slave on liberty ponder, Or the weary wish for the sweet by and by. We must take this world just as we find it, And not judge it by what we think it should be; Nor lay all the blame on the powers behind it- Most of the blame lays on you, sir, and me. Slowly the old man munched his dinner, For his molars had long since gone to de- cay, He may have been a hardened old sinner, But what was that to charity, pray? Cold were the looks which the rich man gave him, Cold were the thoughts in his heart of steel ; But, colder than all for the tramp, God save him, Were the cold potatoes of charity's meal. There he sat eating and silently weeping, For the old man's spirit was broken, I know; And sad were the thoughts in his shattered mind creeping — Thoughts of the night in the wind and the snow. HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 443 To lay by the fire all night was denied him, (Some human hearts no compassion can feel) ; But, with words cold and stern, the rich man did chide him, And sent him adrift with that charity meal. Down the bleak road he watched the tramp going, Then turned from the window with a yawn of content ; Forgetting the tramp and the winter winds blowing, For vagabonds seemed but a common event. That night sleeping soundly on his soft yielding pillow, The rich man dreamed of his childhood day; And visions came to him on memory's bil- low, And again with his brother in the old home did play. Again they were swimming in the old mill basin, And the air was scented from the red clover field ; And again in the water the brothers were racing Almost tired out, but neither would yield. The miller came out on seeing their danger, For both of the swimmers were nearing the wheel, And he shouted to them to go back, in anger, Or a blow from his pole on their heads they would feel. And now both the boys are alive to their danger, For the current is drawing them into the flume ; And the miller, in fright, forgets all his anger, And plunged in to save the bad boys from their doom. "Take Edward out first, for he is the light- est!" The one brother shouted while panting for breath. And then, great God ! that loved face, the whitest Went under the wheel, and, they thought to sure death. They found him below with legs and arms broken, And long weary months was he gaining his health, "And where is he now?" said the rich man awaking ; "To see him again I would give half my wealth." • Next morning the earth was all covered with whiteness, For all the night long came the snow tumbling down ; But now the sunbeams were glimmering in brightness, And the rich man felt happy as he rode towards town. But what are these men doing here by the bushes ? Lifting some object from off the cold ground. "What is it? who is it?" he asks, as he rushes Up to the spot where the dead tramp was found. "Some poor tramp," one said. "We found him here lying As dead as a door nail — as stiff as a log. 444 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. It must have been hard to be all alone — dying, Dying alone, like some poor homeless dog." The rich man knelt down, and helped by another, They opened his coat and his old ragged vest. "Oh God!" he shouted, "My brother! my brother ! Oh, heaven forgive me — see the scar on his breast !" ^¥ tgi* t&& DEATH OF JO is very glad to see his old friend; and says, when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Sangsby, touched by the spectacle before him, im- mediately lays upon the table half-a-crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds. "And how do you find yourself, my poor lad ?" inquires the 1 stationer, with his cough of sympathy. "I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," re- turns Jo, "and don't want for nothink. I'm more cumf'bler nor you can't think, Mr. Sangsby. I'm werry sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir." The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him what it is that he is sorry for having done. "Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as was and yet as war'nt the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says nothink to me for having done it, on ac- counts of their being so good and my hav- ing been 'o unfertnet. The lady come herself and see me yes'day, and she ses, 'Ah Jo !' she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you, Jo !' she ses. And she sits down a smilin' so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I does, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to LITTLE JO. turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to give me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's alius a doin' on day and night, and wen he come a bendin' over me and speakin' up so bold, I see his tears a fallin', Mr. Sangsby." The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings. "Wot I wos thinkin' on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, "wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps ?" "Yes, Jo, please God," returns the sta- tioner. "Uncommon precious large, p'raps ?" says Jo, with eagerness. "Yes, my poor boy." Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I was thinkin' on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go, and couldn't be moved on no furder, whether you might be so good, p'raps, as to write out, wery large, so that anyone could see it anywheres, as that I wos wery truly hearty sorry that I done it, and that I never went fur to do it; and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I know'd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it, and wos alius grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin' could be made to say it wery large he might." HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 445 "It shall say it, Jo ; very large." Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangs- by. It's very kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumf'bler nor I wos afore." The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown, — he has never been so close to a case requiring so many, — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this little earth, shall meet no more. No more. (Another Scene. — Enter Mr. Wood- court. ) "Well, Jo, what is the matter? Don't be frightened." "I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, "I thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. An't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot ?" "Nobody." "And I an't took back to Tom-all- Alone's, am I, sir?" "No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I am very thankful." After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice: "Jo, did you ever know a prayer?" "Never knowd nothink, sir." "Not so much as one short prayer ?" "No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chad- bands he wos a prayin' wunst at Mr. Sangs- by's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a speakin' to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but / couldn't make out nothink on it. Different times there wos other gen'l'men come down Tom-all-Alone's a prayin', but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a talkin' to theirselves, or a passin' blame on the t'others, and not a talkin' to us. We never knowd nothink. / never knowd what it wos all about." It takes him a long time to say this ; and few but an experienced and attentive listener could hear, or hearing, understand him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong ef- fect to get out of bed. "Stay, Jo, stay ! What now?" "It's time for me to go to that there berryin' ground, sir," he returns with a wild look. "Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?" "Where they laid him as wos wery good to me ; wery good to me indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that there berryin' ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be ber- ried. He used fur to say to me, T am as poor as you, to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him, now, and have come there to be laid along with him." "By-and-by, Jo; by-and-by." "Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?" "I will, indeed." "Thankee, sir! Thankee, sir! They'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it's alius locked. And there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with my broom. It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a comin' ?" "It is coming fast, Jo." Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end. "Jo, my poor fellow !" "I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin' — a gropin' — let me catch hold of your hand." "Jo, can you say what I say?" "I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good." "Our Father." 446 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. "Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, sir." "Which art in Heaven." "Art in Heaven! — Is the light a comin', sir?" "It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy Name." "Hallowed be — thy — name !" The light is come upon the dark be- nighted way. Dead. Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, Righ Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly com- passion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day. — Charles Dickens. t^w t2* *3* THE SINGER'S CLIMAX. IF you want to hear Annie Laurie' sung come to my house to-night," said a man to his friend. "We have a love-lorn fellow in the village who was sadly wrecked by the refusal of a young girl to whom he had been paying attention for a year or more. It is seldom he will attempt the song, but when he does I tell you he draws tears from eyes unused to weeping." A small select party had assembled in a pleasant parlor, and were gayly chatting and laughing when a tall young man en- tered whose peculiar face and air instantly arrested attention. He was very pale, with that clear, vivid complexion which dark- haired consumptives so often have ; his locks were as black as jet, and hung pro- fusely upon a square white collar ; his eyes were very large and spiritual, and his brow was such a one as a poet should have. But for a certain wandering look, a casual ob- server would have pronounced him a man of uncommon intellectual powers. The words "poor fellow," and "how sad he looks" went the rounds, as he came for- ward, bowed to the company, and took his seat. One or two thoughtless girls laughed as they whispered that he was "love- cracked," but the rest of the company treated him with respectful deference. It was late in the evening when singing was proposed, and to ask him to sing "Annie Laurie" was a task of uncommon delicacy. One song after another was sung, and at last that one was named. At its mention the young man grew deadly pale, but he did not speak; he seemed instantly to be lost in reverie. "The name of the girl who treated him so badly was Annie," said a lady, whisper- ing to the new guest, "but oh! I wish he would sing it; nobody else can do it justice." "No one dares to sing 'Annie Laurie' be- fore you Charles," said an elderly lady. "Would it be too much for me to ask you to favor the company with it?" she asked, timidly. He did not reply for a moment; his lip quivered, and then looking up as if he saw a spiritual presence, he began. Every soul was hushed, — it seemed as if his voice were the voice of an angel. The tones vibrated through nerve and pulse and heart, and made one shiver with the pathos of his feel- ing; never was heard melody in a human voice like that — so plaintive, so soulful, so tender and earnest. He sat with his head thrown back, his eyes half closed, the locks of dark hair glistening against his pale temple, his fine throat swelling with the rich tones, his HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 447 hands lightly folded before him, and as he sung "And 'twas there that Annie Laurie Gave me her promise true," it seemed as if he shook from hea.d to foot with emotion. Many a lip trembled, and there was no jesting, no laughing, but in- stead, tears in more than one eye. And on he sung and on, holding every one in rapt attention, till he came to the last verse : "Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' of her fairy feet, And like winds in summer sighing Her voice is low and sweet, Her voice is low and sweet, And she's a' the world to me — " He paused before he added, "And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'll lay me down and dee." There was a long and solemn pause. The black locks seemed to grow blacker — the white temples whiter — almost imperceptibly the head kept falling back — the eyes were close shut. One glanced at another — all seemed awe-struck — till the same person who had urged him to sing laid her hand gently on his shoulder, saying: "Charles! Charles!" Then came a hush — a thrill of horror crept through every frame — the poor, tried heart had ceased to beat. Charles, the love- betrayed, was dead. t5* ^* ^* IN MANILA BAY. IN the broad Manila Bay The Spanish cruisers lay, In the shelter of their forts upon the shore ; And they dared their foes to sail Thro' the crashing iron hail Which the guns from decks and battle- ments would pour. All the harbor ways were mined, And along the channel blind Slept the wild torpedoes, dreaming dreams of wrath. Yea ! the fiery gates of hell Lay beneath the ocean's swell, Like a thousand demons ambushed in the path. Breasting fierce Pacific gales, Lo ! a little squadron sails, And the Stars and Stripes are floating from its spars. It is friendless and alone, Aids and allies it has none, But a dauntless chorus sing its dauntless tars: "We're ten thousand miles from home; Ocean's wastes and wave and foam Shut us from the land we love so far away. We have ne'er a friendly port For retreat as last resort, But we'll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay. "They have mines beneath the sea, They have forts upon their lee, They have everything to aid them in the fray; But we'll brave their hidden mines, And we'll face their blazing lines ; Yes! We'll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay. "If we're worsted in the fight, 448 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. We shall perish in the right — No hand will wipe the dews of death away. The wounded none will tend, For we've not a single friend; But we'll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay. "No ironclads we sail, Only cruisers light and frail, With no armor plates to turn the shells away. All the battleships now steer In another hemisphere, But we'll beard the ships of Spain in their own bay. "Ho ! Remember now the Maine ! Up ! And smite the ships of Spain ! Let them not forget for years this first of May! Though hell blaze up from beneath, Forward through the cannon's breath, When Dewey leads into Manila Bay." There, half-way round the world, Swift and straight the shots were hurled, And a handful of bold sailors won the day. Never since earth was begun Has a braver deed been done Than when Dewey sailed into Manila Bay. God made for him a path Thro' the. mad torpedoes' wrath, From their slumbers never wakened into play. When dawn smote the east with gold, Spaniards started to behold Dewey and his gallant fleet within their bay. Then from forts and warships first Iron maledictions burst, And the guns with tongues of flame be- gan to play ; Like demons out of hell The batteries roar and yell, While Dewey answers back across the bay. O gods ! it was a sight, Till the smoke, as black as night, Hid the fire-belching ships from light of day. When it lifted from the tide, Smitten low was Spanish pride, And Dewey was the master of their bay. (£• ^* *5* THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. HE offered himself for the land he loved, But what shall we say for her? He gave to his country a soldier's life ; 'Twas dearer by far to the soldier's wife, All honor to-day to her ! He went to the war while his blood was hot, But what shall we say of her? He saw himself through the battle's flame A hero's reward on the scroll of fame ; What honor is due to her? He offered himself, but his wife did more, All honor to-day to her ! For dearer than life was the gift she gave, In giving the life she would die to save; What honor is due to her? He gave up his life at his country's call, But what shall we say of her? He offered himself as a sacrifice, But she is the one who pays the price ; All honor we owe to her. HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 449 LEAVE "OLD GLORY" AS IT IS. IF "Old Glory" remains in its present starred and barred form it will be no fault of several well-meaning but sadly dis- torted minds. Every day brings forth somebody with a "plan" of a new flag to fit the newer national conditions. All are interesting as showing the deep concern in the country's development; some display signs of artistic conception, others have nothing to recommend them at all. A western man thinks the stars should be rearranged so as "to make room for those symbolizing Cuba, Porto Rico and the Philippines," and the bars of red as now arranged are "indistinct when seen at a dis- tance" and ought to be either broader or farther separated by the white stripes. All the "plans" suggest a rearrangement of the stars so as to include the "island posses- sions." The vital mistake in these new flag plans is that they provide for something which does not exist. The United States has no "island possessions," and it is doubtful if it will have in the sense that they must or will be entitled to representation on the blue field. The stars stand for the forty-five states in the Union. The several territories are not manifest, nor will they be so long as they remain out of the statehood. The United States flag is one of the most beautiful in a purely artistic sense in the whole international collection. It is clear, bold in lines, and the red, white and blue make a harmonious whole in color effect. The person who can't see the red and white bars at a reasonable distance ought to con- sult an oculist ; his vision is defective or he is color-blind. If anybody wants to know how really beautiful "Old Glory" is, he or she should behold it in foreign lands waving and cracking from the peak of one of Uncle Sam's war vessels, or from the masthead of a merchant ship. All the paintings of Angelo, Rubens, Vandyke, Corot and the whole world of masters combined are not half so beautiful or inspiring or enchanting or soulful or anything else. Men have been known to jump into the air, shout them- selves hoarse, swing their arms and twist their legs at the sight of the American flag away from home. "Old Glory" is all right as it is, and so is the country it represents and the 75,000,- 000 people who are always ready to fight to defend it. ^* t5* g5* ABSALOM. THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low m On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow leaves, With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems, Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, And lean'd in graceful attitudes to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells, By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashion'd for a happier world ! King David's limbs were weary, fled He had 450 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. From far Jersualem ; and now he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank, And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray. Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts Come crowding quickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy Are such an empty mockery — how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! He pray'd for Israel — and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those Whose love had been his shield — and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — For his estranged, misguided Absalom — The proud, bright being who had burst away, In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherish'd him — for him he pour'd In agony that would not be controll'd, Strong supplication, and forgave him there, Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straighten'd for the grave ; and, as the folds Sank to the still proportions, they betray'd The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bath- ing The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. His helm was at his feet; his banner, soil'd With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him ; and the jewell'd hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form Of David enter'd, and he gave command, In a low tone, to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe. "Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom ! "Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee: HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 451 How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father ?' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush Of music and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft wind flung; But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom ! "And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is wasting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom ! "And now, farewell ! Pis hard to give thee up; With death so like a slumber on thee ; And thy dark sin ! — oh ! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have call'd thee like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom !" He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself A moment on his child ; then giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ! And, as if a strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently, and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. *5* (5* t.5* THE COUNTERSIGN WAS "MARY.' J 'TWAS near the break of day, but still 1 The moon was shining brightly ; The west wind as it passed the flowers Set each one swaying lightly; The sentry slow paced to and fro, A faithful night-watch keeping, While in the tents behind him stretched His comrades — all were sleeping. Slow, to and fro, the sentry paced, His musket on his shoulder, But not a thought of death or war Was with the brave young soldier; Ah, no ! his heart was far away, Where on a western prairie, A rose-twined cottage stood. That night The countersign was "Mary." And there his own true love he saw, Her blue eyes kindly beaming, Above them on her sun-kissed brow, Her curls like sunshine gleaming, And heard her singing as she churned The butter in the dairy, The song he loved the best. That night The countersign was "Mary." "Oh, for one kiss from her!" he sighed, When up the lone road glancing, He spied a form, a little form, With faltering steps advancing. And as it neared him silently, He gazed at it in wonder, Then dropped his musket to his hand, And challenged, "Who goes yonder?" 452 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. Still on it came. "Not one step more, Be you man, child or fairy, Unless you give the countersign, Halt ! Who goes there ?"— " Tis Mary," A sweet voice cried, and in his arms The girl he'd left behind him Half fainting fell. O'er many miles She'd bravely toiled to find him. "I heard that you were wounded, dear," She sobbed. "My heart was breaking, I could not stay a moment, but All other ties forsaking, I traveled, by my grief made strong, Kind heaven watching o'er me, Until unhurt and well" — "Yes, love, At last you stood before me." "They told me that I could not pass The lines to seek my lover Before day fairly came; but I Pressed on ere night was over, And as I told my name I found The way as free as prairie." "Because, thank God! to-night," he said, "The countersign is 'Mary.' " *&rt t&fc <&& THE AGED PRISONER. NIGH on to twenty years Have I walked up and down this dingy cell ! I have not seen a bird in all that time Nor the sweet eyes of childhood, nor the flowers That grow for innocent men, — not for the curst, Dear God ! for twenty years. "With every gray-white rock I am acquainted ; every seam and crack, Each chance and change of color; every stone Of this cold floor, where I by walking much Have worn unsightly smoothness, that its rough Old granite walls resent. "My little blue-eyed babe, That I left singing by my cottage door, Has grown a woman — is perchance a wife. To her the name of 'father' is a dream, Though in her arms a nestling babe may rest, And on her heart lie soft. "Oh, this bitter food That I must live on ! this poisoned thought That judges all my kind, because by men I have been stripped of all that life holds dear — Wife, honor, reputation, tender child — For one brief moment's madness. "If they had killed me then, By rope, or rack, or any civil mode Of desperate, cruel torture, — so the deed Were consummated for the general good — But to entomb me in these walls of stone For twenty frightful years ! "Plucked at my hair — Bleached of all color, pale and thin and dead — My beard that to such sorry length has grown ; And could you see my heart, 'tis gray as these — All like a stony archway, under which Pass funerals of dead hopes. "To-morrow I go out ! Where shall I go? what friend have I to meet ? Whose glance will kindle at my altered voice ? The very dog I rescued from his kind HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 453 Would have forgotten me, if he had lived. I have no home — no hope !" An old man, bent and gray, Paused at the threshold of a cottage door. A child gazed up at him with startled eyes, He stretched his wasted hands — then drew them back With bitter groan : "So like my little one Twenty years ago !" A comely, tender face Looked from the casement; pitying all God's poor, "Come in, old man !" she said, with gentle smile, And then from out the fullness of her heart, She called him "Father," thinking of his age; But he, with one wild cry, Fell prostrate at her feet. "O child !" he sobbed, "now I can die. When last You called me father — was it yesterday? No ! no ! your mother lived, — now she is dead! And mine was living death — for twenty years — For twenty loathsome years !" Her words came falteringly : "Are you the man — who broke my mother's heart ? No ! no ! O father, — speak ! Look up — forget !" Then came a stony calm. Some hearts are broken with joy — some break with grief, The old gray man was dead. t2r* &?• ^* WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. THE birthday of the "Father of his Country!" May it ever be freshly remembered by American hearts ! May it ever re-awaken in them a filial veneration for his memory; ever rekindle the fires of patriotic regard for the country which he loved so well, to which he gave his youth- ful vigor and his youthful energy, during the perilous period of the early Indian war- fare; to which he devoted his life in the maturity of his powers, in the field; to which again he offered the counsels of his wisdom. and his experience, as president of the convention that framed our Constitu- tion ; which he guided and directed while in the chair of State, and for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication was of- fered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred in our love, and ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and of might. Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty, and towering and matchless glory of his life which en- abled him to create his country, and at the same time secure an undying love and re- gard from the whole American people. "The first in the hearts of his countrymen !" Yes, first ! He has our first and most fer- vent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good men before his day in every colony. But the American nation, as a nation, I do not reckon to have begun be- fore 1774. And the first love of that Young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejacu- 454 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. lation ; and it will be the last gasp of her ex- piring life ! Yes ; others of our great men have been appreciated — many admired by all; — but him we love; him we all love. About and around him we call up no dis- sentient and discordant and dissatisfied ele- ments — no sectional prejudice nor bias — no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes : when the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of patriotism, that devoted love of country which his words have commended, which his example has consecrated : "Where may the wearied eye repose, When gazing on the great ; Where neither guilty glory glows Nor despicable state? Yes — one — the first, the last, the best, The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeathed the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one." — Rufus Choate. t0& t3& t0& THE BOOTBLACK. HERE y'are — ? Black your boots, boss, Do it for jest five cents; Shine 'em up in a minute — That is 'f nothin' prevents. Set your right foot on there, sir; The mornin's kinder cold — Sorter rough on a feller When his coat's gettin' old. Well, yes — call it coat, sir, Though 'tain't much more'n a tear; Can't get myself another — Ain't got the stamps to spare. Make as much as most on 'em? That's so; but then, yer see, They've only got one to do for ; There's two on us, Jack and me. Him ? Why— that little feller With a doubled-up sorter back, Sittin' there on the gratin' Sunnin' hisself — that's Jack. Used to be round sellin' papers, The cars ther was his lay, But he got shoved off the platform, Under the wheels, one day. Yes, the conductor did it — Gave him a reg'lar throw ; He didn't care if he killed him ; Some on 'em is just so. He's never been all right since, sir, Sorter quiet and queer — Him and me go together, He's what they call cashier. Trouble? I guess not much, sir, Sometimes when biz gets slack I don't know how I'd stand it If 'twasn't for little Jack. Why, boss, you ought to hear him ; He says we needn't care How rough luck is down here, sir, If some day we git up there. All done now — how's that, sir? Shine like a pair of lamps. Mornin' — give it to Jack, sir, He looks after the stamps. HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 455 THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE WORD was brought to the Danish king, (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (O! ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl ; And his Rose of the Isles is dying. Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounted a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (O! ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Worn-out chargers struggled and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; But ride as they would, the king rode first ; For his Rose of the Isles lay dying. His nobles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage crying. The king looked back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled. £ They passed the drawbridge with clatter- ing din; Then he dropped; and the king alone rode in Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying. The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence!) No answer came, but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the king from that weary ride; For, dead in the light of dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying. The panting steed with a drooping crest stood weary, The king returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eyeing, The tears gushed forth, which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck; "O, steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain, To the halls where my love lay dying!" — Caroline E. Norton. NOBODY'S CHILD. (A girl dressed in ragged clothes, and the stage darkened.) ALONE, in the dreary, pitiless street, With my torn old dress and bare cold feet, All day I wandered to and fro Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go; The night's coming on in darkness and dread, And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head ; Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild? Is it because I'm nobody's child? Just over the way there's a flood of light, And warmth and beauty, and all things bright; Beautiful children, in robes so fair, Are caroling songs in rapture there. 456 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, Would pity a poor little beggar like me, Wandering alone in the merciless street, Naked and shivering and nothing to eat? Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down In its terrible blackness all over the town? Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, On the cold, hard pavements alone to die? When the beautiful children their prayers have said, And mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed, No dear mother ever upon me smiled — Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child? No father, no mother, no sister, not one In all the world loves me; e'en the little dogs run When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see, How everything shrinks from a beggar like me! Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but sometimes when Hie Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, Watching for hours some large bright star, I. fancy the beautiful gates are ajar. And a host of white-robed nameless things, Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; A hand that is strangely soft and fair Caresses gently my tangled hair, And a voice like the carol of some wild bird— The sweetest voice that ever was heard — Calls me many a dear pet name, Till my heart and spirits are all aflame; And tells me of such unbounded love, And bids me come up to their home above, And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise, They look at me with their sweet blue eyes, And it seems to me out of the dreary night, I am going up to the world of light, And away from the hunger and storms so wild — I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. ^* ^w e5* MEASURING THE BABY. WE measured the riotous baby Against the cottage wall — A lily grew on the threshold, And the boy was just as tall; A royal tiger-lily, With spots of purple and gold, And a heart like a jeweled chalice, The fragrant dew to hold. Without, the bluebirds whistled High up in the old roof-trees, And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees; And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow That danced on the lattice-sill. His eyes were wide as bluebells — His mouth like a flower unblown — Two little bare feet, like funny white mice, Peeped out from his snowy gown; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture That had yet a touch of pain, When June rolls around with her roses, We'll measure the boy again. Ah me! in a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away, Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, We measured the boy to-day; HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 457 And the little bare feet that were dimpled And sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, In a hush of a long repose! Up from the dainty pillow, White as the risen dawn, The fair little face lay smiling, With the light of heaven thereon; And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves Dropped from a rose, lay still, Never to snatch at the sunshine That crept to the shrouded sill! We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow, For the shining rosewood casket That waited him below; And out of the darkened chamber We went with a childless moan — To the height of the sinless angels Our little one had grown. o5* t3* t&& REGULUS TO THE ROMAN. ILL does it become me, O Senators of Rome, — ill does it become Regulus, after having so often stood in this vener- able assembly clothed with the supreme dignity of the Republic, to stand before you a captive, — the captive of Carthage. Though outwardly I am free, though no fetters encumber the limbs, or gall the flesh, — yet the heaviest of chains, — the pledge of a Roman Consul, — makes me the bondsman of the Carthaginians. They have my promise to return to them, in the event of the failure of this, their embassy. My life is at their mercy. My honor is my own; — a possession which no reverse of fortune can jeopard; a flame which im- prisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, death cannot extinguish. Of the train of disasters which followed close on the unexampled successes of our arms, — of the bitter fate which swept off the flower of our soldiery, and consigned me, your General, wounded and senseless, to Carthaginian keeping, — I will not speak. For five years, a rigorous captivity has been my portion. For five years, the society of family and friends, the dear amenities of home, the sense of freedom, and the sight of country, have been to me a recollection and a dream,— no more. But during that period Rome has retrieved her defeats. She has recovered under Metellus what under Regulus she lost. She has routed armies. She has taken unnumbered prisoners. She has struck terror into the hearts of the Carthaginians, who have now sent me hither with their ambassadors to sue for peace, and to propose that, in ex- change for me, your former Consul, a thousand common prisoners of war shall be given up. You have heard the ambassa- dors. Their intimations of some unimagin- able horror, I know not what, impending over myself, should I fail to induce you to accept their terms, have strongly moved your sympathies in my behalf. Another appeal, which I would you might have been spared, has lent force to their suit. A wife and child, threatened with widow- hood and orphanage, weeping and despair- ing, have knelt at your feet on the very threshold of the Senate-chamber: — Con- script Fathers! Shall not Regulus be saved? Must he return to Carthage to meet the cruelties which the ambassadors brandish before your eyes? With one voice you answer, No! Countrymen! Friends! For all that I have suffered, — for all that I may have to suffer, — I am repaid in the compensation 458 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. of this moment! Unfortunate you may hold me; but oh, not undeserving! Your confidence in my honor survives all the ruin that adverse fortune could inflict. You have not forgotten the past. Repub- lics are not ungrateful. May the thanks which I cannot utter bring down blessings from the gods on you and Rome! Conscript Fathers! There is but one course to be pursued. Abandon all thought of peace. Reject the overtures of Carthage. Reject them wholly and unconditionally. What! give back to her a thousand able-bodied men, and receive in return one attenuated, war-worn, fever- wasted frame, — this weed, whitened in a dungeon's darkness, pale and sapless, which no kindness of the sun, no softness of the summer breeze, can ever restore to health and vigor? It must not, — it shall not be! Oh! were Regulus what he was once, before captivity had unstrung his sinews and enervated his limbs, he might pause, — he might proudly think he were well worth a thousand of his foe ; he might say, "Make the exchange! Rome shall not lose by it!" But now, alas! now 'tis gone, — that impetuosity of strength, which could once make him a leader indeed, to penetrate a phalanx or guide a pursuit. His very armor would be a burden now. His battle-cry would be drowned in the din of the onset. His sword would fall harmless on his opponent's shield, But if he cannot live, he can at least die for his country. Do not deny him this supreme consolation. Consider: every indignity, every torture, which Carthage shall heap on his dying hours, will be better than a trumpet's call to your armies. They will remember only Regulus, their fellow-sol- dier and their leader. They will regard only his services to the Republic. Tunis, Sardinia, Sicily, every well-fought field, won by his blood and theirs — will flash on their remembrance, and kindle their avenging wrath. And so shall Regulus, though dead, fight as he never fought be- fore against the foe. Conscript Fathers! There is another theme. My family, — forgive the thought! To you and to Rome I confide them. I leave them no legacy but my name, — no testament but my example. Ambassadors of Carthage! I have spoken, though not as you expected. I am your captive. Lead me back to whatever fate may await me. Doubt not that you shall find, to Roman hearts, coun- try is dearer than life, and integrity more precious than freedom! ^w t£* t&& THE CHILD MUSICIAN. HE had played for his lordship's levee, He had played for her ladyship's whim, Till the poor iittle head was heavy And the poor little brain would swim. And the face grew peaked and eerie, And the large eyes strange and bright, And they said — too late — "He's weary! He shall rest for, at least, to-night!" But at dawn, when the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent gloom, With the sound of a strained cord break- ing A something snapped in the room. 'Twas a string of his violoncello And they heard him stir in his bed: — "Make room for a tired little fellow, King God!" was the last that he said. HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 459 CATO ON IMMORTALITY. IT must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest well! Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into naught! Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruc- tion? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heaven itself, that points our here- after, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity ! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies be- fore me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us, — And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works, He must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must be happy, But when? or where? This world was • made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end them. (Laying his hand on his sword.) Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me. This in a moment brings me to my end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secure in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years ; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. — Joseph Addison. DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. (This oration has now become the "banner oration," having taken more medals at oratori- cal contests than any other written, — is suitable for any patriotic occasion.) FIFTY years ago, in a rude garret, near the loneliest suburbs of the city of London, lay a dying man. He was but half dressed; though his legs were con- cealed in long military boots. An aged minister stood beside the rough couch. The form was that of a strong man grown old through care more than age. There was a face that you might look upon but once, and yet wear it in your memory for- ever. Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face. A bold forehead seamed by one deep wrinkle visible between the brows — long locks of dark hair, sprinkled with gray; lips firmly set, yet quivering, as though they had a life separate from the life of the man; and then, two large eyes — vivid, burn- ing, unnatural in their steady glare. Ay, there was something terrible in that face — something so full of unnatural lone- 460 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. liness — unspeakable despair, that the aged minister started back in horror. But look! those strong arms are clutching at the va- cant air; the death-sweat stands in drops upon that bold brow — the man is dying. Throb — throb — throb — beats the death- watch in the shattered wall. "Would you die in the faith of the Christian?" faltered the preacher, as he knelt there on the damp floor. The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled, but made no sound. Then, with the strong agony of death upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. For the first time he spoke. "Christian!" he echoed in that deep tone which thrilled the preacher to the heart. "Will that faith give me back my honor? Come with me, old man, come with me, far over the waters. Ha! we are there! This is my na- tive town. Yonder is the church in which I knelt in childhood; yonder the green on which I sported when a boy. But an- other flag waves yonder, in place of the flag that waved when I was a child. "And listen, old man, were I to pass along the streets, as I passed when but a child, the very babes in their cradles would raise their tiny hands, and curse me! The graves in yonder churchyard would shrink from my footsteps; and yonder flag would rain a baptism of blood upon my head!" That was an awful death-bed. The minister had watched "the last night" with a hundred convicts in their cells, but had never beheld a scene so terrible as this. Suddenly the dying man arose ; he tottered along the floor. With those white fingers, whose nails were blue with the death-chill, he threw open a valise. He drew from thence a faded coat of blue, faced with silver, and the wreck of a battle-flag. "Look ye, priest! this faded coat is spotted with my blood!" he cried, as old memories seemed stirring at his heart. "This coat I wore, when I first heard the news of Lexington; this coat I wore, when I planted the banner of the stars on Ticonderoga! that bullet-hole was pierced in the fight of Quebec; and now, I am a — let me whisper in your ear!" He hissed that single burning word in the minister's ear. "Now help me, priest! help me to put on this coat of blue; for you see" — and a ghastly smile came over his face — "there is no one here to wipe the cold drops from my brow; no wife, no child. I must meet Death alone; but I will meet him, as I have met him in battle, without a fear!" And while he stood arraying his limbs in that worm-eaten coat of blue and silver, the good minister spoke to him of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that great faith, which pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back from the face of God. "Faith!" echoed that strange man, who stood there, erect, with the death-chill on his brow, "Faith! Can it give me back my honor? Look ye, priest! there, over the waves, sits George Washington, telling to his com- rades the pleasant story of the eight years' war; there, in his royal halls, sits George of England, bewailing, in his idiotic voice, the loss of his colonies! And here am I! — I, who was the first to raise the flag of freedom, the first to strike a blow against that king — here am I, dying! oh, dying like a dog." The awe-stricken preacher started back from the look of the dying man, while throb — throb — throb — beats the death- watch in the shattered wall. "Hush ! silence along the lines there!" he mut- tered, in that wild, absent tone, as though speaking to the dead; "silence along the lines! not a word — not a word, on peril of HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 461 your lives! Hark you, Montgomery! we will meet in the center of the town; — we will meet there in victory, or die! — Hist! silence, my men — not a whisper, as we move up those steep rocks! Now on, my boys — now on! Men of the wilderness, we will gain the town! Now up with the banner of the stars — up with the flag of freedom, though the night is dark, and the snow falls! Now! now, one more blow, and Quebec is ours!" And look! his eye grows glassy. With that word on his lips, he stands there — ah! what a hideous picture of despair! erect, livid, ghastly; there for a moment, and then he falls! — he is dead! Ah, look at that proud form, thrown cold and stiff upon the damp floor. In that glassy eye there lingers, even yet, a horrible energy — a sublimity of despair. Who is this strange man lying there alone, in this rude garret; this man, who, in all his crimes, still treas- ured up in that blue uniform, that faded flag? Who is this being of horrible re- morse — this man, whose memories seem J* MOTHER to link something with heaven, and more with hell? Let us look at that parchment and flag. The aged minister unrolls that faded flag; it is a blue banner gleaming with thirteen stars. He unrolls that parchment; it is a colonel's commission in the Continental army addressed to Benedict Arnold! And there, in that rude hut, while the death- watch throbbed like a heart in the shat- tered wall— there, unknown, unwept, in all the bitterness of desolation, lay the corpse of the patriot and the traitor. Oh that our own true Washington had been there, to sever that good right arm from the corpse ; and, while the dishonored body rotted into dust, to bring home that noble arm, and embalm it among the holi- est memories of the past! For that right arm struck many a gallant blow for free- dom; yonder at Ticonderoga, at Quebec, Champlain, and Saratoga — that arm, yon- der, beneath the snow-white mountains, in the deep silence of the river of the dead, first raised into light the Banner of the Stars. — George Leppard. AND POET. (The "mother" in this superb ode was Laura Savio, a poet and ardent patriot of Turin, who lost two sons in the revolutionary struggles — one at Anacona on the Adriatic Sea, the other at Gaeta, on the Mediterranean.) DEAD! one of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast, And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me! Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art for a woman, men said, But this woman, this, who is agonized here, The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead. What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! To dream and to dote, 463 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. To teach them. It stings there. I made them indeed Speak plain the word "country." I taught them no doubt That a country's a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights and about The tyrant turned out. And when their eyes flashed. . .O my beautiful eyes! . . . I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. — But then the surprise, When one sits quite alone! — Then one weeps, then one kneels! — God! how the house feels! At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, of camp-life and glory and how They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin. "Anacona was free!" And some one came out of the cheers in the street With a face pale as stone, to say some- thing to me. My Guido was dead! — I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. I bore it — friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- mained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand. "I was not to faint. One loved me for two. .would be with me ere long: And 'Viva Italia,' he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint." My Nanni would add "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls .... was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how 'twas impossible, quite dis- possessed, To live on for the rest." On which without pause up the telegraph line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : — Shot. Tell his mother. Ah, ah,— "his," "their" mother: not "mine." No voice says "my mother" again to me. What? You think Guido forgot? Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that Love and Sorrow which reconciled so The Above and Below. O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 463 To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say! Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'Twere imbecile, hewing our roads to a wall. And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son? Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When your guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short, — When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green and red, When you have your country from moun- tain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my Dead,) What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly! — My • country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow. My Italy's there, — with my brave civic Pair, To disfranchise despair. Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain and self-scorn. But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this! — and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born. Dead! — one of them shot by the sea in the west, And one of them shot in the east by the sea! Both! both my boys! — If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me! — Mrs. Browning. JUL 12 1902 THE HINSHAW SCHOOL OF OPERA and DRAMA STEDfWAT THEATRE BUILDING CHICAGO, IliL. Wiixiam Wadb Hinshaw and Marvin Victob Hinshaw directors -TTHE HINSHAW SCHOOL OF >^ OPERA AND DRAMA is ac- knowledged to be one of the leading schools of its kind in the country, and is endorsed by all Leading Theatrical Managers and Actors of both New York and Chicago. Pupils prepared for the stage and given public appearances in full roles in the best Operas and Dramas. Engagements with best American Companies Guaranteed to our grad- uates. BKAUIIFDILT IIXUSTBATED CATALOGUE MAILED FBEE TO ANT ADDBESS ON APPLICATION -• •- »>-•■ vmi LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 021 100 515 4 *1 J'-'-i* -a? ^H r I I * ■ 3 * .1*. w" » ■ * • ■« ■ I KlIU J-J.-