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 .L85 
 Copy 1 
 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
 Shelf-JJBS 
 
 i UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
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 Published Semi-monthly. By Subscription, $2.40 Per Annum. June 1 
 sred at the New York Post-Office as Second-Class Matter. Copyright 1W3, 1-y V. M. Lcpto*. 
 
F&mong Dramatic Recitations. 
 
 CAREFULLY SELECTED FROM THE WRITINGS OF THE 
 
 BEST AUTHORS, AS RECITED BY THE LEADING 
 
 ELOCUTIONISTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THE SWITCHMAN'S CHRISTMAS STORY. 
 
 Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well 
 
 enough : 
 I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my 
 
 share o' rough. 
 This berth that the company gave me they gave 
 
 as the work was light ; 
 I was never fit for the signals after one awful 
 
 I'd been on the line from a younker, and I'd never 
 
 . felt the strain 
 Of the lives at my right hand's mercy !n every 
 
 passing train. 
 One dav there was something happened, and it 
 
 made my nerves go queer, 
 And it's all through mat as you find me the 
 
 station-master here. 
 
 I was on the switch down yonder— that's where 
 
 we turn the mails 
 And specials and fast expresses on to the centre 
 
 rails : 
 The side's for the other traffic— the freight and 
 
 t"V»p IophI slows 
 It was rare hard work at Christmas— when double 
 
 the traffic grows. 
 I've been on duty down yonder nigh sixteen 
 
 hours a day, 
 Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts 
 
 went all astray ; 
 But I've worked the switch half sleeping, and 
 
 once I slept outright, 
 Till the roar of the Limited woke me, and I nearly 
 
 died with fright. 
 
 Then I thought of the lives in peril and what 
 
 might have been their fate 
 Had I sprung to the points that evening a tenth of 
 
 a tick too late ; 
 And a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through 
 
 my frame 
 As I fancied the public clamor, the trial and bitter 
 
 shame. 
 I could see the bloody wreckage— I could see the 
 
 mangled slain— 
 And the picture was seared forever, blood-red, on 
 
 my heated brain. 
 That moment my nerve was shattered, for I 
 
 couldn't shut out the thought 
 Of the lives I held in my keeping and the ruin 
 
 that might be wrought. 
 
 That night in our little cottage, as I kissed our 
 
 sleeping child, 
 My wife looked up from her sewing, and told me, 
 
 as she smiled, 
 That Johnny had made his mind up— he'd be a 
 
 switchman too. 
 "He says when he's big, like daddy, he'll work on 
 
 the line with you." 
 
 I frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife 
 
 she saw the look ; 
 Lord bless you I my little Alice could read me like 
 
 a book. 
 I'd to tell her of what had happened, and I said that 
 
 I must leave, 
 For a switchman's arm ain't trusty when terror 
 
 lurks in his sleeve. 
 
 But she cheered me up in a minute, and that night, 
 
 ere we went to sleep, 
 She made me give her a promise, which I swore 
 
 that I'd always keep— 
 It was always to do my duty. "Do that, and then, 
 
 come what will, 
 You'll have no worry," said Alice, "if things go 
 
 well or ill. 
 There's something that always tells us the things 
 
 that we ought to do "— 
 My wife was a bit religious and in with the chapel 
 
 But I knew she was talking reason, and I said to 
 
 myself, says I, 
 "I won't give in like a coward— it's a scare that'll 
 
 soon go by." 
 
 Now, the very next day the missus had to go to 
 
 the market town ; 
 She'd the Christmas things to see to and she 
 
 wanted to buy a gown . 
 She'd be gone for a spell, for the party didn't come 
 
 back till eight, 
 And I knew, on a Christmas eve, too, the trains 
 
 would be extra late. 
 So she settled to leave me Johnny, and then she 
 
 could turn the key— 
 For she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy 
 
 would be safe with me. 
 He was five, was our little Johnny, and quiet and 
 
 nice and good- 
 He was mad to go with daddy, and I'd often prom- 
 ised he should. 
 
 It was noon when the missus started— her train 
 
 went by my box ; 
 She could see, as she passed my window, her dar- 
 ling's curly locks. 
 I lifted him up to mammy v and he kissed his little 
 
 hand. 
 Then sat, like a mouse, in tne corner, and thought 
 
 it was fairy land. 
 But somehow I fell a-thinking of a scene that 
 
 would not fade. 
 Of how I had slept on duty, until I grew afraid ; 
 For the thought would weigh upon me, one day I 
 
 might come to lie 
 In a felon's cell for the slaughter of those I had 
 
 doomed to die. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 The fit that had come upon me like a hideous 
 
 nightmare seemed, 
 Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper 
 
 who has dreamed. 
 For a time the switch had vanished— I'd worked 
 
 like a mere machine— 
 My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither 
 
 heard nor seen. 
 With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the 
 
 boy to seek. 
 Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips re- 
 fused to speak ; 
 There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on 
 
 mv startled sight 
 That it curdled my blood in terror and sent my 
 
 red lips white. 
 
 It was all in one awful moment— I saw that the 
 
 boy was lost ; 
 He had gone for a toy, I fancied, some child from 
 
 a train had tossed ; 
 The local was easing slowly to stop at the station 
 
 here, 
 And the Limited Mail was coming, and I had the 
 
 line to clear. 
 I could hear the roar of the engine— I could almost 
 
 feel its breath, 
 And right on the centre metals stood my boy in 
 
 the jaws of death ; 
 On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the 
 
 centre line, 
 And the hand that must wreck or save it, merci- 
 ful God, was mine .' 
 
 'Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's. O Heaven! 
 
 what could I do '?— 
 Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce ques- 
 tion flew— 
 "What shall I do, O Heaven?" and sudden and 
 
 loud and clear 
 On the wind came the words, " Your duty I" borne 
 
 to my listening ear. 
 Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce 
 
 and short and quick. 
 " My boy ! " I cried, but he heard not ; and then I 
 
 went blind and sick ; 
 The hot, black smoke of the engine came with a 
 
 rush before 
 I turned the mail to the centre, and by it flew with 
 
 a roar. 
 
 Then I sank on my knees in horror, and hid my 
 
 I had given my child to Heaven; his life was a 
 
 hundred's grace. 
 Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the 
 
 flying mail 
 To shatter the creeping local that stood on the 
 
 other rail ! 
 Where is my boy, my darling ! O God, let me hide 
 
 my eyes. 
 How can I look— his father— on that which there 
 
 mangled lies? 
 That voice!— O merciful Heaven!— 'tis the child's, 
 
 and he calls my name ! 
 I hear, but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled 
 
 with flame. 
 
 I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell as I heard 
 
 the boy ; 
 The place reeled round and I fainted— swooned 
 
 with the sudden joy. 
 But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I 
 
 woke in my own warm bed, 
 With Alice's arms around me, and a strange, wild 
 
 dream in my head 
 That shed come by the early local, being anxious 
 
 about the lad, 
 And had seen him there on the metals, and the 
 
 sight nigh drove her mad— 
 
 She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited 
 
 closed my view, 
 And she leaped on the line and saved him just as 
 
 the mail dashed through. 
 
 She was back in the train in a second, and both 
 
 were safe and sound— 
 The moment they stopped as the station she ran 
 
 here, and I was found 
 With my eyes life a madman's glaring, and my 
 
 face a ghastly white ; 
 I heard the boy and I fainted, and I hadn't my 
 
 wits that night. 
 Who told me to do my duty ? What voice was that 
 
 on the wind ? 
 Was it fancy that brought it to me ? or were there 
 
 God's lips behind! 
 If I hadn't a-done my duty— had I ventured to dis- 
 obey— 
 My bonny boy and his mother might have died by 
 
 my hand that day. 
 
 —George JR. Sims. 
 
 GONE WITH A HANDSOMEE MAN. 
 John. 
 
 I've worked in the field all day, a plowin' the 
 " stony streak ; " 
 
 I've scoldedmy team till I'm hoarse ; I've tramped 
 till my legs are weak ; 
 
 I've choked a dozen swears, (so's not to tell Jane 
 fibs,) 
 
 When the plow-pint struck a stone and the han- 
 dles punched my ribs. 
 
 I've put my team in the barn, and rubbed their 
 
 sweaty coats: 
 I've fed 'em a heap of hay and half a bushel of 
 
 oats ; 
 And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin' 
 
 feel, 
 And Jane won't say to-night that don't make 
 
 out a meal. 
 
 Well said! the door is locked! but here she's left 
 
 the key, 
 Under the step, in a place known only to her and 
 
 me; 
 I wonder who's dyin'or dead, that she's hustled 
 
 off pellmell ; 
 But here on the table's a note, and probably this 
 
 will tell. 
 
 Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone 
 
 astray ! 
 The letter it says, "Good-bye, for I'm agoing 
 
 away ; 
 I've lived with you six months, John, and so far 
 
 I've been true, 
 But I'm going away to-day with a handsomer man 
 
 than you." 
 
 A han'somer man than me ! Why, that ain't much 
 to say ; 
 
 There's han'somer men than me go past here ev- 
 ery day. 
 
 There's han'somer men than me— I ain't of the 
 han'some kind ; 
 
 But a loven'er man than I was, I guess she'll never 
 find. 
 
 Curse her ! curse her ! I say, and give my curses 
 
 wings ! 
 May the words of love I've spoken be changed to 
 
 scorpion stings 
 Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my 
 
 heart of doubt, 
 And now, with a scratch of a pen, she let's my 
 
 heart's blood out ! 
 
FAMOTTS DRAMATIC UEC1TATI0NS. 
 
 Curse her! curse her! say I, she'll some time rue 
 
 this clay, .... *u * 
 
 She'll some time learn that hate is a game that 
 
 two can play ; 
 And long before she dies she'll grieve she ever 
 
 was born, , . .. 
 
 And I'll plow her grave with hate, and seed it 
 
 down to scorn. 
 
 As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a time 
 
 when she 
 Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer 
 
 man than me ; 
 And there'll be a time when he will find, as others 
 
 That she who is false to one, can be the same with 
 two. 
 
 And when her face grows pale, and when her 
 
 eyes grow dim, m , m 
 
 And when he is tired of her and she is tired of 
 
 him, 
 She'lhdo what she ought to have done, and coolly 
 
 count the cost ; 
 And then she'll see things'clear, and know what 
 
 she has lost. 
 
 And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up 
 
 in her mind. . . M 
 
 And she will mourn and cry for what she lias left 
 
 behind ; 
 And maybe she'll sometimes long for me— for me 
 
 —but no ! 
 I've blotted her out of my heart, and I will not 
 
 have it so. 
 
 And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin' 
 
 or other she had 
 That fastened a man to her, and wasn't entirely 
 
 bad; 
 And she loved me a little, I think, although it 
 
 didn't last ; 
 But I mustn't think of these things— I've burled 
 
 'em in the past. 
 
 I'll take my hard words back, nor make a bad 
 
 matter worse ; 
 She'll have trouble enough ; she shall not have 
 
 my curse ; 
 But I'll live a life so square— and I well know that 
 
 I can,— 
 That she always will sorry be that she went with 
 
 that han'somer man. 
 
 Ah, here is her kitchen dress 1 it makes my poor 
 
 eyes blur ; 
 It seems when I look at that, as if 'twas holdin' 
 
 her. 
 And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her 
 
 week-day hat, 
 And yonder's her weddin' gown: I wonder she 
 
 didn't take that. 
 
 'Twas only this mornin' she came and called me 
 
 her " dearest dear," 
 And said I was makin' for her a regular paradise 
 
 here ; 
 O God ! if you want a man to sense the pains of 
 
 hell, 
 Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven 
 
 a spell ! 
 
 Good-bye ! I wish that death had severed us two 
 
 apart, 
 You've lost a worshiper here, you've crushed a 
 
 lovin' heart. 
 I'll worship no woman again ; but I .guess I'll 
 
 learn to pray, 
 And kneel as you used to kneel, before you run 
 
 away. 
 
 And if I thought I could bring my wordg on 
 
 Heaven to bear, 
 And if I thought 1 bad some little influence there, 
 I would pray that I might be, if it only could be 
 
 so, 
 As happy and gay as I was a half an hour ago. 
 
 Jane {entering). 
 
 Whv, John what a litter here: you've thrown 
 
 things all around ! 
 Come, what's the matter now ? and what have you 
 
 lost or found ? 
 And here's my father here, a waiting for supper, 
 
 Uve be'en a riding with him— he's that "hand- 
 somer man than you." 
 
 Ha! Ha ! Pa take a seat, while I put the kettle on. 
 And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear 
 
 old John. 
 Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has 
 
 crossed your track ? 
 I Was only a joking you know, I'm willing to take 
 
 It back. 
 
 John {aside). 
 
 Well, now, if this ain't a joke, with rather a bitter 
 
 cream ! 
 It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish 
 
 dream ; 
 And I think she " smells a rat," for she smiles at 
 
 me so queer, 
 I hope she don't ; good gracious ! I hope that they 
 
 didn't hear! 
 
 'Twas one of her practical drives, she thought I'd 
 
 understand! 
 But I'll never break sod again till I get the lay of 
 
 the land. 
 But one thing's settled with me— to appreciate 
 
 heaven well, 
 'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes 
 
 of hell. 
 
 — Will Carleton. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE OLD SQUIRE. 
 
 Bead with great success by Charlotte Cushman. 
 
 'Twas a wild, mad kind of night, as black as the 
 bottomless pit ; 
 
 The wind was howling away like a Bedlamite In 
 a fit, 
 
 Tearing the ash boughs oil', and mowing the pop- 
 lars down, 
 
 In the meadows beyond the old flour mill, where 
 you turn off to the town. 
 
 And the rain (well, it did rain) dashing against 
 
 the window glass, 
 And deluging on the roof, as the Devil were come 
 
 to pass ; 
 The gutters were running in floods outside the 
 
 stable door, 
 And the spouts splashed from the tiles, as they 
 
 would never give o'er. 
 
 Lor', how the winders rattled ! you'd almost ha' 
 thought that thieves 
 
 Where wrenching at the shutters, while a cease- 
 less pelt of leaves 
 
 Flew to the doors in gusts ; and I could hear the 
 beck 
 
 Falling so loud I knew at once it was up to a tall 
 man's neck. 
 

 . - huddling hi the harness-room bv a little 
 ip of fire, 
 
 m, the coachman, he was there, a-practic- 
 ing for the choir. 
 But it sounded dismal, anthem did, for Squire was 
 
 dying fast, 
 And the doctor said, do what he would, Squire's 
 breaking up at last. 
 
 The death-watch, sure enough, ticked loud just 
 
 over tli* owd mare's head, 
 Though he had never once been heard up there 
 
 since master's boy lay dead ; 
 And the only sound, beside Tom's toon, was the 
 
 stirring in the stalls, 
 And the gnawing and the scratching of the rats in 
 
 the owd walls. 
 
 We couldn't hear Death's foot pass by, but we 
 knew that he was near, 
 
 And the chill rain and the wind and cold made us 
 all shake with fear; 
 
 We listened to the clock upstairs, 'twas breath- 
 ing soft and low 
 
 For the nurse said, at the turn of night the old 
 Squire's soul would go. 
 
 Master had been a wildish man, and led a rough- 
 
 ish life ; 
 Didn't he shoot the Bowton squire, who dared 
 
 write to his wife ? 
 He beat the Rads at Hindon Town, I heard, in 
 
 twenty-nine, 
 When every pail in market-place was brimmed 
 
 with red port wine. 
 
 And as for hunting, bless your soul, why, for forty 
 year or more 
 
 He'd kept the Marley hounds, man, as his fayther 
 did afore ; 
 
 And now to die and in his bed— the season just be- 
 gun— 
 
 "It made him fret,"' the doctor said, " as it inigLt 
 do any one."' 
 
 And when the sharp young lawyer came to see 
 
 hjmsign his will, 
 Squire made me blow my horn outside as we were 
 
 going to kill; 
 And we turned the hounds out in the court— that 
 
 seemed to do him good ; 
 For he swore, and sent us off to seek a fox in 
 
 Thornhill Wood. 
 
 But then the fever it rose high and he would go 
 see the room 
 
 Where mistress died ten years ago when Lammas- 
 tide shall come ; 
 
 I mind the year, because our mare at Salisbury 
 broke down ; 
 
 Moreover, the town-hall was burnt at Steeple 
 Dinton Town. 
 
 It might be two, or half -past two, the wind seem- 
 ed quite asleep ; 
 
 Tom, he was off, but I, awake, sat watch and ward 
 to keep ; 
 
 The moon was up, quite glorious like, the rain no 
 longer fell, 
 
 When all at once out clashed and clanged the 
 rusty turret bell. 
 
 That hadn't been heard for twenty year, not since 
 
 the Luddite days. 
 Tom he leaped up, and I leaped up, for all the 
 house ablaze 
 
 ire not scared us half so much, and out we 
 i like mad, 
 
 and Joe, the whipper-in, and t' little stable 
 lad. 
 
 • He's killed himself," that's the idea (hat came 
 
 into my head ; 
 I felt as sure as though I saw Squire Barrowly was 
 
 dead; 
 When all at once a door dew back, and he met us 
 
 face to face ; 
 His scarlet coat was on his back, and he looked 
 
 like the old race. 
 
 The nurse was clinging to his knees, and crying 
 like a child ; 
 
 The maids were sobbing on the stairs, for he look- 
 ed fierce and wild ; 
 
 " Saddle me Lightning Bess, my men," that's what 
 he said tome: 
 
 "The moon is up, we're sure to find at Stop or 
 Etterly. 
 
 "Get out the dogs; I'm well to-night, and young 
 again and sound, 
 
 I'll have a run once more before they put me un- 
 der ground ; 
 
 They brought my father home feet first, and it 
 never shall be said 
 
 That his son Joe, who rode so straight, died quiet- 
 ly in his bed. 
 
 "Brandy ! " he cried ; " a tumbler full, you womeu 
 
 howling there," 
 Then clapped the old black velvet cap upon his 
 
 long gray hair, 
 Thrust on his boots, snatched down his whip, 
 
 though he was old and weak ; 
 There was a devil in his eye that would not let me 
 
 speak. 
 
 We loosed the dogs to humor him, and sounded 
 
 on the horn ; 
 The moon was np above the woods, just east of 
 
 Haggard Bourne. 
 I buckled Lightning's throat-lash fast ; the Squire 
 
 was watching me ; 
 He let the stirrups down himself so quick, yet 
 
 carefully. 
 
 Then up he got and spurred the mare and, ere I 
 
 well could mount, 
 He drove the yard-gate open, man, and called to 
 
 old Dick Blount, 
 Our huntsman, dead five years ago— for the fever 
 
 rose again, 
 And was spreading like a flood of flame fast up 
 
 into his brain. 
 
 Then off he flew before the dogs, yelling to call 
 us on, 
 
 While we stood there, all pale and dumb, scarce 
 knowing he was gone ; 
 
 We mounted, and below the hill we saw the fox- 
 break out, 
 
 And down the covert ride we heard the old 
 Squire's parting shout. 
 
 And in the moonlit meadow mist we saw him fly 
 
 the rail 
 Beyond the hurdles by the beck, just half way 
 
 down the vale ; 
 I saw him breast fence after fence— nothing could 
 
 turn him back ; 
 And in the moonlight after him streamed out the 
 
 brave old pack. 
 
 'Twas like a dream, Tom cried to me, as we rode 
 
 free and fast. 
 Hoping to turn him at the brook, that could not 
 
 well be passed, 
 For it was swollen with the rain; but ah, 'twas 
 
 not to be : 
 Nothing could stop old Lightning Bess but the 
 
 broad breast of the sea. 
 
RECITATIONS. 
 
 rept on, aud well in front the mare 
 
 had got her stride ; 
 She broke across the fallow land that runs by the 
 
 down side. 
 We pulled up on Chalk Linton Hill, and, as we 
 
 stood us there. 
 Two fields beyond we saw the Squire fall stone 
 
 dead from the mare. 
 
 Then she swept on, and in full cry the hounds went 
 out of sight; 
 
 A cloud came over the broad moon and something 
 dimmed our sight. 
 
 As Tom and I bore master home, both speaking un- 
 der breath ; 
 
 And that's the wav I saw th' owd Squire ride 
 boldly to his death. 
 
 — Anon. 
 
 POOR-HOUSE NAN. 
 
 Did you say you wished to see me sir! Step in ; 
 
 'tis a cheerless place, 
 But you're heartily welcome all the same ; to be 
 
 poor is no disgrace ! 
 Havel been here long? Oh, yes, sir I— 'tis thirty 
 
 winters gone 
 Since poor Jim took to crooked ways and left me 
 s all alone! 
 Jim was my son, and a likelier lad you'd never 
 
 wish to see, 
 Till evil counsels won his heart and led him away 
 
 from me. 
 
 'Tis the old and pitiful story, sir, of the devil's 
 
 winding stair, 
 And men going down— and down— and down— to 
 
 blackness and despair ; 
 Tossing about like wrecks at sea, with helm and 
 
 anchor lost, 
 On, and on, through the surging waves, nor caring 
 
 to count the cost ; 
 I doubt sometimes if the Savior sees— he seems so 
 
 • far away— 
 How the souls he loved and died for, are drifting 
 
 —drifting astray. 
 
 Indeed, 'tis a little wonder, sir, if woman shrinks 
 and cries, 
 
 When the life-blood on Rum's altar spilled is 
 calling to the skies! 
 
 Small wonder if her own heart feels each sacri- 
 ficial blow, 
 
 For isn't each life a part of hers ? each pain her 
 hurt and woe ? 
 
 Read all records of crime and shame— 'tis bitterly, 
 sadly true ; 
 
 Where manliness and honor die, there some 
 woman's heart dies too! 
 
 Often I think, when I hear folks talk so prettily 
 and so fine, 
 
 Of " Alcohol as a needful food ; " of " the moder- 
 ate use of wine ; " 
 
 How " the world couldn't do without it, there was 
 clearly no other way, 
 
 But for man to drink, or let it alone, as his own 
 strong will might say ; " 
 
 That " to use it but not abuse it was the proper 
 thing to do; " 
 
 How I wish they'd let old Poor House Nan preach 
 her little sermon too ! 
 
 I would give them scenes in a woman's life that 
 
 would make their pulses stir, 
 For I was a drunkard's child ar.d wife— aye^a 
 
 drunkard's mother, sir! 
 I would tell of childish terrors, of childish tears 
 
 and pain ; 
 Of cruel blows from a father's hand, when rum 
 
 had crazed his brain : 
 
 He always said lie could drink his till, or let it 
 
 alone as well; 
 Perhaps he might: he was killed one night in a 
 
 brawl— in a grog shop-hell ! 
 
 I would tell of years of loveless toil the drunkard's 
 
 child had passed, 
 With just one gleam of sunshine, too beautiful to 
 
 last! 
 When I married Tom I thought for sure I had 
 
 nothing more to fear ; 
 That life would come all right at last— the world 
 
 seemed full of cheer ; 
 But he took to moderate drinking; he allowed 
 
 'twas a harmless thing, 
 So the arrow sped, and my bird of Hope came 
 
 down with a broken wing ! 
 
 Tom was only a moderate drinker, ah, sir, do you 
 bear in mind 
 
 How the plodding tortoise in the race left the 
 leaping hare behind ? 
 
 'Twas because he held right on aud on, steady and 
 true, if slow; 
 
 And that's the way, I'm thinking, that the moder- 
 ate drinkers go .' 
 
 Step over step— day after day— with sleepless, 
 tireless pace, 
 
 While the toper sometimes looks behind and tar- 
 ries in the race. 
 
 Ah, heavily in the well-worn path poor Tom 
 
 walked, day by day, 
 For my heartstrings clung about his feet and 
 
 tangled up the way ; 
 The days were dark, and friends were gone, and 
 
 life dragged on full slow ; 
 And children came, like reapers sad to a harvest 
 
 of want and woe ! 
 Two of them died, and I was glad when they lay 
 
 before-me dead. 
 I had grown weary of their cries— their pitiful 
 
 cries for bread ! 
 
 There came a time when my heart was stone ; I 
 
 could neither hope nor pray, 
 Poor Tom lay out in the potter's field, and my boy 
 
 had gone astray, 
 My boy who had been my idol ; while other hounds 
 
 athirst for blood, 
 Between my breaking heart and him the liquor 
 
 seller stood 
 And lured him on with his poisoned words, his 
 
 pleasures and his wine; 
 Ah, God have pity on other hearts, as bruised and 
 
 hurt as mine. 
 
 There were whispers of evil-doing, of dishonor 
 
 and of shame, 
 That I cannot bear to think of now, and would not 
 
 dare to name ! 
 There was hiding away from the light of day, 
 
 there was creeping about at night, 
 A hurried word of parting— then a criminal's 
 
 stealthy flight ! 
 His lips were white with remorse and fright when 
 
 he gave me a good-bye kiss ! 
 And I've never seen my poor, lost boy from that 
 
 black day to this ! 
 
 Ah, none but a mother can tell you, sir, how a 
 mother's heart will ache, 
 
 With the sorrow that comes of a sinning child, 
 with grief for a lost one's sake. 
 
 When she knows the feet she trained to walk have 
 gone so far astray, 
 
 And the lips grow bold with curses, that she 
 taught to sing and pray. 
 
 A child may fear— a wife may weep , but of all 
 sad things, none other 
 
 Seems half so sorrowful to me as being a drunk- 
 ard's mother! 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 •11 me that down in the vilest dens of the 
 
 city's crime and murk. 
 There are men with the hearts of angels, doing 
 
 the angels' work ; 
 That they win back the lost and the strayed, that 
 
 they help the weak to stand 
 By the wonderful power of loving words— and the 
 
 help of God's right hand ! 
 And often and over, the dear Lord knows, I've 
 
 knelt and prayed to him 
 That somewhere, somehow, 'twould happen that 
 
 they'd find and save my Jim. 
 
 You'll say 'tis a poor old woman's whim ; but when 
 
 I prayed last night, 
 Right over yon eastern window there shone a 
 
 wonderful light ! 
 (Leastways it looked that way to me) and out of 
 
 the light there fell 
 The softest voice I ever heard ; it rang like a silver 
 
 bell ; 
 And these were the words: " The prodigal turns 
 
 tired by want and sin. 
 He seeks his father's open door ; he weeps and 
 
 enters in." 
 
 Why, sir, you're crying as hard as I ; what is it I 
 
 have done ? 
 Have the loving voice and the Helping Hand 
 
 brought back my wandering son ? 
 Did you kiss me and call me " Mother,"— and fold 
 
 me to your breast, 
 Or is it one of those taunting dreams that come to 
 
 rob me of my rest ? 
 No— no! thank God, 'tis a dream come true! I 
 
 know he has saved my boy 
 And the poor old heart that he had lived on hope 
 
 is broken at last by joy 1 
 
 —Lucy M. Blinn. 
 
 FALLEN BV THE WAY. 
 
 Don't be a fool and blub, Jim, its a darned good 
 
 thing for you— 
 You'll find a mate as can carry, and '11 play the 
 
 music too ? 
 I'm done this time, for a dollar— I can hardly get 
 
 my breath ; 
 There's something as tells me, somehow, " Bill 
 
 Joy, you be took for death." 
 It's a wessel gone bust, and a big un' ; I can hard- 
 ly speak for blood : 
 It's the last day's tramp as 'as done it— the hills 
 
 and the miles o' mud, 
 There ain't not the sign of a light, Jim, in this 
 i God-forsaken spot— 
 I Hunt for some warter, parduer, for my lips is 
 
 burnin' hot. 
 
 How much ha' we took to-day, Jim ? Why not a 
 
 single brown, 
 And our show was one o' the best once, and we 
 
 rode from town to town : 
 Now it's dirty and old and battered, and the pup- 
 nets is wus for wear, 
 Ana their arms and their legs is shaky, and their 
 
 backs is reg'lar bare. 
 I ain't done my share o' the work, mate, since I 
 
 went that queer in the chest, 
 But I done what I could, old fellow, and you know 
 
 as I did my best; 
 And now— well, I'm done, I reckon; it's life as is 
 
 flowing fast- 
 Stick to me, Jim— don't leave me; it's the end as 
 
 Is come at last. 
 
 There's Toby a-waggin' his tail there; poor chap, 
 
 how he'll miss me, Jim!— 
 Whoever you takes for mate, mind, they ain't to 
 
 be 'aid on 'im ; 
 For I 'ad him a six weeks' puppy, and I taught 
 
 him to box with Punch— 
 What was that sound in the distance ? I fancied 
 
 I heard a scrunch. 
 Nothin'- ah, well.no matter! I thought 'twas a 
 
 footstep p'r'aps, 
 A traveler as might ha' helped us, or one o' them 
 
 farmer chaps. 
 A doctor might stop the bleedin': but there's 
 
 never a chance o*one. 
 I'll be cold and dead in the mornin'— yer poor old 
 
 pardner's done. 
 
 I feel just as if I was chokin' and I'm, oh, so faint 
 
 and low; 
 Prop me agen the boxes, so I can see the show— 
 The dear old show and the puppets, Judy and 
 
 Punch and all : 
 I'd like just to see 'em again, Jim— so prop me 
 
 afore I fall. 
 Oh, the miles that we've been together, I and the 
 
 puppets and you 
 id Toby, 
 
 And Toby, our faithful Toby— ah, when the show 
 
 was new! , 
 
 Do ye think of the time, old fellow, when first we 
 
 took the road, 
 And she was with us, God bless her! and never a 
 
 grief we knowed ? 
 
 It may be as God'll let her look down from the 
 sky to-night, 
 
 From out o' the stars up yonder, where she sits in 
 
 the Halls o' Light- 
 Look down on the poor old showman and see as 
 his time is nigh, 
 
 And he's comin' to join his darlin' where there's 
 . never no more Good-bye ! 
 
 Oh, Jim, how I well remember the night as my 
 sweetheart died, 
 
 When she lay by the wee dead baby, only a nine- 
 months' bride. 
 
 'Twas the fall from the stilts as did it, and the 
 wild, rough life we led: 
 
 D'ye mind what she whispered dyin'— the beauti- 
 ful words she said ? 
 
 'Twas when she knew she was goin'; I'm seeing 
 
 her wan white cheek 
 And the sweet sad smile that lit it when she tried 
 
 so hard to speak ; 
 When she took our hands and joined 'em, and 
 
 bade us, through bad and good, 
 Be pals, and stick tight to each other! and both 
 
 on us said we would. 
 I knew as you loved her fust, Jim, and had loved 
 
 her all along. 
 And I see how you 'id your feelin's when you see 
 
 as you'd counted wrong: 
 But you stuck like a pal to the show, Jim, and von 
 
 worked and whistled away, 
 And she never guessed your secret, or she would- 
 n't ha' been so gay. 
 
 I fancy the dear old days, Jim, when she was 
 alive, poor lass— 
 
 The feasts that we had by the hedges, and the 
 chats in the long green grass, 
 
 And the cosy nights at the taverns, when the coin 
 came rolling in; 
 
 JIow we laughed when we puffed our baccv, and 
 pretended to drink our gin ! 
 
 Then Toby, a gay young lellow, would lie by the 
 fire and doze, 
 
 While the missis worked at the puppets and al- 
 tered and turned their clo's: 
 
/ . ; r ONS. 
 
 And Judy and Punch and Joey were never so 
 
 smart before. 
 And the Ghost had a nice white gown on, as a 
 
 clergyman might ha' wore. 
 
 She went in the cruel Winter, when the bread 
 was hard to get, 
 
 When we tramped and slept in the cowshed, hun- 
 gry and cold and wet. 
 
 How far am I from her grave, Jim ? Ah, a hun- 
 dred miles maybe ; 
 
 To lie by the side o' one's darlin' ain't meant for 
 the likes o' me. 
 
 The parish '11 bury me here, Jim— here where I 
 chance to die ; 
 
 Come to the grave and see me and bid me a last 
 good-bye. 
 
 You can bring the show and the puppets, and 
 Toby, and beat the drum ; 
 
 Who knows but that I may hear it in the wonder- 
 ful Kingdom Come ? 
 
 I'm goin\ old pal— don't blubber and look with 
 
 that skeered white face ! 
 Stand by me here to the last, lad ; it's a horrible 
 
 lonely place ; 
 Stoop, for I'll have to whisper— oh, my eyes grow 
 
 strange and dim, 
 And I feel like poor old Punch feels when the 
 
 hangman comes to him. 
 I vvarn't much use as a pardner, and I ain't not 
 
 been for a year, 
 This bustin' o' wessels and corfin' has made me 
 
 that awful queer, 
 I'd like to ha' got to a willage or ha* crawled as 
 
 fur as a shed ; 
 Jim, if I lose my senses, stay till yer know I'm 
 
 dead. 
 
 Oh, it's hard to die in the open— here on a country 
 
 road ; 
 That's a matter of sentymuut, ain't it ? well sen- 
 
 tymunt jes' be blovved ! 
 For where can a cove die better than under a star- 
 lit sky, 
 With his pardner's arms about him and a tear in 
 
 his pardner's eye ? % 
 
 Now I want yer to do me a favor— it's the last as 
 
 I'll ask ye, Jim— 
 There's a mist comin' over my eyeballs, and my 
 
 senses seems to swim ; 
 Set up the show in the road there— there where 
 
 the moonlight be— 
 Let down the baize and work it, now, while I've 
 
 strength to see. 
 
 Give me the drum a minit— I can hardly raise the 
 
 stick ; 
 Now, are ye ready, pardner ?— up with the curtain, 
 
 quick ! 
 The blood comes faster and faster— that's it ! Ah, 
 
 Punch, old boy, 
 And Judy, and there's the Baby, and Toby, the 
 
 children's ioy. 
 Poor Toby, he knows there's trouble ; for see how 
 
 he hangs his tail ; 
 Bark at the Bobby, Toby, he's a-takin' old Punch 
 
 to jail. 
 Where have you gone to, pardner ? Where have 
 
 you put the show ? 
 I see but the big, black shadows that darker and 
 
 darker grow. 
 
 I know what it is— the signal! Put down the 
 
 pipes and drum. 
 I'm off to the distant country— the touch on the 
 
 shoulder's come. 
 Shall I take any message for you, Jim ! I shall 
 
 see her up there, maybe, 
 And I'll tell her how hard you worked, pal, and 
 
 the pal as you've been to me, 
 
 Jim, when I'm gone I wants yer just to look in 
 
 the box and take 
 The ragged old dress we kept there and treasured 
 
 for her sweet sake— 
 The dress that she made for Judy— and lay it upon 
 
 my breast ; 
 And I want you, the day I'm buried, to give the 
 
 show a rest. 
 
 Bring 'em away to the churchyard and show 'em 
 
 their master's grave. 
 Now take up your pipes and blow 'em, and tip us 
 
 a farewell stave. 
 Mind, when you're choosin' a mate, Jim, don't 
 
 have a rogue or muff; 
 Make him handle the puppets gentle, for they've 
 
 never been treated rough. 
 Give me the dog a minit— see how he licks my 
 
 Cli66k 
 
 Now for a' tune on the pipes, mate, and speak as 
 
 the puppets speak : 
 It's the music I've lived my life to— let me hear it 
 
 again and die. 
 I'm a-goin' to her— I'm goin'— God bless yer, Jim ! 
 
 —good-bye. 
 
 —Geo. R. Sims. 
 
 DAVY'S PROMISE; OR, I MUST BE THERE 
 ON NEW YEAR'S DAY. 
 
 Written by Con. T. Murphy. Recited by John- 
 Wills of the Novelty Four. 
 
 Trudging, along at early dawn on a cold Decem- 
 ber morn— 
 
 That on Which the old year dies and before the 
 new is born— 
 
 Came a gentle youth, with hair of gold, shivering 
 from the bitter cold, 
 
 With shoeless feet and box on back, the switch- 
 man heard him say— 
 
 " I will not give up, for there is the track, and I 
 said I'd come on New Year's day." 
 
 "All aboard ! " The train moves .off with its load 
 
 of human freight, 
 And a moment more and the little lad with box 
 
 would be too late ; 
 But on the platform, with firm hold, stands the 
 
 shivering lad with hair of gold. 
 
 " Come, come, my lad, I want my fare." 
 
 " I got no money, sir, to pay, and I cannot walk 
 
 •no more, and I must be there, 
 For I said I'd come on New Year's day." 
 
 " You must be there ! What's that to me ? I have 
 
 heard such tales before ; 
 I want my fare. It's very cold— come in and shut 
 
 the door. 
 Where do you wish to go, my lad ? You got no 
 
 money, well, that's too bad ! " 
 " I want to go to Dover's Creek, but that's so very 
 
 far away, 
 I couldn't walk it in a week, and I must be there 
 
 on New Year's day." 
 
 'Sit down, my lad— come closer still; I am sure 
 
 you must be cold. 
 Blacking boots, is that your trade ? You can't be 
 
 ten years old ! 
 Your name, what might it be ? to Dover ? Whom 
 
 do you go to see ? " 
 "The bootblacks call me little Dave; I will be 
 
 ten years old in May. 
 I go to see my mother's grave, and I must be there 
 
 on New Year's day." 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 " Your mother dead, your father, Davy, where is 
 
 he ?" 
 '• Don't ask me, please. Father's dead, but not 
 
 like mother, dead to me, 
 Seven years ago, so mother said, he done some 
 
 deed for which he fled ; 
 Now mother lies beside the old church where we 
 
 used to play, 
 And before she died I promised I would always 
 
 come on New Year's day.'' 
 
 " Brave little lad. you shall not break your promise 
 
 with the dead ; 
 Go, visit her. and may God pour choice blessings 
 
 on your head, 
 And always hold her memory dear ; though far 
 
 away, she is ever near 
 To watch and guard you on your way ; 
 Remember her holy love, and keep your word on 
 
 New Year's day."' 
 
 "Dover Creek!" the brakeman shouts, in voice 
 
 both loud and clear. 
 Box on back, off on the track jumps the boy with 
 
 the golden hair 
 And there he stands with the bitter past, just as 
 
 the old vear breathes its last. 
 And a moment more and he is at the gate of the 
 
 churchyard old and gray. 
 "Oh, mother dear, I am not too late; I said I'd 
 
 come on New Year's day." 
 
 Long years have passed since that cold morn when 
 
 the lad with hair of gold 
 Came plodding along with box on back, and 
 
 shivering from the cold : 
 And many a new grave has been made in the 
 
 churchyard where his mother's laid. 
 Old age has bent his form alow— he will be 
 
 eighty-five in May ; 
 And at his mother's grave, in rain or snow, he 
 
 asks her blessing on New Year's day. 
 
 KATE MALONEY. 
 
 In the winter, when the snowdrift stood against 
 
 the cabin door, 
 Kate Maloney, wife of Patrick, lay nigh dying on 
 
 the floor- 
 Lay on rags and tattered garments, moaning out 
 
 with feeble breath. 
 "Knale beside me, Pat, my darlint; pray the 
 
 Lord to give me death." 
 
 Patrick knelt him down beside her, took her thin 
 
 and wasted hand, 
 Saying something to her softly that she scarce 
 
 could understand, 
 "Let me save ye, oh, my honey! Only spake a 
 
 single word, 
 And I'll sell the golden secret where it's wanted 
 
 to be heard. 
 
 " Sure it cuts my heart to see ye lyin' dyin' day 
 
 by day, 
 When it's food and warmth ye're wanting just to 
 
 dhrive yer pains away. 
 There's a hundred golden guineas at my mercy If 
 
 ve will— 
 Do ye knoic that Mickey Regan's in the hut upon 
 
 the hill?" 
 
 Kate Maloney gripped her husband, then she 
 
 ■ I him through and through 
 " Pat Maloney, am I dhraming ? Did I hear them 
 words o' you ? 
 
 I lived an honest woman, loving Ireland, 
 l and thee, 
 That now upon my deathbed ye should spake 
 them words to me ? 
 
 "Come ye here, ye tremblin' traitor; stand beside 
 
 me now, and swear 
 By yer soul and yer hereafter, while he lives ye 
 
 will not dare 
 Whisper e'en a single letter o' brave Mickey 
 
 Regan's name. 
 Can't I die o' cold and hunger ? Would ye have 
 
 me die o' shame ? 
 
 " Let the Saxon bloodhounds hunt him, let them 
 
 show their filthy gold ; 
 What's the poor boy done to hurt 'em ? Killed a 
 
 rascal rich and old- 
 Shot an English thief 'who robbed us, grinding 
 
 Irish peasants down : 
 Raisin' rints to pay his wantoms and his lackeys 
 
 up in town. 
 
 " We are beasts, we Irish peasants, whom these 
 
 Saxon tyrants spurn ; 
 If ye hunt a beast too closely, and ye wound him 
 
 won't he turn ? 
 Wasn't Regan's sister ruined by the blackguard 
 
 lying dead, 
 Who was paid his rint last Monday, not in silver, 
 
 but in lead?" 
 
 Pat Maloney stood and listened, then he knelt 
 
 and kissed his wife: 
 "Kiss me, darliut, and forgive me ; sure, I thought 
 
 to save your life ; 
 And it's hard to see you dyin' when the gold's 
 
 within my reach. 
 I'll be lonely when ye're gone, dear—"' here a 
 
 whimper stopped his speech. 
 
 Late that night, when Kate was dozing, Pat crept 
 cautiously away 
 
 From his cabin to the hovel where the hunted 
 Regan lay ; 
 
 He was there— he heard him breathing; some- 
 thing whispered to him "Go! 
 
 Go and claim the hundred guineas— Kate will 
 never need to know." 
 
 He would plan some little story when he brought 
 
 her food to eat, 
 He would say the priest had met him, and had 
 
 sent her wine and meat. 
 No one passed their lonely cabin ; Kate would lie 
 
 and fancy still 
 Mick had slipped away in secret from the hut 
 
 upon the hill. 
 
 Kate Maloney woke and missed him; guessed 
 
 his errand there and then ; 
 Raised her feeble voice and cursed him with the 
 
 curse of God and men 
 From her rags she slowly staggered, took her 
 
 husband's loaded gun. 
 Crying, "God, I pray Thee, help me, ere the 
 
 traitor's deed be done ! " 
 
 All her limbs were weak with fever as she crawled 
 
 across the floor: 
 But she writhed and struggled bravely till she 
 
 reached the cabin door, 
 Thence she scanned the open country, for the 
 
 moon was in its prime, 
 And she saw her husband running, and she 
 
 thought, "there yet is time." 
 
 He had come from Regan's hiding, past the door, 
 
 and now he went 
 By the pathway down the mountain, on his evil 
 
 errand bent. 
 Once she called him, but he stopped not, neither 
 
 gave he glance behind. 
 • hi 
 
 For her voice was weak and feeble, and it melted 
 on the wind. 
 

 FAMOUS DRAMATIC nJSCTTATlONS. 
 
 Then a sudden strength came to her, and she rose 
 and followed fasi , 
 
 Though her naked limbs were frozen by the bitter 
 winter blast; 
 
 She had reached hira very nearly when her new- 
 born spirit fled, 
 
 "God has willed it!" cried the woman, then she 
 
 shot the traitor dead ! 
 
 From her bloodless lips, half frozen, rose a 
 
 whisper to the sky— 
 " I have saved his soul from treason ; here, O 
 
 Heaven, let me die. 
 Now, no babe unborn shall curse him, nor his 
 
 country loathe his name 
 "I have saved ye, oh, my husband, from a death 
 
 of deathless shame." 
 
 No one yet has guessed their story. Mickey 
 Regan got away, . 
 
 And across th« kMd Atlantic lives a honest man 
 to-day ; 
 
 While in Galway still the peasants show the lonely 
 mountain-side 
 
 Where an Irishman was murdered and an Irish- 
 woman died. 
 
 — Dagonet. 
 
 THE SEAMSTRESS'S STORY. 
 
 How do I feel to-day, Jane ? Why, middlin' ; what 
 
 else could be 
 A lone and a lorn grass-widder with a babby upon 
 
 licr ki)66 
 Just eightee'n months and teethin', and cuttin' 
 
 'em crossways, too ? 
 Pore lamb! half a loaf in the cupboard, and three 
 
 weeks of the room's rent due. 
 
 But these are trials I'm used to, and trials as can 
 
 be bore, 
 And I'm promised some work, Jane— greatcoats 
 
 from the Army Clothin' Store ; 
 And liberally they pay us, at one-and-eleven a 
 
 head, 
 Out of which, Jane, you finds the needles, and 
 
 likewise you buys the thread. 
 
 Just a twelvemonth since my Bill left me— a 
 twelvemonth, on maybe more, 
 
 Since the partin' blow»he gave me sent me flyin' 
 across the floor ! 
 
 Bill was handy-like with his fists, Jane, as every- 
 one jined to agree, • 
 
 And he kept hisself up to the mark, Jane— he 
 practiced so much on me. 
 
 I never complained ? It's likely ! myself to my- 
 self I kep'— 
 
 I was proud-like. Look out on the landin', I fancy 
 I heard a step, 
 
 A step as was once familiar, though I can't say as 
 it was dear, 
 
 Unless when Me faint ? No; laws bless you! 
 
 but it give me a flutterin'— here. 
 
 I was likely enough as a gal, Jane, as smart a 
 
 wench as you'd see, 
 And I was soft upon Willam, and William was nuts 
 
 en me ; 
 And so like a fool I gives warning to missus, and 
 
 we was wed, 
 And, twenty-four hours after, he caught me a 
 
 crack on the head. 
 
 That was the first. But, bless you! harder one 
 
 came, and wu»s, 
 And every blow that he planted, he follercd up 
 
 with a cuss ; 
 And I grew hard and careless and let the place go 
 
 to rack, 
 And when he " upped *' with the shovel, i $ive 
 
 him the poker back! 
 
 So things went on till the kid come, and then they 
 
 was quiet a bit. 
 And Bill he grew somewhat softer to me, and I've 
 
 seen him sit 
 And play with it like— for hours ; and often he'd 
 
 proudly say, 
 He'd be able to use his mauleys as well as his dad, 
 
 some day. 
 
 That wore away in time, Jane, as most things 
 
 would do with Bill, 
 And the old hard times came back, Jane, the old, 
 
 old trouble and ill ; 
 And he kep' me shorter than ever for money, and 
 
 I was sore 
 And sick and faint with the hunger,— but still 
 
 with the life I bore ! 
 
 Bore with the gnawing anguish, bore with the 
 
 stripes, nor cast 
 Back again the oaths and curses, as I'd often done 
 
 in the past ; 
 But something kept me quiet and brave, and 
 
 whatever I did, 
 Was done for— well you're a mother— you know 
 
 'twas for the sake of the kid. 
 
 'Till one night he came home a tiger, maddened 
 
 and fierce with drink, 
 And did what, had he been sober, he wouldn't 
 
 a-done, I think ; 
 I was used to be beaten, but somehow it made me 
 
 wild, 
 Sent me as mad as Bedliam, when he struck and 
 
 abused the child ! 
 
 I waited until next morning, put my bonnet on, 
 
 took the keys, 
 And went and told my story to a justice of the 
 
 peace ; 
 Said my life and child's were in danger, from the 
 
 strength of his drunken blows, 
 And took out a summons against him- how I did 
 
 it goodness knows ! 
 
 But I was mad and blinded, and weary of storm 
 
 and strife, 
 And the dull revengeful cravings of years sprang 
 
 into life ; 
 I thought that the law would help me, I knew it 
 
 was great and strong, 
 But I doubted the thing I was doing— I doubted it 
 
 all along. 
 
 You ought to have seen his face, Jane, you're 
 
 one of the laughin' sort, 
 When the news first came to William that he'd 
 
 got to appear in court ; 
 I didn't turn pale or falter, it made my case 
 
 stronger when 
 He glared at me for an instant, and went for me 
 
 gli 
 th 
 
 ere and then. 
 
 What happened I scarce remember, only the 
 
 neighbors found 
 Me, beaten and bruised and bleeding, down in a 
 
 death-like s wound 
 On the floor, when they come back, bringing the 
 
 kid from his bit o' play ; 
 For, being prepared for a scuffle, I'd sent him 
 
 safe out o' the way. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 There's little more to tell you ; but when I ap- 
 peared in court 
 
 More like a dead thing moving than one of the 
 livin' sort, 
 
 Every tiling went agin' him, and they give him 
 six months as well 
 
 Fc: smashing a few policemen and rioting in his 
 cell. 
 
 t he was took away, Jane ; but the last words he 
 
 said, 
 A kind of partin' blessin', keeps ringing still in my 
 
 head : 
 " You got me lagged, my woman ? Ay ! you can 
 
 boast, it's true ; 
 But when I come out of prison, damn me, I'll 
 
 swing for you! " 
 
 '• Swing for me." So he will, Jane, Bill never 
 
 bioke his word— 
 And sure as I live or die, Jane, he'll keep to the 
 
 oath I heard. 
 Hide ? There is no use in hidin' ; he'd find me out 
 
 in a trice ! 
 Yes ! if the kittle's biling, a cup of tea loould be 
 
 nice ! 
 
 And Jemmy shall have some too, Jane, he's down- 
 right fond of a sup; 
 
 Will he be like his father, my boy, when he's quite 
 grown up ? 
 
 He said he'd swing for me, Jane— how that door 
 creaks, my dear ! 
 
 When he said.it he meant to do it . . . Merciful 
 God he's here ! 
 
 Glad ? Why, of course I'm glad, Bill, and so is 
 Jem, I know, 
 
 It's the— joy and— the sudden surprise like that's 
 set me a-trembling so ; 
 
 He's an old friend, you mind, lad, Mrs. Brown, 
 from the three-pair back, 
 
 We was having a cup together, a cup and a friend- 
 ly crack. 
 
 Yes, you must go, of course, Jane ; you're wanted, 
 I know, down-stairs, 
 
 And when husband and wife have met, Jane, of 
 course they've their private affairs 
 
 To talk of; but take the baby, he's regular wild 
 and mad 
 
 For a game with the kids in the alley— there, tod- 
 dle along, my lad ! 
 
 And Jane— hush ! or else he'll hear us— if ever a 
 prayer you said, 
 
 Say one to-night for a woman in terror and mortal 
 dread ! 
 
 For that look on his face means murder, He said 
 he'd do it and— See, 
 
 He's watching us! Laws! I'm coming. Good- 
 night ! Kiss the boy for me ! 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT TRYST. 
 
 The winter wood was gray and chill, 
 
 The moon was old, the winds were dead ; 
 The heart of the wood was wierdly still. 
 
 And she started at her own rustling tread, 
 As though it were the trail of a shroud ; 
 
 And she shuddered as to herself she said: 
 " If only the owl would cry aloud, 
 Or the leaf would move that lifts on high 
 Its dead black finger against the sky ; 
 If these snake-like vines that hang and twine 
 Would stir or swim in the dim moonshine: 
 Then I would not faint with this nameless dread." 
 But the wood was still as Jhe breathless dead ; 
 
 The leaf did not stir nor the gray owl scream. 
 
 And she had come there, fantasy led— 
 To this weird wild wood— on the faith of a dream, 
 
 When they thought her asleep in her maiden bed. 
 
 Three nights, while she slept on her tear-cold 
 cliGcks 
 
 Her long-lost love in a dream had come, 
 And said to her low: " The pine will speak 
 
 For me, though the rest of the world is dumb— 
 The brave old pine in the heart of the wood, 
 By- the still, black pool where last we stood ; 
 At the middle hour of the night go there— 
 The pine shall a sign and a message bear." 
 
 There days she carried the dream close locked 
 
 In her troubled breast, and gave no sign ; 
 They would but mock at the dream as they mocked 
 
 In rage and pride at her face, that could pine 
 And pale for a faithless lover, long-gone 
 To a land that the sun shines warm upon. 
 Gone so long that they could but say, 
 " He has forsaken her ; foul befall 
 The steps of the traitor, wherever they stray." 
 
 And her bearded brothers, fierce and tall, 
 Longed with his blood the wrong to pay, 
 
 And chafed when they saw that a dreary pall, 
 Hung for her on the sunniest day; 
 
 And when a curse on his head they would call, 
 She would drop her eyes to his ring and pray. 
 They would have wrenched the ring away, 
 But that her finger grew so small, 
 They said, " Of itself it soon must fall." 
 
 ******* 
 She has reached the heart of the winter wood- 
 Stiller and deeper the shadows brood ; 
 She see's the deep pool's glimmering disk, 
 Where falls one ray from the waning moon ; 
 The pine-tree stands like an obelisk, 
 
 Still, as if caived of the granite stone • 
 In its dark-plumed top there is no stir- 
 Never a breath, nor a voice, nor a moan- 
 It holds no token no message for her. 
 She waits, she listens, her hands grow numb, 
 
 Close-pressed to her heart to hush its beats ; 
 
 Nx> sign her straining senses greets 
 On earth or in air— the pine is dumb ; 
 
 Yet, as if breathed from a viewless shrine, 
 Thrills the wordless whisper, " It will come ! " 
 
 And breathless she stands and awaits the sign. 
 What was it ? There is no breeze to shake 
 
 The long, light leaf that lifts on high 
 
 Its dead, black finger against the sky; 
 Yet the pine-boughs suddenly thrill and quake, 
 
 As though a breath of storm swept by— 
 The pine, that had seemed a shaft of stone 
 In the stirless wood, it moves alone. 
 And now a sound, a sigh, a moan— 
 Wind-like, yet human in its tone- 
 Fills the low swaying boughs o'erhead, 
 Lades the air with a spell of dread : 
 " Dead ! " it syllat*es ; " dead— dead— dead ! ' ' 
 Nearer it steals like the wave of the seas. 
 Her heart is hushed— she sinks to her knees— 
 Her eyes are closed— she nothing sees ; 
 But a touch that is not the touch of the breeze 
 Moves through her loosened tresses now— 
 Falls like a kiss on her wasted brow— 
 For a sense of perfect peace and love 
 Bears her up like the wings of a dove. 
 A moment only, and it is gone ! 
 In the silent wood she stands alone ; 
 The pine does not stir, nor the dead leaf shake, 
 And the long black shadows sleep on the lake ; 
 A moon-ray falls like an elfin wand— 
 On the withered lily of her hand- 
 Glints on the bright bethrothal band. 
 She kissed the ring. " You are mine," she said ; 
 " I will wear you now till my life is sped .' J 
 
 He is not false— he is only dead ! " 
 
 —Mary E. Bryan. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE WORKHOUSE. 
 
 It is Christmas day in the workhouse, 
 
 And the cold bare walls are bright 
 With garlands of green and holly, 
 
 And the place is a pleasant sight: 
 For with clean-washed hands and faces, 
 
 In a long and hungry line 
 The paupers sit at the tables, 
 
 For this is the hour they dine. 
 
 And the guardians and their ladies, 
 
 Although the wind is east. 
 Have come in their furs and wrappers . 
 
 To watch their charges feast ; 
 To smile and be condescending, 
 
 Put pudding on pauper plates, 
 To be hosts at the workhouse banquet 
 
 They've paid for— with the rates. 
 
 Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly 
 
 With their " Thank'ee kindly, mum's ; " 
 So long as they fill their stomachs, 
 
 What matter whence it comes? 
 But one of the old men mutters, 
 
 And pushes his plate aside: 
 " Great God! " he cries; " but it chokes me ; 
 
 For this is the day she died." 
 
 The guardians gazed in horror, 
 
 The master's face went white ; 
 " Did a pauper refuse their pudding?" 
 
 " Could their ears believe aright? " 
 Then the ladies clutched their husbands 
 
 Thinking the man would die, 
 Struck by a bolt, or something, 
 
 By the outraged one on high. 
 
 But the pauper sat for a moment, 
 
 Then rose 'mid a silence grim, 
 For the others had ceased to chatter, 
 
 And trembled in every limb. 
 He looked at the guardian's ladies, 
 
 Then, eyeing their lords, he said: 
 " I eat not the food of villains 
 
 Whose hands are foul and red, 
 
 " Whose victims cry for vengeance 
 
 From their dark, unhallowed graves." 
 " He's drunk! " said the workhouse master, 
 
 " Or else he's mad, and raves." 
 "Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper, 
 
 " But only a hunted beast, 
 Who, torn by the houdds and mangled, 
 
 Declines the vulture's feast. 
 
 " I care not a curse for the guardians, 
 And I won't be dragged away. 
 
 Just let me have the fit out, 
 It's only on Christmas day 
 
 That the black past comes to goad me, 
 And prey on my burning brain, 
 
 I'll tell you the rest in a whisper- 
 Is wear I won't shout again. 
 
 "Keep your hands off me, curse you! 
 
 Hear me right out to the end. 
 You come here to see how paupers 
 
 The season of Christmas spend. 
 You come here to watch us feeding, 
 
 As they watch the captured beast, 
 Hear why a penniless pauper 
 
 8pits on your paltry feast. 
 
 Do you think I will take your bounty, 
 
 And let you smile and think 
 You're doing a noble action 
 
 With the parish's meat and drink? 
 
 Where is my wife, f. ou traitor*- 
 
 The poor old wife v° u slevv? 
 Yes, by the God above v U s » 
 
 My Nance was killed by\ vou ! 
 
 " Last winter my wife lay dyiii6» 
 
 Starved in a filthy den ; 
 I had never been to the parish,— V 
 
 I came to the parish then. 
 I swallowed my pride in coming, 
 
 For, ere the ruin came, 
 I held up my head as a trader, 
 
 And I bore a spotless name, 
 
 " I came to the parish, craving 
 
 Bread for a starving wife, 
 Bread for the woman who'd loved me 
 
 Through fifty years of life ; 
 And what do you think they told me, 
 
 Mocking my awful grief? 
 That ' the House ' was open to us, 
 
 But they wouldn't give ' out relief.* 
 
 " I slunk to the filthy alley— 
 
 'Tvyas a cold, raw Christmas eve — 
 And the bakers' shops were open, 
 
 Tempting a man to thieve : 
 But I clenched my fists together, 
 
 Holding my head awry, 
 So I came to her empty-handed 
 
 And mournfully told her why. 
 
 " Then I told her ' the House ' was open ; 
 
 She had heard of the ways of that, 
 For her bloodless cheeks went crimson, 
 
 And up in her rags she sat>, 
 Crying, ' Bide the Christmas here, John, 
 
 We've never had one apart ; 
 I think I can bear the hunger,— 
 
 The other would break my heart.' 
 
 "All through that eve I watched her, 
 
 Holding her hand in mine, 
 Praying the Lord, and weeping 
 
 Till my lips were salt as brine. 
 I asked her once if she hungered, 
 
 And as she answered 'No,' 
 The moon shone in at the window 
 
 Set in a wreath of snow. 
 
 "Then the room was bathed in glory, 
 
 And I saw in my darling's eyes 
 The far-away look of wonder 
 
 That comes when the spirit flies ; 
 And her lips were parched and parted, 
 
 And her reason came and went, 
 For she raved of our home in Devon, 
 
 Where our happiest years were spent. 
 
 " And the accents, long forgotten, 
 
 Came back to the tongue once more, 
 For she talked like the country lassie 
 
 I woo'd by the Devon shore. 
 Then she rose to her feet and trembled, 
 
 And fell on the rags and moaned, 
 And, 'Give me a crust— I'm famished— 
 
 For the love of God ! ' she groaned. 
 
 " I rushed from the room like a madman, 
 
 And flew to the workhouse gate, 
 Crying ' Food for a dying woman? ' 
 
 And the answer came, ' Too late.' 
 They drove me away with curses ; 
 
 Then I fought with a dog in the street, 
 And tore from the mongrel's clutches 
 
 A crust he was trying to eat. 
 
 "Back, through the filthy by-lanes! 
 
 Back, through the trampled slush I 
 Up to the crazy garret, 
 
 Wrapped in an awful hush. 
 
Ix FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 I'here's little vtt^u *"*n &t v threshold, 
 ne silv' lr moonlight 
 
 y 
 
 Vi 
 
 r\ ^ v ■» ' d nau 
 
 H^j 0s t( ^led for 
 ft*i, a -had 1 1 
 
 CI »y, coif and still. 
 
 I fe^eniS^ened ceili " g 
 Afv 0J1 t'^ e ' 5 y es wei 'e cast— 
 5he d Uam ' - l0se lips all bloodless 
 d had been the last: 
 
 her absent husband— 
 l r ™' J ■ naa i but known !— 
 A kind of called in vain, and in anguish 
 , „ heaj; X (i died in that den— alone. 
 ' ioi' 
 
 *. " Yes. there, in a land of plenty, 
 
 Lay a loving looking woman dead, 
 Cruelly starved and murdered 
 
 For a loaf of the parish bread. 
 At yonder gate, last Christmas, 
 
 I craved for a human life. 
 You, who would feast us paupers, 
 
 What of my murdered imfe I 
 
 " There, get ye gone to your dinners ; 
 
 Don't mind me in the least; 
 Think of the happy paupers 
 
 Eating your Christmas feast; 
 And when you recount their blessings 
 
 In your snug parochial way, 
 Say what you did for me, too, 
 
 Only last Christmas Day. 
 
 George R. Sims. 
 
 THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD. 
 
 Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, 
 
 your pen! 
 And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do 
 
 for men. 
 It's only a tale of a life-boat, of the dying and the 
 
 dead— 
 Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that hap- 
 pened off Mumbles Head. 
 Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know 
 
 it north and south; 
 Maybe you are friends with "the natives "that 
 
 dwell at Oystermouth ; 
 It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've 
 
 crossed in a casual way. 
 And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the 
 
 blues of Swansea Bay. 
 
 Well, it isn't like that in the winter, when the 
 
 light-house stands alone, 
 In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its 
 
 face of stone; 
 It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and 
 
 the storm-bell tolled, or when 
 
 was news of a wreck and the life-boat 
 
 launched, and a desperate cry for men. __ 
 When in the world did the coxswain shirk ? "A 
 
 brave old salt was he ! 
 Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever 
 
 had tasted the sea, 
 Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about 
 
 that coast 'twas said, 
 Had saved some hundred lives apiece— at a shill- 
 ing or so a head ! 
 
 So the father launched the life-boat, in the teeth 
 
 of the tempest's roar, 
 And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an 
 
 eye on his boys at the oar. 
 
 Out to the wreck went the father, out to the 
 
 wreck went the sons. 
 Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of 
 
 signal guns ; 
 Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls 
 
 that the sailors love, 
 Going to death for duty, and trusting to God 
 
 above ! 
 Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy 
 
 and safe in bed, 
 For men like these who are ready to die for a 
 
 wreck off Mumbles Head? 
 
 It didn't go well with the life-boat ; 'twas a ter- 
 rible storm that blew ! 
 And it snapped the rope in a second that was 
 
 flung to the drowning crew ; 
 And then the anchor parted— 'twas a tussle to 
 
 keep afloat! 
 But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys 
 
 to the brave old boat. 
 Then at last on the poor doomed life-boat a wave 
 
 broke mountains high ; 
 ,: God help us now ! " said the father. "It's over, 
 
 my lads! Good-bye!" 
 Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the 
 
 sheltered caves, 
 But father and sons were fighting death in the 
 
 foam of the angry waves. 
 
 Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the 
 
 storm, 
 And saw in the boiling breakers a figure— a fight 
 
 ing form ; 
 It might be a gray -haired father; then the women 
 
 held their breath ; 
 It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having 
 
 a round with death ; 
 It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were 
 
 on the lips 
 Of the women whose love is the life of men going 
 
 down to the sea in ships. 
 They had seen the launch of the life-boat, they 
 
 . had seen the worst, and more, 
 Then, kissing each other, these women went down 
 
 from the lighthouse straight to shore. 
 
 There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, 
 
 hand in hand, 
 Beheld once more that desperate man who 
 
 struggled to reach the land. 
 'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the 
 
 wave, 
 But what are a couple of women with only a man 
 
 to save ? 
 What are a couple of women ? Well, more than 
 
 three craven men 
 Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, re- 
 fusing to stir— and then 
 Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second 
 
 they're torn and reut, 
 Then, knotting them into a rope of love, straight 
 
 into the sea they went! 
 
 "Come back!" cried the lighthouse keeper, "for 
 God's sake, girls, come back ! " 
 
 As they caught the waves on their foreheads, re- 
 sisting the fierce attack. 
 
 " Come back ! " moaned the gray-haired mother, 
 as she stood by the angry sea, 
 
 "If the waves take you, my darlings, there's no- 
 body left to me ! " 
 
 " Come back! " said the three strong soldiers, who 
 still stood faint and pale, 
 
 " You will drown if you face the breakers, you 
 will fall if you brave the gale ! " 
 
 "Come back ?" said the girls. " We will not! Go 
 tell it to all the town: 
 
 We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man 
 shall drown ! " 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 13 
 
 '• Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess, give one 
 
 strong clutch of your hand ! 
 Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll 
 
 bring him safe to land! 
 Wait for the next wave, darling, only a moment 
 
 more, 
 And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll 
 
 drag him to the shore." 
 Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to 
 
 breast, 
 They caught and saved a brother alive. God 
 
 bless them ! You know the rest. 
 Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a 
 
 tear was shed, 
 And many a glass was tossed right off to " The 
 
 Women of Mumbles Head ! " 
 
 A CHRISTMAS STORY. 
 
 PAET I. 
 
 Up, Gregory ! the cloudy east 
 Is bright with the break o' the dav ; 
 
 'Tis time to yoke our cattle, and time 
 To eat our crust and away. 
 
 Up, out o' your bed ! for the rosy red 
 Will soon be growing gray. 
 
 Ay, straight to your feet, my lazy lad, 
 
 And button your jacket on; 
 Already neighbor Joe is afield 
 
 And so is our neighbor John. 
 The golden light is turning to white, 
 
 And 'tis time that we were gone. 
 
 Nay, leave your shoes hung high and dry- 
 Do you fear a little sleet ? 
 
 Your mother to-day is not by half 
 So dainty with her feet ; 
 
 And I'll warrant you she hadn't a shoe 
 At your age to her feet. 
 
 What! shiv'ring on an April day ? 
 
 Why this is pretty news ! 
 The frosts before an hour will all 
 
 Be melted into dews, 
 And Christmas week will do, I think, 
 
 To talk about your shoes. 
 
 Waiting to brew another cup 
 Of porridge ? sure you're mad ! 
 
 One cup at your age, Gregory, 
 And precious small, I had. 
 
 We cannot bake the Christmas cake 
 At such a rate, my lad. 
 
 Out, out at once ! and on with the yoke ! 
 
 Your feet will never freeze ! 
 The sun before we have done a stroke 
 
 Will be in the tops o' the trees. 
 On Christmas day you may eat and play 
 
 As much as ever you please. 
 
 So out of the house and into the sleet, 
 With his jacket open wide, 
 
 Went pale and patient Gregory- 
 All present joy denied— 
 
 And yoked his team like one in a dream, 
 Hungry and sleepy-eyed. 
 
 PABT II. 
 
 It seemed to our little harvester 
 He could hear the shadows creep 
 
 For the scythe lay idle in the grass, 
 And the reaper had ceased to reap. 
 
 'Twas the burning noon of the leafy June, 
 And the birds were all asleen, 
 
 And he seemed to rather see than hear 
 The wind through the long leaves draw, 
 
 As he sat and notched the stops along 
 His pipe of hollow straw. 
 
 On Christmas day he had planned to play 
 His tune without a flaw. 
 
 Upon his sleeve the spider's web 
 
 Hung loose like .points of lace ; 
 And he looked like a picture painted there, 
 
 He was so full of grace. 
 For his cheeks they shone as if there had blown 
 
 Fresh roses in his face 
 
 Ah, never on his lady's arm 
 A lover's hand was laid » 
 
 With touches soft as his upon 
 The flute that he had made, 
 
 As he bent his ear and watched to hear 
 The sweet, low tune he played. 
 
 But all at once from out his cheek 
 
 The light o' the roses fled— 
 He had heard a coming step that crushed 
 
 The daisies 'neath its tread. 
 0, happiness! thou art held by less 
 
 Than the spider's tiniest thread! 
 
 A moment, and the old, harsh call 
 
 Had broken his silver tune, 
 And with his sickle all as bright 
 
 And bent as the early moon, 
 He cut his way through the thick-set hay 
 
 In the burning heat o' June. % 
 
 As one who by a river stands, 
 
 Weary and worn and sad, 
 And sees the flowers the other side 
 
 So was it witli the lad. 
 There was Christmas light in his dream at night, 
 
 But a dream was all he had. 
 
 Work, work, in the light o' th' rosy morns, 
 
 Work, work, in the dusky eves ; 
 For now they must plow and now they must plant, 
 
 And now they must bind the sheaves. 
 And far away was the holiday 
 
 All under the Christmas leaves. 
 
 For still it brought the same old cry, 
 
 If he would rest or play, 
 Some other week, or month, or year, 
 
 But not now— not to-day! 
 Nor feast nor flower, for th' passing hour, 
 
 But all for the far away. 
 
 PAET III. 
 
 And Christmas came, and Gregory 
 
 With the dawn was broad awake ; 
 But there was the crumple cow to milk. 
 
 And there was the cheese to make ; 
 And so it was noon ere he went to the town 
 
 To buy the Christmas cake. 
 
 " You'll leave your warm, new coat at home, 
 
 And keep it fresh and bright 
 To wear," the careful old man said, 
 
 " When-you come back to-night." 
 "Ay," answered the lad, for his heart was glad, 
 
 And he whistled out of their sight. 
 
 The frugal couple sat by the fire 
 
 And talked the hours away. 
 Turning over the years like leaves 
 
 To the friends of their wedding day- 
 Saying who was wed and who was dead, 
 
 And who w;is crowing gray, 
 
H 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 And 60 at last the day went by, 
 
 As, somehow, all days will ; 
 And when the evening winds began 
 
 To blow up wild and shrill. 
 Thev looked to see if their Gregory 
 
 Were coming across the hill. 
 
 They saw the snow-cloud on the sky, 
 
 With its rough and ragged edge, 
 And thought of the river running high, 
 
 And thought of the broken bridge ; 
 But they did not see their Gregory 
 
 Keeping his morning's pledge! 
 
 The old wife rose, her fear to hide, 
 
 And set the house aright; 
 But oft she paused at the window side, 
 
 And looked out on the night. 
 The candles fine, thev were all ashine, 
 
 But they could not make it light. 
 
 The very clock ticked mournfully, 
 
 And the cricket was not glad ; 
 And to the old folks sitting alone 
 
 The time was, oh. so sad ! 
 For the Christmas light, it lacked that night 
 
 The cheeks of their little lad. 
 
 The winds and the woods fall wrestling now, 
 And they cry as the storm draws near, 
 
 " If Gregorv were but home alive, 
 He should riot work all this year ! " 
 
 For they saw him dead in the river's bed, 
 Through the surges of their fear. 
 
 Of ghosts that walk o' nights they tell— 
 
 A sorry Christmas theme— 
 And of signs and tokens in the air, 
 
 And of many a warning dream. 
 Till the bough at the pane through th' sleet and 
 rain 
 
 Drags like a corpse in a stream. 
 
 There was the w r arm new coat unworn, 
 
 And the flute of straw unplayed : 
 And these were dreadfuler than ghosts 
 
 To make their souls afraid. 
 As the years that were gone came one by one, 
 
 And their slights before them laid. 
 
 The Easter days and the Christmas days 
 
 Bereft of their sweet employ, 
 And working and waiting through them all 
 
 Their little pale-eyed boy, 
 Looking away to the holiday 
 
 That should bring the promised joy. 
 
 " God's mercy onus!" cried they both, 
 •• We have been so blind and deaf; 
 
 And justly are our gray heads bowed 
 To the very grave with grief! " 
 
 But hark! is't th' rain that taps at th' pane, 
 Or the fluttering, falling leaf ? 
 
 Nay. fluttering leaf, nor snow, nor rain, 
 
 However hard they strive, 
 Can make a sound so sweet and soft, 
 
 Like a bee's wing in the hive. 
 Joy! joy! O joy! it is their boy! 
 
 Safe, home, in their arms alive! 
 
 Ah. never was their pair so rich 
 
 As they that night, I trow ; 
 And never a lad in all the world 
 
 With a merrier pipe to blow, 
 Kor Christmas light that shone so bright 
 
 At midnight on the snow, 
 
 —Alice Carey. 
 
 THE LAST HYMN. 
 
 The Sabbath day was ending In a village by the 
 
 sea; 
 The uttered benedition touch the people tenderly, 
 And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, 
 
 lighted West, 
 And then hastened to their dwellings for God's 
 
 blessed boon of rest. 
 
 But they looked across the waters, and a storm 
 
 was raging there; 
 A fierce spirit moved above them— the wild spirit 
 
 of the air— 
 And it lashed and shook and tore them, till they 
 
 thundered, groaned and boomed ; 
 And alas for any vessel in their yawning gulfs 
 
 entombed. 
 
 Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast 
 
 of Wales, 
 Lest the dawn of coming morrow should be telling 
 
 awful tales. 
 When the sea had spent its passion and should 
 
 cast upon the shore 
 Bits of wreck and swollen victims, as It had done 
 
 heretofore. 
 
 With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave 
 
 woman strained her eyes, 
 And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall 
 
 and rise. 
 Oh! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end 
 
 must be. 
 For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on 
 
 such a sea. 
 
 Then the pitying people hurried from their homes 
 and thronged the beach. 
 
 Oh ! for power to cross the waters and the perish- 
 ing to reach! 
 
 Helpless hands were wrung for sorrow, tender 
 hearts were cold with dread, 
 
 And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal 
 rock-shore sped. 
 
 'She has parted in the middle! Oh! the half Of 
 
 her goes down ! 
 God have mercy ! Is Heaven far to seek for those 
 
 who drown? " 
 Lo! when next the white, shocked faces looked 
 
 with terror on the sea, 
 Only one last clinging figure on the spar was seen 
 
 to be. 
 
 Nearer" the trembling watchers came the wreck 
 
 tossed by the wave, 
 And the man still clung and floated, though no 
 
 power on earth could save. 
 "Could we send him a short message ? Here's a 
 
 trumpet shout away:"' 
 'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he 
 
 wondered what to say. 
 
 Any memory of his sermon ? Firstly ? Secondly ? 
 
 Ah, no! 
 There was but one thing to utter in the awful hour 
 
 of woe ; 
 So he shouted through the trumpet: "Look to 
 
 Jesus ! Can you hear ? " 
 And 'Ay, ay. sir!" rang the answer, o'er the 
 
 waters, loud and clear. 
 
 Then they listened. " He is singing ■ Jesus, Lover 
 
 of my soul,' " 
 And the winds brought back the echo, " While the 
 
 nearer waters roll." 
 Strange, indeed, It seemed to hear him, "Till the 
 
 storm of life is past." 
 Singing bravely from the waters, "Oh, receive my 
 
 soul at last 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 He could have no other refuge, " Hangs my help- 
 less soul on Thee : 
 
 Leave, ah, leave me not—" The singer dropped 
 at last into the sea. 
 
 And the watchers, looking homeward through 
 their eyes with tears made dim, 
 
 Said, •• He passed to be with Jesus in the singing 
 of that hymn." 
 
 —Marianne Farningham. 
 
 'OSTLER JOE. 
 
 I stood at eve when the sun went down, 
 
 By a grave where a woman lies, 
 "Who lured men's souls to the shores of sin 
 
 With the light of her wanton eyes ; 
 Who sang the song that the siren sang 
 
 On the treacherous Lurley height ; 
 Whose face was fair as a summer's day, 
 
 And whose heart was as black as night. 
 
 Yet a blossom I fain would pluck to-day 
 
 From the garden above her dust- 
 Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, 
 
 Nor the blood-red rose of lust- 
 But a sweet white blossoms of holy love 
 
 That grew in bhat one green spot 
 In the arid desert of Phrvnes' life 
 
 Where all else was parched and hot. 
 
 In the summer, when the meadows 
 
 Were aglow with blue and red, 
 Joe, the 'ostler of "The Magpie," 
 
 And fair Annie Smith were wed 
 Plump was Annie, plump and pretty, 
 
 With a face as fair as snow ; 
 He was anything but handsome, 
 
 Was the "Magpie's " 'ostler, Joe. 
 
 But he won the winsome lassie ; 
 They'd a cottage and a cow— 
 
 And her matronhood sat lightly, 
 On the village beauty's brow ; 
 
 Sped the months, and came a baby- 
 Such a blue-eyed baby boy ! 
 
 Joe was working in the stables 
 
 When they told him of his joy- 
 He was rubbing down the horses- 
 Gave them, then and there, 
 
 All a special feed of clover, 
 Just in honor of his heir. 
 
 It had been his great ambition 
 (And he told the horses so) 
 
 That the fates would send a baby 
 Who might bear the name of Joe. 
 
 Little Joe, the child was christened, 
 
 And like babies grew apace. 
 He'd his mother's eyes of azure, 
 
 And his father's honest face. 
 Swift the happy years went over, 
 
 Years of blue and cloudless sky ; 
 Love was lord of that small cottage 
 
 And the tempest passed them by. 
 
 Down the lane by Annie's cottage 
 
 Chanced a gentleman to roam ; 
 He caught a glimpse of Annie 
 
 In her bright and happy home. 
 Thrice he came and saw her sitting 
 
 By the window with her child; 
 And he nodded to the baby, 
 
 And the baby laughed and smiled. 
 
 So at last it grew to know him 
 
 (Little Joe was nearlv four) 
 He would call the pretty " gemplum n 
 
 As he passed the open door ; 
 
 And one day he ran and caught him 
 And in child's play pulled him in ; 
 
 And the baby Joe had prayed for, 
 Brought about the mother's sin. 
 
 'Twas the same old wretched story, 
 
 That for ages bards have sung; 
 'Twas a woman, weak and wanton, 
 
 And a villain's tempting tongue ; 
 'Twas a picture deftly painted 
 
 For a silly creature's eyes, 
 Of the Babylonian wonders 
 
 And the joy that in them lies. 
 
 Annie listened and was tempted— 
 
 Was tempted and she fell, 
 As the angels fell from Heaven 
 
 To the lowest depths of hell. 
 Shewas#-omised wealth and splendor 
 
 And SMife of genteel sloth ; 
 Yellow gold, for child and husband— 
 
 And the woman left them both. 
 
 Home, one eve, came Joe, the 'ostler, 
 
 With a cheery cry of " Wife ? " 
 Finding that which blurred forever 
 
 All the story of his life. 
 She had left a silly letter ; 
 
 Through the cruel scrawl he spelt, 
 Then he sought the lonely bedroom, 
 
 Joined his horny hands and knelt. 
 
 " Now, O Lord, O God, forgive her, 
 
 For she ain't to blame," he cried ; 
 41 For I ought to seen her trouble 
 
 And 'a gone away and died. 
 Why, a girl like her— God bless her— 
 
 "Twasn't likely as her'd rest 
 With her bonny head forever 
 
 On a 'ostler's ragged breast. 
 
 i 
 " It was kind 'oher to bear with me 
 
 All the long and happy time ; 
 So for my sake please to bless her, 
 
 Though you count her deed a crime. 
 If so be I don't pray proper, 
 
 Lord, forgive me, for you see 
 I can talk all right to 'osses, 
 
 But I'm kindo r strange with Thee." 
 
 Ne'er a line came to the cottage, 
 
 From the woman who had flown ; 
 Joe, the baby, died that winter, 
 
 And the man was left alone. 
 Ne'er a bitter word he uttered, 
 
 But in silence kissed the rod, 
 Saving what he told his horses, 
 
 Savingwhat he told his God. 
 
 Far away in mighty London 
 
 Rose the wanton into fame. 
 For her beauty won men's homage, 
 
 And she prospered in her shame. 
 Quick from lord to lord she flitted, 
 
 Higher still each prize she won ; 
 And her rivals paled beside her 
 
 As the stars beside the sun. 
 
 Next she trod the stage half naked, 
 
 And she dragged a temple down 
 To the level of a market 
 
 For the women of the town. 
 And the kisses she had given 
 
 To poor 'ostler Joe for naught, 
 With their gold and priceless jewels 
 
 Rich and titled roues bought. 
 
 Went the years with flying footsteps 
 While her star was at its height ; 
 
 Then the darkness came on swiftly, 
 And the gloaming turned to-night. 
 
10 
 
 FAMOl S DRAM,, 
 
 Shattered strength ajid faded beauty 
 Tore the laurels from her brow ; 
 
 Of the thousands who had worshipped 
 Never one came near her now. 
 
 Broken down in health and fortune, 
 
 Men forgot her very name; 
 Till the news that she was dying 
 
 Woke the echoes of her fame. 
 And the papers in their gossip, 
 
 Mentioned how an actress lay 
 Sick to death in humble lodgings, 
 
 Growing Weaker every day. 
 
 One there was who read the story 
 
 In a far-off country place; 
 And that night the dying woman 
 
 Woke and looked upon his face. 
 Once again the strong arms clasped her 
 
 That had clasped her long ago ; 
 And her weary bead lay pillowed 
 
 Upon the breast of 'ostler Joe. 
 
 All the past he had forgiven— 
 
 All the sorrow and the shame : 
 He had found her sick and lonely, 
 
 And his wife he now could claim. 
 Since the grand folks who had known her 
 
 One and all had slunk away, 
 He could clasp his long lost darling, 
 
 And no man could say him nay. 
 
 In his arms death found her lying, 
 
 From his arms her spirit fled; 
 And his tears came down in torrents 
 
 As he knelt beside his dead. 
 Never once his love had faltered 
 
 Through her sad, unhallowed life, 
 And the stone above her ashes 
 
 Bears the sacred name of wife. 
 
 That's the blossom I fain would pluck to-day 
 
 From the garden above her dust ; 
 Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, 
 
 Nor the blood-red rose of lust; 
 But a sweet white blossom of holy love, 
 
 That grew in the one green spot 
 In the arid desert of Phryne's life, 
 
 Where all else was parched and hot. 
 
 —George R. Sims. 
 
 THE TRAMP'S STORY. 
 
 If experience has gold in it (as discerning folks 
 
 agree), 
 Then there's quite a little fortune stowed away 
 
 somewhere in me, 
 And I deal it out regardless of a regular stated 
 
 price, 
 In rough-done-up prize packages of common- 
 sense advice; 
 The people they can take it or run round it, as 
 
 they please, 
 But the best thing they'll find in it is some 
 
 words like unto these : 
 Worm or beetle, drought or tempest, on a farmer's 
 
 land may foil, 
 But for first-class ruination, trust a mortgage 
 
 'gainst them all. 
 
 On my weddin' day my father touched me kindly 
 on the arm, 
 
 And handed me the papers for an eighty-acre 
 farm, 
 
 With the stock an' tools an' buildin's for an inde- 
 pendent start, 
 
 Saying, " Here's a weddin' present from my 
 muscle and my heart ; 
 
 And. except the admonitions you have taken 
 
 from my tongue, 
 And the reasonable lickeus that you had when 
 
 /ou was young, 
 your food and clothes and schoolin' (not as 
 much as I could wish, 
 For I had a number eatin' from a some'at scanty 
 
 dish), 
 And the honest love you captured when you first 
 
 sat on my knee, 
 This is all I have to give you— so expect no more 
 from me." 
 
 People'd said I couldn't marry the sweet girl I 
 tried to court, 
 
 Till we smiling submitted a minority report ; 
 
 Then they laid their theories over, with a quick- 
 ness queer to see. 
 
 And said they knew we'd marry, but we never 
 could agree ; 
 
 But we did not frame and hang up all the neigh- 
 bors had to say, 
 
 But ran out little heaven in our own peculiar way ; 
 
 We started off quite jolly, wondrous full of health 
 and cheer, 
 
 And a general understanding that the road was 
 pretty clear. 
 
 So we lived and toiled and prospered ; and the lit- 
 tle family party 
 That came on from heaven to visit us were bright 
 
 and hale and hearty ; 
 And to-day we might ha' been there had I only 
 
 just have known 
 How to lay my road down solid, and let well 
 
 enough alone. 
 But I soon commenced a-kicking in the traces, I 
 
 confess ; 
 There was too much land that joined me that I 
 
 didn't yet possess. 
 When once he gets land-hungry, strange how 
 
 ravenous one can be ! 
 'Twasn't long before I wanted all the ground 
 
 that I could see. 
 So l bought another eighty (not foreboding any 
 
 harm), 
 And for that and some down-money, put a mort- 
 gage on my farm. 
 Then I brought another forty, hired some cash 
 
 to fix up new, 
 And to buy a covered carriage— and of course the 
 
 mortgage grew. 
 Now my wife was square against this, 'tis but 
 
 right that you should know, 
 (Though I'm very far from saying that I think it's 
 
 always so) ; 
 But she went in hearty with me, working hard 
 
 from day to day, 
 For we knew that life was business, now we had 
 
 that debt to pay. 
 
 We worked through Spring and Winter, through 
 
 Summer and through Fall, 
 But that mortgage worked the hardest and the 
 
 steadiest or us all : 
 It worked on nights and Sundays; it worked 
 
 each holidav ; 
 It settled down among us, and it never went 
 
 away. 
 Whatever we kept from it seemed a'most as bad 
 
 as theft ; 
 It watched us every minute, and it ruled us right 
 
 and left. 
 The rust and blight were with us sometimes, and 
 
 sometimes they were not; 
 The dark-browed, scowling mortgage was ever 
 
 on the spot. 
 The weevil and the cut-worm they went as well as 
 
 came ; 
 The mortgage stayed forever, eating hearty all 
 
 the same. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 17 
 
 It nailed up every window, stood guard at every 
 door, 
 
 And happiness and sunshine made their home 
 with us no more ; 
 
 Till with failing crops and sickness we got stalled 
 upon the grade, 
 
 And there came a dark day on us, when the in- 
 terest wasn't paid ; 
 
 And there came a sharp foreclosure, and I kind 
 o' lost my head, 
 
 And grew weary and discouraged, and the farm 
 was sold and fled. 
 
 The children left and scattered when they hardly 
 yet were grown ; 
 
 My wife she pined and perished, an' I found my- 
 self alone. 
 
 What she died of was "a mystery," and the doc- 
 tors never knew ; 
 
 But I knew she died of mortgage— just as well's 
 I wanted to. 
 
 If to trace a hidden sorrow were within the doc- 
 tor's art, 
 
 They'd ha' found a mortgage lying on that wom- 
 an's broken heart. 
 
 Two different kinds of people the devil most as- 
 One is the man who conquers ; the other, he who 
 
 fails. 
 But still I think the last kind are soonest to give 
 
 up. 
 And to hide their sorry faces behind the shame- 
 ful cup ; 
 Like some old king or other, whose name I've 
 
 somehow lost, 
 The straightway tear their eyes out, just when 
 
 they need 'em most, 
 When once I had discovered that the debt I could 
 
 not pay, 
 I tried to liquidate it in a rather common way ; 
 I used to meet in private a fellow-financier, 
 And we would drink ourselves worth ten thou- 
 sand dollars clear- 
 As easy a way to prosper as ever has been found, 
 But one's a heap sight poorer when he gets back 
 to the ground. 
 
 Of course I ought to ha' braced up, an' worked on 
 
 all the same ; 
 I -ain't a-tryiug to shirk out, or cover up from 
 
 blame ; 
 But still I think men often, it safely may be said, 
 Are driven to temptations, in place of being led ; 
 And if that tyrant mortgage hadn't cracked its 
 
 whip at me, 
 I shouldn't have constituted the ruin that you see. 
 For though I've never stolen or defaulted, please 
 
 to know 
 Yet, socially considered, I am pretty middlin' 
 
 low. 
 I am helpless and forsaken ; I am childless and 
 
 alone ; 
 I haven't a single dollar that it's fair to call my 
 
 own; 
 My old age knows no comfort, my heart is scant 
 
 o'cheer ; 
 The children they run from me as soon as I come 
 
 near; 
 The women shrink and tremble— their alms are 
 
 fear-bestowed ; 
 The dogs howl curses at me, and hunt me down 
 
 the road. 
 My home is where night finds me; my friends 
 
 are few and cold ; 
 Oh, little is there in this world for one who's 
 
 poor and old ! 
 But I'm wealthy in experience, all put up in good 
 
 Jtdvicc 
 To take or not to take it, with no difference in 
 
 the price ; 
 
 You may have it, an' thrive on it, or run round it, 
 
 as you please, 
 But I generally give it wrapped up in such words 
 
 as these ; 
 Worm or beetle, drought or tempest, on a farmer's 
 
 land may fall, 
 But for first-class ruination, trust a mortgage 
 
 'gainst taem all. 
 
 ~Will Carleton. 
 
 THE MOONSHINER'S DATJQHTEB. 
 
 The men was away at the wild-cat still, 
 When one of them artist chaps 
 
 Stopped at the cabin of Moonshiner Bill 
 And dropped on the porch his traps. 
 
 He asked for a drink of water- 
 It being a warmish day— 
 
 And when little Katie brought it, 
 He asked her to let him stay, 
 
 And rest on the shady porch awhile, 
 And Katie, who never spoke ill 
 
 Said "yes," with a smile, and never a thought 
 Of the hid-away mountain still. 
 
 Presently Moonshiner Bill came home, 
 
 And his gal waitin' down by the gate, 
 Cried, " Dad, there's a nice-talkin' stranger 
 come; 
 
 Now, a kiss, please, for little Kate.'* 
 The artist riz to his feet and said: 
 
 " I'm sorry to so intrude ; 
 But love of nature my steps have led 
 
 To this picturesque solitude." 
 Talk so pert and proper and fine 
 
 Sorter stunted old Bill, 
 And he dropped a jug of new moonshine 
 
 He had packed from the wild-cat still. 
 
 The artist spy staid day after day, • 
 
 Sketchin' and actin' his part, 
 And when he left to go on his way 
 
 He carried off little Kate's heart. 
 She watched for his comin' soon and late, 
 
 As she turned her wheel and spun, 
 And the gray owl hooted, " Who is true ? " 
 
 And the frogs said, "Nary one." 
 But he came at last one set of sun, 
 
 As she watched the road to the glen, 
 She saw him ride in his uniform 
 
 At the head of the government men. 
 
 She thought that his solemly plighted vows, 
 
 He had made to break at will, 
 And with flashin' eyes she left the house 
 
 To signal the men at the still. 
 She ran like a deer ; but the cavalrymen 
 
 Charged the still at a rattlin' gait, 
 And when she reached the head of the glen 
 
 She knew she had come too late ; 
 For some were captured, but Bill wer game, 
 
 He stood his ground on the hill 
 'Till they pressed him close, then when he run 
 
 'Twas cussin' and flghtiu' still. 
 
 1 After him, men ! " the captain cried, 
 
 And he dashed down the ravine's bed ; 
 ; We'll prove his boastin' threat is a lie — 
 
 We'll take him alive or dead." 
 At this Bill halted, cocked his gun, 
 
 Drawed a sure bead, bound to shoot 
 The man a comin' down that ravine 
 
 In deadly and close pursuit. 
 That man never seed his bush-hid foe 
 
 Till Kate leaped down the rock. 
 And sprung to meet that leaden death, 
 
 Her heart stopped the bullet's shock. 
 

 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 she reeled and fell, and the man whose life 
 
 She saved at the coi>t of her own, 
 Cried, " God of heaven ! My darling Kate ! " 
 
 And dropped on his knees with a groan. 
 From the rocky ground he raised her head; 
 
 Her blue eyes shone with bliss. 
 She smiled on him as she faintly said: 
 
 " I'm dvin'— for you— one kiss." 
 Then the lovin' light that filled her eyes 
 
 Grew dim, and the angel Peace 
 Stooped from the shinin' world beyond, 
 
 And gave her spirit release. 
 
 -M. B. 
 
 THE BABY'S PRAYER. 
 
 'Twas evening, and the baby 
 
 Knelt down beside my knee, 
 To say in lisping accents 
 
 Her prayers after me. 
 Her dimpled hands were folded ; 
 
 Her golden head was bent ; 
 With grace and sweet devotion 
 
 Her attitude was blent. 
 She repeated, " Our Papa," 
 
 Which in the heavens art, 
 While every word she uttered 
 
 Found echo in my heart. 
 
 Then came, "And now I lay me 
 
 Down in my bed to seep ; 
 I pay the Lord, dear mama, 
 
 My ittle soul to teep ! 
 And Dod bess ou and papa, 
 
 Ganpa and gamma, too, 
 Aunties and little cuddens, 
 
 And all my fenz "—not few. 
 And then her sweet petitions 
 
 Rose earnestly and clear, 
 And she prayed for " Unker Eddie 
 
 And all poor solzers dear." 
 
 Before amen was uttered 
 
 The baby raised her head, 
 With thought born sure of heaven, 
 
 " And the mebels, too ? " she said. 
 *■ Yes darling." (For the rebels, 
 
 I thought, could not despise 
 Her innocent, sweet petitions 
 
 Ascending to the skies.) 
 Again, with eyes uplifted— 
 
 Those eyes of heavenly blue- 
 She lisped with reverent accent, 
 
 " Lord, bess the mebels, too." 
 
 And so through all the horror 
 
 Of that fratricidal war, 
 Whose cruel tide was rolling 
 
 O'er the southern lands afar, 
 Baby ne'er forgot her " mebels," 
 
 Though prompted not by me, 
 At morn or eve, when bending 
 
 In prayer beside my knee. ' 
 
 Ah ! 'tis from lips like baby's— 
 
 That little sinless child- 
 God perfects praise forever, 
 
 True, sweet and undefiled. 
 
 How often I had wondered 
 
 What the " mebels" would have said, 
 Had they known, in Massachusetts 
 
 A babe with golden head 
 Was over and over lisping 
 
 A prayer in Jesus's name, 
 That the north and south together 
 
 His blessing soon might claim. 
 The mothers, I knew, would love her— 
 
 My baby free from sin— 
 For a touch of baby nature 
 
 Will make all mothers kin. 
 
 So when the war was over 
 
 And peace again had smiled. 
 I told two southern warriors 
 
 Of the prayers of the child, 
 Who had grown a little taller, 
 
 But not one bit less sweet, 
 Than when she craved a blessing 
 
 For the " mebels " at my feet— 
 They said, as they kissed the darling 
 
 Again and yet again, 
 With lifted face and streaming eyes, 
 
 •■ God bless the child, Amen ! " 
 
 —Mrs. E. E. Williamson. 
 
 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 engiue, 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: 
 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 bla3t. 
 
 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 moment, and then awoke, 
 
 And she was behind us— a mile and a quarter. 
 
 And the years went on, and the express 
 Leaped on in her black resistlessness, 
 
 Evening by evening, England through. 
 Will— God rest 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' the bank : it was pretty high- 
 Say twenty feet, and backed by a wood. 
 
 She would pick the* daisies 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. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 Oh, I didn't see her every night: 
 Bless you! no; lust 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 verv rail, 
 
 While a light, as of hell, from our wild wheels 
 broke 
 Tearing down the slope with their devilish clam- 
 ors 
 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 their 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 
 
 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. 
 
 LADY YEARDLEY'S QUEST.* 
 
 'Twas a Saturday night, mid-winter, 
 
 And the snow with its sheeted pall 
 Had covered the stubbled clearings 
 
 That girdled the rude-built " Hall." 
 But high in the deep-mouthed chimney, 
 
 'Mid laughter and shout and din, 
 The children were piling yule-logs 
 
 To welcomethe Christmas in. 
 
 " Ah, so ! W r e'll be glad to-morrow," 
 
 The mother, half musing, said, 
 As she looked at the eager workers, 
 
 And laid on sunny head 
 A touch as of benediction— 
 
 " For Heaven is just as near 
 The father at far Patuxent, 
 
 As if he were with us here. 
 
 " So choose ye the pine and holly, 
 And shake from the boughs the snow; 
 
 We'll garland the rough-hewn rafters 
 As they garlanded long ago— 
 
 (1654.) 
 
 Or ever Sir George went sailingt 
 
 Away o'er the wild sea-foam— 
 In my beautiful English Sussex, 
 
 The happy old walls at home." 
 
 She sighed : As she paused, a whisper 
 
 Set quickly all eyes a-strain: 
 " See! See! "—and the boy's hand pointed— 
 
 " There's a face at the window-panel " 
 One instant a ghastly terror 
 
 Shot sudden her features o'er; 
 The next, and she rose unblenching, 
 
 And opened the fast-barred door. 
 
 " Who be ye that seek admission ? 
 
 Who cometh for food and rest ? 
 This night is a night above others 
 
 To shelter a straying guest." 
 Deep out of the snowy silence 
 
 A guttural answer broke: 
 " I come from the great Three Rivers 
 
 I am Chief of the Roan-oke." 
 
 Straight in through the frightened children, 
 
 Unshrinking, the red man strode, 
 And loosed on the blazing hearthstone, 
 
 From his shoulder, a light-borne load ; 
 And out from the pile of deerskins, 
 
 With look as serene and mild 
 As if it had been his cradle, 
 
 Stepped softly a little child. 
 
 As he chafed at the fire his fingers, 
 
 Close pressed to the brawny Knee, 
 The gaze that the silent savage 
 
 Bent on him was strange to see. 
 And then, with a voice whose yearning 
 
 The father could scarcely stem, 
 He said— to the children pointing— 
 
 " I want him to be like them! 
 
 " They weep for the boy in the wigwam 
 
 I bring him, a moon of days, 
 To learn of the speaking paper, 
 
 To hear of the wiser ways 
 Of the people beyond the water- 
 To break with the plow the sod- 
 To be kind to papoose and woman— 
 To pray to the white man's God." 
 
 14 1 give thee my hand ! " And the Lady 
 
 Pressed forward with sudden cheer ; 
 " Thou shalt eat of my English pudding, 
 
 And drink of my Christmas beer. 
 My sweethearts this night, remember, 
 
 All strangers are kith and kin. 
 This night, when the dear Lord's Mother 
 
 Could find no room at the inn ! " 
 
 Next morn from the colony belfry 
 
 Pealed gayly the Sunday chime. 
 And merrily forth the people 
 
 Flocked, keeping the Christmas time. 
 And the Lady, with bright-eyed children 
 
 Behind her, their limbs a-smile, 
 And the Chief in his skins and wampum, 
 
 Came walking the narrow aisle. 
 
 Forthwith from the congregation 
 
 Broke fiercely a sullen cry: 
 " Out! Out! with the crafty red-skin! 
 
 Have at him! A spy! A spy! " 
 And quickly from belts leaped daggers, 
 
 And swords from their sheaths flashed bare, 
 And men from their seats defiant 
 
 Sprang, ready to slay him there. 
 
 tSir George Yeardley, Governor of the Colony of 
 Virginia in 1626. 
 
20 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 But facing the crowd with courage, 
 
 As calm as a knight of yore, 
 Stepped bravely the fair-browed woman, ' 
 
 The thrust of the steel before ; 
 And spake with a queenly gesture, 
 
 Her hand on the Chief's brown breast, 
 " Ye dare not impeach my honor! 
 
 " Ye dare not insult my guest! " 
 
 They dropped at her words their weapons, 
 
 Half shamed as the Lady smiled, 
 And told them the red man's story, 
 
 And showed them the red man's child 
 And pledged them her broad plantations, 
 
 That never would such betray 
 The trust that a Christian woman, 
 
 Had shown on a Christmas day. 
 
 —Margaret J. Preston. 
 
 "WHEN THE COWS COME HOME." 
 
 With klingle, klangle, klingle, 
 Way down the dusty dingle, 
 The cows are coming home ; 
 Now sweet and clear, and faint and low, 
 The airy twinklings come and go, 
 Like chimings from some far-off tower, 
 Or pattering of an April shower 
 
 That makes the daisies grow ; 
 Ko-ling, ko-ling, kolinglelingle, 
 Way down the darkening dingle, 
 The cows come slowly home ; 
 (And old-time friends, and twilight plays, 
 And starry nights and sunny days, 
 Come trooping up the misty ways, 
 When the cows come home.) 
 
 With jingle, jangle, jingle, 
 Soft tones that sweetly mingle, 
 The cows are coming home ; 
 Mai vine and Pearl and Florimel, 
 DeKamp, Redrose, and Gretchen Schell, 
 Queen Bess and Sylph, and Spangled Sue, 
 Across the fields I hear her ' ' loo-oo," 
 And clang her silver bell ; 
 Go-ling, go-lang, golinglelingle, 
 With faint, far sounds that mingle, 
 The cows come slowly home ; 
 (And mother songs of long-gone years, 
 And baby-joys and childish fears. 
 And youthful hopes and youthful tears, 
 When the cows come home.) 
 
 With ringle, rangle, ringle, 
 By twos and threes and single. 
 The cows are coming home ; 
 Through violet air we see the town, 
 And the summer sun aslippingdown, 
 And the maple in the hazel glade 
 Throws down the path a longer shade, 
 
 And the hills are growing brown. 
 To-ring, to-rang, taringleringle, 
 By threes, and fours and single, 
 The cows come slowly home ; 
 (The same sweet sound of worldless psalm, 
 The same sweet June-day rest and ealm, 
 The same sweet scent of bud and balm, 
 When the cows come home. ) 
 
 With tinkle, tankle, tinkle, 
 Through fern and peri-winkle, 
 The cows are coming home ; 
 A loitering in the checkered stream 
 Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, 
 Clarine, Peachbloom, and Phebe Phillis, 
 Stand knee deep In the creamy lilies; 
 
 In a drowsy dream, 
 To-link, to-lank, tolinklelinkle, 
 O'er banks with butter-cups atwinkle, 
 The cows coine slowly home ; 
 (And up through memory's dim ravine 
 Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, 
 And the cresent of the silver Queen, 
 When the cows come home.) 
 
 With kingle, klangle, klingle. 
 
 With loo-oo, andmoo-oo and jingle, 
 
 The cows are coming home ; 
 And over there on Merlin Hill 
 Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will, 
 And the dew-drops lie on the tangled vines, 
 And over the poplars Venus shines, 
 
 And over the silent mill ; 
 
 Ko-ling, ko-lang kolinglelingle, 
 
 With a ting-a-ling and jingle, 
 
 The cows come slowly home ; 
 (Let down the bars ; let in the train 
 Of long-gone songs, and flowers, and rain, 
 For dear old times come back again, 
 
 When the cows come home.) 
 
 —Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell. 
 
 KARL, THE MARTYR. 
 
 It was the closing of a summer's day 
 And trellis'd branches from encircling trees 
 Threw silver shadows o'er the golden space 
 Where groups of merry -hearted sons of toil 
 Were met to celebrate a village feast- 
 Casting away, in frolic sport, the cares 
 That ever press and crowd and leave their mark 
 Upon the brows of all whose bread is earned 
 By daily labor. 'Twas, perchance, the feast 
 Of fav'rite saint, or anniversary 
 Of one of bounteous Nature's season gifts 
 To grateful husbandry. Joy beamed forth 
 On ev'ry face, and the sweet echoes rang 
 With sounds of honest mirth, too rarely heard. 
 
 Somewhat apart from the assembled throng 
 
 There sat a swarthy giant, with a face 
 
 So nobly grand, that though (unlike the rest) c 
 
 He joined not in their sports, but rather seemed 
 
 To please his eye with sight of others' joy. 
 
 There was a cast of sorrow on his brow, 
 
 As though it had been ever there. He sat 
 
 In listless attitude, yet not devoid 
 
 Of gentlest grace, as down his stalwart form 
 
 He bent, to catch the playful whisperings 
 
 And note the movements of a bright haired child 
 
 Who danced before him in the evening sun, 
 
 Holding a tiny brother by the hand. 
 
 He was the village smith (the rolled-up sleeves 
 
 And the well-charred leathern apron showed his 
 
 craft), 
 Karl was his name, a man beloved by all. 
 
 He was not of the district. He had come 
 Among them ere his forehead bore one trace 
 Of age or suffering. A wife and child 
 He had brought with him ; but the wife was dead. 
 Not so children two who danced before him now, 
 So Karl was happy still that these two lived, 
 And laughed and danced before him in the sun. 
 
 The frolics pause: now Casper's laughing head 
 
 Rests wearily against his father's knee 
 
 In trusting lovingness, while Trudchen runs 
 
 To snatch a hasty kiss (the little man, 
 
 It may be, wonders if the tiny hand 
 
 With which he strives to reach his father's neck 
 
 Will ever grow so big and brown as that 
 
 He sees imbedded in his sister's curls) ; 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 21 
 
 When quick as lightning's flash up starts the 
 
 smith, 
 Huddles the frightened children in his arms, 
 Thrusts them far back, extends his giant frame, 
 And covers them as with Goliath's shield . 
 
 Now hark ! a rushing, yelping, panting sound, 
 So terrible that all stood chilled with fear ; 
 And in the midst of that late joyous throng 
 Leapt an infurite hound, with flaming eyes, 
 Half-open mouth, and fiercely bristling hair, 
 Proving that madness drove the brute to death. 
 One spring from Karl, and the wild thing was 
 
 seized, 
 Fast-prison'd in the stalwart Vulcan's grip. 
 A sharp, shrill cry of agony from Karl 
 Was mingled with the hound's low fevered growl, 
 And all, with horror, saw the creature's teeth 
 Fixed in the blacksmith's shoulder. None had 
 
 power 
 To rescue him ; for scarcely could you count 
 A moment's space ere both had disappeared— 
 The man and dog. The smith had leapt a fence, 
 And gained the forest with a frantic rush, 
 Bearing the hideous mischief in his arms. 
 
 A long receding cry came on the ear, 
 Showing how swift their flight, and fainter grew 
 The sound. Ere well a man had time to think 
 What might be done for help the sound was 
 
 hushed— 
 Lost in the very distance ; women crouched 
 And huddled up their children in their arms, 
 Men flew to seek their weapons— 'twas a change 
 So swift and fearful none could realize 
 Its actual horrors for a time ; but now, 
 The panic past, to rescue and pursuit. 
 Crash through the brake into the forest track ; 
 But pitchy darkness, caused by closing night 
 And foliage dense, impedes the avengers' way, 
 When as they trip o'er something in their path- 
 It was the bleeding body of the hound, 
 Warm, but quite dead. No other trace of Karl 
 Was near at hand ; they called his name in vain, 
 They sought him in the forest all night through- 
 Living or dead he was not to be found. 
 
 At break of day they left the fruitless search. 
 Next morning, as an anxious village group 
 Stood meditating plans what best to do, 
 Came little Trudchen, who, in simple tones, 
 Said, " Father's at the forge, I heard him there 
 Working long hours ago, but he is angry ; 
 I raised the latch : he bade me begone. 
 What have I done to make him chide me so ?" 
 And then her bright blue eyes ran o'er with tears. 
 " The child's been dreaming through this troubled 
 
 night," 
 Said a kind dame, and drew the child toward her ; 
 But the sad answers of the girl were such 
 As led them all to seek her father's forge. 
 It lay beyond the village some short span ; 
 They forced the door, and there beheld the smith. 
 His sinewy frame was drawn to its full height, 
 And round his loins a double chain of iron, 
 Wrought with true workman skill, was riveted 
 Fast to an anvil of enormous weight. 
 He stood as pale and statue-like as death. 
 Now let his own words close the hapless tale. 
 
 " I killed the hound, you know, but not until 
 His maddening venom through my veins had 
 
 passed ; 
 I know full well the death in store for me, 
 And would not answer when you called my name, 
 But crouched among the brushwood while I 
 
 thought 
 Over some plan. I know my giant strength, 
 And dare not trust it after reason's loss ; 
 Why, I might turn and rend whom I most love. 
 I've made all fast now. 'Tis a hideous death. 
 
 I thought to plunge me in the deep, still pool 
 
 That skirts the forest, to avoid it ; but 
 
 I thought that for the suicide's poor shift 
 
 I would not throw away my chance of heaven, 
 
 And meeting one who made earth heaven to me. 
 
 So I came home and forged these chains about 
 
 me— 
 Full well I know no human hand can rend them— 
 And now am safe from harming those I love. 
 Keep off, good friends ! Should God prolong my 
 
 life, 
 Throw me such food as nature may require ; 
 Look to my babies : this you are bound to do ; 
 For by my deadly grasp on that poor hound 
 How many of you have I saved from death 
 Such as I now await ? But hence, away ! 
 The poison works! These chains must try their 
 
 strength: 
 My brain's on fire ! With me 'twill soon be night.' 
 
 Too true his words: the brave, great-hearted 
 
 A raving maniac— battled with his chains 
 
 For three fierce days. The fourth day saw him 
 
 free— 
 For Death's strong hand then loosed the martyr's 
 
 bonds. 
 
 THE CRAZY KATE. 
 
 Go for a sail this mornin' ? This way, yer honor, 
 
 please. 
 Weather about ? Lor' bless you, only a pleasant 
 
 breeze ; 
 My boat's out there in the harbor, and the man 
 
 aboard's my mate ; 
 Jump in, and I'll row you out, sir ; that's her, the 
 
 Crazy Kate. 
 
 Queer name for a boat, you fancy; well, so it is, 
 
 maybe, 
 But Crazy Kate and her story's the talk o' the 
 
 place, you see ; 
 And me and my pardner knowed her— knowed 
 
 her all her life— 
 We was both on us asked to the weddin' when she 
 
 was made a wife. 
 
 Her as our boat's named arter was famous far and 
 
 wide ; 
 For years in all winds and weathers she haunted 
 
 the harbor side. 
 With her great wild eyes a-starin' and a-strainin' 
 
 across the waves. 
 Waitin' for what can't happen till the dead come 
 
 out o' their graves. 
 
 She was married to young Ned Garling, a big 
 
 brown fisher lad: 
 One week a- bride, and the next one a sailor's 
 
 widow— and mad. 
 It was one Christmas morning he made the lass 
 
 his wife, 
 He'd a smile for all the lasses, but she loved him 
 
 all her life. 
 
 A rollick in', gay young fellow, we thought her too 
 
 food for him, 
 been a bit wild and careless— but married 
 all taut and trim. 
 We thought as he'd mend his manners when he 
 
 won the village prize, 
 And carried her off in triumph before many a 
 rival's eyes* 
 
- 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC 
 
 But one week wed and they parted— he went with 
 
 the fisher fleet— 
 With the men who must brave the tempest that 
 
 the women and bairns may eat. 
 It's a rough long life o' partin's is the life o' the 
 
 fisher folk. 
 And there's never a winter passes but some good 
 
 wife's heart is broke. 
 
 We've a sayin' among us sea folk as few on us dies 
 
 in bed- 
 Walk through our little churchyard and read the 
 
 tale of our dead- 
 It's mostly the bairns and the women as is restin' 
 
 under the turf, 
 For half o' the men sleep yonder under the rollin' 
 
 surf. 
 
 The night Kate lost her husband was the night o' 
 
 the fearful gale- 
 She stood on the shore that mornin' and had 
 
 watched the tiny sail 
 As it faded away in the distance— bound for the 
 
 coast of France. 
 And the fierce wind bore it swiftly away from her 
 
 anxious glance. 
 
 The boats that had sailed that mornin' with the 
 
 fleet were half a score, 
 And never a soul among 'em came back to the 
 
 English shore. 
 That New Year's Night was a sad one— the eyes of 
 
 the women red 
 With weeping for brothers and husbands or 
 
 fathers among the dead. 
 
 Kate heard it soon as any— the fate of her fisher 
 
 lad— 
 But her eyes were wild and tearless; she went 
 
 slowly and surely mad. 
 "He isn't drowned," she would murmur; "he 
 
 will come again some day "— 
 And her lips shaped the self-same story as the 
 
 long years crept away. 
 
 Spring and Summer and Autumn— in the fiercest 
 Winter gale, 
 
 W r ould Crazy Kate stand watchin' for the glint of 
 a far-off sail ; 
 
 Stand by the hour together and murmur her hus- 
 band's name— 
 
 For twenty years she watched there for the boat 
 that never came. 
 
 She counted the years as nothin'— the shock that 
 had sent her mad 
 
 Had left her love forever a brave, young, hand- 
 some lad -, 
 
 She thought one day she should see him, just as 
 he said good-bye, 
 
 When he leapt in his boat and vanished where 
 the waters touched the sky. 
 
 She was but a lass when it happened— the last 
 
 time I saw her there 
 The first faint streaks o' silver had come in her 
 
 jet-black hair ; 
 And then a miracle happened— her mad, weird 
 
 words came right. 
 For the fisher lad came ashore, sir, one stormy 
 
 New Year's Night. 
 
 We were all of us watchin', waitin', for at dusk 
 
 we'd heard a cry, 
 A far-off cry, round the headland, and strained 
 
 was every eye- 
 Strained through the deep'nin' darkness, and a 
 
 boat was ready to man— 
 When, all of a sudden, a woman down to the surf- 
 line ran. 
 
 'Twas Crazy Kate. In a moment, before what 
 
 she meant was known, 
 The boat was out in the tempest— and she was in 
 
 it alone. 
 She was out of sight in a second— but over the sea 
 
 came a sound, 
 The voice of a woman cryin' that her long-lost 
 
 love was found. 
 
 A miracle, sir, for the woman came back through 
 the ragin' storm, 
 
 And there in the boat beside her was lyin' a life- 
 less form. 
 
 She leapt to the beach ami staggered, cryin', 
 "Speak to me, husband, Ned!" 
 
 As the light of our lifted lanterns flashed on the 
 face o' the dead. 
 
 It was him as had sailed away, sir— a miracle sure 
 it seemed. 
 
 We looked at the lad and knowed him, and fan- 
 cied we must ha' dreamed— 
 
 It was twenty years since we'd seen him— since 
 Kate, poor soul, went mad, • 
 
 But there in the boat that New Year's lay the 
 same brown handsome lad. 
 
 Gently we took her from him— for she moaned 
 
 that he was dead— 
 We carried him to a cottage and we laid him on a 
 
 bed; 
 But Kate came pushin' her way through and she 
 
 clasped the lifeless clay. 
 And we hadn't the heart to hurt her, so we 
 
 couldn't tear her away. 
 
 The news of the miracle traveled, and folks came 
 
 far and near. 
 And the woman talked of spectres— it had given 
 
 'em quite a skeer ; 
 And the parson he came with the doctor down to 
 
 the cottage quick— 
 They thought as us sea-folks' fancy had played 
 
 our eyes a trick. 
 
 But the parsqn, who'd kuown Kate's husband, as 
 
 had married 'em in a church, 
 When he seed the dead lad's features he gave 
 
 quite a sudden lurch, 
 And his face was as white as linen— for a moment 
 
 it struck him dumb— 
 I half expected he'd tell us as the Judgment Day 
 
 was come. 
 
 The Judgment Day, when the ocean, thjey say, 'ul 
 
 give up its dead ; 
 What else meant those unchanged features, 
 
 though twenty years had sped ? 
 
 That night, with her arms around him, the poor 
 
 mad woman died. 
 And here in our village churchyard we buried 
 
 'em side by side. 
 
 'Twas the shock, they said, as killed her— the 
 
 shock o' seein' him dead. 
 The story got in the papers, and far and near it 
 
 spread ; 
 And some only half believed it— I know what 
 
 you'd sav, sir : wait- 
 Wait till you hear the finish o' this story o' Crazy 
 
 Kate. 
 
 It was all explained one mornin' as clear as the 
 
 light o' day. 
 And when we knowed we were happy to think as 
 
 she'd passed away, 
 As she died with her arms around him, her lips on 
 
 the lips o' the dead— 
 Believin' the face she looked on was the face o* 
 
 the man she'd wed. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 But the man she'd wed was a villain, and that she 
 
 never knew— 
 He hadn't been drowned in the tempest; he only 
 
 of all the crew . 
 Was saved by a French ship cruising and carried 
 
 ashore, and there 
 Was nursed to life by a woman— a French girl, 
 
 young and fair. 
 
 He fell in love with the woman— this dare-devil 
 
 Iiph i*t*l pss Npd 
 And married her, thinkin' the other had given 
 
 him up for dead, 
 He was never the man— and we'd said so— for a 
 
 lovin' lass like Kate; 
 But he mightn't ha' done what he did, sir, if he'd 
 
 known of her cruel fate. 
 
 'Twas his son by the foreign woman, his image in 
 
 build and face, 
 Whose lugger the storm had driven to his father's 
 
 native place— 
 'Twas his son who had come like a phantom out 
 
 of the long ago. 
 On the spot where Kate had suffered God's hand 
 
 struck Ned the blow. 
 
 We learnt it all from the parson when Ned came 
 
 over the waves 
 In search o' the son he worshiped— and he found 
 
 two fresh-made graves. 
 Dang !— what was that ? Sit steady ? Rowed right 
 
 into you, mate ! 
 I forgot where I was for a moment— I was tellin' 
 
 the gent about Kate. 
 
 —George R. Sims. 
 
 THE POLISH BOY. 
 
 Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, 
 That cut, like blades of steel, the air, 
 
 Causing the creeping blood to chill 
 With the sharp cadence of despair ? 
 
 Again they come, as if a heart 
 Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, 
 
 And every string had voice apart 
 To utter its peculiar woe. 
 
 Whence came they ? from yon temple, where 
 An altar, raised for private prayer, 
 Now forms *he warrior's marble bed 
 Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. 
 
 The dim funereal tapers throw 
 A holy luster o'er his brow, 
 And burnish with their rays of light 
 The mass of curls that gather bright, 
 Above the haughty brow and eye 
 Of a young boy that's kneeling by. 
 
 What hand is that, whose icy press 
 
 Clings to the dead with Death's own grasp, 
 But meets no answering caress ? 
 
 No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. 
 It is the hand of her whose cry 
 
 Rang wildly, late, upon the air, 
 When the dead warrior met her eye 
 
 Outstretched upon the altar there. 
 
 With pallid lip and stony brow 
 She murmurs forth her anguish now. 
 But hark ! the tramp of heavy feet 
 Is heard along the bloody street ; 
 Nearer and nearer yet they come, 
 With clanking eyes' and noiseless drum. 
 Now whispered curses, low and deep 
 Around the holy temple creep ; 
 
 The gate is burst, a ruffian band 
 
 Rush in and savagely demand, 
 
 With brutal voice and oath profane, 
 
 The startled boy for exile's chain. 
 
 The mother sprang with gesture wild, 
 
 And to her bosom clasped her child ; 
 
 Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, 
 
 Shouted with fearful energy. 
 
 " Back, ruffians, back ! nor dare to tread 
 
 Too near the body of my dead ; 
 
 Nor touch the living boy ; I stand 
 
 Between him and your lawless band. 
 
 Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, 
 
 With Russia's heaviest iron bands, 
 
 And drag me to Siberia's wild 
 
 To perish, if 'twill save my child ! " 
 
 " Peace, woman, peace! " the leader cried, 
 
 Tearing the pale boy from her side, 
 
 And in his ruffian grasp he bore 
 
 His victim at the temple door. 
 
 " One moment! " shrieked the mother: " one! 
 
 Will land or gold redeem my son ? 
 
 Take heritage, take name, take all, 
 
 But leave him free from Russian thrall ! 
 
 Take these ! " and her white arms and hands 
 
 She stripped of rings and diamond bands, 
 
 And tore from braids of long black hair 
 
 The gems that gleamed like starlight there ; 
 
 Her cross of blazing rubies last, 
 
 Down at the Russian's feet she cast. 
 
 He stooped to seize the glittering store; 
 
 Up springing from the marble floor, 
 
 The mother, with a cry of joy, 
 
 Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. 
 
 But no! the Russian's iron grasp 
 
 Again undid the mother's clasp. 
 
 Forward she fell, with one long cry 
 
 Of more than mortal agony. 
 
 But the brave child is roused at length, 
 
 And breaking from the Russian's hold, 
 He stands, a giant in the strength 
 
 Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. 
 Proudly he towers ; his flashing eye, 
 
 So blue and yet so bright, 
 Seems kindled from the eternal sky, 
 
 So brilliant is its light. 
 His curling lips and crimson cheeks 
 Foretell the thought before he speaks ; 
 With a voice full of proud command 
 He turned upon the wondering band ; 
 " Ye told me not ! no ! no, nor can ; 
 This hour has. made the boy a man. 
 I knelt before my slaughtered sire, 
 Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire ; 
 I wept upon his marble brow, 
 Yes, wept ! I was a child ; but now 
 My noble mother, on her knee, 
 Hath done the work of years for me ! " 
 He drew aside his broidered vest, 
 And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, 
 The jeweled haft of poniard bright 
 Glittered a moment on the sight. 
 " Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! 
 Think ye my noble father's glaive 
 Would drink the life-blood or a slave ? 
 The pearls that on the handle flame 
 Would blush to rubies in their shame ; 
 The blade would quiver in thy breast 
 Ashamed of such ignoble rest. 
 No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, 
 And fling him back a boy's disdain ! " 
 
 A* moment: and the funeral light 
 Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright ; 
 Another, and his young heart's blood 
 Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. 
 Quick to his mother's side he sprang, 
 And on the air his clear voice rang, 
 " Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! 
 The choice was death or slavery. 
 
24 
 
 FAMOUS MUMATtC RECITATIONS. 
 
 Up, mother, up? Look on thy son I 
 
 His freedom is forever won ; 
 
 And now he waits one holy kiss 
 
 To bear his father home in bliss, 
 
 One last embrace, one blessing— one! 
 
 To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son, 
 
 What ! silent yet ? Canst thou not feel 
 
 My warm blood o'er my heart congeal ? 
 
 Speak, mother, speak ! lift up thy head ! 
 
 What ! silent still ? Then art thou dead ! 
 
 Great God, I thank thee I Mother, I 
 
 Rejoice with thee— and thus— to die." 
 One long, deep breath, and his pale head 
 Lay on his mother's bosom— dead. 
 
 — Ann S. Stephen. 
 
 CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 
 
 England's sun was slowly setting 
 
 O'er the hills so far away, 
 Filling all the land with beauty, 
 
 At the close of one sad day ; 
 And the last rays kiss'd the forehead 
 
 Of a man and maiden fair, 
 He with step so slow and weakened, 
 
 She with sunny, floating hair ; 
 He with sad, bowed head, and thoughtful, 
 
 She with lips so cold and white, 
 Struggling to keep back the murmur, 
 
 " Curfew must not ring to-night." 
 " Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, 
 
 Pointing to the prison old, 
 With its walls so dark and gloomy- 
 Walls so dark, and damp, and cold— 
 " I've a lover in that prison, 
 
 Doomed this verv night to die 
 At the ringing of the Curfew, 
 
 And no earthly help is nigh. 
 Cromwell will not come till sunset," 
 
 And her face grew strangely white, 
 As she spoke in husky whispers, 
 
 " Curfew must not ring to-night." 
 " Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton— 
 
 Every word pierced her young heart 
 Like a thousand gleaming arrows, 
 
 Like a deadly poisoned dart— 
 " Long, long years I've rung the Curfew 
 
 From that gloomy shadowed tower ; 
 Every evening, just at sunset, 
 
 It has told the twilight hour; 
 I have done my duty ever, 
 
 Tried to do it just and right. 
 Now I'm old I will not miss it ; 
 
 Girl, the Curfew rings to-night! " 
 Wild her eyes and pale her features, 
 
 Stern and white her thoughtful brow, 
 And within her heart's deep center 
 
 Bessie made a solemn vow ; 
 She had listened while the judges 
 
 Read, without a tear or sigh, 
 " At the ringing of the Curfew- 
 Basil Underwood must die I " 
 And her breath came fast and faster, 
 
 And her eyes grew large and bright- 
 One low murmur scarcely spoken— 
 
 " Curfew must not ring to-night! " 
 She with light step bounded forward, 
 
 Sprang within the old church door, 
 Left the old man threading slowly 
 
 Paths he'd trod so oft before , 
 Not one moment paused the maiden, 
 
 But with cheek and brow aglow 
 Staggered up the gloomy tower, 
 
 Where the bell swung to and fro; 
 Then she climbed the slimy ladder 
 
 Dark, without one ray of light, 
 Upward still, her pale lips saving, 
 
 " Curfew shall not ring to night 
 She has reached the topmost ladde. 
 
 O'er her hangs the great dark bell, 
 And the awful gloom beneath her, 
 
 Like the pathway down to hell ; 
 See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 
 
 'Tis the hour of Curfew now, 
 And the sight has chilled her bosom, 
 
 Stopped her breath and paled her brow 
 Shall she let it ring ? No, never! 
 
 Her eyes flash with sudden light, 
 As she springs and grasps it firmly— 
 
 " Curfew shall not ring to-night ! " 
 Out she swung, far out, the city 
 
 Seemed a tiny speck below ; 
 There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, 
 
 As the bell swung to and fro, 
 And the half deaf sexton ringing 
 
 (Years he had not heard the bell), 
 And he thought the twilight Curfew 
 
 Rang young Basil's funeral knell ; 
 Still the maiden clinging firmly, 
 
 Cheek and brow so pale and white, 
 Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating— 
 
 " Curfew shall not ring to-night." 
 It was o'er— the bell ceased swaying, 
 
 And the maiden stepped once more 
 Firmly on the damp old ladder 
 
 Where for hundred years before 
 Human foot had not been planted ; 
 
 And what she this night had done 
 Should be told in long years after— 
 
 And the rays of setting sun 
 Light the sky with mellow beauty, 
 
 Aged sires with heads of white 
 Tell their children why the Curfew 
 
 Did not ring that one sad night. 
 O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; 
 
 Bessie saw him, and her brow 
 Lately white with sickening terror, 
 
 Glows with sudden beauty now ; 
 At his feet she told her story, 
 
 Showed her hands all bruised and torn ; 
 And her sweet young face so haggard, 
 
 With a look so sad and worn, 
 Touched his heart with sudden pity 
 
 Lit his eyes with misty light ; 
 " Go! your lover lives," cried Cromwell, 
 
 " Curfew shall not ring to-night! " 
 
 —Rose Hartioick Thorpe. 
 
 THE BURNING PRAIRIE. 
 
 The prairie stretched as smooth as a floor, 
 
 As far as the eye could see. 
 And the settler sat at his cabin door, 
 
 With his little girl on his knee ; 
 Striving her letters to repeat, 
 And pulling her apron over her feet. 
 
 His face was wrinkled but not old, 
 
 For he bore an upright form, 
 And his shirt sleeves back to the elbow rolled, 
 
 They showed a brawny arm, 
 And near in the grass with toes upturned, 
 Was a pair of old shoes, cracked and burned. 
 
 A dog with his head betwixt his paws, 
 
 Lay lazily dozing near, 
 Now and then snapping his tar blaek jaws 
 
 At the fly that buzzed in his ear ; 
 And near was the cow-pen, made of rails, 
 And a bench that held two milk pails. 
 
 In the open door an ox-yoke lay, 
 
 The mother's old redoubt, 
 To keep the little one, at her play 
 
 On the floor, from falling out ; 
 While she swept the hearth with a turkey wing, 
 And filled her tea-kettle at the spring. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 25 
 
 The little girl on her father's knee. 
 
 With eyes so bright and blue, 
 From A,B, C, toX, Y, Z, 
 
 Had said her lesson through ; 
 When a wind came over the prairie land, 
 And caught the primer out of her hand. 
 
 The watch-dog whined, the cattle lowed 
 
 And tossed their horns about, 
 The air grew gray as if it snowed , 
 
 "There will be a storm, no doubt," 
 So to himself the settler said: 
 " But. father, why is the sky so red?" 
 
 The little girl slid off his knee, 
 
 And all of a tremble stood ; 
 44 Good wife," he cried, " come out and see, 
 
 The skies are as red as blood." 
 •* God save us! " cried the settler's wife, 
 44 The prairie's a-fire, we must run for life! " 
 
 She caught the baby up, "Come, come, 
 Are ye mad? to your heels, my man ; " 
 
 He followed, terror-stricken, dumb, 
 And so they ran and ran. 
 
 Close upon them was the snort and swing 
 
 Of buffaloes madly galloping. 
 
 The wild wind, like a sower sows 
 
 The ground with sparkles red ; 
 And the flapping wings of the bats and crows, 
 
 And the ashes overhead, 
 And the bellowing deer, and the hissing snake 
 What a swirl of terrible sounds they make ! 
 
 No gleam of the river water yet, 
 
 And the flames leap on and on 
 A crash and a fiercer whirl and jet, 
 
 And the settler's house is gone. 
 The air grows hot ; " This fluttering curl 
 Would burn like flax," said the little girl. 
 
 And as the smoke against her drifts, 
 
 And the lizard slips close by her, 
 She tells how the little cow uplifts 
 
 Her speckled face from the fire ; 
 For she cannot be hindered from looking back 
 At the flery dragon on their track. 
 
 They hear the crackling grass and sedge, 
 
 The flames as they whir and rave, 
 On, on! the# are close to the water's edge,— 
 
 They are breast deep in the wave ; 
 And lifting their little one high o'er the tide, 
 " We are saved, thank God, we are saved ! " they 
 cried. — Alice Carey. 
 
 THE LIFEBOAT. 
 
 Been out in the lifeboat often? Ay, ay, sir, oft 
 
 enough 
 When it's rougher than this? Lor' bless you ! this 
 
 ain't what we calls rough ! 
 It's when there's a gale a-blowin', and the waves 
 
 run in and break 
 On shore, with a roar like thunder and the white 
 
 cliffs seem to shake ; 
 When the sea is a hell of waters, and the bravest 
 
 holds his breath 
 As he hears the cry for the lifeboat— his summons, 
 
 maybe, to death— 
 That's when we call it rough, sir ; but, if we can 
 
 get her afloat, 
 There's always enough brave fellows ready to 
 
 man the boat. 
 
 You've heard of the Royal Helen, the ship as was 
 
 wrecked last year? 
 Yon be the rock she struck on— the boat as went 
 
 out be here ; 
 The night as she struck was reckoned the worst as 
 
 ever we had, 
 And this is a coast in winter where the weather be 
 
 awful bad. 
 The beach here was strewed with wreckage, and 
 
 to tell you the truth, sir, then 
 Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the 
 
 men. 
 The single chaps was willin', and six of 'em volun- 
 
 tccrcd 
 But most on us here is married, and the wives that 
 
 night wasskeered. 
 
 Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it come3 
 
 to savin' lives, 
 But death .that night looked certain— and our 
 
 wives be only wives ; 
 Their lot ain't bright at the best, sir ; but here, 
 
 when the man lies dead, 
 'Tain't only a husband missin', it's the children's 
 
 daily bread ; 
 So our women began to whimper and beg o' the 
 
 chaps to stay— 
 I only heerd on it after, for that night I was kept 
 
 away. 
 I was up at my cottage, yonder, where the wife lay 
 
 nigh her end, 
 She'd been ailin' all the winter, and nothin' 'ud 
 
 make her mend. 
 
 The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by 
 
 her side and prayed, 
 With my eyes as red as a babby's, that Death's 
 
 hand might yet be stayed. 
 I heerd the wild wind howlin', and Hooked on the 
 
 wasted form, 
 And thought of the awful shipwreck as had come 
 
 in the ragin' storm ; 
 The wreck of my little homestead— the wreck of 
 
 my dear old wife, 
 Who'd sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the 
 
 troublous waves of life. 
 And I looked at the eyes so sunken, as had been 
 
 my harbor lights, 
 To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest 
 
 darkest nights. 
 
 She knew she was sinkin' quickly— she knew as 
 
 her end was nigh, 
 But she never spoke o' the troubles as I knew on 
 
 her heart must lie, 
 For we'd had one great big sorrow with Jack, our 
 
 only son— 
 He'd got into trouble in London, as lots o' the lads 
 
 ha' done ; 
 Then he'd bolted, his masters told us— he was 
 
 alius what folk call wild. 
 From the day as I told his mother, her dear face 
 
 never smiled. 
 We heerd no more about him, we never knew 
 
 where he went, 
 And his mother pined and sickened for the mes- 
 sage he never sent. 
 
 I had my work to think of; but she had her grief 
 
 to nurse, 
 So it eat away at her heartstrings, and her health 
 
 grew worse and worse. 
 And the night as the Royal Helen went down on 
 
 yonder sands, 
 I sat and watched her dyin\ holdin' her wasted 
 
 hands. 
 She moved in her doze a little, then her eyes were 
 
 opened wide, 
 And she seemed to be seekin' somethtn', as she 
 
 looked from side to side ; 
 
26 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 Then half to herself she whispered, "Where's 
 
 Jack, to sav good-bye? 
 It's hard not to see my darliu', and ask him afore 
 
 Idle:" 
 
 I was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the 
 
 tears ran down my cheek, 
 And my lips were shaped to whisper the words I 
 
 couldn't speak, 
 When the door of the room burst open, and my 
 
 mates were there outside 
 With the news that the boat was launchin'. 
 
 •• You're wanted ! " their leader cried. 
 ••You've never refused to go, .John; you'll put 
 
 these cowards right. 
 There's a dozen of lives maybe, John, as lie in our 
 
 hands to-night! " 
 'Twas old Ben Brown, the captain ; he laughed at 
 
 the women's doubt. 
 We'd always been first on the beach. sir, when the 
 
 boat was goin' out. 
 
 I didn't move, but I poiuted to the white face on 
 
 the bed— 
 "I can't go, mate," I murmured ; " in an hour she 
 
 may be dead. 
 I cannot go and leave her to die in the night 
 
 alone.' 
 As I spoke Ben raised his lantern, and the light on 
 
 my wife was thrown : 
 And I saw her eyes fixed strangely with a plead- 
 ing look on me. 
 While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door 
 
 to the ragin' sea. 
 Then she beckoned me near, and whispered, " Go, 
 
 and God's will be done! 
 For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor 
 
 mother's son." 
 
 Her head was full of the boy, sir— she was think- 
 ing, maybe, some day 
 For lack of a hand to help him his life might be 
 
 cast away. 
 " Go. John, and the Lord watch o'er you ! and spare 
 
 me to see the light, 
 And bring you safe," she whispered, "out of the 
 
 storm to-night." 
 Then I turned and kissed her softly, and tried to 
 
 hide my tears. 
 And my mates outside, when they saw me, set up 
 
 three hearty cheers ; 
 But I rubbed my eyes wi' my knuckles, and turned 
 
 to old Ben and said, 
 " I'll see her again maybe, lad, when the sea gives 
 
 up its dead." 
 
 We launched the boat in the tempest, though death 
 
 was the goal in view, 
 And never a one but doubted if the craft could 
 
 liverit through; 
 But our boat she stood it bravely, and, weary and 
 
 wet and weak, 
 We drew T in hail of the vessel we had dared so 
 
 much to seek. 
 But just as we come upon her she gave a fearful 
 
 roll. 
 And went down in the seethin' whirlpool with 
 
 every livin' soul! 
 We rowed for the spot, and shouted, for all around 
 
 was dark— 
 But only the wild wind answered the cries from 
 
 our plungin' bark. 
 
 I was strainin' my eyes and watchin', when I 
 
 thought I heard a cry, 
 And I saw past our bows a somethin' on the crest 
 
 of a wave dashed by : 
 I stretched out my hand to seize it. I dragged it 
 
 aboard, and then 
 I stumbled, and struck my forrud, and fell iik n a 
 
 log on Ben. 
 
 I remember a hum of voices, and then I knowed 
 
 no more 
 Till I came to my senses here, sir— here, In my 
 
 home ashore. 
 My forrud was tightly bandaged, and I lay on ray 
 
 little bed— 
 I'd slipped, so they told me arter, and a rulluck 
 
 had struck my head. 
 
 Then my mates came in and whispered; they'd 
 
 heard I was comin' round. 
 At first I could scarcely hear ; em, it seemed like a 
 
 buzzin' sound; 
 But as soon as my head got clearer, and accus- 
 tomed to hear 'em speak, 
 I knew as I'd laiu like that, sir, for many a long, 
 
 long week, 
 I guessed what the lads was hidin' for their poor 
 
 old shipmate's sake, 
 I could see by their puzzled faces they'd got some 
 
 news to break; 
 So I lifts my head from the pillow, and I says to 
 
 old Ben, "Look here! 
 I'm able to bear it now, lad— tell me, and never 
 
 fear." 
 
 Not one on 'em ever answered, but presently Ben 
 
 goes out, 
 And the others slink away like, and I says, "What's 
 
 this about ? 
 Why can't they tell me plainly as the poor old 
 
 wife is dead ? " 
 Then I fell again on the pillows, and I hid my 
 
 achin' head ; 
 I lay like that for a minute, till I heard a voice cry 
 
 "John!" 
 And I thought it must be a vision as my weak eyes 
 
 gazed upon ; 
 For there by the bedside, standin' up and well was 
 
 my wife. 
 And who do ye think was with her ? Why, Jack. 
 
 as large as life. 
 
 It was him as I'd saved from drownin' the night 
 
 as the lifeboat went 
 To the wreck of the Royal Helen ; 'twas that as 
 
 the vision meant. 
 They'd brought us ashore together, he'd knelt by 
 
 his mother's bed, 
 A.nd the sudden joy had raised her like a miracle 
 
 from the dead ; 
 And mother and son together had nursed me back 
 
 to life, 
 And my old eyes woke from darkness to look on 
 
 my son and wife. • 
 
 Jack ? He's our right hand now. sir ; 'twas Provi- 
 dence pulled him through- 
 He's alius the first aboard her when the lifeboat 
 
 wants a crew. 
 
 — George R. Sims. 
 
 ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH. 
 
 The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging 
 
 away, 
 With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pull- 
 ing as much as to say: 
 "Come, master, awake, and tend to the switch, 
 
 lives now depend upon you: 
 Think of the souls in the* coming train and the 
 
 graves vour sending them to ; 
 Think of the mother and babe at her breast, think 
 
 of the father and son. 
 Think of the lover, and loved one, too, think of 
 
 them doomed every one 
 To fall, as it were, by your very hand, into you 
 
 fathomless ditch. 
 Murdered by one who should guard them from 
 
 harm, who now lies asleep at the switch." 
 
I sprang up amazed, scarce knew where I stood, 
 
 sleep had o'er mastered me so ; 
 I could hear the wind hollowly howling and the 
 
 deep river dashing below, 
 I could hear the forest leaves rustling as the trees 
 
 by the tempest were fanned ; 
 But what was that noise at a distance ? That I 
 
 could not understand ! 
 I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of 
 
 some muffled drum, 
 Then nearer and nearer it came to me, and made 
 
 my very ears hum; 
 ' What is this light that surrounds me and seems to 
 
 set fire to my brain ? 
 What whistle's that yelling so shrilly! Oh, God! I 
 
 know now— it's the train. 
 
 We often stand facing some danger, and seem to 
 
 take root at the place ; 
 So I stood with this demon before me, its heated 
 
 breath scorching my face ; 
 Its headlight made day of the darkness, and 
 
 glared like the eye of some witch ; 
 The train was almost upon me, before I remem- 
 bered the switch. 
 I sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing 
 
 fast down the track— 
 The switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed 
 
 holding it back ; 
 On, on, came the fiery-eyed monster and shot by 
 
 my face like a flash : . 
 I swooned to the earth' the next moment, And 
 
 knew nothing after the crash. 
 
 How long I laid there unconscious 'twere impos- 
 sible for me to tell. 
 
 My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost 
 a hell— 
 
 For I then heard the piteous moaning and shriek- 
 ing of husbands and wives, 
 
 And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when 
 I must account for their lives ; 
 
 Mothers rushed like maniacs, their eyes staring 
 madly and wildj 
 
 Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their 
 grief like a child; 
 
 Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by 
 me they sped, 
 
 And lips that could form naught but "Mamma," 
 were calling for one perhaps dead. 
 
 My mind was made up in a second, the river 
 should hide me away ; 
 
 When, under the still burning rafters, I suddenly 
 noticed there lay 
 
 A little white hand, she who owned it was doubt- 
 less an object of love 
 
 To one whom her loss would drive frantic, tho' she 
 guarded him now from above ; 
 
 I tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them 
 one side ; 
 
 How little she thought of her journey, when she 
 left for this last fatal ride ; 
 
 I lifted the last log from off her, and while search- 
 ing for some spark of life, 
 
 Turned her little face up in the starlight, and 
 recognized— Maggie, my wife ! 
 
 Oh, Lord I Thy scourge is a hard one, at a blow 
 
 Thou has shattered my pride ; 
 My life will be one endless night-time, with 
 
 Maggie away from my side ; 
 How often we've sat down and pictured the 
 
 scenes in our long happy life ; 
 How I'd strive through all my life-time to build 
 
 up a home for my wife. 
 How people would envy us always in our cozy 
 
 and neat litte nest; 
 When I would do all the labor, and Maggie should 
 
 all the day rest ; 
 
 How one of God's blessings might cheer us, when 
 
 some day I p'r'aps should be rich. 
 But all of my dreams have been shattered while I 
 
 lay there asleep at the switch. 
 
 I fancied I stood on my trial, the jury and judge I 
 
 could see, 
 And every eye in the court room was steadfastly 
 
 fixed upon me, 
 And fingers were pointed in scorn, till I felt my 
 
 face blushing red ; 
 And the next thing I heard were the words, 
 
 " Hung by the neck until dead." 
 Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my 
 
 hand caught tight hold of a dress, 
 And I heard, i4 What's the matter, dear Jim? 
 
 You've had a bad nightmare I guess." 
 And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a 
 
 scar from the ditch. 
 I'd been taking a nap in my bed and had not been 
 
 asleep at the switch. 
 
 THE (SEAT TEMPTATION. 
 
 His love was mine no more, mother ; I saw it in 
 
 his eyes; 
 I did not heed his tender words, I knew that they 
 
 were lies ; 
 I could not be deceived, mother; my love had 
 
 made me wise. 
 
 You wondered why my cheek was pale ; I would 
 not tell a lie ; 
 
 And yet, how could I speak the truth which al- 
 most made me die? 
 
 So I lay on your heart and cried, mother, an ex- 
 ceeding bitter cry. 
 
 A maiden's heart is lightly won— he won mine in 
 
 a day; 
 How could I know he wanted it to break and cast 
 
 away? 
 He had such a noble face, mother, and yet he 
 
 could betray. 
 
 My world had never seemed so fair— he was the 
 world to me ; 
 
 I feared no future day, because my only future 
 he ; 
 
 I fled to him as to my rest, and loved him ut- 
 terly. 
 
 There are who pray ; " From sudden death de- 
 liver us, good Lord." 
 
 I dare not pray that awful prayer, lest God should 
 take me at my word, 
 
 And send me awful lingering, with pains of death 
 deferred. 
 
 I saw the rosy dawn, mother, cloud over 
 
 gradually : 
 I saw the shadows deepen, and the last sunbeam 
 
 fly; 
 And then I said, " It is enough ; would God that I 
 
 could die! " 
 
 He came at last to blame himself for having long 
 delayed ; 
 
 I must not think he loved me less— "No, surely, 
 no," he said ; 
 
 He kissed me with a Judas kiss; I felt myself be- 
 trayed. 
 
88 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 1 would he strong. 1 would live on, and in the end 
 
 forget ; 
 But sometimes in the night I woke and found my 
 
 pillow wet, 
 And knew that all my years to come would be a 
 
 long regret. 
 
 Soon tidings came that turned my love to gall and 
 
 wounded pride ; 
 He who had knelt, and sworn to love me only, 
 
 none beside, 
 Had pledged his perjured word again, aDd won 
 
 another bride. 
 
 I hated him, I hated her ; I hugged my misery ; 
 I writhed against God, earth, and heaven; I 
 
 cursed my sunless sky. 
 " They shall not build their bliss," I cried, "upon 
 
 my agony ! " 
 
 Then came a day, from weariness I slept till after 
 
 dawn, 
 And started at the clang of bells— it was the bridal 
 
 morn ; 
 The whole world seemed to keep a feast, and I 
 
 was so forlorn. 
 
 I watched the clock, I told each beat, and as the 
 
 hours went by, 
 I knew I must have cherished hope for some hope 
 
 seemed to die ; 
 They to be building up their bliss upon my 
 
 misery. 
 
 I would go gliding up the church, right to the 
 
 altar-stair, 
 And steal, a spectre, to the feast and break upon 
 
 the prayer, 
 And throw him back his riug, in sight of all the 
 
 people there. 
 
 Small pity had he had for me, that I should spare 
 
 his bride ; 
 Nay, I would laugh to see the girl grow pallid at 
 
 his side. 
 No mercy had been shown tome, I would show 
 
 none, I cried. 
 
 Then quick as thought my cruel thought, I rush'd 
 
 into the street, 
 And pluck'd my shawl about my face, and never 
 
 turned to greet, 
 But passed like Vengeance, through the crowd, 
 
 with evil-winged feet. 
 
 The solemn, solemn church, it soothed and 
 
 healed me unaware ; 
 The holy light came flooding in, like balm on my 
 
 despair; 
 How could I harbor evil thoughts when Jesus 
 
 Christ was there ? 
 
 And then I heard the organ peal— no gorgeous 
 
 burst of sound, 
 But a low, pleading human voice, soul-thrilling, 
 
 passion-bound, 
 That seemed to say, " My child is dead ; behold, 
 
 the lost is found! " 
 
 I looked upon her face, poor bride I so young, so 
 
 true, so fair, 
 And blushing, half with love and half to see the 
 
 people stare ; 
 I sank my shafts, I hid my face, and clasped my 
 
 hands in prayer. 
 
 1 heard their vows, 1 heard his voice, I heard the 
 priest who prayed. 
 
 I suffered still, but, Christ be praised! the thun- 
 der-storm was laid ; 
 
 God had said, " Peace, be still," said lo ! the stormy 
 heart obeyed. 
 
 Through tears I looked upon my love, in sadness, 
 
 not in hate ; 
 It was not he that worked my woe— not he, but 
 
 only Fate; 
 Sorrowing, not sinful, bruised, not lost, I left the 
 
 church's gate. 
 
 —Alice Horton. 
 
 A SCAR ON THE FACE. 
 
 She was drunk— mad drunk— Was Molly, the night 
 that I saw her first; 
 
 I'd seen some terrible cases, but her's was the 
 very worst. 
 
 This Refuge had just been started for the daugh- 
 ters of night and sin, 
 
 And I was the Matron here, sir, on the night that 
 they brought her in. 
 
 Her face was crushed and swollen, and a blow 
 
 had cut her eye, 
 And the blood that had oozed unnoticed on her 
 
 cheek was caked and dry. 
 She laughed with a hoarse, wild laughter, and 
 
 capered and kicked about, 
 And she swore and she cursed so foully, we 
 
 thought we must turn out. 
 
 She'd come for a spree, as often these poor lost 
 
 creatures come, 
 They hear of our "midnight meetings "away in 
 
 their filthy slum ; 
 I've seen 'em jump on the platform and fling down 
 
 the chairs and shriek, 
 And join in a ribald chorus when the clergyman 
 
 tried to speak. 
 
 But Molly was worse than any— she staggered 
 
 across the place 
 And picked up a brass-bound hymn-book and 
 
 aimed at our chaplain's face ; 
 It cut him across the cheek-bone, and he uttered 
 
 aery of pain, 
 Then we rushed at Molly to seize her, but she 
 
 struggled with might and main. 
 
 She bit and she tore and she scratched us, and 
 
 kicked liked a beast at bay, 
 Then all of a sudden reeled forward and still as a 
 
 mouse she lay ; 
 In the struggle her wound was injured, and the 
 
 blood flowed down apace, 
 And the same sort of mark, we noticed, was on 
 
 hers and the chaplain's face. 
 
 What a fist had done for Molly a hymn-book had 
 
 done for him ; 
 He was only a young beginner, and he trembled 
 
 in every limb, 
 For the wound was deep and painful; but he 
 
 pushed his way through the crowd, 
 And cleared his voice with an effort, and spoke 
 
 these words aloud : 
 
 " Poor lass, may the Lord forgive her as I forgive 
 
 her, too!" 
 And silent, as if by magic, stood the whole of the 
 
 yelling crew; 
 While he, with his face all bleeding, did the words 
 
 of the Savior quote, 
 That the left cheek should be offered to one who 
 
 the right cheek smote. 
 

 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 2'.) 
 
 He came where we held the wanton, and he 
 
 moved his lips In prayer, 
 And smoothed from her bloody features the 
 
 masses of tangled hair ; 
 " Take her away," he whispered, " and see that 
 
 her wound is drest ; " 
 Then he spake aloud the blessing, and then he 
 
 dismissed the rest. 
 
 We kept the girl at the Refuge right from the 
 
 hour she swooned 
 I Till time and a kindly surgeon had thoroughly 
 
 healed the wound , 
 In a week it was closed completely, but leaving a 
 
 mark to mar, 
 And the face of the poor lost creature and his had 
 
 the selfsame scar. 
 
 The day she was well she left us— left us with 
 
 never a word ; 
 Went back to the awful outcasts with whom such 
 
 women herd ; 
 And now and again we gathered news of the life 
 
 she led ; 
 "In the hospital" once, they told us, and then 
 
 that the girl was dead. 
 
 It was five years after that, sir ; one night went 
 
 our faithful priest 
 On a mission of love and mercy to an awful place 
 
 down East— 
 To a den where the lowest women herd with the 
 
 VllOSt tlllBVGS 
 
 They're some of the very worst, sir, that our 
 Refuge, here, receives. 
 
 He'd heard from a girl who came here tales of 
 
 this devil's place, 
 And he made up his mind to storm it, armed with 
 
 the Word of Grace. 
 His face was flushed and red as he told us, and 
 
 spoke of the souls to win, 
 And the task that the Lord had sent him in that 
 
 haven of shame and sin. 
 
 He laughed when we spoke of danger, and that 
 
 night went forth alone— 
 But we had a strange misgiving which we hardly 
 
 liked to own ; 
 He was back on the stroke of midnight— back 
 
 from the jaws of hell, 
 But his face was pale and ghastly ; he'd a strange, 
 
 wild tale to tell. 
 
 He had entered that fearful alley and spoken 
 
 God's word aloud, 
 Till the people swarmed about him in a thick and 
 
 threatening crowd ; 
 And they jeered and they spat and hooted, and 
 
 the women were worst of all, 
 For they picked up filth to pelt him, and drove 
 
 him against the wall. 
 
 Beaten and bruised and smothered,.he then would 
 
 have turned and fled, 
 When a well-aimed brickbat struck him full on 
 
 his hatless head; 
 Then he turned quite sick and giddy, and felt 
 
 himself dragged along, 
 And a door was slammed in the faces of the 
 
 threatening, murderous throng. 
 
 And beside him there stood a woman— he could 
 
 hardly see her face, 
 For a foul and noisome darkness hung o'er the 
 
 dreadful place. 
 "Hush for your life!" she whispered. "I've 
 
 bolted and barred the door ; 
 They'd 'ave your blood if I'd let 'em— hark how 
 
 the tigers roar 1 
 
 "They found out as you're the parson as 'tices 
 
 the gals away ; 
 They say it's through you they peaches and goes 
 
 on the ' Christian ' lay. 
 I dragged you in here and saved you, and sent out 
 
 a gal for the ' cops ; ' 
 Ha, they're a-comin', sir' Listen! the noise and 
 
 the shoutiu' stops." 
 
 The noise was changed in a moment to a hiss and 
 
 a sullen groan ; 
 The woman crept close and listened, then open 
 
 the door was thrown, 
 And there was a sergeant standing with six of his 
 
 tallest men, 
 And our chaplain walked between them out of 
 
 that awful den. 
 
 And just as they reached the entry, lo, a woman's 
 
 piercing shriek 
 Told of the brutal vengeance the ruffians tried to 
 
 wreak. 
 He guessed what It was, did the sergeant, and 
 
 hurrying back they found 
 The woman who'd saved our chaplain all of a 
 
 heap on the ground. 
 
 The crowd in their brutal fury had beaten the 
 
 woman down. 
 They kicked at her prostrate body till the red 
 
 blood stained her gown, 
 But nobody knew who'd done It— the cowards had 
 
 slunk away ; 
 Her face was all white and ghastly In the light of 
 
 the bull's-eye's ray. 
 
 'Twas the face of an old acquaintance our chap- 
 lain saw that night: 
 By the scar on the cheek he knew her. in the 
 
 lantern's quivering light— 
 'Twas Molly, the long lost Molly, the girl that we 
 
 thought was dead- 
 She beckoned him down and whispered, and these 
 were the words she said; 
 
 " I know'd yer to-night by yer scar, the scar o' 
 
 the cut I made: 
 I heerd how yer treated me then, sir— how yer 
 
 give me yer blessin' and prayed. 
 Audi sez when I see yer in danger, 'Moll, you've 
 
 So 
 
 got a debt to pay.' 
 
 Idragged yer away in yonder, and I 'eld them 
 curs at bay." 
 
 Died? No, she didn't: we saved her -she's 
 
 matron here under me: 
 That's she— and ah, here comes the chaplai' \— now 
 
 both the scars you can see. 
 And often we tell the story ,<*ow the Lorain his 
 
 tender tn'tice 
 Saved a life and a soul together, all thmgh a 
 
 scar on the face, 
 
 — George H. £4ms. 
 
 THE BLACKSMITH'S STOZtf 
 
 Well, no; my wife ain't dead, sir, 
 
 But I've lost her all the same ; 
 She left me voluntarily, 
 
 And neither was to blame. 
 It's rather a queer story, 
 
 And I think you will agree, 
 When you hear the circumstances 
 
 •Twas rather rough on me. 
 
She was a soldier's widow. 
 
 He was killed at Malvern Hill ; 
 And when I married her she seemed 
 
 To sorrow for him still ; 
 But I brought her here to Kansas, 
 
 And I never want to see 
 A better wife than Mary was 
 
 For Ave bright years to me. 
 
 The change of scene brought cheerfulness, 
 
 And soon a rosy glow 
 Of happiness warmed Mary's cheeks 
 
 And melted all their snow. 
 I think she loved me some— I'm bound 
 
 To think that of her, sir, 
 And as for me— I can't begin 
 
 To tell how I loved her ! 
 
 Three years ago the baby came 
 
 Our humble home to bless, 
 And then I reckon I was nigh 
 
 To perfect happiness ; 
 'Twas hers— 'twas mine ; but no language 
 
 Have I to explain to you 
 How that little girl's weak fingers 
 
 Our hearts together drew. 
 
 Once we watched it through a fever, 
 
 And with each gasping breath, 
 Dumb, with an awful wordless woe, 
 
 We waited for its death ; 
 And, though I'm not a pious man, 
 
 Our souls together there, 
 For Heaven to spare our darling, 
 
 Went up in voiceless prayer. 
 
 And when the doctor said 'twould live, 
 
 Our joy what words could tell ? 
 Clasped in each other's arms we stood, 
 
 And our grateful tears fell. 
 Sometimes, you see, the shadow fell 
 
 Across our little nest, 
 But it only made the sunshine seem 
 
 A doubly welcome guest. 
 
 Work came to me a plenty, 
 
 And I kept the anvil ringing- 
 Early and late you'd find me there, 
 
 A-hammering and singing; 
 Love nerved my arm to labor, 
 
 And moved my tongue to song, 
 And though my singing wasn't sweet, 
 
 It was tremendous strong. 
 
 One day a one-armed stranger stopped 
 
 To have me nail a shoe, 
 And while I was at work we passed 
 
 A compliment or two ; 
 I asked him how he lost his arm. 
 
 He said 'twas*hot away 
 At Malvern Hill. " At Malvern Hill ! 
 
 Did you know Robert May ? " 
 
 " That's me," said he. " You, you ! " I gasped, 
 
 Choking with horrid doubt ; 
 "If you're the man, just follow me; 
 
 We'll try this mystery out! " 
 With dizzy steys 1 led him to 
 
 My Mary. God ! 'twas true ! 
 Then the bitterest pangs of misery 
 
 Unspeakable I knew. 
 
 Frozen with deadly horror, 
 
 She stared with eyes of stone, 
 And from her quivering lips there broke 
 
 One wild despairing moan. 
 'Twas he ! the husband of her youth, 
 
 Now risen from the dead. 
 But all too late— and with bitter cry, 
 
 Reeling, her senses fled. 
 
 What could be done ? He was believed 
 
 As dead. On his return 
 He strove in vain some tidings 
 
 Of his absent wife to learn. 
 'Twas well that he was innocent, 
 
 Else I'd have killed him, too, 
 So dead he never would have riz 
 
 Till Gabriel's trumpet blew! 
 
 It was agreed that Mary then 
 
 Between us should decide, 
 And each by her decision 
 
 Would sacredly abide. 
 No sinner at the iudgment-seat, 
 
 Waiting eternal doom, 
 Could suffer what I then did, 
 
 Waiting sentence in that room. 
 
 Rigid and breathless there we stood, 
 
 With nerves as tense as steel, 
 While Mary's eyes sought each white face 
 
 In piteous appeal. 
 God! could not woman's duty 
 
 Be less hardly reconciled , 
 Between her lawful husband 
 
 And the father of her child ? 
 
 Ah? how my heart was chilled to ice. 
 
 When she knelt down and said: 
 " Forgive me, John ! Tis my husband 
 
 Here— alive, not dead! '* 
 I raised her tenderly, and tried 
 
 To tell her she was right, 
 But somehow in my aching breast 
 
 The prisoned words stuck tight. 
 
 " But, John, I can't leave baby ! " 
 
 " What! wife and child! " cried I. 
 "Must I yield all! Ah, cruel fate 1 
 
 Better that I should die. 
 Think of the long, sad, lonely hours 
 
 Waiting in gloom for me— 
 No wife to cheer me with her love, 
 
 No babe to climb my knee ! 
 
 " And yet you are her mother, 
 
 And the sacred mother love 
 Is still Ihe purest, tenderest tie 
 
 That Heaven ever wove. 
 Take her, but promise, Mary— 
 
 For that will bring no shame— 
 My little girl bear and learn 
 
 To lisp her father's name ! " 
 
 It may be, in the life to come, 
 
 I'll meet my child and wife; 
 But yonder, by my cottage gate, 
 
 We parted for this life ; 
 One long hand clasp from Mary, 
 
 And my dream of love was done- 
 One long embrace from baby, 
 
 And my happiness was gone ! 
 
 —Frank Olive. 
 
 A BUNCH OF PRIMROSES. 
 
 I am only a faded primrose, dying for want of air; 
 I and my drooping sisters lie in a garret bare. 
 We were plucked from the pleasant woodland 
 
 only a week ago, 
 But our leaves have lost their beauty and our 
 
 heads are bending low. 
 
 We grew in a yellow cluster under a shady tree, 
 
 In a spot where the winds came wooing straight 
 from the Sussex sea ; 
 
 And the brisk breeze kissed us boldly as we nod- 
 ded to and fro 
 
 In the smiling April weather— only a week ago. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 31 
 
 Only a week this morning ! Ah me! but it seems 
 
 a year 
 Since the only dew on our petals was a woman's 
 
 briny tear; 
 Since the breeze and the merry sunshine were 
 
 changed for this stifling gloom 
 And the soot of the smoky chimneys that robs us 
 
 of our bloom. 
 
 We grew in a nook so quiet, behind a hedge so 
 
 high ; 
 We were hid from the peeping children, 1 who, 
 
 laughing, passed us by ; 
 But a primrose gatherer spied us— his cruel hand 
 
 came down; 
 We were plucked in the early morning, and packed 
 
 and sent to town. 
 
 We were tossed in a busy market from grimy 
 hand to hand, 
 
 Till a great rough woman took us and hawked us 
 through the Strand ; 
 
 Clutched in her dirty fingers our tender stalks 
 were tied 
 
 And " A penny a bunch, who'll buy 'em— fine prim- 
 roses!" she cried. 
 
 We lay on a woman's basket till a white-faced 
 
 girl came past ; 
 | There was, O, such a world of yearning in the 
 
 lingering look she cast- 
 Cast on the tumbled bunches— a look that seemed 
 
 to say, 
 "0, if I only had you! "—but she sighed and she 
 
 turned away. 
 
 She was only gone a moment, and then she was 
 
 back again ; 
 She'd the look on her pale, pinched features that 
 
 told of the hunger pain ; 
 She held in her hand the penny that ought to have 
 
 bought her bread, 
 But she dropped it into the basket and took us 
 
 home instead. 
 
 Home— how we seemed to wither, as the light of 
 
 day grew dim, 
 And up to a London garret she bore us with 
 
 weary limb! 
 But her clasp it was kind and gentle, and there 
 
 shone a light in her eyes 
 That made us think for a moment we were under 
 
 our native skies. 
 
 She stole in the room on tiptoe, and "Alice," she 
 
 softly said, 
 " See what I've brought you, Alice ! " Then a sick 
 
 girl raised her head, 
 And a faint voice answered, •' Darling, how kind 
 
 of you to bring 
 The flowers I love so dearly— I've longed for them 
 
 all this spring. 
 
 "I've thought of it so often, the green hills far 
 
 away, 
 And the posies we used to gather— it seems but 
 
 the other day ; 
 Lay them beside my pillow, they'll last as long as 
 
 How quickly in* cruel London the country blos- 
 soms die ! " ^ 
 
 We pined in our gloomy prison, and we thought 
 
 how sweet we were 
 Blooming among the hedgerows' out in the balmy 
 
 air, 
 Where we gladdened the eyes that saw us in all 
 
 our yellow pride, 
 And we thought how our lives were wasted as we 
 
 lay by a sick-bedside. 
 
 We thought how our lives were wasted unti 1 we 
 
 grew to know 
 We were dear to the dying workgirl for the sake 
 
 of the long ago; 
 That her anguish was half forgotten as she looked 
 
 upon us and went 
 Back in her dreams to the woodland filled with 
 
 the primrose scent. 
 
 We primroses % are dying, and so is Alice, fast; 
 But her sister sits besides her, watching her to the 
 
 last, 
 Working with swollen eyelids for the white slave's 
 
 scanty wage, 
 And starving to save her darling and to Still the 
 
 fever's rage. 
 
 We stand on the little table beside the sick girl's 
 
 bed, 
 And we know by the words she murmurs that she 
 
 wanders in her head ; 
 She stretches her hand to take us, and laughs like 
 
 a child at play- 
 She thinks that she sees us growing on the old 
 
 bank far away. 
 
 Forgotten the gloomy garret, the fierce and the 
 fBvcrcd strife™ - 
 
 Forgotten the weary journey that is ending with 
 her life ; 
 
 The black, black night has vanished, and the 
 weary workgirl hies 
 
 Back to her country childhood, plucking a prim- 
 rose prize. 
 
 We have banished awhile her sorrow, we have 
 
 brought back a sunny smile 
 That belongs to the children's faces in the days 
 
 that are free from guile, 
 The Babylon roar comes floating up from the 
 
 street below ; 
 Yet she lists to the gentle plashing of a brook in 
 
 its Spring-tide flow. 
 
 The gurgling brook in the meadow, with the 
 
 primrose-laden brim- 
 How thick were the yellow clusters on the bank 
 
 where she sat witli him ; 
 With him who had loved and lost her, who had 
 
 trampled a blossom down, 
 Ah me ! for the country blossoms brought to the 
 
 cruel town! 
 
 Thank God for the good brave sister who found 
 
 the lost one there ; 
 Who toiled with her for the pittance that paid for 
 
 that garret bare ; 
 Who slaved when the wasted fingers grew all too 
 
 weak to sew. 
 And hid all her troubles bravely that Alice might 
 
 never know. 
 
 We have brought one country sunbeam to shine 
 
 in that garret bare ; 
 But to-morrow will see us lifeless— killed by the 
 
 poisoned air. 
 Then the primrose dream will vanish, and Alice 
 
 will ask in vain 
 For the poor little yellow posy that made her a 
 
 child again. 
 
 On to our faded petals there falls n scalding tear, 
 As we lie to-night on the bosom of her who held us 
 
 We shall go to the grave together— for the work* 
 
 girl lies at rest, 
 With a faded primrose posy clasped to her Icy 
 
 breast. 
 
 — George M.8im$. 
 
32 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 THiS RUINED MERCHANT. 
 
 A coTrAOE home and sloping lawn, and trellised 
 
 vires and flowers, 
 And lictle feet to chase away the rosy-fingered 
 
 hoi' is; 
 A fair young face to part at eve the shadows In 
 
 the door;— 
 I picture thus a home I knew In happy days of 
 
 yore. 
 
 Says one, a cherub thing of three, with childish 
 
 heart elate, 
 " Papa is tomin\ let me do to meet Hm, at te 
 
 date 1 " 
 Another takes the music up, and flings It on the 
 
 air, 
 " Papa has come, but why so slow his footstep on 
 
 the stair ? " 
 
 " O father! did you bring the books I've waited 
 for so long, 
 
 The baby's rocking-horse and drum, and mother's 
 * Angel Song ? ' 
 
 And did you see "—but something holds the ques- 
 tioning lips apart, 
 
 And something settles very still upon that joyous 
 heart. 
 
 The quick-discerning wife bends down with her 
 
 white hand to stay 
 The clouds from tangling with the curls that on 
 
 his forehead lay, 
 To ask, in gentle tones, M Beloved, by what rude 
 
 tempest tossed ? " 
 And list the hollow, " Beggared, lost— all ruined, 
 
 poor and lost 1 ". 
 
 " Nay, say not so, for I am here to share misfor- 
 tune's hour, 
 
 And prove how better far than gold is love's un- 
 failing dower. 
 
 Let wealth take wings and fly away, as far as 
 wings can soar, 
 
 The bird of love will hover near, and only sing the 
 more." 
 
 4 All lost, papa ? Why, here am I ; and, father, see 
 
 how tall; 
 I measure fully three feet four upon the kitchen 
 
 wall; 
 I'll tend the flowers, feed the birds, and have such 
 
 lots of fun, 
 I'm big enough to work, papa, for I'm the oldest 
 
 son." 
 
 " And I, papa, am almost five," says curly-headed 
 
 Rose, 
 " And I can learn to sew, papa, and make all 
 
 dolly's clothes. 
 But what is ' poor '—to stay at home, and have no 
 
 place to go ? 
 Oh! then I'll ask the Lord, to-night, to make us 
 
 always so." 
 
 " I'se here, papa; I isn't lost! " and on his father's 
 He lays his sunny head to rest, that baby-boy of 
 
 M And if you get too poor to live," says little Rose, 
 
 " you knosv 
 There is a better place, papa, a heaven where we 
 
 can go. 
 
 M And God will come and take us there, dear 
 father, if we pray ; 
 
 We needn't fear the road, papa, He surely knows 
 the way." 
 
 Then from the corner, staff in hand, the grandma 
 rises slow, 
 
 Her snowy cap-strings in the breeze soft flutter- 
 ing to and fro j 
 
 Totters across the parlor floor, by aid of kindly 
 hands, 
 
 Cou iting in every little face, her life's declining 
 sands ; 
 
 Reaches his side, and whispers low, " God's prom- 
 ises are sure ; 
 
 For every grievous wound, my son, He sends a 
 ready cure." 
 
 The father clasps her hand in his, and quickly 
 
 turns aside, 
 The heaving chest, the rising sigh, the coming 
 
 tear, to hide ; 
 Folds to his heart those loving ones, and kisses 
 
 o'er and o'er 
 That noble wife whose* faithful heart lie little 
 
 knew before. 
 
 " May God forgive me J What Is wealth to these 
 
 more precious things, 
 Whose rich affection round my heart a ceaseless 
 
 odor flings? 
 I think He knew my sordid soul was getting proud 
 
 and cold, 
 And thus to save me, gave me tliese, and took 
 
 away my gold. 
 
 " Dear ones, forgive me ; nevermore will I forget 
 
 the rod 
 That brought me safely unto you, and led me back 
 
 to God, 
 I am not poor while these bright links of precious 
 
 love remain, 
 And, Heaven helping, nevermore shall blindness 
 
 hide the chain." 
 
 —Cora M. Eager. 
 
 FARMER GREEN. 
 
 A quiet house, just off the road, 
 Of plenteous peace the sweet abode ; 
 The roses climbed about the door, 
 The porch with eglantine ran o'er, 
 While 'neath its purple flowers there sat 
 A jolly fellow, sleek and fat, 
 The master of the thriving farm, 
 Whose thrifty head and stalwart arm 
 Had pleased old Mother Earth so well 
 She made his barns and bins to swell 
 With all the fatness of the land, 
 Bestowed from out her generous hand. 
 Along the sun-beat, dusty road 
 A one-legged jaded soldier strode. 
 He stopped and viewed the quiet scene. 
 In contrast with the place he'd been ; 
 Then, humbly, to the porch he walked, 
 And to the prosperous farmer talked: 
 " My friend, I was a soldier when 
 My country called for willing men, 
 I lost my leg, the story's told; 
 I have not thriven as of old." 
 " After my long and weary trudge, 
 A bit of bread you'll not begrudge ? " 
 The farmer scanned from top to toe 
 His form ; then bluntly answered " No! " 
 The soldier felt his bosom swell, 
 And said: " A drink from out this well 
 Will quench my thirst ; by Heaven it's sent, 
 And costs you not a single cent.. 
 But still the farmer, like a foe. 
 Answered the soldier, gruffly, " No! " 
 " Good sir," the soldier humbly plead, 
 " I'm weary, footsore— almost dead. 
 A storm it comes, not far away ; 
 Within your barn, pray, let me stay." 
 But still the fanner frowned and said: 
 " My barn's no place to make a bed." 
 The soldier, now, with flashing eyes, 
 And stick upraised, in anger cries, 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 " You Ill-bred, ill-fed man of greed, 
 
 I stood your friend in hour of need. 
 
 I risked my life that you might live 
 
 Amid the plenty peace can give. 
 
 And now from out your plenteous store 
 
 You'd grudge ma bread and drink, or straw 
 
 Whereon to lay my weary head. 
 
 You grudge me ground, if I were dead, 
 
 To hide me from your stingy eye. 
 
 Keep what you've got, and so good-by! " 
 
 The farmer laughed, and as he rose, 
 
 Kept still repeating many No's! 
 
 " What is your name ? John Brown ; 'tis good, 
 
 Now, Brown, I'll ask you what you would 
 
 Have thought of me if, with good meat, 
 
 Fresh eggs, fat pullets, bacon sweet, 
 
 I'd brought you out a bit of bread, 
 
 And, when you asked for water, said 
 
 That you might drink from yonder tin, 
 
 When I've good cider here within ? 
 
 D'ye think I'd let you sleep on straw 
 
 Wiien I've got beds on every floor ? 
 
 Come in my house and I'll forget, 
 
 While paying off our little debt. 
 
 That you supposed old Farmer Green 
 
 Could be so dreadful close and mean 
 
 As to grudge a bite, a drink and bed, 
 
 While he so bountifully is fed. 
 
 No! No! my brave, I never sin, 
 
 Knowing it such, and so, come in ! " 
 
 —J- W. Watson. 
 
 ANNIE'S TICKET. 
 
 Please, sir, I have brought you the ticket 
 
 You gave her a short week ago— 
 My own little girl I am meaning, 
 
 The one with the fair hair, you know, 
 And the blue eyes so gentle and tender, 
 
 And sweet as the angels above. 
 God help me, she's one of them now, sir, 
 
 And I've nothin' at all left to love. 
 
 It came on me sudden, ye see, sir; 
 
 She was never an ailin' child, 
 Though her face was as white as a lily 
 
 And her ways just that quiet and niild. 
 The others was always a trouble, 
 
 And botherin', too, every wav, 
 But the first tears that ever she cost me 
 
 Are them that I'm sheddin' to-day. | 
 
 Twason Tuesday night that she sickened, 
 She'd been blithe as a bird all day, 
 
 Wid the ticket ye gave her, 
 And never another word 
 
 But " Mammie, just think of the music," 
 And, "Mammie, they'll give us ice-cream. 
 
 We can roll on the turf and pick posies; 
 
 Mammie ! it's just like a dream ! " 
 
 And so, when the fever came on her, 
 
 It seemed the one thought in her brain. 
 'Twould have melted the heart in your breast 
 
 To hear her, again and again. 
 Beggin', "Mammie, oh! plaze get me readv, 
 
 The boat will be goin' off, I say, 
 I hear the bell ring. Where's me ticket ? 
 
 Oh! won't we be happy to-day ! " 
 
 Three days she raved with the fever, 
 Wid her face and her hands in a flame, 
 
 But on Friday at noon she grew quiet. 
 She knew me, and called me byname. 
 
 My h^art gave a leap when I heard it, 
 But, O sir! it turned me to stone, 
 
 The look on the face, pinched and drawn like, 
 
 1 knew God had sent for His own. 
 
 And she knew it too. sir, the creature, 
 
 And said, when 1 told her the day, 
 In her weak little voice, '• Mammie, darlin', 
 
 Don't cry 'cause I'm goin' away. 
 To-morrow they'll go to the picnic— 
 
 They'li have beautiful times. I know, 
 But Heaven is like it, and better, 
 
 And so I am ready to go. 
 
 "And Mammie, I ain't a bit frightened, 
 
 There's many a little girl died, 
 .And it seems like the dear lovin' Saviour 
 
 Was standin' right here by me side 
 Take my ticket, dear Mammie, and ask them 
 
 If some other child, poor and sick, 
 That hasn't got Heaven and Jesus, 
 
 May go in my place and be glad." 
 
 And then, with " Good-bye, Mammie darlinV 
 
 She drew my lips down to her own, 
 And the One she had felt close beside her 
 
 Bent too, and I sat there alone. 
 And so I have brought you the ticket, 
 
 Though ine heart seems ready to break, 
 To ask you to let some poor creature 
 
 Feel glad for my dead darlin's sake. 
 
 WAITING FOR THE MAIL. 
 
 With anxious features worn and pale, 
 He waits the coming of the mail: 
 Each day he asks, with hope and fear, 
 "My letter, is my letter here?" 
 Each day he hears in silence dumb; 
 "Not yet, old man, it has not come." 
 The harmless madman, old and gray, 
 No one would jeer or drive away. 
 " Ah me," he says, "long years have past, 
 But it will come, 'twill come at last." 
 And so he waits in silence dumb, 
 The letter that will never come. 
 
 Through misty vision of his tears, 
 He sees the long, far-sundered years, 
 The past comes up before him there, 
 When he was strong and she was fair. 
 Once more he feels in very truth, 
 The leaping pulses of his youth : 
 A strong, strange joy he feels again 
 The old wild fever in his brain ; 
 An angry word, a careless tone, 
 And she has gone and he's alone. 
 Since then he waits in silence dumb, 
 The letter that will never come. 
 
 Alas ! his poor old wits are fled, 
 He cannot know, that she is dead ; 
 And so he asks it, o'er and o'er. 
 The same old question as before. 
 He wakes with morning light to say: 
 " My letter, it will come to-day.' 
 With tottering limbs that almost fail, 
 He creeps each morning to the mail, 
 And hears with ever new regret, 
 " Not yet, old man, not yet, not yet." 
 And so he waits in silence dumb, 
 The letter that will never come. 
 
 Ah, me! poor madman, even we 
 Are dupes of fickle destiny : 
 In ceaseless hope we waiting sit, 
 For missives that were never writ. 
 We wait to see the harvest grown, 
 Of seed that we have never sown ; 
 We seek the harbor mouth to hail 
 The vessels that will never sail. 
 We wait to see our garner filled 
 With fruits of fields we have not tilled. 
 We wait in gathering stillness dumb, 
 For letters that will never come. 
 
 ~S. W. Foss. 
 
34 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 THE CLOWN'S BABY. 
 
 .it' on the Western frontier— 
 The miners rugged and brown, 
 
 Were gathered around the posters; 
 The circus had come to town ! 
 
 The great tent shone in the darkness. 
 Like a wonderful palace of light. 
 
 And rough men crowded the entrance- 
 Shows didn't come every night: 
 
 Not a woman's face among them; 
 
 Many a face that was bad, 
 And some that were only vacant, 
 
 And some that were very sad. 
 And behind a canvas curtain, 
 
 In a corner of the place, 
 The clown, with chalk and vermillion, 
 
 Was " making up " his face. 
 
 A weary -looking woman. 
 
 With a smile that still was sweet, 
 Sewed on a little garment, 
 
 With a cradle at her feet. 
 Pantaloon stood ready and waiting, 
 
 It was the time for the going on ; 
 But the clown in vain searched wildly— 
 
 The -'property baby " was gone. 
 
 He murmured, impatiently hunting, 
 
 "It's strange that I cannot find- 
 There ! I've looked in every corner ; 
 
 It must have been left behind :'' 
 The miners were stamping and shouting, 
 
 They were not patient men ; 
 The clown bent over the cradle— 
 
 "I must take you, little Ben : " 
 
 The mother started and shivered, 
 
 But trouble and want were near; 
 She lifted her babv gently : 
 
 " You'll be very careful, dear ? " 
 " Careful ? You foolish darling '"— 
 
 How tenderly it was said ! 
 "What a smile shone thro' the chalk and paint- 
 
 •• I love each hair on his head ! " 
 
 The noise rose into an uproar, 
 
 Misrule for the time was king; 
 The clown with a foolish chuckle, 
 
 Bolted into the ring. 
 But as. with a squeak and flourish, 
 
 The fiddles closed their tune, 
 " You'll hold him as if he were made of glass? 
 
 Said the clown to pantaloon. 
 
 The Jovial fellow nodded : 
 
 "I ve a couple myself." he said, 
 "I know how to handle em, bless you! 
 
 Old fellow, go ahead : " 
 The fun grew fast and furious. 
 
 And not one of all the crowd 
 Had guessed that the baby was alive, 
 
 When he suddenly laughed aloud. 
 
 Oh. that baby laugh! it was echoed 
 
 From the benches with a ring. 
 And the roughest customer there sprang up 
 
 With, " Boys, it's the real thing: " 
 The ring was jammed in a minute, 
 
 Not a man that did not strive 
 For "a shot at holding the baby "— 
 
 The baby that was " alive ! " 
 
 He was thronged by kneeling suitors 
 
 In the midst of the dusty ring. 
 And he held his court right royally— 
 
 The fair little baby king- 
 
 Till one of the shouting courtiers, 
 
 A man with a bold, hard face, 
 The talk, for miles of the country. 
 
 And the terror of the place, 
 
 Raised the little king to his shoulder, 
 
 And chuckled " Look at that ! " 
 As the chubby fingers clutched his hair, 
 
 Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!" 
 There never was such a hatful 
 
 Of silver, and gold, and notes ; 
 People are not always penniless 
 
 Because they don't wear coats! 
 
 And then, " Three cheers for the baby! " 
 
 I tell you those cheers were meant. 
 And the way in which they were given 
 
 Was enough to raise the tent. 
 And then there was a sudden silence, 
 
 And a gruff old miner said. 
 M Come, boys, enough of this rumpus! 
 
 It's time it was put to bed." 
 
 So, looking a little sheepish. 
 But with faces strangely bright, 
 
 The audience, somewhat lingering. 
 Flocked out into the night. 
 
 And the bold-faced leader chuckled, 
 '• He wasn't a bit afraid ! 
 
 He's as game as he is good-looking- 
 Boys, that was a show that paid .' " 
 —Margaret Vandergrift, in St. Nicholas 
 
 THE COUNTERSIGN WAS " MARY.' 
 
 'Twas near the break of day. but still 
 
 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. ho! 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 sunlight 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?" 
 
 Still on it came. " Not one step more, 
 
 Be you man, or child, or fairy, 
 Unless you give the countersign. 
 
 HalH Who goes there ? " *"Tis Mary," 
 
FAMOUS DRAJ1AT1C RECITATIONS 
 
 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. 
 
 11 1 heard that you were wounded, dear," 
 
 She sobbed: " my heart was breaking ; 
 I could not stay a moment, but, 
 
 All other ties forsaken, 
 I travelled, 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 free as our prairie." 
 " Because, thank God! to-night," he said, 
 
 "The countersign is ' Mary.' " 
 
 —Margaret Ey tinge. 
 
 THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. 
 
 Dark is the night ! how dark ! no light ! no fire ! 
 Cold on the hearth the last faint sparks expire! 
 Shivering she watches by the cradle side 
 For him who pledged her love— last year a bride ! 
 " Hark! 'tis his footstep! No— 'tis past; 'tis gone; 
 Tick!— tick ! How wearily the time crawls on, 
 Why should he leave me thus? He once was 
 
 kind, 
 And I believed 'twould last— how mad ! how blind ! 
 Rest thee, my babe— rest on ! 'Tis hunger's cry ! 
 Sleep, for there is no food, the fount is dry. 
 Famine and cold their wearying work have done : 
 My heart must break! And thou! '"—the clock 
 
 strikes one. 
 *• Hush ! 'tis the dice-box. Yes, he's there, he's 
 
 there ! 
 For this, for this, he leaves me to despair! 
 Leaves love, leaves truth, his wife, his child— for 
 
 what? 
 The Wanton's smile— the villain— and the sot! 
 Yet I'll not curse him : no— 'tis all in vain. 
 'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again ; 
 And I could starve and bless him, but for you. 
 My child— his child— oh, fiend ! "—The clock strikes 
 
 two. 
 "Hark! how the sign-board creaks, the blast 
 
 howls by ! 
 Moan— moan ! A dirge swells through the cloudy 
 
 sky! 
 Ha! 'tis his knock— he comes— he comes home once 
 
 more— 
 'Tis but the lattice flaps. Thy hope is o'er. 
 Can he desert me thus? He knows I stay 
 Night after night in loneliness to pray 
 For his return— and yet he sees no tear. 
 No, no! it cannot be. He will be here. 
 Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart 
 Thou'rt cold— thou'rt freezing ; but we will not 
 
 part. 
 Husband, I die ! Father, it is not he ! 
 Oh, Heaven, protect my child ! "— The clock strikes 
 
 three. 
 They're gone! they're gone! The glimmering 
 
 spark hath fled. 
 The wife and child are number'd with the dead! 
 On the cold hearth, outstretched in solemn rest, 
 The child lies frozen on its mother's breast! 
 The gambler came at last— but all was o'er— 
 Deadf silence reigned around— he groaned— he 
 
 spoke no more ! 
 
 —Coatesf 
 
 WHICH SHALL IT BE? 
 
 Which shall it be ? Which shall it be ? 
 I looked at John, John looked at me, 
 And when I found that I must speak, 
 My voice seemed strangely low and weak, 
 "Tell me again what Robert said ; " 
 And then I listening bent my head— 
 This is his letter 
 
 " I will give 
 A house and land while you shall live, 
 If, in return, from out your seven, 
 One child to me for aye is given." 
 
 I looked at John's old garments worn ; 
 I thought of all that he had borne 
 Of poverty, and work, and care, 
 Which I, though willing, could not share; 
 I thought of seven young mouths to feed, 
 Of seven little children's need, 
 And then of this. 
 
 "Come, John," said 1, 
 "We'll choose among them as they lie 
 Asleep." So, walking hand in hand, 
 Dear John and I surveyed our band : 
 First to the cradle lightly stepped, 
 Where Lilian, the baby, slept. 
 Softly the father stooped to lay 
 His rough hand down in loving way, 
 When dream oc whisper made her stir, 
 And huskily he said : " Not her ! " 
 
 We stooped beside the trundle bed, 
 And one long ray of twilight shed 
 Athwart the boyish faces there, 
 In sleep so beautiful and fair; 
 I saw on James's rough red cheek 
 A tear undried. E'er John could speak, 
 " He's but a baby, too," said I, 
 And kissed him as we hurried by. 
 Pale, patient Robbie's angel face 
 Still in sleep bore suffering's trace, 
 " No, for a thousand crowns, not him ! " 
 He whispered, while our eyes were dim. 
 
 Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward son- 
 Turbulent, restless, idle one- 
 Could he be spared ? Nay, He who gave 
 Bade us befriend him to the grave ; 
 Only a mother's heart could be 
 Patient enough for such as he ; 
 " And so," said John, " I would not dare 
 To take him from her bedside prayer." 
 
 Then stole we softly up above, 
 
 And knelt by Mary, child of love: 
 
 " Perhaps for her 'twould better be, 
 
 I said to John. Quite silently 
 
 He lifted up a curl that lay 
 
 Across her cheek in willful way, 
 
 And shook his head : " Nay, love, not thee, 
 
 The while my heart beat audibly. 
 
 Only one more, our eldest lad. 
 Trusty and truthful, good and glad, 
 So like his father. •• No, John, no ! 
 I cannot, will not, let him go." 
 And so we wrote in courteous way, 
 We could not give one child away ; 
 And afterward toil lighter seemed, 
 Thinking of that of which we dreamed; 
 Happy in truth that not one face 
 Was missed from its accustomed place; 
 Thankful to work for all the seven. 
 Trusting the rest to One in heaven. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 these words from him — 
 Mother ! the angels do so smile, and beckon lft- 
 
 THE COLLIER'S DYING CHILD 
 
 Tiie cottoge was a thatched one, its outside old 
 
 and mean; 
 Yet everything within that cot was wondrous neat 
 
 and clean: 
 The night was dark and stormy— the wind was 
 
 blowing wild:— 
 A patient mother sat beside the deathbed of her 
 
 child— 
 A little, worn-out creature— his once bright eyes 
 
 grown dim: 
 It was a Collier's child— they called him " Little 
 
 Jim." 
 And oil ! to see the briny tears fast flowing down 
 
 her cheek, 
 As she offered up a prayer in thought!— she was 
 
 afraid to speak, 
 Lest she might waken one she loved far dearer 
 
 than her life : 
 For she had all a mother's heart, that wretched 
 
 collier's wife. 
 With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the 
 
 sufferer's bed, 
 And prays that God shall spare her boy, and take 
 
 herself instead: 
 She gets her answer from her child— soft falls 
 wqr" 
 ! tfl 
 
 tie Jim 
 I have no pain, dear mother, now ; but, oh ! I am 
 
 so dry: 
 Just moisten poor Jim's lips once more; and, 
 
 mother, do not cry ! " 
 With gentle, trembling haste, she held a tea-cup 
 
 to his lips- 
 He smiled to thank her— then he took three little 
 
 tiny sips. 
 "Tell father, when he comes from work, I said 
 
 'good night!' to him ; 
 And, 'mother, now I'll go to sleep." .... Alas! 
 
 poor Little Jim! 
 She saw that he was dying! the child she loved so 
 
 dear, 
 Had utter'd the last words she'd ever wish to 
 
 hear. 
 The cottage door is opened— the Collier's step is 
 
 heard ; 
 The father and the mother meet, but neitherspeak 
 
 a word : 
 He felt that all was over— he knew the child was 
 
 dead ! 
 He took the candle in his hand, and stood beside 
 
 the bed : 
 His quivering lip gave token of the grief he'd fain 
 
 conceal ; 
 And see, the mother joins him!— the stricken 
 
 couple kneel; 
 With hearts bowed down by sorrow, they humbly 
 
 ask, of him 
 In heaven, once more that they may meet their 
 
 own poor "Little Jim! " 
 
 —Farmer. 
 
 " NOBODY'S CHILD." 
 
 Alone in the dreary, pitiless street, 
 Wity my torn old dress and bare cold feet, 
 All day I have 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 on me so wild ? 
 Is it because I am nobody's child ? 
 
 Just over the way there's a flood of light, 
 And warmth and beauty and all things bright; 
 Beautiful children, in robes so fair, 
 Are caroling songs in rapture there. 
 
 I wonder if they in their blissful glee, 
 Would pity a poor little beggar like me, 
 Wandering alone in the merciless street, 
 Naked and shivering and nothing to eat 
 
 Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down, 
 In its terrible blackness all over the town ? 
 Shall lay me down 'neath the angry sky, 
 On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die, 
 When the beautiful children their prayers have 
 
 said, 
 And their mammas have tucked them up snugly 
 
 •in bed ? 
 For no dear mamma on me ever smiled— 
 Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child! 
 
 No father, no mother, no sister, not one 
 In all the world loves, e'en the little dogs run 
 When I wander too near; 'tis wondrous to see 
 How everything shrinks from a beggar like me! 
 Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes when I lie 
 Gazing far up in the deep, blue sky, 
 Watching for hours some large, bright star, 
 I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar. • 
 
 And a host of white-robed nameless things, 
 
 Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; 
 
 A hand that is strangely soft and fair 
 
 Caresses gently my tangled hair, 
 
 And a voice like the carol of some wild bird— 
 
 The sweetest voice that was ever heard— 
 
 Calls me many a dear pet name, 
 
 Till my heart'and spirit are all aflame. 
 
 They tell me of such unbounded love, 
 And bid me come up to their home above; 
 And then with such pitiful, sad surprise, 
 The look at me with their sweet, tender eyes, 
 And it seems to me, out of the dreary night, 
 I am going up to that world of light; 
 And away from the hunger and storm so wild, 
 I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. 
 
 THE DIAMOND WEDDING. 
 
 Come, sit close by my side, my darling, 
 
 Sit up very close to-night; 
 Let me clasp your tremulous fingers 
 
 In mine, as tremulous, quite; 
 Lay your silvery head on my bosom, 
 
 As you did when 'twas shining gold; 
 Somehow I know no difference, 
 
 Though they say we are very old. 
 
 'Tis seventy-five years ago, to-night, wife, 
 Since we knelt at the alter low, 
 
 And the fair young minister of God 
 (He died long years ago,) 
 
 Pronounced us one, that Christmas eve- 
 How short they've seemed to me, 
 
 The years— and yet, I'm ninety-seven, 
 And you are ninety-three. 
 
 That night I placed on your finger 
 
 A band of purest gold ; 
 And to-night I see it shining 
 
 On the withered hand I hold. 
 How it lightens up the memories 
 
 That o'er my vision come ! 
 First of all are the merry children 
 
 That once made glad our home. 
 
 There was Benny, our darling Benny, 
 
 Our first-born pledge of bliss, 
 As beautiful a boy as ever 
 
 Felt a mother's loving kiss. 
 'Twas hard— as we watched him fading 
 
 Like a floweret day by day— 
 To feel that He who had lent him 
 
 Was calling him away. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 My heart it grew very bitter 
 
 As I bowed beneath the stroke ; 
 And yours, though you said so little, 
 
 I knew was almost broke. 
 We made him a grave 'neath the daisies 
 
 (There are five now, instead of one), 
 And we have learned when our Father chastens 
 
 To say, "Thy will be done." 
 
 Then came Lillie and Allie— twin cherubs 
 
 Just spared from the courts of heaven 
 To comfort our hearts for a moment ; 
 
 God took as soon as he'd given. 
 Then Katie, our gentle Katie! 
 
 We thought her very fair, 
 With her blue eyes soft and tender, 
 
 And her curls of auburn hair. 
 
 Like a queen she looked at her bridal 
 
 (I thought it were you instead) ; 
 But her ashen lips kissed her first-born, 
 
 And mother and child were dead. 
 We said that of all our number 
 
 We had two, our pride and stay- 
 Two noble boys. Fred and Harry ;— . 
 
 But God thought the other way. \ 
 
 Far away on the plains of Shiloh, 
 Fred sleeps in an unknown grave: 
 
 With his ship and noble sailors, 
 Harry sank beneath the wave, 
 
 So sit closer, darling, closer- 
 Let me clasp your hand in mine: 
 
 Alone we commenced life's journey, 
 Alone we are left behind. 
 
 Your hair, once gold, to silver 
 
 They say by age has grown, 
 But I know it has caught its whiteness 
 
 From the halo round His throne. 
 They gave us a diamond wedding 
 
 This Christmas eve, dear wife ; 
 But I know your orange-blossoms 
 
 Will be a crown of life. 
 
 'Tis dark; the lamps should be lighted ; 
 
 And your hand has grown so cold. 
 Has the fire gone out ? How I shiver ! 
 
 But, then, we are very old. 
 Hush ! I hear sweet strains of music : 
 
 Perhaps the guests have come. 
 No— 'tis the children's voices— 
 
 I know them, every one. 
 
 ******* 
 On that Christmas eve they found them— 
 
 Her hand in his still rests ; 
 But they never knew their children 
 
 Had been their wedding guests. 
 With her head upon his bosom, 
 
 That had never ceased its love, 
 They held their diamond wedding 
 
 In the mansion house above. 
 
 THE OLD FORSAKEN SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 They've left the school-house, Charley, where 
 years ago we sat. 
 
 And shot our paper bullets at the master's time- 
 worn hat ; 
 
 The hook is gone on which it hung, and the mas- 
 ter sleepeth now 
 
 Where school-boy tricks can never cast a shadow 
 o'er his brow. 
 
 They've built a new, imposing one— the pride of 
 
 all the town, 
 And laughing lads and lasses go its broad steps 
 
 up and down ; 
 A tower crowns its summit with a new, a monster 
 
 bell, 
 That youthful ears, in distant homes, may hear its 
 
 music swell. 
 
 I'm sitting in the old one, with its battered, hinge- 
 less door ; 
 
 The windows are all broken, and the stones lie on 
 floor ; 
 
 I, alone, of all the boys who romped and studied 
 here, 
 
 Remain to see it battered up and left so lone and 
 drear. 
 
 I'm sitting on the same old bench where we sat 
 
 side by side 
 And carved our names upon the desk, when not 
 
 by master eyed ; 
 Since then a dozen boys have sought their great 
 
 skill to display, 
 And, like the foot-prints on the sand, our names 
 
 have passed away. 
 
 'Twas here we learned to conjugate " amo, amas, 
 
 amat," 
 While glances from the lasses made our heart go 
 
 pit-a-pat ; 
 'Twas here we fell in love, you know, with girls 
 
 who looked us through— 
 Yours with her piercing eyes of black, and mine 
 
 with eyes of blue. 
 
 Our sweethearts— pretty girls were they— to us 
 
 how very dear- 
 Bow down your head with me, my boy, and shed 
 
 for them a tear ; 
 With them the earthly school is out ; each lovely 
 
 maid now stands 
 Before the one Great Master, in the " house not 
 
 made with hands." 
 
 You tell me you are far out West; a lawyer, deep 
 
 in laws, 
 With Joe, who sat behind us here, and tickled us 
 
 with straws ; 
 Look out for number one, my boys ; may wealth 
 
 come at your touch ; 
 But with your long, strong legal straws don't 
 
 tickle men too much. 
 
 Here, to the right, sat Jimmy Jones— you must re- 
 member Jim- 
 He's teaching now, and punishing, as master pun- 
 ished him ; 
 What an unlucky lad he was ? his sky was dark 
 
 with woes ; 
 Whoever did the sinning it was Jim who got the 
 blows. 
 
 Those days are all gone by, my boys; life's hill 
 
 we're going down, 
 With here and there a silver hair amid the 
 
 school-boy brown ; 
 But memory can never die, so we'll talk o'er the 
 
 joys 
 We shared together, in this house, when you and I 
 
 were boys. 
 
 Though ruthless hands may tear it down— this old 
 
 house lone and drear, 
 They'll not destroy the characters that started 
 
 out from here ; 
 Time's angry waves may sweep the shore and 
 
 wash out all beside ; 
 Bright as the stars that shine above, they shall 
 
 for ay*e abide. 
 
 I've seen the new house, Charley; 'tis the pride 
 
 of all the town, 
 And laughing lads and lasses go its broad steps 
 
 up and down ; 
 But you or I, my dear old friend, can't love it half 
 
 as well 
 As this condemned, forsaken "one, with cracked 
 
 and tongueless bell. 
 
 —JohnH. Yates. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC It E CITATIONS. 
 
 AN OLD. SWEETHEART OP MINE. 
 
 As one who cons at evening o'er an album all 
 alone, 
 
 And muses on the faces of the friends that he lias 
 known: 
 
 So I turn the leaves of fancy till in shadowy de- 
 sign 
 
 I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of 
 mine. 
 
 J The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of 
 I surprise 
 
 I As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my 
 eyes, 
 And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that 
 
 seems to yoke 
 Its fate with my tobacco, and to vanish in the 
 smoke. 
 
 Tis a fragrant retrospection, for the loving 
 thoughts that start 
 
 Into being are like perfumes from the blossoms of 
 the heart; 
 
 And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury di- 
 vine, 
 
 When my truant fancy wanders with that old 
 sweetheart of mine. 
 
 Though, I hear, beneath my study, like a flutter- 
 ing of wings, 
 
 The voices of my children and the mother as she 
 sings, 
 
 I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any 
 theme 
 
 When care lias cast her anchor in the harbor of a 
 dream. 
 
 In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a 
 charm 
 
 To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of 
 harm ; 
 
 For I find an extra flavor in memory's mellow 
 vine 
 
 That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweet- 
 heart of mine. 
 
 A face of lily beauty and a form of airy grace 
 Floats out of my tobacco as the genius from the 
 
 vase; 
 And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure 
 
 eyes 
 As glowing as the summer and as tender as the 
 
 skies. 
 
 I can see the pink sun -bonnet and the little check- 
 ered dress 
 She wore when first I kissed her, and she an- 
 swered the caress 
 [With the written declaration that " as surely as 
 the vine 
 ew 'round the stump, she loved me," that old 
 sweetheart of mine. 
 
 And again I feel the pressure of her slender little 
 
 hand 
 As we used to talk together of the future we had 
 
 planned; 
 When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to 
 
 do 
 But to write the tender verses that she set the 
 
 music to. 
 
 When we should live together in a cosy little cot 
 Hid in a nest of roses, with a tiny garden spot 
 Where the vines were ever fruitful and the 
 
 weather ever fine, 
 And the birds were ever singing for that old 
 
 sweetheart of mine. 
 
 When I should be her lover forever and a day, 
 And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden 
 
 hair was gray: 
 And we should be so happy that when either'slips 
 
 were dumb 
 They should not smile in heaven till the other's 
 
 kiss had come. 
 
 But, ah, my dream is broken by a step upon the 
 
 stair. 
 And the door is softly opened, and my wife is 
 
 standing there ; 
 Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I 
 
 resign 
 To meet the living presence of that old sweetheart 
 
 of mine. 
 
 —James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 IN THE MINING* TOWN. 
 
 " 'Tis the last time, darling," he gently said, 
 As he kissed her lips like the cherries red. 
 While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown ! 
 " My own is the prettiest girl in town ! 
 To-morrow the bells from the tower will ring 
 A joyful peal. Was there ever a king 
 So truly blest, on his royal throne, 
 As I shall be when I claim my own ? " 
 
 'Twas a fond farewell ; 'twas a sweet good-by, 
 But she watched him go with a troubled sigh. 
 So, into the basket that swayed and swung 
 O'er the yawning abyss, he lightly sprung. 
 And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe 
 As they lowered him to the depths below. 
 Her sweet, young face, with its tresses brown, 
 Was the fairest face in the mining town. 
 
 Lo! the morning came ; but the marriage bell, 
 High up in the tower, rang a mournful knell 
 For the true heart buried 'neath earth and stone, 
 Far down in the heart of the mine— alone.. 
 A sorrowful peal on their wedding-day, 
 For the breaking heart and the heart of clav ; 
 And the face that looked from her tresses brown, 
 Was the saddest face in the mining town. 
 
 Thus time rolled along on its weary way, 
 Until fifty years, with their shadows gray, 
 Had darkened the light of her sweet eyes' glow, 
 And had turned the brown of her hair to snow. 
 Oil! never the kiss from a husband's lips, 
 Or the clasp of a child's sweet finger tips, 
 Had lifted one moment the shadows brown 
 From the saddest heart in the mining town. 
 
 Far down in the depths of the mine, one day, 
 In the loosened earth they were digging away ; 
 They discovered a face, so young, so fair ; 
 From the smiling lip to the bright brown hair, 
 Untouched by the fingers of Time's decay : 
 When they drew him up to the light of day, 
 The wondering people gathered 'round 
 To gaze at a man thus strangely found. 
 
 Then a woman came from among the crowd, 
 With her long white hair and her slight form 
 
 bowed. 
 She silently knelt by the form of clay, 
 And kissed the lips that were cold and gray. 
 Then, the sad old face, with its snowy hair 
 On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there, 
 He had found her at last, his waiting bride, 
 And the people buried them side by side. 
 
 —Rose Hartwck Thorpe. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 39 
 
 * THE TELEGRAM. 
 
 " Is this the tel'graph office ? " 
 
 Asked a childish voice one day, 
 As I noted the click of my instrument 
 
 With its message from far away , 
 As it oeased, I turned ; at my elbow 
 
 Stood the merest scrap of a boy, 
 Whose childish face was all aglow 
 
 With the light of hidden joy. 
 
 The golden curls on his forehead 
 
 Shaded eyes of deepest blue, 
 As if a bit of the summer sky 
 
 Had lost in them its hue ; 
 They scanned my office rapidly 
 
 From ceiling down to floor, 
 Then turned on mine their eager gaze, 
 
 As he asked the question o'er. 
 
 " Is this the tel'graph office ? " 
 
 " It is, my little man." 
 I said, " pray tell me what you want, 
 
 And I'll help you if I can ; " 
 Then the blue eyes grew more eager, 
 
 And the breath came thick and fast ; 
 And I saw within the chubby hands, 
 
 A folded paper grasped. 
 
 " Nurse told me," he said, " that the lightning 
 
 Came down on the wires some day ; 
 And my mamma has gone to heaven 
 
 And I'm lonely since she is away, 
 For my papa is very busy 
 
 And hasn't much time for me, 
 So I thought I'd write her a letter, 
 
 And I've brought it for you to see 
 
 " I've printed it big so the angels 
 
 Could read out quick the name, 
 And carry it straight to my mamma, 
 
 And tell her how it came ; 
 And now won't you please to take it, 
 
 And throw it up good aud strong, 
 Against the wires in a funder shower, 
 
 And the angels will take it along." 
 
 Ah ! what could I tell the darling ? 
 
 For my eyes were filling fast ; 
 I turned away to hide the tears, 
 
 But I cheerfully spoke at last: 
 " I'll do the best I can, my child," 
 
 'Twas all that I could say ; 
 " Thank you," he said, then scanned the sky ; 
 
 '* Do you think it will funder to-day ? " 
 
 But the blue sky smiled in answer, 
 
 And the sun shone dazzling bright, 
 And his face, as he slowly turned away, 
 
 Lost some of its gladsome light ; 
 " But nurse," he said, " if I stay so long, 
 
 Won't let me come any more ; 
 So good-bye, I'll come and see you again 
 
 Right after a funder shower." 
 
 BOW THE PARSON BROKE THE SABBATH. 
 
 On the grave of Parson Williams 
 The grass is brown and bleached ; 
 
 It is the more than fifty winters 
 Since he lived and laughed and preached. 
 
 But his memory in New England 
 
 No winter snows can kill • 
 Of his goodness -and his drollness 
 
 Countless legends linger still. 
 
 And among those treasured legends, 
 
 I hold this one as a boon- 
 How he got in Deacon Crosby's hay 
 
 On a Sunday afternoon. 
 
 He was midway in a sermon. 
 
 Most orthodox, on grace, 
 When a sound of distant thunder 
 
 Broke the quiet of the place. 
 
 Now the meadow of the Crosby's 
 
 Lay full within his sight, 
 As he glanced from out the window 
 
 Which stood open on his right. 
 
 And the green and fragrant haycocks 
 
 By acres there did stand ! 
 Not a meadow like the deacon's 
 
 Far or near in all the land. 
 
 Quick and loud the claps of thunder 
 
 Went rolling to the skies, 
 And the parson saw his deacon 
 
 Looking out with anxious eyes. 
 
 " Now, my brethren," called the parson, 
 And he called with might and main, 
 
 "We must get in Brother Crosby's hay; 
 'Tis our duty now most plain ! " 
 
 And he shut the great red Bible, 
 And tossed his sermon down : 
 
 Not a man could turn more swiftly 
 Than the parson in that town. 
 
 And he ran now to the meadow, 
 With all his strength and speed ; 
 
 And the congregation followed, 
 All bewildered in his lead. 
 
 With a will they worked and shouted, 
 
 And cleared the fields apace ; 
 And the parson led the singing, 
 . While the sweat rolled down his face. 
 
 And it thundered fiercer, louder, 
 And the dark grew east and west ; 
 
 But the hay was under cover, 
 And the parson had worked best. 
 
 And again in pew and pulpit 
 Their places took, composed ; 
 
 And the parson preached his sermon 
 To "fifteenth/' where it closed. 
 
 -H.H, 
 
 OLD AUNT MARY'S. 
 
 Wasn't it pleasant, oh, brother mine, 
 In those old days of the lost sunshine 
 Of youth, when the Saturday's chores \ 
 
 - through, 
 And the " Sunday wood " in the kitchen, too, 
 And we went visiting, "me and you," 
 
 Out to old Aunt Mary's ? 
 
 It all comes back so clear to-day! 
 Though I am as bald as you are gray- 
 Out by the barn-lot and down by the lane 
 We patter along in the dust again 
 As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, 
 Out to old Aunt Mary's 1 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 We cross the pasture, and through the wood 
 Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood ; 
 Where the hammering "red-heads'' hopped awry, 
 And the buzzard "raised" in the "clearing" 
 
 sky, 
 And lolled and circled as we went by, 
 Out to old Aunt Mary's. 
 
 And then in the dust of the road again ; 
 And the teams we met. and the countrymen ; 
 And the long highway with sunshine spread 
 As thick as butter on country bread, 
 Our cares behind and our hearts ahead, 
 Out to old Aunt Mary's. 
 
 Why, I see her now in the open door 
 Where the gourds grew up the sides, and o'er 
 The clapboard roof! And- her face— ah, me, 
 Wasn't it good for a boy to see, 
 And wasn't it good for a boy to be 
 Out to old Aunt Mary's! 
 
 And, oh, my brother, so far away, 
 This is to tell you she waits to-day 
 To welwme us. Aunt Mary fell 
 Asleep this morning, whispering, "Tell 
 The boys to come ! " and all is well 
 Out to old Aunt Mary's ! 
 
 —James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY. 
 
 She stood at the bar of justice* 
 
 A creature wan and wild, 
 In form too small for a woman, 
 
 In features too old for a child, 
 For a look so worn and pathetic 
 
 Was stamped on her pale young face, 
 It seemed long years of suffering 
 
 Must have left that silent trace. 
 
 " Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her 
 
 With kindly look yet keen, 
 •' Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir. 
 
 " And your age ? "— "I am turned fifteen.'' 
 " Well, Mary," and then from a paper 
 
 He slowly and gravely read, 
 " You are charged here— I'm sorry to say it— 
 
 With stealing three loaves of bread. 
 
 "You look not like an offender, 
 
 And I hope that you can show 
 The charge to be false. Now, tell me, 
 
 Are you guilty of this, or no ? " 
 A passionate burst of weeping 
 
 Was at first her sole reply, 
 But she dried her eyes in a moment, 
 
 And looked in the judge's eye. 
 
 "I will tell you just how it was, sir, 
 
 My father and mother are dead, 
 And my little brother and sisters 
 
 Were hungry and asked me for bread. 
 At first I earned it for them 
 
 By working hard all day, 
 But somehow times were bad. sir, 
 
 And the work all fell away. 
 
 " I could get no more employment 
 
 The weather was bitter cold, 
 The young ones cried and shivered— 
 
 (Little Johnny's but four years old)— 
 So, what was I to do, sir ? 
 
 I am guilty, but do not condemn, 
 I took— <>h, was it stealing f— 
 
 The bread to give to them." 
 
 Every man in the court-room— « 
 
 Gray-beard and thoughtless youth- 
 Knew, as he looked upon her, 
 
 That the prisoner spake the truth, 
 Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, 
 
 Out from their eyes sprung tears, 
 And out from their old faded wallets 
 
 Treasures hoarded for years. 
 
 The judge's face was a study— 
 
 The strangest you ever saw, 
 As he cleared his throat and murmured 
 
 Something about the law. 
 For one so learned in such matters, 
 
 So wise in dealing with men, 
 He seemed, on a simple question. 
 
 Sorely puzzled just then. 
 
 But no one blamed him or wondered, 
 
 When at last these words they heard. 
 ' The sentence of this young prisoner 
 
 Is, for the present, deferred." 
 And no one blamed him or wondered 
 
 When he went to her and smiled, 
 And tenderly led from the court-room, 
 
 Himself, the " guilty " child. 
 
 THE LOST KISS. 
 
 I put by the half-written poem, 
 
 W r hile the pen, idly trailed in my hand, 
 Writes on: " Had I words to complete it, 
 
 Who'd read it, or who'd understand?'' 
 But the little bare feet on the stairway, 
 
 And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, 
 And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, 
 
 Cry up to me over it all. 
 
 So I gathered it up— where was broken 
 
 The tear-faded thread of my theme. 
 Telling how, as one night I sat writing, 
 
 A fairy broke in on my dream ; 
 A little inquisitive fairy— 
 
 My own little girl, with the gold 
 Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy 
 
 Blue eyes of the fairies of old. 
 
 'Twas the dear little girl I had scolded. 
 
 " For was it a moment like this," 
 I said, " when «he knew I was busy, 
 
 To come romping in for a kiss ? 
 Come rowdying up from her mother, 
 
 And clamoring there at my knee 
 For ' one 'ittle kiss for my dolly, 
 
 And un 'ittle uzzer to me ! ' " 
 
 God pity the heart that repelled her 
 
 And the cold hand that turned her away 
 And take from the lips that denied her 
 
 This answerless prayer of to-day ! 
 Take, Lord, from my mera'ry forever 
 
 That pitiful sob of despair, 
 And the patter and trip of the little bare feet, 
 
 And the one piercing cry on the stair! 
 
 I put by the half-written poem, 
 
 While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, 
 Writes on : " Had I words to complete it, 
 
 Who'd read it, or who'd understand ? " 
 But the little bare feet on the stairway, 
 
 And the faint, smothered laugh In the hall, 
 And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, 
 
 Cry up to me over it a 11.- 
 
 — James Whitcomb Riley, 
 
.FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS, 
 
 41 
 
 DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 
 
 Out of the clover and blue eyed grass, 
 He turned them into the river-lane ; 
 
 One after another he let them pass, 
 And fastened the meadow bars again. 
 
 Under the willows and over the hill, 
 He patiently followed their sober space ; 
 
 The merry whistle for once was still, 
 And something shadowed the sunny face. 
 
 Only a boy ! and his father had said 
 He never would let his youngest go; 
 
 Two already were lying dead, 
 Under the feet of the trampling foe. 
 
 But after the evening work was done, 
 And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, 
 
 Over his shoulder he slung his gun, 
 And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. 
 
 Across the clover and through the wheat, 
 With resolute heart and purpose grim, 
 
 Though cold was the dew on the hurrying feet, 
 And the blind bats flitting startled him. 
 
 Thrice since then had the lane been white, 
 And the orchard sweet with apple bloom ; 
 
 And now when the cows came back at night, 
 The feeble father drove them home. 
 
 For news had come to the lonely farm 
 That three were lying where two had lain ; 
 
 And the old man's tremulous palsied arm 
 Could never lean on a son's again. 
 
 The summer day grew cold and late. 
 He went for the cows when the work was done ; 
 
 But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
 He saw them coming one by one. 
 
 Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
 Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; 
 
 Cropping the buttercups out of the grass- 
 But who was it following close behind ? 
 
 Loosely swung in the idle air 
 
 The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
 And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 
 
 Looked out a face that the father knew. 
 
 For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
 And yield their dead unto life again ; 
 
 And the day.that comes with a cloudy dawn 
 In golden glory at last may wane. 
 
 The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; 
 
 For the heart must speak when the lips are 
 dumb ; 
 And under the silent evening skies 
 
 Together they followed the cattle home. 
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE. 
 
 Loud roar the winds, the cutting ice-bolts fall, 
 The whirling snow is borne along the air, 
 
 The frozen streams shriek to the wind's wild call- 
 The pine trees writhe like giants in despair. 
 
 Cold by the hearth a shivering mother kneels, 
 Clasped to her breast a hunger-dying child ; 
 
 The life-blood in her veins with cold congeals— 
 Starvation beams from out her dark eye wild. 
 
 4i O God ! " she cries, '• O God, look on my child ! 
 
 Dear Heaven, have pity! my poor •darling spar 
 To die— to die! those lips that on me smiled— 
 
 To wither in the grave-mold this brow fair! 
 
 "Black gloom and darkness— chillier grows the 
 night; 
 
 The midnight bell has tolled ; he is not here ! 
 He lingers o er the wine-cup red and bright— 
 
 OGod! OGod! is morning drawing near ? 
 
 'My babe— how cold; my tears freeze on thy 
 
 cheek ! 
 O husband, come ! why linger thus away ? 
 Hark! hear the rushing of the wild winds bleak! 
 No food— no fire to cheer the coming day ! 
 
 " My loved, my lost, my husband, turn and flee I 
 Oh, flee the monster, ere thy doom is fixed ! 
 
 Cursed be the wine-cup ! thrice accursed be he 
 Who for his fellow-man hath poison mixed ! 
 
 " My child, O mercy ! pity from above ! 
 
 Why does he turn on me such wild, strange eyes ? 
 Why does his face beam with such holy love ? 
 
 Ah, can it be he's waning to the skies! 
 
 '« See how he gasps— he groans— O Death ! O Death ! 
 My husband, come ! he's dying— he our own ! 
 
 Oh, for one kiss ere flees his blessed breath- 
 Great God, 'tis o'er— and I am all alone ! 
 
 " My darling one, my beautiful, my bright, 
 Thou 'rt gone ere sorrow in thy breast was born ; 
 
 I follow thee— flees far the pitchy night ! 
 Husband, farewell— O Saviour, breaks the morn !'* 
 
 Wild the dark winds sang on ; the drifting snow 
 Wrapt the wan corpses in its pitying shroud. 
 
 The drunkard lingered in the wine's red glow, 
 Where on the air fell laughter long and loud. 
 
 The eastern heavens blushed with waking life, 
 The crimson day across the orient broke ; 
 
 In lands where breezes with warm sweets are rife, 
 The mother and her angel child awoke ! 
 
 —Clara Augusta, 
 
 SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 
 
 The woman was old and ragged and gray, 
 And bent with the chill of a winter's day ; 
 The streets were white with a recent snow, 
 And the woman's feet with age were slow. 
 
 At the crowded crossing she waited long, 
 Jostled aside by the careless throng 
 Of human beings who passed her by, 
 Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye. 
 
 Down the street with laughter and shout. 
 Glad in the freedom of " school let out," 
 Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep, 
 Hailing the snow piled white and deep; 
 Past the woman, so old and gray, 
 Hastened the children on their way. 
 
 None offered a helping hand to her, 
 
 So weak and timid, afraid to stir, 
 
 Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet 
 
 Should trample her down in the slippery street 
 
 At last came out of the merry troop 
 The gayest boy of all the group ; 
 He paused beside her, and whispered low, 
 " I'll help you across, if you wish to go." 
 
 Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
 She placed, and so without hurt or harm 
 He guided the trembling feet along, 
 Proud that his own were young and strong: 
 Then back again to his friends he went, 
 His young heart haopy and well content. 
 

 FAMOUS DRAMATIC BECtTJmOtfS. 
 
 " She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, 
 For all she's aged, and poor and slow ; 
 And some one, some time, may lend a hand 
 To help my mother— you understand ?— 
 If ever she's old and poor and gray, 
 And her own dear boy so far away." 
 
 "Somebody's mother " bowed low her head 
 In her home that night, and' the prayer she said 
 Was: "God be kind to that noble boy, 
 Who is somebody's son and pride and joy." 
 Faint was the voice, and worn and weak, 
 But Heaven lists when its chosen speak ; 
 Angels caught the faltering word, 
 And "Somebody's Mother's" prayer was heard. 
 
 BILL MASON'S RIDE. 
 
 Half an hour till train time, sir, 
 An' a fearful dark time, too ; 
 
 Take a look at the switch-lights, Tom, 
 Fetch in a stick when you're through. 
 
 " On time ? " well, yes, I guess so- 
 Left the last station all right— 
 
 She'll come round thecurve a fly in'; 
 Bill Mason comes up to-night. 
 
 You know Bill ? No! He's engineer, 
 
 Been on the road all his life— 
 I'll never forget the mornin' 
 
 He married his chuck of a wife, 
 'Twas the summer the mill hands struck— 
 
 Just off work, every one ; 
 They kicked up a row in the village ' 
 
 And killed old Donevan's son. 
 
 But hadn't been married mor'n an' hour, 
 
 Up comes a message from Kress, 
 Orderin' Bill to go up there, 
 
 And bring down the night express. 
 He left his gal in a hurry, 
 
 And went up on number one, 
 Thinking of nothing but Mary, 
 
 And the train he had to run. 
 
 And Mary sat down by the window 
 
 To wait for the night express ; 
 And, sir, if she hadn't a' done so, 
 
 She'd been a widow, I guess. 
 For it must a' been nigh midnight 
 
 When the mill-hands left the Ridge— 
 They come down— the drunken devils! 
 
 Tore up a rail from the bridge. 
 But Mary heard 'em a workiir 
 
 And guessed there was somethin' wrong- 
 And in less than fifteen minutes, 
 
 Bill's train it would be along 1 
 
 She couldn't come here to tell vs. 
 
 A mile— it would'nt a done— 
 So she jest grabbed up a lantern, 
 
 And made for the bridge alone. 
 Then down came the night express, sir, 
 
 And Bill was makin' her climb! 
 But Mary held the lantern, 
 
 A-swingin' it all the time. 
 
 Well! by Jove! Bill saw the signal, 
 
 And he stopped the night express, 
 And he found his Mary cryin' ; 
 
 On the track, in her weddin' dTess; 
 Cryin' an laughin' for joy, sir, 
 
 An' holdln' on to the light- 
 Hello! here's the train— good-bye, sir, 
 
 Bill Mason's on time to-night. 
 
 — F. Bret Hart': 
 
 UNCLE JOE. 
 
 I have in memory a little story, 
 
 That few indeed would care to tell but me; 
 'Tis not of love, nor fame, nor yet of glory, 
 
 Although a little colored with the three ; 
 In very truth, I think as much perchance, 
 At most tales disembodied from romance. 
 
 Joe lived about the village, and was neighbor 
 To every one who had hard work to do ; 
 
 If he possessed a genius, 'twas for labor, 
 Most people thought ; but there were one or two, 
 
 Who sometimes said, when he arose to go, 
 
 " Come again and see«is, again, Uncle Joe! 
 
 The " Uncle " was a courtesy they gave. 
 And felt they could afford to give to him, 
 
 Just as the master makes of some good slave 
 An Aunt Jemima, or an Uncle Jim ; 
 
 And of this dubious kindness Joe was glad : 
 
 Poor fellow, it was all he ever had! 
 
 A mile or so away he had a brother— 
 A rich, proud man that people didn't hire ; 
 
 But Joe had neither sister, wife nor mother 
 And baked his corn-cake at his cabin fire 
 
 After the day's work, hard for you or me, 
 
 But her was never tired -how could he be ? 
 
 The called him dull, but he had eyes of quickness 
 For everybody that he could befriend ; 
 
 Said one and all, " How kind he is in sickness." 
 But there, of course, his goodness had an end. 
 
 Another praise there was might have been given, 
 
 For one or more days out of every seven— 
 
 With his old pickaxe swung across his shoulder, 
 And downcast eyes, and slow and sober tread, 
 
 He sought the place of graves, and each beholder 
 Wondered, and asked some other who was dead; 
 
 But when he digged all day, nobody thought 
 
 That he had done a whit more than he ought. 
 
 At length one winter, when the sunbeams slanted 
 Faintly and cold across the churchyard snow, 
 
 The bell tolled out— alas ! a grave was wanted, 
 And all looked anxiously for Uncle Joe ; 
 
 His spade stood there against his own roof-tree 
 
 There was his pickaxe, too, but where was he 1 
 
 They called and called again, but no replying ; 
 
 Smooth at the window, and about the door 
 The snow in cold and heavy drifts was lying. 
 
 He didn't need the daylight any more. 
 One shook him roughly, and another said, 
 "As true as preaching, Uncle Joe is dead! " 
 
 And when they wrapped him in the linen, fairer, 
 And finer too. than he had worn till then, 
 
 They found a picture— haply of the sharer, 
 Of sunny hope some time ; or where or when 
 
 They did not care to know, but closed his eyes 
 
 And placed it in the coffin where he lies ! 
 
 None wrote his epitaph, nor saw the beauty 
 Of the pure love that reached into the grave, 
 
 Nor how in unobtrusive ways of duty, 
 He kept, despite the dark; but men less brave 
 
 Have left great names, while not a willow bends 
 
 Above his dust— poor Joe, he had no friends ! 
 
 ALEC YEATON'S SON. 
 
 The wind it wailed, the wind it moaned. 
 And the white caps flecked the sea; 
 
 "An' I would to God," the skipper groaned, 
 " I had not ray boy with me ! " 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 43 
 
 Snug In the stern sheets, little John 
 
 Laughed as the scud swept by ; 
 But the skipper's sunburnt cheek grew wan 
 
 As he watched the wicked sky. 
 
 " Would he were at his mother's side I" 
 
 And the skipper's eyes were dim. 
 " Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide, 
 
 What would become of him ! 
 
 " For me— my muscles are as steel, 
 
 For me let hap what may; 
 I might make shiftupon this keel 
 
 Until the break o' day. 
 
 " But he, he is so weak and small, 
 So young, scarce learned to stand— 
 
 O pitying Father of us all, 
 I trust him in Thy hand! 
 
 " For Thou, who markest from on high 
 
 A sparrow's fall— each one ! 
 Surely, O Lord, Thou'lt have an eye 
 
 On Alec Yeaton's son! " 
 
 Then, helm hard aport, right straight he sailed 
 
 Toward the headland light ; 
 The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed, 
 
 And black, black fell the night. 
 
 Then burst a storm to make one quail 
 Though housed from winds and waves— 
 
 They who could tell about that gale 
 Must rise from watery graves ! 
 
 Sudden it came, as sudden went ; 
 
 Ere half the night was sped, 
 The winds were hushed, the waves were spent, 
 
 And the stars shone overhead. 
 
 Now, as the morning mist grew thin, 
 
 The folk on Gloucester shore 
 Saw a little figure floating in 
 
 Secure, on a broken oar ! 
 
 Up rose the cry, " A wreck a wreckj 
 Pull mates, and waste no breath—" 
 
 They knew it, though 'twas but a speck 
 Upon the edge of death! 
 
 Long did they marvel in the town 
 
 At God his strange decree, 
 That let the stalwart skipper drown, 
 
 And the little child go free ! " 
 
 —Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 
 
 THE TRAMP. 
 
 Lemme sit down a minute, a stone's got in my 
 
 shoe : 
 Don't you commence your cussin', I ain't done 
 
 nothin' to you. 
 Yes, I'm a tramp. What of it ? Folks say we 
 
 ain't no good, 
 But tramps has to live, I reckon, though folks 
 
 don't think we should. 
 Once I was strong and handsome, had plenty of 
 
 cash and clothes ; 
 That was afore I tippled and gin got into mv 
 
 nose. 
 Down in Lehigh'Valley me and mv people grew, 
 I was a blacksmith, cap'en— yes, and a good one, 
 
 too; ^ 
 
 Me and my wife and Nellie— Nellie was just six- 
 teen, 
 She was the pootiest creature the valley had ever 
 
 seen. 
 Beaux? Why, she had a dozen— had 'em from 
 
 near and fur. 
 But they were mostly farmers, none of 'em suited 
 
 her. 
 
 There was a city stranger, young, handsome and 
 
 tall. 
 Damn him— I wish I had him strangled agin that 
 
 wall. 
 He was the man for Nellie— she didn't know no 
 
 ill; 
 Mother she tried to stop It, but you know a young 
 
 girl's will, 
 Well, it's the same old story— common enough 
 
 vou'll say, 
 He was a soft-ton gued .devil, and he got her to run 
 
 away. 
 More than a month after we heard from the poor 
 
 young thing; 
 He'd gone away and left her without a wedding 
 
 ring. 
 Back to her home we brought her, back to her 
 
 mother's side, 
 FilPd with a raging fever— she fell at my feet and 
 
 died. 
 Frantic with shame and trouble, her mother be- 
 gan to sink- 
 Dead— in less than a fortnight— that's when I took 
 
 to drink. 
 Gimme one glass, Curnel, and then I'll be on my 
 
 way. 
 I'll tramp till I find that scoundrel, if it takes till 
 
 the Judgment Day. 
 
 THE OLD WIPE'S KISS. 
 The funeral service ended the voice of prayer had 
 
 CGRSGd. 
 
 It was an aged pilgrim, whose soul had been re- 
 leased. 
 
 The neighbors were conversing in whispered un- 
 dertone, 
 
 Yet the old wife at the coffin-head in silence stood 
 alone. 
 
 Her wet eyes gazed intently upon the shriveled 
 face. 
 
 The furrowed history written there her soul could 
 plainly trace. 
 
 She saw in that sad moment his whole life pic- 
 tured there, 
 
 Old-age, strong manhood, bouyant youth, when 
 both were young and fair. 
 
 Again a bright hope sprang to life, a moment— 
 
 but the pall 
 Recalled her desolation, her loneliness and all. 
 No home, no husband, children gone ; oh, agony ! 
 
 oh, pain ! 
 The fallen Keystone of that arch could ne'er be 
 
 placed again. 
 
 And 'mid the shattered fragments she bowed her 
 trembling head 
 
 And stretched her withered piteous hands in si- 
 lence toward the dead, 
 
 And gazed in dumb expectancy— then left one lin- 
 gering kiss, 
 
 Expressing every siptiment that fills a life like 
 this; 
 
 A kiss of love, of sorrow, of memory, of farewell ; 
 A kiss with life's whole history all crowded in its 
 
 spell. 
 But look! whence comes? that gayish hue, that 
 
 sudden gasp for breath ? 
 The limp hands fell, the form sinks down into the 
 
 arms of death ! 
 
 Oh, say not spirits meet and kiss. The worn-out 
 
 thread of life 
 Snapped in the ecstacy of bliss when husband 
 
 claimed his wife. 
 Oh, say not that his unseen hands were clasped in 
 
 grateful prayer, 
 When tha-t grand kiss released her soul and gave 
 
 it to his care. 
 
 —Eliza Lamb Marty n. 
 
u 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 JOHN WHITE'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 " Thanksgiving !— for what ? " 
 
 —and he muttered a curse— 
 '• For the plainest of food 
 
 and an empty purse ; 
 For a life of hard work 
 
 and the shabbiest clothes ? 
 But it's idle to talk 
 
 of a poor man's woes ! 
 Let the rich give thanks, 
 
 it is they who can ; 
 There is nothing in life 
 
 for a laboring man." 
 So said John White 
 
 to his good wife Jane, 
 And o'er her face 
 
 stole a look of pain. 
 " Nothing, dear John ? " 
 
 and he thought again ; 
 Then glanced more kindly 
 
 down on Jane. 
 " I was wrong," he said ; 
 
 " I'd forgotten you. 
 Aud I've my health, 
 
 and the baby, too." 
 And the baby crowed— 
 
 ' 'twas a bouncing boy— 
 And o'er Jane's face 
 
 came a look of joy ; 
 And she kissed her John 
 
 as he went away ; 
 And he said to himself, 
 
 as he worked that day: 
 " I was wrong, very wrong ; 
 
 I'll not grumble again, 
 I should surely be thankful 
 
 for baby and Jane." 
 
 WHO'S DEAD. 
 
 Excuse me for stopping you here, sir; I'd like 
 
 just a word if you please ; 
 There's a crape on the front door yonder and a 
 
 hearse standing under the trees. 
 Perhaps you're a friend of the dead, sir— I see 
 
 you've a band on your hat— 
 And I'd like just to ask you a question, Who's 
 
 dead in the Kennedy flat ? 
 
 Acquaint with the folks? Well, yes, rather; 
 
 p'r'aps better than most as is there ; 
 There's Dick, and there's Sam and there's Billy, 
 
 and mother— no wonder you stare, 
 It slipped out afore I could help it; I ain't been 
 
 myself all the day— 
 You may have heard tell of the bad 'un, the 
 
 drunkard, as went away ? 
 
 You've not ? Well, it's like them three fellows to 
 
 hide all they can of my shame, 
 And just like that dearest of mothers to let no one 
 
 blacken my name! 
 It's soiled enough, God is my witness, but cleanse 
 
 it I will if I can ; 
 I've done with the whiskey forever, and come 
 
 back to mother— a man ! 
 
 Come back ! Aye, to stand here and tremble and 
 
 gaze at the crape on the door. 
 Mebbe him as is dead might be living had the 
 
 truant but come back before. 
 P'r'aps the thoughts of a wrongdoin 1 brother 
 
 made him grieve when the Doc wasn't there, 
 And they s;iv that in sickness a heartache can 
 
 undo the tenderest care. 
 
 Come, tell me, who's gone at the flat, sir ? Nay, 
 
 don't think by shaking your head 
 That you're letting a fellow down easy, for I 
 
 know that there's one of 'em dead. 
 They all was good boys to their mother and either 
 
 is bound to be missed, 
 Though to tell you the truth I half fancy she'd cry 
 
 more for me than the rest. 
 
 That is always the way with the women ; the one 
 
 that's deserving no love 
 Gets into their hearts' warmest corner, their 
 
 prayers to the Father abqve. 
 But when brother's coffin is fastened I'll lay her 
 
 dear face on my own 
 And tell her that God's wrought a wonder, to 
 
 make up for him that has flown. 
 
 And when this new grief's a bit over I'll tell- 
 just to show her, you know, 
 
 That the liquor as hardened my life left my heart 
 still as soft as the snow— 
 
 I will tell how, wherever I wandered, her voice 
 seemed to ring in my ears ; 
 
 How I've slept with her lips on my forehead and 
 waked with my eyes full of tears. 
 
 For we parted, you know, not in anger; I just 
 
 went away for a time, 
 Telling mother my bad reputation made staying 
 
 at home seem a crime. 
 I had no ambition, nor nothing ; but soon a new 
 
 life I began. 
 And now I am here in her sorrow— her very ideal 
 
 of a man ! 
 
 My words seem kind of affectin', I see that for her 
 
 you can feel: 
 There's too many mothers' hearts breaking with 
 
 grief that they try to conceal: 
 But come in the house, and I fancy you'll see 
 
 through the flood of her tears 
 The smile that has lived in my mem'ry all through 
 
 these unfortunate years. 
 
 Eh? WhaU? God above! You are ghastly ! Don't 
 
 say— Oh I see't in your face ! 
 Make way for the drunkard, good people— fit now 
 
 for a mother's embrace. 
 ***** *** 
 
 The same! See the smile on her face, sir; but 
 
 God's kissed away every tear. 
 I don't care what joys are in heaven, her angel 
 
 thoughts now are right here. 
 
 — Tliomas Frost. 
 
 THE BOY HERO. 
 
 Children, listen to the story I will try my best 
 
 to tell, 
 Of a hero brave as any that in battle nobly fell. 
 It was not in long-past ages, nor in country far 
 
 away, 
 But the scene was Bristol city, and it was the 
 
 other day ; 
 And the hero of my story was a boy but six years 
 
 old, 
 Yet I think his name is worthy to be written up 
 
 in gold. 
 
 Johnnie Carr and, Willie Stephens went out play- 
 ing in the street; 
 
 Willie was two years the younger, and his face 
 was pale and sweet : 
 
 Little Willie! pretty Willie! many a stranger 
 passing by 
 
 Turned and smiled at little Willie with his wide 
 blue wondering eye. 
 

 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 Johnnie Carr was strong and rosy, curly-haired 
 
 and hazel-eyed. 
 Bright and merry— who can wonder Johnnie was 
 
 Iris mother's pride ? 
 Yet there was a spark of mischief lurking in 
 
 those dimpled cheeks, 
 Though lyou never could be angry at his little 
 
 thoughtless freaks. 
 
 Willie's hoop, see, he has taken, running laugh- 
 ing on before; 
 Little Willie tries to catch him, till he scarce can 
 
 follow more: 
 Then the tears come, yet he follows with his little 
 
 weary feet, 
 Follows to the fields and hedges, far beyond the 
 
 busy i-t - eet; 
 Then he sits beside the pathway, crying in his 
 
 childish woe, 
 Weeping sadly for his mother, asking home again 
 
 to go. 
 Chilly is the autumn evening, quickly falls the 
 
 deepening shade; 
 Johnnie takes the little hand and bids him no! 
 
 to be afraid. 
 So a little while they wander, but they miss the 
 
 homeward track, 
 And the wind is blowing colder, and the night 
 
 comes drear and black. 
 'Oh, I am so tired, Johnnie ! ' little Willie sadly 
 
 cries ; 
 • And I'm cold and hungry, Johnnie ! ' Tears are 
 
 now in Johnnie's eyes ; 
 He has teased the little fellow, but he's full of 
 
 sad remorse. 
 'Get up, Willie,' he is saying: ' get up ; I will be 
 
 your horse,' 
 Then upon his back he took hira, staggering on 
 
 beneath his load. — 
 Staggering just a little distance on the dark and 
 
 friendless road ; 
 But the burden was too heavy, and he set poor 
 
 Willie down ;— 
 Sorely puzzled now was Johnnie how to get to 
 
 Bristol town. 
 'Don't be frightened, Willie,' said he; 'we will 
 
 stop out here to-night, 
 And we'll find our way directly when there 
 
 comes the morning light.' 
 On a gate they sat a little; then said Johnnie, 
 
 ' Let us look ; 
 Perhaps within the field behind us we may find 
 
 a sneltered nook.' 
 So into the field they clambered, and a sheltered 
 
 nook they found, 
 Where the little tired fellows laid them down 
 
 upon the ground. 
 But the sodden earth was chilly, and they shiv- 
 
 ered lying there, 
 Little Willie, cold and hungry, sobbing for his 
 
 mother's care. 
 
 Then got up our little hero— he was onlv six years 
 
 old, 
 Yet he could not bear that Willie should be crying 
 
 with the cold. 
 In his brave love all unconscious, just in simple. 
 
 childish guise, 
 Never thinking he is sharing in a mightier Sacri- 
 fice, 
 Johnnie took his little jacket, laid it down to make 
 
 a bed, 
 And his other clothing simplv over little Willie 
 
 spread ; 
 Then himself laid down uncovered (save his little 
 
 socks and shirt), 
 Thinking, 'I am strong, but Willie's very small. 
 
 and shan't be hurt.' 
 With a start there came to Johnnie sudden 
 
 thought of One who cares 
 For His children, and he whispered, 'Willie, wt 
 
 forgot our Drovers.' 
 
 There they knelt, the little fellows, side by side 
 
 upon the sod, 
 With their simply-lisped 'Our Father,' casting all 
 
 their care on God. 
 Then once more they lay enfolded in each other's 
 
 arms so fast, 
 And the night wind bleak and cruel froze them 
 
 with its chilling blast. 
 
 See those fathers, half distracted, friends and 
 
 neighbors pressing near, 
 Into every nook and corner how, with eager haste, 
 
 they peer! 
 See those mothers, broken-hearted for their dar- 
 lings, how they gaze 
 Wheresoe'er the friendly lanterns high uplifted 
 
 cast their rays! 
 Aye, but chiefly, as the tide falls, longing much, 
 
 yet dreading more, 
 Hollow-eyed, the oozy mud-banks of the river 
 
 they explore. 
 Hour by hour of chill and darkness (oh, how slow 
 
 the morning light!) 
 In their hopeless search they wander all that long 
 
 and dreadful night. 
 
 Is it morning: they have found them. Lo! a la- 
 borer- on his way 
 
 Came upon them, as still folded in each other's 
 arms, they lay. 
 
 They are breathing, barely breathing, all uncon- 
 scious, cold as stone : 
 
 Noble Johnnie! pretty Willie! yes, the life has 
 not quite flown. 
 
 And thev take them to a cottage, and they chafe 
 each frozen limb; 
 
 Little Willie has been covered; there is better 
 hope for him, 
 
 And the mothers stand there watching, and their 
 tears are falling fast. 
 
 Little Willie's eyelids tremble; yes, there's hope 
 for him at last ! 
 
 Sec, the warm milk he has swallowed ! See, he 
 sighs a little sigh ! 
 
 Then he smiles, as on his mother he uplifts his 
 large blue eye. 
 
 But the little hero, Johnnie— ah ! they chafe his 
 limbs in vain ! 
 
 Never shall his merry laughter echo through the 
 house again. 
 
 Faint and fainter comes his breathing, marble- 
 white that open brow. 
 
 Who will dare to speak of comfort to those strick- 
 en watchers now ? 
 
 '0 my Johnnie! O my Johnnie! speak to me one 
 little word ! ' 
 
 Sobbed the mother; but I know not whether 
 Johnnie ever heard. 
 
 Yet at once, as one awaking, with his eyelids 
 open wide, 
 
 Just one word he whispered faintly— it was ' Wil- 
 lie ! '—then he died. 
 
 In the churchyard Johnnie's sleeping, underneath 
 
 the grassy mould ; 
 No one puts a stone upon it, lettered with the tale 
 
 in gold— 
 • 'Neath this stone a little hero, Johnnie Carr of 
 
 Bristol, lies. 
 Who, to save his little playmate, gave his life a 
 
 sacrifice.' 
 
 Children, think how, when the nations gather 
 round the mighty throne. 
 
 He Who gave His life for others will claim John- 
 nie for His own. 
 
 Think how full of strange sweet wonder will the 
 gracious tidintrs be— 
 
 '• What thou didst to little Willie, that I count as 
 done to me.' 
 
 —Right Mev. William Wulsham How, 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 SELLING THE BAB?. 
 
 Beneath a shady elm tree 
 
 Two little brown-haired boys 
 Were complaining to each other 
 
 That they couldn't make a noise. 
 " And it's all that horrid baby," 
 
 Cried Johnny, looking glum* 
 " She makes an awful bother ; 
 
 I 'most wish she hadn't come. 
 
 " If a boy runs through the kitchen, 
 
 Still as a mouse can creep, 
 Norah says. 'Now do be aisy, 
 
 For the baby's gone to sleep ! ' 
 And when, just now, I asked mamma 
 
 To fix my new straw cap, 
 She said she really couldn't . 
 
 Till the baby took her nap ! " 
 
 " I've been thinking we might sell her—" 
 
 Fred thrust back his curly hair; 
 i( Mamma calls her ' Little Trouble ! ' 
 
 So I don't believe she'd care. 
 We will take her down to Johnson's ; 
 
 He keeps candy at his store ; 
 And I wouldn't wonder, truly, 
 
 If she'd bring a pound or more ; 
 
 " For he asked me if I'd sell her 
 
 When she first came, but, you see, 
 Then I didn't know she'd bother, 
 
 So I told him, 'No, sir-ree! ' 
 He may have her now, and welcome ; 
 
 I don't want her any more. 
 Get the carriage round here, Johnny, 
 
 And I'll fetch her to the door." 
 
 To the cool green-curtained bedroom 
 
 Freddy stole with noiseless feet, 
 Where mamma had left her baby 
 
 Fast asleep, serene and sweet. 
 Soft he bore her to the carriage, 
 
 All unknowing, little bird! 
 While of these two young kidnappers 
 
 Not a sound had mamma heard. 
 
 Down the street the carriage trundled; 
 
 Soundly still the baby slept; 
 Over two sun-browned boy-laces 
 
 Little sober shadows crept; 
 They began to love the wee one. 
 
 " Say," said Johnny, "don't you think 
 He will give for such a baby 
 
 Twenty pounds as quick as wink?" 
 
 "I'd say fifty." Fred responded, 
 
 With his brown eyes downward cast. 
 " Here's the store; it doesn't seem's though 
 
 We had come so awful fast I " 
 Through the door they pushed the carriage ; 
 
 •• Mister Johnson, we thought maybe 
 You would— wouldn't— would you— would you- 
 
 Would you like to buy a baby ? " 
 
 Merchant Johnson's eye were twinkling: 
 
 " Well, I would; just set your price, 
 Will vou take your pay in candy ? 
 
 I have some that's very nice. 
 But before we bind the bargain, 
 
 I would like to see the child! " 
 Johnny lifted up the afghan ; 
 
 Baby woke and cooed, and smiled. 
 
 "It's a trade! " cried Merchant Johnson; 
 
 " How much candy for the prize ?" 
 Fred and Johnny looked at baby, 
 
 Then into each other's eyes. 
 All forgotten was the bother 
 
 In the light of baby's smile, 
 And they wondered if mamma had 
 
 Missed her daughter all the while, 
 
 ** Candy's sweet, but baby's sweeter," 
 
 Spoke up sturdy little Fred. 
 " 'Cause she is our own and onliest 
 
 Darling sister," Johnny said, 
 " So I guess we'd better keep her. 
 
 But if we should ask him— maybe 
 "When he knows you'd like to have one, 
 
 God will send you down a baby I " 
 
 Merchant Johnson laughed, and kindly 
 
 Ran their small hands o'er with sweet 
 Ere they wheel the baby homeward, 
 
 Back along the quiet street ; 
 And mamma (who had not missed them) 
 
 Smiled to hear the little tale, 
 How they went to sell the baby, 
 
 How they didn't make the sale. 
 
 — Ada Carleton. 
 
 THE LIGHT ON DEADMAN'S BAR. 
 
 The light-house keeper's daughter looked out 
 
 across the bay 
 To the north, where, hidden In tempest, she 
 
 knew the mainland lay; 
 The waters were lashed to fury t>y the wind that 
 
 swept the sea. 
 "Father won't think of crossing m a storm like 
 
 tliis " s&icl slic * 
 44 'T would be death to undertake it— and yet, when 
 
 he thinks of the light 
 He may try to reach the island. Perhaps," and 
 
 her eyes grew bright 
 With the thought, " if I go and light it before the 
 
 night shuts down, 
 He may see it from the mainland, and stay all 
 
 night in the town. 
 I'm sure that I can do it," she whispered under 
 
 her breath, 
 And her heart was strong with the courage that 
 
 comes at the thought of death 
 When it threatens to strike our loved ones. 
 " For father's sake," cried she, 
 I'll light the lamp and tend it. Perhaps some 
 
 ship at sea 
 May see it shine through the darkness and steer 
 
 *by its warning star 
 Past the rocks and reef of danger that lie on 
 
 Deadman's Bar." 
 
 She climbed the winding stairway with never a 
 
 thought of fear, 
 Though the demon of the tempest seemed shout- 
 ing in her ear; 
 She seemed to feel the tower In the wild wind 
 
 reel and rock, 
 And it shivered from foot to turret in the great 
 
 waves' thunder shock; 
 But she thought not so much of danger to herself 
 
 as to those at sea, 
 And the father off on the mainland, as up the 
 
 stair climbed she, 
 Till at last she stood in the turret before the 
 
 lamp whose light 
 Must be kindled to flash Its warning across the 
 
 stormy night. 
 
 'Twas an easy task to light It, and soon its ray 
 shone out 
 
 Through the murky gloom that gathered the clos- 
 ing day about; 
 
 But a fear rose up in her bosom as the light be- 
 gan to burn— 
 
 Could she set the wheels in motion that made the 
 great lamp turn ? 
 
 If the light in the tower turned not, those who 
 saw it out at sea 
 
 Might think it was the North Point beacon or the 
 light on St Marie, 
 
FAMOUS DUAMATtC RECITATIONS. 
 
 47 
 
 And woe to the ships whose courses were steered 
 
 by a steady light 
 From the point where a turning signal should 
 
 show its star at night 
 
 "If only my father "had told me how to start the 
 
 wheels! ,: she cried, 
 As she sought to put them in motion ; but all in 
 
 vain she tried 
 To set the great lamp turning; the stubborn 
 
 wheels stood still. 
 " It shall turn! " she cried; "it must turn! " and 
 
 strong of heart and will, 
 She roused to the task before her, and with her 
 
 hands she swung 
 The great lamp in a circle on the arm from which 
 
 it hung. 
 
 Now it was flashing seaward, and now it flashed 
 
 toward the land, 
 And those who saw the beacon would think not 
 
 that the hand 
 Of a little girl was turning the light up there in 
 
 the storm, 
 To warn the ships from the dangers with which 
 
 the low reefs swarm. 
 Steadily round she swung it as darkness fell over 
 
 the sea, 
 "Father will see It, believing the wheels are at 
 
 work," laughed she. 
 
 Darkness closed in about her as round and round 
 she swung 
 
 The lamp in its iron socket The tempest-demons 
 sung 
 
 Their fierce, wild songs above her ; below the mad- 
 dened waves 
 
 Howled at the light that was cheating the pitiless 
 sea of graves. 
 
 No thought of fear came to her up there alone in 
 the night— 
 
 Her thoughts were all of the sailors and the turn- 
 ing of the light. 
 
 The lonesome hours went .by her on weary feet 
 
 and slow: 
 Sometimes, before she knew it, her drowsy lids 
 
 drooped low ; 
 Then she thought of what might happen if she let 
 
 the light stand still 
 Was like a voice "that roused her and sent a 
 
 mighty thrill 
 Tingling through all her being. So, steadily 
 
 round she swung 
 The lamp, and smiled to see'its gleam across the 
 
 dark night flung. 
 
 " I wonder if father sees it. If he does, he's glad," 
 thought she ; 
 
 " It may be that brother Benny is somewhere out 
 at sea. 
 
 Who knows but what I am doing may save his 
 ship and him ? " 
 
 And then, for one little moment, the brave girl's 
 eyes grew dim, 
 
 But her neart and arm grew stronger with pur- 
 pose high and grand 
 
 As she thought of the sailor Brother whose fate 
 she might hold in her hand. 
 
 So, with hands that never faltered through all 
 
 that long, long night 
 She kept the great lamp turning till broke the 
 
 ruddy light 
 Of morning over the waters. " Now I can sleep," 
 
 With one last thought of her father and the 
 brother out at sea. 
 
 Then the hands that were, oh, so weary! fell 
 heavily at her side, 
 
 And she slept to dream of the beacon of the turn- 
 ing of the tide. 
 
 When she woke from her long, deep slumber the 
 
 sun was high in the sky ; 
 Her father sat by her bedside, and another was 
 
 standing by : 
 " Benny," she cried, in gladness," did you see the 
 
 light last night? 
 I thought of you while I turned it, and oh, I hoped 
 
 you might!" 
 
 "My brave little sister," he answered, "do you 
 
 know what you did last night ? 
 You saved the lives of two score men when you 
 
 tended Deadman's Light. 
 Twas a grand night's work, my sister, a brave 
 
 night's work to save 
 Two score of home-bound fishermen from a yawn- 
 ing ocean grave 
 Over there on the mainland they're talking of you 
 
 to-day 
 As the girl that saved the good ship Jane, ' God 
 
 bless the child ! ' they say ; 
 And in many a home they'll speak, dear, your 
 
 name in prayer to-night, 
 As they think of what they owe to her who tended 
 
 Deadman's Light." 
 
 Eben E. Eexford. 
 
 THE STORY OF FAITH. 
 
 A rustle of robes as the anthem 
 
 Soared gently away on the air— 
 The Sabbath morn's service was over, 
 
 And briskly I stepped down the stair; 
 When, close in a half-illumin'd corner, 
 
 Where the tall pulpit's stairway came down, 
 Asleep crouched a tender wee maiden 
 
 With hair like a shadowy crown. 
 
 Quite puzzled was I by the vision, 
 
 But gently to wake her I spoke, 
 When, at the first word, the sweet damsel 
 
 With one little gasp straightawoke 
 " What brought you here, fair little angel ? 
 
 She answered with voice like a bell: 
 " I turn tus I've got a sick mamma, 
 
 And I went oo to please pray her well ! " 
 
 " Who told you ? " began I ; she stopped me. 
 
 •* Don't nobody told me at all ; 
 And papa can't see, tos he's cryin' ; 
 
 And 'sides, sir, I isn't so small ; 
 I's been here before with mamma— 
 
 We tummed when you ringed the big bell; 
 And ev'ry time I'se heardoo prayin' 
 
 For lots o' sick folks to dit well." 
 
 Together we knelt on the stairway 
 
 As humbly I asked the Great Power 
 To give back her health to the mother, 
 
 And banish breavement's dark hour. 
 I finished the simple petition, 
 
 And paused for a moment— and then 
 A sweet little voice at my elbow, 
 
 Lisped softly a gentle "Amen!" 
 
 Hand in hand we turned our steps homeward; 
 
 The little maid's tongue knew no rest ; 
 She prattled and mimmicked and caroled— 
 
 The shadow was gone from her breast. 
 And lo! when we reached the fair dwelling, 
 
 The nest of my golden-haired waif, 
 We found that the dearly loved mother 
 
 Was past the dreaded crisis,— was safe. 
 
 They listened, amazed at my story, 
 
 And wept o'er their darling's strange quest, 
 While the arms of the pale, loving mother 
 
 Drew the brave little head to her breast. 
 With eyes that were brimming and grateful 
 
 They thanked me again and again ; 
 Yet I know in my heart that the blessing 
 
 Was won by that gentle " Amen! ' 
 

 lOSS. 
 
 THE PSEACHEB'S VACATION. 
 
 The old man went to ineetin', for t lie day was 
 
 bright and fair, 
 
 i liis limbs were very tottering, and 'twas 
 i to travel there: 
 But lie hungered for the gospel, so he trudged the 
 
 • way, 
 On the road so rouph and dusty, 'neath the sum- 
 mer's burning ray. 
 
 By and by he reached the building, to his soul a 
 
 holy place, 
 Then he paused and -wiped the sweet-drops off his 
 
 thin and wrinkled face : 
 
 looked around bewildered, for the old bell 
 
 did not toll.- 
 All the doors were shut and bolted, and he did not 
 
 see a soul. 
 
 So he leaned upon his crurches; and he said 
 
 " What does it mean? " 
 And heviooked this way and that, till it seemed 
 
 almost a dream; 
 He had walked the dusty highway, and he 
 
 breathed a heavy sigh, 
 Just to go once more to ineetin' ere the summons 
 
 came to die. 
 
 But he saw a little notice tacked upon the meetiu* 
 door, 
 
 So he limped along to read it, and he read it o er 
 and o'er. 
 
 Then he wiped Ids dusty glasses, and he read it 
 o'er again, 
 
 Till his limbs began to tremble and his eyes be- 
 gan to paiu. 
 
 As the old man read the notice, how it made his 
 
 spirir burn. 
 :t Pastor absent on vacation ; church is closed till 
 
 his return.'' 
 Then he staggered slowly backward, and he sat 
 
 him down to think. 
 For his soul was stirred within him, till he thought 
 
 his heart would sink. 
 
 Bo he mused aloud and wondered, to himself so- 
 liloquized- 
 
 "1 have lived to almost eighty, and was never so 
 surprised, 
 
 As I read that oddest notice stickin' on the 
 ineetin '-door. 
 Pastor off on a vacation ' ; never heard the iike 
 before. 
 
 Why, when I first joined the meetin', very many 
 years ago, 
 Preachers traveled on the circuit, in the heat .aid 
 
 through the snow . 
 if they got their clothes and victuals, 'twas but 
 little cash they got, 
 
 lid nothing bout vacation, but were happy 
 with their lot. 
 
 u Would the farmer leave his cattle, or the shep- 
 herd leave his sheep? 
 Who would give them care and shelter, or provide 
 
 them f 
 So it strike- me very sing'lar, when a man of holy 
 nds 
 
 to have vacation, and iorsakes 
 bis tender lambs. 
 
 "Tell me, when I tread the valley and go up the 
 shining height, 
 
 Will I hear no angels singing— will I see no gleam- 
 ing light ? 
 
 Will the golden harps be silent— will I meet no 
 welcome there ? 
 
 Why, the thought is most distractin" ; 'twould be 
 more than I could bear. 
 
 " Tell me, when I reach the city over on the other 
 
 shore, 
 Will I find a little notice tacked upon the golden 
 
 door, 
 Telliu' me, 'mid dreadful silence, writ in words 
 
 that cut and burn, 
 ' Jesus absent on vacation, Heaven closed till His 
 
 return ?'" 
 
 WEISPERIN' BILL 
 
 So you're takfn' the census, mister? There-s 
 
 three of us livin' still, 
 My w ife, and I, au' our only son, that folks call 
 
 Whisperin' Bill; 
 But Bill couldn't tell ye his name, sir, an' so it's 
 
 hardly worth givin , 
 For ye see a bullet killed his mind an' left his body 
 
 livin'. 
 
 Set down fer a minute, mister. Ye see Bill was 
 
 only fifteen 
 At the time of the war, an' as likely a boy as ever 
 
 this world has seen ; 
 An' what with the news o' battles lost, the 
 
 m speeches an' all the noise, 
 I guess every farm in the neighborhood lost a part 
 
 of its crop o' boys. 
 
 Twas harvest time when Bill left home ; every 
 
 stalk in the fields of rye 
 Seemed to stand tiptoe to see him off an' wave him 
 
 a fond good-bve ; 
 His sweetheart was here with some other girls,— 
 
 the sassy little miss J 
 An' pretendin' she wanted to whisper 'n his ear, 
 
 she gave him a rousin' kiss. 
 
 Oh, he was a han'some feller, an' tender an' brave 
 
 an' smart, 
 An' tho' he was bigger than I was, the boy had a 
 
 woman's heart. 
 I couldn't control my feelin's, but I tried with all 
 
 my might, 
 An' his mother an' me stood a-cryin' till Bill was 
 
 out o' sight. 
 
 His mother she often told him when she knew he 
 
 was goin' away 
 That God would take care o' him, maybe, if he 
 
 didn't fergit to pray ; 
 An' on the bloodiest battlefields, when bullets 
 
 whizzed in the air, 
 An' Bill was a-fightin' desperate, he used to 
 
 whisper a prayer. 
 
 Oh, his comrades has often told me that Bill never 
 
 flinched a bit 
 When every second a gap in the ranks told where 
 
 a ball had hit. 
 An' one night when the field was covered with the 
 
 awful harvest of war, 
 They found my boy 'mongst the martyrs o' the 
 
 cause he was flghtin' for. 
 
FAMOUS btiAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 49 
 
 His lingers were clutched in the dewy j,iass— oh, 
 
 no, sir, he wasn't dead, 
 But he lay sort o' helplees an' crazy with a rifle 
 
 ball in his head. 
 Au' if Bill had really died that night, I'd give all 
 
 I've got worth givin' ; 
 For ye see the bullet had killed his mind an' left 
 
 his body livin'. 
 
 An officer wrote and told us how the boy had been 
 
 hurt in the fight, 
 But he said that the doctors reckoned they could 
 
 bring him around all right. 
 An' theu we heard from a neighbor, disabled at 
 i Malvern Hill, 
 That he thought in a course of a week or so he'd 
 
 be comin' home with Bill. 
 
 We was that anxious t' see him we'd set up an' 
 
 talk o' nights 
 Till the break o' day had dimmed the stars an' put 
 
 out the northern lights ; 
 We waited and watched for a month or more, an' 
 
 the summer was nearly past, • 
 
 When a letter came one day that said they'd 
 
 started fer home at last. - 
 
 % 
 
 I'll never fergit the day Bill came,— 'twas harvest 
 
 time again; 
 An' the air blown over the yellow fields wassweet 
 
 with the scent o' the grain ; 
 The dooryard was full o r the neighbors, who had 
 
 come to share our joy, 
 An' all of us sent up a mighty cheer at the sight o' 
 
 that soldier boy. 
 
 An' all of a sudden somebody said : "My God! 
 
 don't the boy know his mother ? " 
 An' Bill stood a-whisperin', fearful like, an' starin' 
 
 from one to another ; 
 "Don't be afraid, Bill," said he to himself, as he 
 
 stood in his coat o' blue, 
 "Why, God'll take care o' you, Bill, God'll take 
 
 care o' you." 
 
 He seemed to be loadin' an' firiu' a gun, an' to act 
 
 like a man who hears 
 "The awful roar o' the battlefield a-soundin' in his 
 
 ears ; 
 I saw that the bullet had touched his brain an' 
 
 somehow made it blind, 
 With the picture o' war before his eyes an' the 
 
 fear o' death in his mind. 
 
 I grasped his hand, an' says I to Bill, " Don't ye 
 remember me ? 
 
 I'm yer father— don't ye know me ? How fright- 
 ened ye seem to be! " 
 
 But the boy kep' a-whisperin' to himself, as if 
 'twas all he knew 
 
 " God'll take care o' you, Bill, God'll take care o' 
 you." 
 
 He's never know T n us since that day, nor his 
 
 sweetheart, an' never will ; 
 Father an' mother an' sweetheart are all the same 
 
 to-Bill. 
 An' many's the time his mother sets up the whole 
 
 night through, 
 An' smooths his head, and says: "Yes, Bill, 
 
 God'll take cave o' you." 
 
 Unfortunit ? Yes, but we can't complain. It's a 
 
 livin' death more sad 
 When the body clings to a life o' shame an' the 
 
 soul has gone to the bad ; 
 An' Bill is out o' the reach o' harm an' danger of 
 
 every kind ; 
 We only take care of his body, but God takes care 
 
 o' his mind. 
 
 —Irving Bacheller. 
 
 A BRAVE WOMAN. 
 
 I talked with a stalwart young seaman last 
 week on Katcliff'e Highway ; 
 
 He belonged to the crew of a steamer that was 
 wrecked in Aberdour Bay. 
 
 And I asked him if he would'niind telling the way 
 he was saved from the sea ? 
 
 Then (excepting the rhyme) he narrated the fol- 
 lowing story to me : 
 
 " Well, you see, we had started for home, sir, and 
 
 were anxious to get on our way, 
 When it came on to blow big guns, sir, as we stood 
 
 off Aberdour Bay ; 
 But our craft was so sturdy a steamer, that we 
 
 laughed and thought light of the gale, 
 For no matter how angry the weather, we never 
 
 had known her to fail. 
 
 "But accidents weaken the strongest, and our 
 
 skipper's brow and face grew long, 
 When a message came up from below, sir, that 
 
 the engines had all gone wrong. 
 Then we set to and hoisted what canvas we 
 
 thought that the vessel would bear, 
 And tried to beat clear of the bay, sir, for the gale 
 
 was driving in there. 
 
 "But, no; it was useless our trying, for the wind 
 
 blew so frightfully hard 
 That on to the shore, to leeward, the ship drifted 
 
 yard after yard ; 
 The skipper roared, ' Let go the anchor '. ' We did 
 
 so, our drifting was checked ; 
 But we knew if the cable should snap, sir, the ship 
 
 would be certainly wrecked. 
 
 "The billows dashed over, around us, as though 
 
 mad that we held our own ; 
 Then 'crack?' 'twas the cable parting, and our 
 
 hearts seemed turned into stone ; 
 Once more we were driven shorewaids, this time 
 
 at a furious rate ; 
 There was nothing could possibly check us, so the 
 
 steamer rushed on to her fate. 
 
 "Then we felt her quiver and shudder, as she 
 
 struck on the pebbly beach, 
 And we looked with despair at the shore, sir, that, 
 
 living, we could not reach ; 
 For the surf was boiling and hissing, and dashing 
 
 with all its force, 
 And no man could have swum to the land, sir, not 
 
 if he'd the strength of a horse. 
 
 " There was only one woman ashore there, and 
 we'd hardly a glimmer of hope, 
 
 Yet I managed to screw up my spirits, and de- 
 termined to throw her a rope ; 
 
 I tried, but too great was the distance ; and, de- 
 spairing, I saw it fall short ; 
 
 But that woman dashed into the surf, sir, and the 
 next time I threw it 'twas caught. 
 
 "God bless her! she caught up that rope, sir, and 
 
 in spite of the boisterous sea, 
 She wound it three times round her body, and up 
 
 from the water went she ; 
 And she beckoned us each to come quickly, but 
 
 we thought that 'twould be but in vain ; 
 'For no woman alive,' we murmured, 'can stand 
 
 such a terrible strain ! ' 
 
 "But yet we would try, for 'twas certain delay 
 
 meant a terrible death ; 
 So we started a man on the voyage, whilst the 
 
 rest of the crew held their breath ; 
 
50 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 There, 'hand over hand' he traveled, whilst as 
 
 firm as a rock stood she, 
 Till at length the seaman was saved, sir, from the 
 
 clutch of the merciless sea. 
 
 "Then one after the other we followed, till the 
 
 whole of the crew were on land ; 
 Oli ! you ought to have seen us struggling for a 
 
 grasp of that brave woman's hand ! 
 It may seem very foolish to you, sir, but I felt 
 
 almost ready to cry ; 
 And there wasn't a sailor amongst us but what 
 
 had a tear in his eye. 
 
 "Every true-hearted man or woman will praise 
 
 this true heroine's act ; 
 It isn't a jumble of fiction, but a plain, undeniable 
 
 fact ; 
 I declare she's as plucky a woman as any of 
 
 -which I have read; 
 Quite fit to take rank with Grace Darling and the 
 
 Women of Mumbles Head " 
 
 —John F. Nicholls. 
 
 "FLAG THE TRAIN." 
 
 The last words of Engineer Edward Kennar, 
 who died in a railroad accident near St. Johns- 
 ville, N. Y., April 18, 1887. 
 
 Go, flag the train, boys, flag the train ! 
 
 Nor waste the time on me ; 
 
 But leave me by my shattered cab ; 
 
 'Tis better thus to be ! 
 
 It was an awful leap, boys, 
 
 But the worst of it is o'er ; 
 
 1 hear the Great Conductor's call 
 
 Sound from the farther shore. 
 
 I hear sweet notes of angels, boys, 
 That seem to say : " Well done ! " 
 I see a golden city there, 
 Bathed in a deathless sun ; 
 There is no night, nor sorrow, boys, 
 No wounds nor bruises there ; 
 The way is clear— the engineer 
 Rests from his life's long care. 
 
 Ah ! 'twas a fearful plunge, my lads ; 
 
 I saw, as in a dream, 
 
 Those dear, dear faces looming up 
 
 In yonder snowy stream ; 
 
 Down in the Mohawk's peaceful depths 
 
 Their image rose and smiled, 
 
 E'en as we took the fatal leap ; 
 
 Oh God— my wife ! my child ! 
 
 Well, never mind! I ne'er shall see 
 
 That wife and child again ; 
 
 But hasten, hasten, leave me, boys! 
 
 For God's sake, flag the train ! 
 
 Farewell, bright Mohawk ! and farewell 
 
 My cab, my comrades all ; 
 
 I'm done for, boys, but hasten on, 
 
 And sound the warning call ! 
 
 Oh what a strange, strange'tremor this 
 That steals unceasing on ! 
 Will those dear ones I've cherished so 
 Be cared for wlfen I'm gone ? 
 Farewell, ye best beloved, farewell ! 
 I've died not all in vain— 
 Thank God ! The other lives are saved ; 
 Thank God ! They've flagged the train ! 
 — William B. Chisholm, 
 
 KIT CARSON'S WIFE. 
 
 One winter eve, when cabin's bright 
 With the crimson flash of the log-fire's light, 
 And the soft snow sleeps on the prairie's breast, 
 They gather— the frontier scouts of the West— 
 And, speaking sometimes with bated breath 
 Of wars of the border, and deeds of death, 
 They crown their stories of reckless strife 
 With the famous ride of Kit Carson's wife. 
 
 For into a Sioux village one day, 
 
 From Dixon, a hundred miles away, 
 
 A horseman reached the chieftain's tent, 
 
 Dismounted, staggered and gasped: " I'm sent 
 
 With sorrowful news from the pale-face town. 
 
 Kit Carson the scout is stricken down, 
 
 And before he bids farewell to life 
 
 He would see the face of his Indian wife." 
 
 She heard that story— the chieftain's child— 
 jHer bronze face whitened, her glance grew wild : 
 ■^he grasped her deer-skin cloak and felt 
 
 The pistols were safe in her wampum belt; 
 
 She uttered only a smothered moan, 
 
 And the scout and the chieftain stood alone. 
 
 Her pony snorted ; she grasped his mane, 
 
 And the fleetest mustang that pressed the plain, 
 
 Turning away from the sunset light, 
 
 Sped like an arrow into the night, 
 
 And the flanks threw backward a glistening foam 
 
 As she headed her horse to her husband's home. 
 
 Oh, sing not to me of Lochinvar, 
 Or of reckless rides in glorious warl 
 But, oh ! if ever perchance you hear 
 Of Sheridan, Graves, or Paul Revere— 
 Of all that galloyed to deathless life, 
 Just speak the name of Kit Carson's wife. 
 
 The stars leaped out in the boundless sky, 
 And the girl looked up as the moon flashed by— 
 The terrified moon, in a terrible race, 
 Keeping time to her pony's pace ! 
 She heard the hoot of the lonely owl, 
 Louder and louder, piercing the air, 
 Till her throbbing heart moaned a pitiful prayer, 
 For, grasping her pistol and looking back, 
 The Indian girl saw wolves on her track. 
 
 The foremost fell with a shot in his heart, 
 
 And his comrades tore him part from part 
 
 While the horse flashed faster over the plain 
 
 With the girl's dark face in his tangled mane, 
 
 Over the trackless prairies, away, 
 
 Galloping into the new-born day. 
 
 The first faint rays of the daybreak dim 
 
 Showed her upon the horizon's rim 
 
 An armed band of her people's foes, 
 
 Riding as fast as the north wind blows, 
 
 With the flash of the sun on the leader's plume— - 
 
 A signal that sealed the maiden's doom. 
 
 But the daring blood of a noble race, 
 Like flames in a gloomy forest place, 
 Flushed redly into her Indian face, 
 And she caught the tomahawk at her side, 
 A toy in the blood of berries dyed- 
 Swung it aloft, and with panting breath 
 Galloped full in the front of death. 
 
 Over each mustang every foe 
 
 Swerved like lightning, bending low; 
 
 Thro' the band, that parted to right and left, 
 
 A clear wide path the maiden cleft, 
 
 And an instant more she had passed them by 
 
 And was riding alone into the eastern sky. 
 

 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 The terrified braves looked back ou her there, 
 While the sunlight's glory over her hair 
 Shone like a halo, wonderful, grand! 
 Had she fled from the far-off spirit-land ? 
 Had she brought them blessings, or a blight ? 
 They shuddered and broke into sudden flight. 
 
 Into the streets of a cabin town— 
 
 Into the village riding down, 
 
 With fevered brain, and with glazing eyes, . 
 
 And breath that fluttered with gasping sighs, 
 
 Still she urged on the faltering steed 
 
 That had served her well in her hour of need. 
 
 And the pony leaped as it felt the rein, 
 
 Galloped, staggered, and reeled again, 
 
 And just as it reached Kit Carson's door, 
 
 With work well done and with anguish o'er, 
 
 Fell to the earth and stirred no more. 
 
 An hour later the great scout died, 
 
 His faithful Indian wife at his side. 
 
 She only lingered a litMe while, 
 
 And followed him then with a happy smile. 
 
 Together they sleep jn the self-same grave, 
 
 Where wildly the winds of winter rave, 
 
 And in summer the prairie flowers wave ! 
 
 THE PAUPER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Four little heads were bent, one night, in consul- 
 tation deep ; 
 
 Their mamma thought them safe abed— 'twas time 
 they were fast asleep ; 
 
 And one belonged to Mabel, with the hair and eyes 
 so black. 
 
 And one to blue-eyed Genevieve, and two to Ralph 
 Jack. 
 
 Four loving hearts beat high within the half-en- 
 livened gloom 
 
 Around the fire in Genevieve's and Mabel's cozy 
 room ; 
 
 The whispered talk ran on and on, as if it ne'er 
 would cease, 
 
 A council there of war they held— or rather, 'twas 
 of peace. 
 
 Because the time had nearly come for Christmas 
 
 bells to ring. 
 When cherished friends to cherished friends their 
 
 offerings would bring; 
 And so the time had fully come, for they four to 
 
 agree 
 About the best and nicest place to hold their 
 
 Christmas tree. 
 
 Said Jack: "Let's go and have it once upon the 
 
 great barn floor ; 
 And we will rear so high a one as ne'er was seen 
 
 before, 
 We'll trim and deck the whole' place like a forest 
 
 grand and old, 
 And all dress up so thickly, that we need not mind 
 
 the cold." 
 
 Then whispered blue-eyed Genevieve : "The pret- 
 tiest place for me 
 
 Is in the parlor warm and bright to have a Christ- 
 mas tree ; 
 
 With holly wreaths and pretty flowers all smiling 
 gayly there, 
 
 And just a few good daiuty friends our festival to 
 share." 
 
 Said black-eyed Mabel: "Well, I think the nicest 
 
 place for me 
 Is in the great big splendid church, where all can 
 
 hear and see ; 
 Where all can view the lovely gifts their friends 
 
 may give and get; 
 'Mid dresses gay and music sweet mine is the 
 
 grandest yet/' 
 
 But so far not a single word the pale-browed Ralph 
 had said, 
 
 But soberly and silent sat, with thoughtful, low- 
 bowed head ; 
 
 Till all at once each turned to him, a bright, in- 
 quiring face, 
 
 And one said, "Ralph, where do you think would 
 be the nicest place ? " 
 
 Then soft-eyed Ralph replied : " I know the places 
 you would set 
 
 Would all be very fine ; but I have found a better 
 yet — 
 
 The oddest, strangest place, indeed, you'd ever 
 want to see, 
 
 And one where I have never heard of any Christ- 
 mas tree. 
 
 " As we were driving yesterday— our mother sweet 
 
 and I— 
 We came unto the poor-house farm— and slowly 
 
 we went by ; 
 Some faces from the window looked, but none 
 
 were happy-bright; 
 One was so sad and lonely, that I dreamed of it all 
 
 night. 
 
 "O.Christmas must be dreary to the poor and 
 
 friendless one, 
 To think of others getting gifts, and he to look for 
 
 none; 
 The poor-house parlor, I should think (if such a 
 
 place there be), 
 Would make a good and proper place to hold our 
 
 Christmas tree. 
 
 " The presents we're expecting, we for once could 
 
 do without; 
 The price would buy each pauper there a pretty 
 
 gilt, no doubt ; 
 Our parents, they will help us, if we only ask them 
 
 right ; 
 Now dream of this, and think of this, when we 
 
 have said Good-night." 
 
 Cold-bitter was the Christmas eve ; the wind was 
 
 loud and chill; 
 It chased the snow-flakes thin and white across 
 
 the plain and hill ; 
 It stormed the poor-house windows, and it tramped 
 
 its noisy round, 
 Until the paupers shuddered as they heard the 
 
 dreary sound. 
 
 And many a poor one mused and grieved, with 
 
 saddened eyes and dim, 
 Of long-lost times when Christmas eve meant 
 
 something bright to him, 
 And when he had a warm, sweet home, and loved 
 
 ones waiting there. 
 With bright smiles kindled up with love, and gifts 
 
 by love made fair. 
 
 And tears were shed by eyes that were but too 
 
 well used to weep, 
 And memories much too pleasant then were 
 
 hushed in painful sleep ; 
 And visions came of happy homes, where all was 
 
 warm and bright, 
 With Christmas trees well blossomed o'er, to cheer 
 
 the stormy night. 
 
 When up before the poor-house door, with bells 
 
 and laughter gay, 
 There drove in blithe and merry haste a heavily 
 
 laden sleigh ; 
 Into the dingy parlor then swift rushed the merry 
 
 four. 
 And reared a tree and hung each branch with 
 
 splendid presents o'er. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 Into the room the paupers came, with wonder 
 well-nigh dumb, 
 
 And wondered what was coming now, or rather 
 what had come ; 
 
 And black-eyed Mabel read their names, in ac- 
 cents clear and gay, 
 
 And sturdy Jack and Genevieve the presents gave 
 away. 
 
 And Ralph sat by, close watching, with his pale 
 
 and thoughtful face, 
 Each present that was given, and each glad smile's 
 
 sudden trace ; 
 For every one was suited there and every eye was 
 
 glad. 
 Each one forgetting, for a time, whatever grief he 
 
 had. 
 
 Old Gran'ther Smith looked gorgeous in a tippet 
 
 new and warm, 
 Aunt Huldah drew a new thick shawl about her 
 
 wasted form ; 
 And not a man or woman there, and not a girl or 
 
 boy, * 
 
 But had some pretty present, full of comfort or of 
 
 joy. 
 
 And pale Misfortune never yet had worn so bright 
 
 a face, 
 Since first the dreary poor-house walls had found 
 
 that dreary place ; 
 " I almost wish this evening," said the smiling 
 
 overseer, 
 "That I was just a boarder, like, and not the 
 
 landlord here." 
 
 Now years have gone ; and Genevieve and Mabel, 
 
 women grown, 
 Each in a happy home resides, with children of 
 
 her own ; 
 Jack is a brave sea-captain now, a-sailing to and 
 
 fro, 
 And pale-browed Ralph is lying deep beneath the 
 
 winter snow. 
 
 But many a seed of joy they sowed upon that 
 winter night, 
 
 Has never ceased to grow and thrive with blos- 
 soms sweet and bright; 
 
 And all the grand and glorious good that their 
 kind deeds have done, 
 
 Shall flash in living splendor when our earth and 
 heaven are one. 
 
 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 
 
 Tis only an old man's story,— a tale we have oft 
 heard told, 
 
 In a thousand forms and fancies, by the young as 
 well as old, 
 
 A tale of a life dragged hellward, bound down by 
 a demon's chain, 
 
 Till the friendly hand of temp'rance had rescued 
 it back again ! 
 
 Though only a child at the time, friends, I well re- 
 member the night 
 
 Of our first great temp'rance meeting— it came as 
 an angel of light, 
 
 Midst the darkness of vile intemp'rance, its myr- 
 iad ciimes and sin: 
 
 A guiding light to the path of right, that all might 
 outer in ! 
 
 A hymn, a prayer, an address; then the chair- 
 man's voice was heard 
 
 To call on any one present just to say but a warn- 
 ing word, 
 
 Our pastor rose, midst cheering, but he strongly 
 
 denounced the new cause 
 As "a movement which none but fanatics( hear, 
 
 hear, and loud applause) 
 Would engage in, to injure the business of such 
 
 respectable men, 
 And break up the time-honored usage of the 
 
 country—" but just then 
 I saw, whilst a death-like silence reigned, an old 
 
 man slowly rise 
 On the platform and fix on the speaker the glance 
 
 of his piercing eyes! 
 That look held the audience spell-bound, and I 
 
 noticed my father's cheek 
 Turn deadly pale as the stranger paused before 
 
 he began to speak. 
 At last, with an effort, the old man said, in accents 
 
 low but clear: 
 "You've heard, friends, that I'm a fanatic, that I 
 
 have no business here ; 
 As men and Christians listen to truth, hear me 
 
 and be just ; 
 My life-sands fast are running out, and speak to- 
 night I must! 
 O'er a beaconless sea I've journeyed, life's dear- 
 est hopes I've wrecked- 
 God knows how my heart is aching, as I now o'er 
 
 the past reflect. 
 I'm alone, without friends or kindred, but it was 
 
 not always so; 
 For I see away o'er that ocean wild, dear forms 
 
 pass to and fro. 
 I once knew a doting mother's love, but I crushed 
 
 her fond old heart ; 
 (He seemed to look at some vision, with his quiv- 
 ering lips apart) 
 I once loved an angel creature with her laughing 
 
 eyes so blue, 
 And the sweetest child that ever smiled, and a 
 
 boy so brave and true ! 
 Perhaps, friends, you will be startled, but these 
 
 hands have dealt the blow 
 That severed the ties of kindred love, and laid 
 
 those dear ones low. 
 Ah! yes, I was once a fanatic ; yea. more— a 
 
 fiend, for then 
 I sacrificed ray home, my all, for the riots of a 
 
 drink fiend's den. 
 One New Year's night I entered the hut, that 
 
 charity gave, and found 
 My starving wife all helpless and shivering on the 
 
 f round ; 
 a maddened cry I demanded food, then 
 
 struck her a terrible blow ; 
 ' Food, food,' I yelled, 'quick, give me food, or by 
 
 heaven out you go ! ' 
 Just then our babe from its cradle set up a fam- 
 ished wail, 
 My wife caught up the little form, with its face so 
 
 thin and pale, 
 Saying, ' James ! my once kind husband, you know 
 
 we've had no food 
 For near a week. Oh, do not harm my Willie that's 
 
 so good.' 
 With a wild Ha! ha! I seized them, and lifted the 
 
 latch of the door; 
 The storm burst in, but I hurled them out in the 
 
 tempest's wildest roar, 
 A terrible impulse bore me on, so I turned to my 
 
 little lad, 
 And snatched him from his slumbering rest— the 
 
 thought near drives me mad. 
 To the door I fiercely dragged him, grasping his 
 
 slender throat, 
 And thrust him out, but his hand had caught the 
 
 pocket of my coat. 
 I could not wrench his frenzied hold, so I hit him 
 
 with my fist. 
 Then shutting the door upon his arm it severed at 
 
 the wrtst. 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 53 
 
 
 I awoke in the morn from a stupor and idly 
 
 opened the door ; 
 With a moan I started backward— two forms fell 
 
 fiat to the floor. 
 The blood like burning arrows shot right up to my 
 
 dazed brain, 
 As I called my wife by the dearest words ; but, 
 
 alas! I called in vain. 
 Tiie thought of my boy flashed on me, I imprinted 
 
 one fervent kiss 
 O.i those frozen lips : then searched around, but 
 
 from that black day to this 
 My injured boy I've never seen— *' He paused 
 
 awhile and wept, 
 And I saw the tears on my father's cheek as I 
 
 closer to him crept. 
 Once more the old man faltering said, " Ten long. 
 
 long years I served, 
 With an aching heart, in a felon's cell, the sen- 
 
 t6nc© T dcsGrvccl * 
 But there's yet a gleam of sunshine in my life's 
 
 beclouded sky, 
 And I long to meet my loved ones in the better 
 
 land on high!" 
 The pledge book lay on the table, just where the 
 
 old man stood, 
 He asked the men to sign it, and several said they 
 
 would. 
 "Aye, Sign it— augels would sign it," he ex- 
 claimed with a look of jov ; 
 " I'd sign it a thousand times in blood, if it would 
 
 bring back my boy!" 
 My father wrote his name down whilst he trem- 
 
 " bled in every limb ; 
 The old man scanned it o'er and o'er, then 
 
 strangely glanced at him. 
 My father raised his left arm up— a cry, a convul- 
 sive start- 
 Then an old man and his injured boy were sob- 
 bing heart to heart! 
 Ere the meeting closed that evening, each offered 
 
 a fervent prayer, 
 And many that night, who saw the sight, rejoiced 
 
 that they were there ! 
 
 —Milton Thompson. 
 
 LOST. 
 
 Some eight and twenty years ago, I knew 
 
 A little boy whose hair of golden hue, 
 
 In ringlets clustered round his childish face, 
 
 Like fairies dancing at their trysting place. 
 
 And oft his dark-blue eyes with gleeful gaze 
 
 In trusting childhood's happy glowing blaze 
 
 Looked up in mother's smiling face so fair, 
 
 As she in silence breathed the evening prayer 
 
 In beauty, dazzling, innocent, and bright. 
 
 His soul was mirrored in those gems of light. 
 
 O happy mother ! couldest thou explore 
 
 Thy idol's future life, a burden more 
 
 Than tender love, or patient soul could bear, 
 
 Would crush thy heart ; o'erwhelm thee in despair. 
 
 T oft have looked upon a stately oak, 
 
 Whose strength for years resisted nature's stroke, 
 
 While silently a poisonous canker worm 
 
 S ipped the foundation of the giant form, 
 
 And slow but sure the death seal I could see, 
 
 Was set upon the mightv forest tree. 
 
 And oft I've rambled at the dewy morn, 
 
 To look, delighted, on the flower just born, 
 
 But ere the set of sun at eventide, 
 
 The flower was withered, blighted and had died. 
 
 So mother's tender boy to manhood grown. 
 Kesists life's storms however fiercely blown, 
 Till slowlv steals the canker to his brain, 
 And binds his conquered will with powerful 
 chain 
 
 Forged by that demon, that relentless foe 
 
 Of man ; and shrouds that mother's soul in woe. 
 
 Death's seal is set upon her idol's brow, 
 
 She sinks o'erwhelmed beneath the heavy blow 
 
 with broken heart, and heaven's angels come, 
 
 And waft her spirit to a brighter home. 
 
 O alcohol! thou withering curse of earth, 
 To untold sorrows hast thou given birth; 
 Lost souls and blighted homes and lives attest 
 The crimes committed at thy stern behest. 
 Behold young Arthur— once the joyous child, 
 Degraded, demonized, by thee beguiled 
 To ruin's brink, a wreck in human form, 
 Dragged to that death "where dieth not the 
 
 worm," 
 Where fires unquenchable torment the soul, 
 Nor gleams one ray of hope while ages roll — 
 Is dying. Most tormenting agonies 
 Have seized him. Hear his ravings ere he dies. 
 
 " Look, see that devil-fish with glaring eyes, 
 And thousand tentacles ; they slowly rise 
 And reach for me. O heavens ! now I feel 
 Their slimy coils around me slowly steal 
 And tighten ; mercy, see that hissing snake 
 Another, still another; can't 1 break 
 This horrid spell which burns my fevered brain, 
 Consumes my soul with torturing deadly pain ; 
 O prince of darkness! take me, take me home. 
 There, see those demons, on they come ; they 
 
 come, 
 Their eyes like balls of fire, and foot of beast, 
 And ghoulish appetite on me to feast; 
 My breath conies hard, oh! let me rest; there, 
 
 see 
 That other monster comes, he comes for me. 
 Oh ! save me, men, I pray you, beg you save ; 
 Let not these demons drag me to the grave. 
 What rises yonder, lurid flame of fire ; 
 Nearer it comes; that sulphurous fume; and 
 
 higher 
 The smoke ascends.. In letters black as night 
 One word is written, ' Alcohol.; ' the blight 
 Of mother's life. Why speak I now of one- 
 List! Now I hear her pleading for her son— 
 A lovely form approaches near me now; 
 A glittering crown bedecks her angel brow ;— 
 What, vanished ; vanished ; yes, the vision's 
 
 gone- 
 Look; look, behold those serpents coming on, 
 Damned hissing reptiles; save me from their 
 
 coils. 
 O Heaven! they have embraced me in their 
 
 toils : 
 Demons and reptiles, devil-fish and flame ; 
 Yell, demons, yell, and reptiles hiss my name. 
 Nearer they come ; and now I feel their breath ; 
 Oh! welcome monsters, welcome you and 
 
 death. 
 
 '•A little sleep; what means this drowsy spell ? 
 'Tis growing dark, how strange I feel. Oh ! tell 
 Me, mother, are you here ? Away, away 
 Black fiend, do let me rest, and pray and pray; 
 I pray ? too late ; too late, again I say too late, 
 My everlasting doom is sealed. Sad fate. 
 'Eternal death;' Oh! let me sleep. How 
 
 weak ; 
 How parched my lips. O mother! can you 
 
 speak 
 One word ? She's gone. I'm sinking, sinking 
 
 fast. 
 A breath or two ; the end is come at last ; 
 Another feeble breath. And is this hell ? 
 Go monsters, demons, serpents, go and toll. 
 Go cry aloud and wain earth's drunken host 
 Of this ' eternal darkness!' I am lost ! " 
 
 —£. M. Cunard, 
 
51 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 WHAT THE DIVER SAW. 
 
 It was night on the deep, and the dancing wave 
 
 Seemed gemmed with the starry light, 
 As homeward at last, the brave ship sped, 
 
 Like a bird in her eager flight ; 
 All was slumber below, as the watch, to and fro, 
 
 Trod the deck of his vessel alone, 
 Or paused for awhile, with a thoughtful smile, 
 
 To listen the night wind's moan. 
 
 He thought of the time when his native clime, 
 
 Should greet his return once more, 
 No longer to toss o'er the treacherous main— 
 
 Mis toils and his dangers o'er ; 
 While the sleepers dreamed in their berths be- 
 neath, 
 
 Full many a happy dream,— 
 Of home and their loved ones waiting them 
 there, 
 
 Of cottage and vale and stream. 
 
 The morning awoke o'er the tropical isles, 
 
 And glanced o'er the lonely sea ; 
 But never again on that vessel smiled— 
 
 Nor ever to port came she. 
 There were anxious groups on the harbor sands, 
 
 That waited and watched in vain ; 
 But never the lost to their gaze returned 
 
 From over the misty main. 
 
 Full many a year, since that sorrowful time, 
 
 Forgotten had rolled away, 
 When searching for treasure 'neath ocean of 
 Ind, 
 
 A diver went down, one day : 
 He traversed the sands of the lonely waste, 
 
 While breakers above him tossed, 
 Till a rocky reef like a mighty wall, 
 
 His path 'neath the waters crossed. 
 
 As nearer he drew to the frowning ledge, 
 
 Lo, there at its shadowy side, 
 A vessel appeared 'mid the waters dark, 
 
 And swayed in the quiet tide ! 
 The spars and the shrouds of that ghostly bark, 
 
 Loomed forth on his startled eye, 
 While the tattered shreds of her rotting sails, 
 
 Still hung from her masts on high. 
 
 Like a phantom she seemed, in the sombre 
 depths,— 
 As solemn and still as a grave ; 
 
 And his heart grew still with a sudden thrill, 
 For a moment, beneath the wave ; 
 
 When at last he climbed to the slimy deck, 
 He seemed in a living tomb ; 
 
 While the echoes he woke, some horror there 
 spoke- 
 Some mystery under the gloom. 
 
 Still onward he trod, till he came at last 
 
 To the door of the cabin closed, 
 Determined to scan, like a fearless man, 
 
 The secrets that there reposed ; 
 Just then with a groan the door unclosed, 
 
 As slowly the vessel swayed. 
 While a scene to make e'en a diver quake, 
 
 In a moment was there displayed. 
 
 What horrors unthought filled that awful spot! 
 
 Aye< well might he quail in dread ; 
 For, as waiting him In that crowded space, 
 
 Stood many a score of dead. 
 There were sturdy men in that drowned throng, 
 
 And others in nianly prime : 
 There were aged forms with their flowing locks, 
 
 All white witli the frosts of time. 
 
 There were children, too, with their sunny curls, 
 
 And a smile that was not of earth ; 
 There were boyish troops and girlish groups 
 
 All missed from many a hearth; 
 There were maidens fair, with their streaming 
 hair, 
 
 And beauty still on the cheek; 
 Their beseeching eyes still raised to the skies, 
 
 And their lips that seemed to speak. 
 
 A moment in terror the diver gazed, 
 And they seemed to gaze on him— 
 Some with glassy stare, some with frenzied 
 
 glare, 
 ide 
 
 And others with wan eyes dim : 
 Lo! toward him they move— their trample he 
 hears ! 
 
 Still nearer they come where he stands ; 
 He retreats, they pursue ; he fancies he feels 
 
 The clutch of their drowned hands! 
 
 At that moment, once more the vessel swayed, 
 
 With a groan closed the cabin door; 
 And that ghostly sight, from the diver's view, 
 
 Was hidden forevermore ! 
 Like one half awake from some horrible dream, 
 
 The diver his steps retraced ; 
 Nor more went he down where the sunken reefs 
 frown, 
 
 To search in their wrecking waste. 
 
 Yet ever as life, with its toil and its strife, 
 
 With its sunshine and shadow flees, 
 That vision is vivid in memory still, 
 
 And that drowned crew he sees ; 
 Still he fancies a wail of the lost he hears, 
 
 As his hollow footsteps go 
 O'er the slimv deck of the founded wreck 
 
 That was lost there years ago. 
 
 —Horace B. Durant. 
 
 THE HEAVENLY GUEST. 
 [From the Russian ot Count Tolstoi.] 
 
 Thk winter night shuts swiftly down. Within his 
 
 little humble room 
 Martin, the good old shoemaker, sits musing in the 
 
 gathering gloom. 
 His tiny lamp from off its hook he takes, and 
 
 lights its friendly beam, 
 Reaches for his beloved book and reads it by the 
 
 flickering gleam. 
 
 Long pores he o'er the sacred page. At last he 
 
 lifts his shaggy head. 
 " If unto me the Master came, how should I wel- 
 
 come.Him ? " he said ; 
 " Should 1 be like the Pharisee, with selfish 
 
 thoughts filled to the brim, 
 Or like the sorrowing sinner— she who weeping 
 
 ministered to Him ? " 
 
 He laid his head upon his arms, and while Jie 
 
 thought, upon him crept 
 Slumber so gentle and so soft he did not realize he 
 
 slept. 
 " Martin ! " he heard a low voice call. He started, 
 
 looked toward the door : 
 No one was there. He dozed again. "Martin!" 
 
 he heard it call once more. 
 
 " Martin, to-morrow I will come. Look out upon 
 
 the street for me." 
 He rose and slowly rubbed his eyes, and gazed 
 
 about him drowsily. 
 "I dreamed," he said, and went to rest. Waking 
 
 betimes with morning light, 
 He wondered, "Were they but a dream, the words 
 
 I seemed to hear last night ?" 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 SS 
 
 Then, working by his window low, he watched 
 
 the passers-to and fro. 
 Poor Stephen, feeble, hent, and old, was shoveling 
 
 away the snow ; 
 Martin at last laughed at himself for watching all 
 
 so eagerly. 
 "What fool am I ! What look I for ? Think I the 
 
 Master's face to see ? 
 
 " I must be going daft, indeed ! " He turned trim 
 
 to his work once more. 
 And stitched awhile, but presently found he was 
 
 watching as before. 
 Old Stephen leaned against the wall, weary and 
 
 I out of breath was he. 
 'Come in, friend," Martin cried, "come, rest, and 
 
 warm yourself, and have some tea." 
 
 " May Christ reward you ! " Stephen said, rejoicing 
 
 in the welcome heat ; 
 "I was so tired!" "Sit," Martin begged, "be 
 
 comforted and drink and eat." 
 But even while his grateful guest refreshed his 
 
 chilled and toil-worn frame 
 Did Martin's eyes still strive to scan each passing 
 
 form that went and came. 
 
 "Are you expecting somebody?" old Stephen 
 
 asked. And Martin told, 
 Though half ashamed, his last night's dream. 
 
 "Truly, I am not quite so bold 
 As to expect a thing like that "he said, "yet, 
 
 somehow, still 1 look! " 
 With that from off its shelf he took his worn and 
 
 precious Holy Book 
 
 " Yesterday I was reading here, how among sim- 
 ple folk He walked 
 
 Of old, and taught them. Do you know about it ? 
 No ? " So then he talked 
 
 With joy to Stephen. " Jesus said, ' The kind, the 
 generous, the poor, 
 
 Blessed are they, the humble souls, to be exalted 
 evermore ' *' 
 
 With tears of gladness in his eyes poor Stephen 
 rose and went his way, 
 
 His soul and body comforted ; and quietly passed 
 on the day, 
 
 Till Martin from his window saw a woman shiver- 
 ing in the cold, 
 
 Trying to shield her little babe with her thin gar- 
 ment worn and old. 
 
 He called her in and fed her, too, and while she 
 
 ate he did his best 
 To make the tiny baby smile, that she might have 
 
 a little rest ; 
 " Now may Christ bless you, sir! "she cried, when 
 
 warmed and cheered she would have gone ; 
 He took his old cloak from the wall. " Twill keep 
 
 the cold out. Put it on." 
 
 She wept. " Christ led you to look out and pity 
 
 wretched me," said she. 
 Martin replied, "Indeed He did! "and told his 
 
 story earnestly, 
 How the low voice said, " I will come," and he had 
 
 watched the livelong day. 
 " All things are possible," she said, and then she, 
 
 also, went her way. 
 
 Once more he sat him down to work, and on the 
 
 passers-by to look. 
 Till night fell, and then again he lit his lamp and 
 
 took his book. 
 Another happy hour was spent, when all at once 
 
 he seemed to hear 
 A rustling sound behind his chair ; he listened 
 
 without thought of fear. 
 
 He peered about . Did something move in yonder 
 corner dim and dark ? 
 
 Was that a voice that spoke his name ? " Did you 
 not know me, Martin ? " " Hark ! 
 
 Who spoke? " cried Martin. "It is I," replied the 
 Voice, and Stephen stepped 
 
 Forth from the dusk and smiled at him. and Mar- 
 tin's heart within him leapt ! 
 
 Then like a cloud was Stephen gone, and once 
 again did Martin hear 
 
 That heavenly Voice. "And this is I,' sounded 
 in tones divinely clear. 
 
 From out the darkness softly came the woman 
 with the little child, 
 
 Gazing at him with gentle eyes, and, as she van- 
 ished sweetly smiled. 
 
 Then Martin thrilled with solemn joy. Upon the 
 sacred page read he: 
 
 " Hungry was I, ye gave me meat : thirsty, and ye 
 gave drink to me ; 
 
 A stranger I, ye took me In, and as unto the lowli- 
 est one 
 
 Of these' my brethren, even the least, ye did 
 it, unto me 'twas done." 
 
 And Martin understood at last it was' no vision 
 
 born of sleep, 
 And all his soul in prayer and praise filled with a 
 
 rapture still and deep. 
 He had not been deceived, it was no fancy of the 
 
 twilight dim, 
 But glorious truth ! The Master came, and he had 
 
 ministered to Him. 
 
 —Celia Thaxter, in St. Nicholas. 
 
 THE STAGrE-DRIVER'S STORY. 
 
 It was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with 
 
 his back to the wheelers, 
 Quietly flecking his whip and turning his quid of 
 
 tobacco ; 
 While on the dusty road, and blent with the ravs 
 
 of the moonlight, 
 We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of 
 
 tobacco descending. 
 
 "Danger! Sir, I believe you— indeed, I may say 
 
 on that subject, 
 You your existence might put to the hazard and 
 
 turn of a wager. 
 I have seen danger ? Oh, no! not me, sir, indeed, 
 
 I assure you : 
 'Twas only the man with the dog that is sitting 
 
 alone in yon wagon. 
 
 It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from 
 
 the summit ; 
 Black as your hat was the night, and never a star 
 
 in the heavens. 
 Thundering down the grade, the gravel and 
 
 stones were sent flying 
 Over the precipice side— a thousand feet plump 
 
 to the bottom. 
 
 Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling 
 
 and creaking, 
 Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank 
 
 of the cannon ; 
 Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance 
 
 behind me, 
 The off hind wheel of the coach just loosed from 
 
 its axle, and following. 
 

 
 One glance alone 1 gave, that gathered together 
 
 on the strain- 
 :;le: 
 The top of ray voice, and lashed the 
 
 While down the Geiger Grade, on three wheels 
 the vehicle thundered. 
 
 as our only chance, when again came the 
 ominous rattle: 
 
 and another wheel slipped away, and was 
 in the darkness; 
 Two only now were left ; vet such was our fearful 
 
 momentum. 
 Upright, erect, and sustained on two wheels, the 
 vehicle thundered. 
 
 le huge bowlder, unloosed from its rocky 
 shelf on the mountain, 
 Drivers before it the hare and the timorous 
 
 squirrel, far leading, 
 iger G 
 coach, and before it 
 
 So down the Geiger Grade rushed the pioneer 
 
 Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance 
 of tbe danger impending. 
 
 But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to 
 
 the level. 
 Slipped from its axle a wheel ; so that, to be plain 
 
 in my statement, 
 A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the 
 
 distance may be. 
 We traveled upon one wheel, until we drove up to 
 
 the station. 
 
 Then. sir. we sank in a heap ; but picking myself 
 
 from the ruins. 
 I heard a noise up the grade : and looking, I saw 
 
 in the distance 
 The three wheels following still, like moons on 
 
 the horizon whirling. 
 Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at 
 
 the side of the station. 
 
 This is my story, sir ; a trifle, indeed, I assure 
 
 you; 
 Much more, perchance, might be said; but I hold 
 
 him, of all men. most light] v 
 Who swerves from the truth" in this tale— No. 
 
 thank you— well, since you are pressing, 
 Perhaps I don't care if I do: you may give 
 
 same, Jim— no sugar."' 
 
 — Bret H 
 
 THE MANIAC'S WAIL 
 
 I am a wreck, they say ; and oft I see 
 
 Men gazing in my face* all pitvinglv. 
 
 "A wreck?"' What can that be? I've stood 
 
 apace 
 Upon the sea shore, when on ocean's face 
 I, and its augi v breath 
 Hath breathed of desolation and" of death; 
 
 id the tempest's roar, 
 1 like to infants' toys upon the sh 
 Each crushed, from riven mast to shattered 
 
 And men have cried, ** A wreck! a v. 
 
 wrl 
 I've trod the forest, when path 
 
 *th; 
 And I have heard men s 
 
 r was for manv a 
 vase of unt< 
 Lying in countless fragmei: 
 
 And such laments 
 
 You would have thought it had been 
 
 Over the dving couch I too have be 
 
 And heard the wailings of a life misspent, 
 
 When the wrecked soul sank "neatL 
 
 Clutching for mercy's rope, alas, too late! 
 I am the fated bark:— the smitten tree!— 
 The shattered vase I Mine the soul's bank- 
 ruptcy '. 
 
 Face of seraphic beauty : doomed to be 
 A light from heav'n, or gleam from hell to me; 
 Thou break'sf in on my solitude e'en now. 
 But not with glory's halo round thy brow ; 
 Circled with scorching flames ! I gasp, I pray. 
 God: take the horror from my sight away: 
 
 In youth I loved. In manhood's strength and 
 
 pride 
 I wooed and won my idol for my bride, 
 Our home was Eden— Eden, for a snare 
 Was found therein— a serpent lurked there ! 
 And thus within our home the accursed thing 
 Lurked, waiting to put forth its adder's stiug. 
 Ere long a whisper came, that on her life 
 The blight had fallen— my own darling wife ! 
 With wrath I vowed 'twas false ; I cursed the 
 
 tongue 
 That dared against her breathe one v. 
 
 wrong. 
 Yet. with love's heed aroused, my guard I set 
 Upon her actions. Oh, could I forget 
 How changed to blackness hopes of rainbow hue. 
 How soon I proved the words of doom too true : 
 The record is all darkness, all a blank! 
 I know not how it was. she slowly sank. 
 Intemperance ! down into thy dark a 
 My household soon her comely form did miss : 
 No joy her presence o*er my hearth now shed ; 
 Nay, soon, drink-cursed, §he from my bosom 
 
 fled! 
 Wildlvl sought her; found her; and. heart-riv'n. 
 Vowed all should be forgot and all forgiv'n, 
 If she would but return. And back she came, 
 Only to fall again ; and in her shame 
 She went in halls of infamy to dwell. 
 Oh, heavens : to me the thought is worse than 
 
 hell! 
 Mad grew I then ; and,, lest the world should 
 
 see 
 With curious eye, a strong man's mis 
 I sought a safe retreat, and entered where 
 Alone my heart could struggle with despair. 
 I wept until the tears refused to come, 
 And like a statue stood I. smitten dumb. 
 Mv icy heart each melting pow'r defied. 
 And thus to earth and all therein I died. 
 They brought me here— here, amid wrf 
 
 :-d; 
 What meeter resting place could ruin find ? 
 I am not fettered, yet wish not to fly 
 From the poor maniac's discordant cry. 
 
 o skv. nor hear sweet warbler's sing; 
 No joy to roe do changing season's I 
 For I am dead! For me death's mourning wpar: 
 She dug my grave, and drink entombed u.e 
 here! 
 
 They bid me upward look— 'Up: hear'i 
 
 there! 
 And shall I upward look In ray despair ? 
 Let those look up who hope, but ne'er to me 
 ^e be given— I care not to be free ; 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 57 
 
 She is not dead, 
 
 But In my heart she lives no more ; 
 Nor shall hope shed 
 
 One ray of light on this dark shore. 
 I did with fond idolatry adore, 
 But love for me apples of Sodom hove ! 
 Sometimes the Drink-fiend comes my way to 
 
 mock. 
 And when my mind has stemmed the first rude 
 
 shock 
 Within the past I live again ; I glow 
 With hate; like Samson grappled with my foe I 
 Till foam upon my parted lips is found, 
 And the bare walls with frantic shouts resound. 
 Yea! in my quenchless fury I have .prayed 
 To God, to fiend, both, to grant me tneir aid, 
 That trampled 'neath my feet earth's foe might 
 
 lie: 
 Then have I shouted the rallying cry. 
 That tells the storv of my murdered life— 
 Dem of hell ! Drink fiend ! 
 Give back my wife ! ! 
 
 —Harriet A. Glazebrook. 
 
 JOHN DARRYLL'S DREAM". 
 
 One day, as he strolled down the village street, 
 John Darryll chanced an old friend to meet. 
 
 " How are you, old boy ? " was the greeting 
 
 warm, 
 " Come in for an hour, out of the storm, 
 
 And we'll have a chat and a smoke together, 
 And a drink to. offset this wild March weather." 
 
 And he linked his arm in John's, and led 
 The boy's feet on toward a sign ahead, 
 
 Where " Wines and Liquors," in great gold let- 
 ters, 
 Linked together like demon's fetters. 
 
 Told the passers-by that within was sold 
 Sorrow, and ruin, and shame untold. 
 
 They crossed the threshold and entered in 
 Where never before the lad had been. 
 
 Warm and pleasant, and fair to see, 
 This starting-place to misery. 
 
 " Something to drink," the boy's friend said, 
 And John walked up to the bar with dread. 
 
 But he dared not say, as he knew he ought, 
 A firm, strong "No." "Just this once," he 
 thought. 
 
 He drank the draught that his friend held out— 
 His first and his last beyond a doubt! 
 
 Ah ! little, how little, we think or know 
 Of the easy path that leads down so low. 
 
 One step— and the others come fast and free— 
 And before we know it comes misery. 
 
 Then he and his friend sat down to chat 
 Of old school- day friends, and this, and that. 
 
 It seemed to John that a wizard' 
 On him and those about him fell. 
 
 spell.! 
 
 The present vanished. The future was here. 
 He had lived, in a moment, full many a year. 
 
 He stood in a room that was cold and bare, 
 And a man was alone in the shadows there. 
 
 A man with a face like his, but old 
 In a life whose shame can not be told. 
 
 Old in shame, but still young in years, 
 A fitting sight for an angel's tears. 
 
 John Darryll looked on the wreck and < 
 "This man is myself! Would God I had 
 
 " Before the fetters were forged on me 
 That bind my soul eternally. 
 
 " I must die like a dog and be forgot, 
 Save by the few who could help me not. 
 
 " A drunkard ! May god forgive me the woe 
 I have caused the mother who loved me so ! " 
 
 He woke from his dream with a sob and moan 
 And found himself on the street alone. 
 
 " Thank God, it was only a dream I" cried he, 
 • l God in His mercy sent it to me. 
 
 " To warn me of danger. Never again 
 Shall the draught that is ruin to souls of men 
 
 " Pass these lips of mine." An old man now, 
 John Darryll remembers and keeps his vow. 
 
 —Men E. Bexford. 
 
 THE FIREMAN. 
 
 The city slumbers. O'er its mighty walls 
 Night's dusky mantle soft and silent falls ; 
 Sleep o'er the world slow waves its wand of lead, 
 And ready torpors wrap each sinking head. 
 Stilled is the stir of labor and of life ; 
 Hushed is the hum, and tranquilized the strife. 
 Man is at rest with all his hopes and fears ; 
 The young forget their sports, the old their cares ; 
 The grave are careless ; those who joy or weep, 
 All rest contented on the arm of sleep. 
 
 Sweet is the pillowed rest of beauty now, 
 And slumber smiles upon her tranquil brow. 
 Her bright dreams lead her to the moonlit tide, 
 Her heart's own partner wandering by her side. 
 'Tis a summer eve ; the soft gales scarcely rouse 
 The low-voiced ripple and the rustling boughs ; 
 And faint and far, some minstrel's melting tone 
 Breathes to her heart a music like its own. 
 
 When, hark! Oh, horror! What a crash is there ! 
 What shriek is that which fills the midnight air ? 
 'Tis "Fire! Fire!" She wakes to dream no 
 
 more ! 
 The hot blast rushes through the blazing door! 
 The dim smoke eddies round ; and hark ! that cry ! 
 •'Help! Help! Willno oneaid? Idie—Idie!" 
 She seeks the casement ; shuddering at its height, 
 She turns again ; the fierce flames mock her flight ; 
 Along the crackling stairs they fiercely play, 
 And roar exulting, as they seize their prey. 
 " Help! Help ! Will no one come ! " She says no 
 
 more, 
 But, pale and breathless, sinks upon the floor. 
 
 Will no one save thee ? Yes, there yet is one 
 Remains to save when hope itself is gone ; 
 When all have fled— when all but he would fly, 
 The fireman conies to rescue or to die ! 
 He mounts the stair— it wavers 'neath his tread ; 
 He seeks the room— flames flashing round his 
 
 head; 
 He bursts the door, he lifts her prostrate frame, 
 And turns again to brave the raging flame. 
 
 The fire-blast smites him with its stifling breath, 
 The fallen timbers menace him with death, * 
 The sinking floors his hurried steps betray, 
 And ruin crashes round his desperate way: 
 Hot smoke obscures— ten thousand cinders rise- 
 Yet still he staggers forward with his prize. 
 He leaps from burning stair to stair. On! On! 
 Courage! One effort more, and all is won ! 
 

 i TIC BE 
 
 7ZZ :n :.,: : :::?/; 
 
 Test say I am old an' forgitful ; 
 
 My style ez as slow ez a snail ; 
 My doctrines are all oat o' fashion ; 
 
 My mind is beginnin* to fail ; 
 They want a more flowery pre 
 
 More fall of forgiveness an 
 To talk to 'em less about brimstone, 
 
 An' more o" the mansions aboTe. 
 
 Fnr fifty lone years I've been preaetiin*, 
 
 - :a i :ed ray old Bible i 
 I alwos bev felt it my duty 
 
 how "em tbe horrors o* bell. 
 Perhaps I've been wrong in my notions; 
 
 f oUered tbe Scripture's, I know, 
 Ar/ r.^Trr bev kn >wninTv ir:^:: 
 The tows that I took long ago. 
 
 -a many trials an* changes; 
 
 I've fit a good fight against wrong; 
 The gals bev grown up to be wimrain, 
 
 Tie boys he* not manly an 1 - r r< ■_=: 
 The hone*: old deacons bet vanished, 
 
 Their pore lives her come to a close: 
 They s.ee;- m the >;>:: oU ehm Efayazd, 
 
 Where soon I shall lie in repose. 
 
 My flock bez been atwus complain in' 
 
 The church wnz not rightly arranged; 
 They voted to her a high steeple ; 
 
 TheT bnflf up a fan riful vestrj , 
 They boughs the best organ in town ; 
 
 T„ey chopped the oU pews into ldndHn's, 
 And tumbled the tall pulpit down. 
 
 And now, to my pain an' my I :rer. 
 
 I.<r.:»i ^n ehildish am' feeble, 
 My steps are unsteady an' slow : 
 
 Thev ri^; a m;:e spirited speaker, 
 With modern ideas in his head. 
 
 To dance round the platform an' boner, 
 And wake op the souls that are dead. 
 
 ni try to belie ve that what happens 
 
 WDTalwus eome out for the :ei;. 
 They tell me my labor is ended, 
 Tts time I was taking a rest, 
 eetle o" comfort or ric : 
 ■ sartin my conscience is clear. ) 
 A'.' ^hen in the ehnrehyai 1 1';- deepm 1 
 Perhaps they may wish I was here. 
 
 i led on tbe drama of that name by Messrs 
 Tom. Taylor and Chas, Reade. 
 
 To the scaffold's foot she came: 
 Leaped her black eyes into flame. 
 
 r..->r \ ?-".". ..-: : •- :: .' ' :- .-' — 
 There a pardon closely pressed. 
 
 She had heard her lover's doom,— 
 Train.- r death an : whameml tsanh — 
 .Heard the price upon his head : 
 '- 1 will save him, she had said. 
 
 •- ffl n eey ed Amie lores hhn too, 
 rhe wfll wee?. but ?. .- ' . 
 
 ■TlmthonMtwtehhn,s re I §- 
 
 Who bat she who ! me him best * " 
 
 To the scaffold no? 
 
 On her lips there rose his name,— 
 
 and yet in silence died,— 
 kls ■ i entled hi his - i*-. 
 
 Over Annie's face he bent. 
 Bound her waist his fingers w 
 be called her— called 
 Simple word to cost a 111 
 
 In Ruth's breast the pardon 
 But she coldly turned an 
 •- He has sealed his traitor fate ; 
 I can love, and I can hi 
 
 ** Annie is bis wife." tbey said. 
 
 - Be it wife, then, to the dead. 
 Since the dying she will i 
 
 I can love, and I can ha 
 
 "What their sin? They do but love; 
 Le: tins thought thy bosom move." 
 Game the fealoua inswa straight,— 
 -- 1 can love, and I can hater ■ 
 
 ••Merey! "still tbey eried. But she: 
 " Who has mercy upon me ? 
 Who* My life is desola 
 I can love, and I eaa hate!* 1 
 
 From the scaffold stairs she went. 
 Shoots the noon lay sfles :e ren:— 
 a;: the a:: was Quick with cries,— 
 *- See the traitor: 
 
 Back she looked. Fish stifled scream. 
 Saw the axe upswinging gleam : 
 All her woman's anger died.— 
 
 - From the king ! " she faintly cried— 
 
 From the king His name— beboid!" 
 Quick the parchment she unrolled: 
 Paused the axe in upward swing.— 
 
 - He is pardoned r " •- Live the kii g 
 
 Glad the ory, and loud and long ; 
 All about the scaffold throng,— 
 These entwining fold in fold, 
 P.'Vra brasses, locks of gold 
 
 There against Bath's tortured breast 
 Annie's tearful face is press 
 While the white ups murmuring move — 
 •- 1 can ■ ite—t at lean lo re!" 
 
 — William Sairyer. 
 
 CSIPPLE B2U. 
 
 Dowtv in a street by tbe river's side. 
 
 Where ebbs sad flows the hurrying tide 
 
 Of o :y life, in ■ squalid den. 
 
 Hungry and poor, dwelt " Cripple Ben." 
 
 Be they eaUe 1 him ; no Bthez aaane 
 
 Be e*es had boaste r since first he came, 
 
 Unknown, unnoticed, his care to hide. 
 
 to that wretched home by tbe river's side, 
 
 Ba gg ed, one-legged^ deformed was he; 
 
 B - ige not :Trr twewty-and-three. 
 
 AB day kmgoa ha srateh he'd go 
 
 Through the streets with a painful gait and slow. 
 
 Tending matches, and pins, and soap. 
 
 Never complaining, never sad. 
 With an eye so bright, and a face so glad. 
 In spite of his cares, that folks would pause 
 la paashng, to buy from ma little stores; 
 And children would see his cheery smile 
 Reflected back In their ova the while. 
 And even the rough, blunt sailor-men 
 f H*d always a word for "- Cripple B 
 I Yet oft on tbe pier where the great ships lay 
 : sit and rest on a summers d 
 And peering over the moss-grown brink 
 !•„ the Mdwac '«•!•: behin/, wonhj thint 
 
FAM0V8 DBAMA1I* TlTlONS. 
 
 onder if in yon current there 
 He could bury forever his weight of care. 
 " Nobody cares for me," he'd say ; 
 " I'm weary of toiling every day. 
 By night a hard and narrow bed, 
 Bv day a beggarly crust of bread. 
 Whv not finish it all ? And then 
 Nobody '11 miss poor Cripple Ben." 
 Yet something within him said : " Live on ; 
 Though thy heart be lonely, thy features wan, 
 Even for thee its rests in store 
 To do some good ere thy life is o'er." 
 So then, with a sigh of silent pain, 
 He'd hobble away on his crutch again. 
 And take up his burden of life once more, 
 Bravely and patiently as before. 
 One day last June, in an eager hunt 
 For a friend's place, down by the river front, 
 I suddenly heard a piercing a cry, 
 A cry of grief from the pier hard 
 And "half a hundred hurrying feet 
 Were speeding across the rough-paved street. 
 I joined the crowd. At the pier-head, lo ! 
 A woman wringing her hands in woe, 
 Screamed, "Oh! my child! " while mendid shout, 
 And out in the current, out, far out, 
 A man was struggling to keep afloat 
 A baby form. "A boat ! a boat ! " 
 We shouted. Then stalwart arms and brave 
 Pulled hurriedly forth, two lives to save. 
 'Tvvas not in vain, for quicker than thought, 
 Those dripping two to the pier they brought. 
 " The child's alive! ' they cried with zest, 
 And the babe was clasped to its mother's breast. 
 But what of him— the other one— 
 With his face upturned to the noonday sun ? 
 Lifeless they lifted him up, and.then 
 A bystander said: " Why it's Cripple Ben ! " 
 —George L. C'atlin. 
 
 THE "DEADMAN'S JOURNEY." 
 
 Hark! my hardy mates of the camp fire side, 
 Till I tell you the way Josh Murphy died. 
 You knew him well— a comrade true 
 As e'er pulled trigger or lasso threw ; 
 Like a child iu peace, but in battle bold, 
 With a hand of steel and a heart of gold; 
 A hundred times it was mine to ride 
 On the dangerous scout by Josh's side ; 
 Aud so I rode on the dreadful night 
 When his gallant spirit took its flight. 
 
 It was the spring of sixty-four. 
 
 Just a little while ere the war was o'er, 
 
 That 'twas mine the mail-bags to transport 
 
 From Stevenson Post to Totten Fort ; 
 
 Through the rugged passes the route to take 
 
 O'er the mountains that frown on " Devil's Lake;" 
 
 Those canyons alive with the skulking crews. 
 
 Of the Chippewas and the savage Sioux : 
 
 But my heart felt light and my arm felt strong, 
 
 For brave-Josh Murphy rode along. 
 
 Sain lightsome trim, we dashed away 
 
 Till Steve'son dim in the distance lay ; 
 
 And we climbed on the mountains" rugged heads 
 
 Keeping wary watch for the wily reds. 
 
 Till the sun swept down the western blue, 
 
 And we saw Fort Totten spring to view. 
 
 We could note how the breeze-blown cedars 
 
 swayed 
 O'er the eight-foot crest of the grim stockade, 
 And we caught, by the aid that the field-glass 
 
 lent, 
 The sun-flash on arm and accoutrement, 
 As lovers and husbands thronged the gate, 
 With brightened glances and hearts-elate. 
 To see us pictured against the sky, 
 O'er the highest range where the mail-routes lie. 
 And we seemed to hear the joyous hail 
 That welcomed the sight of the longed-for mail. 
 
 But soon we were lost to their eager gaze 
 In the darkening depths of the canyon's maze, 
 And thoughts of rest— all danger gone- 
 Cheered our weary paths as we journeyed on, 
 Till, deep in the gorge, Josh Murphy stopped, 
 "Ho, Charlie," he cried, "there's a mail-bag 
 dropp'd." 
 
 Right smart at the word, I sprang to the ground 
 
 And hurried back till the bag was found ; 
 
 As I stooped to lift it, a dreadful yell 
 
 Split the mountain air like a shriek from hell, 
 
 And I saw poor Josh from his saddle slide, 
 
 And sink in blood by his pony's side. 
 
 My Spencer unslung, I hurried back 
 
 'Mid showering shot and rifle's crack, 
 
 And the taunting jeer and the maddening mocks 
 
 Of the ambushed fiends 'mid the shattered rocks. 
 
 I bent over Josh in the deepest despair. 
 
 As he stroked his long. red. clustering hair— 
 
 " You scalp me, Charlie ! " he faintly said, 
 
 "Don't leave my hair to a cursed red, 
 
 And bear to the camp one blood-stained curl, 
 
 To be worn on the heart of my little girl." 
 
 Then I bawled in his ear through the horrid din ; 
 
 "By Heaven's help, Josh, I will take you in I" 
 
 And Heaven did aid our desperate flight 
 
 With the friendly cloak of a pitch dark night. 
 
 To his saddle I raised his fainting form, 
 
 And we struggled away through the leaden 
 
 storm ; 
 And Josh, with his face on his pony's mane, 
 Was madly borne to the open plain. 
 That livelong night o'er the dark expanse, 
 I wandered about in a sort of trance. 
 Loudly I called on my comrade's name, 
 But no answering sound from the blackness 
 
 came. 
 And down in the prairie grass I lay 
 To wait for the dawn of the tardy day. 
 And I thought as the east began to glow, 
 That I heard the sound of the charging foe, 
 When upon the scene, like a thunder-burst, 
 Dashed the gallant boys of the Thirty-first. 
 With warm embrace and grasp of hand, 
 I was gladlv hailed by the warrior band. 
 We sought^or Josh and we struck his trail, 
 In the dew-damp notes of the scattered mail ; 
 And wetound him at last scarce a pistol-shot 
 From the picket wall of the fort he'd sought ; 
 There he proudly lay with his unscalped head 
 On the throbless breast of his ponv— dead— 
 And the route from the pass to that cedared hill 
 Is known as "The Deadhan's Journey," still. 
 
 This poem is founded on fact. The localities, 
 the mission, the names, and the catastrophe are 
 all true. 
 
 FAITHFUL. 
 
 A long, bare ward in the hospital; 
 
 A dying girl in the narrow bed ; 
 A nurse, whose footsteps lightly fall, 
 
 Soothing softly that restless head. 
 
 Slain by the man she learned to love. 
 Beaten, murdered and flung away; 
 
 None beheld it but God^ibove, 
 And she who bore it. And there she lay. 
 
 " A little drink of water, dear ? " 
 Slowly the white lips gasp and sip. 
 
 " Let me turn you over, so you can hear, 
 While 1 let the ice on your temple dri©." 
 

 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 A look of terror disturbs her face ; 
 
 Firm and silent those pale lips close; 
 A stranger stands in tlie nurse's place ; 
 
 "Tell us who hurt you, for no one know 
 
 A glitter of joy is in her eye ; 
 
 Faintly she whispers; "Nobody did." 
 And one tear christens the loving lie 
 
 From the heart in that wounded bosom hid. 
 
 " Nobody did it ! " she says again, 
 " Nobody hurt me ! " Her eyes grew dim ; 
 
 But in the spasm of mortal pain. 
 She says to herself: " I've saved you, Jim ! *' 
 
 Day by day, as the end draws nenr. 
 
 To gentle question or stern demand, 
 Only that one response they he&r, 
 
 Though she lifts to Heaven her wasted hand. 
 
 " Nobody hurt me ! " They see her die, 
 The same words still on her latest breath ; 
 
 With a tranquil smile she tells her lie. 
 And glad goes down to the gates of death 
 
 Beaten, murdered, but faithful still, 
 
 Loving above all wrong and woe, 
 If she has gone to a world of ill. 
 
 Where, oh! saint, shall we others go,? 
 
 Even, I think that evil man 
 
 Has hope of a better life in him, 
 When slje so loved him her last words ran: 
 
 " Nobody hurt me ! I've saved you, Jim ! " 
 —Rose Terry Cooke. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S DARLING. 
 
 Into a ward of unwhitewashed walls, 
 
 Where the dead and dying lay- 
 Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls- 
 Somebody's Darling was borne one day. 
 Somebody's Darling! So young and so brave, 
 
 Wearing still on his pale, sweet face, 
 Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, 
 The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. 
 
 Matted and damp are the curls of gold 
 Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, 
 
 Pale are the lips of delicate mould- 
 Somebody's Darling is dying now! 
 
 Back from the beautiful bine-veined face 
 Brush every wandering silken thread; 
 
 Cross his hands as a sign of grace- 
 Somebody's Darling is still and dead! 
 
 Kiss him once for somebody's sake ; 
 
 Murmur a prayer, soft and low: 
 One bright curl from the cluster take— 
 
 They were somebody's pride, you know. 
 Somebody's hand had rested there ; 
 I Was it a mother's, soft and white ? 
 And have the lips of a sister fair 
 
 Been baptized in those waves of light ? 
 
 God knows best ! He was somebody's love ; 
 
 Somebody's heart enshrined him there; 
 Somebody wafted his name above. 
 
 Night and morn, on the wings of prayer; 
 Somebody wept when he marched away, 
 
 Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; 
 Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay: 
 
 Somebody clung to his parting hand. 
 
 Somebody's watching and waiting for him, 
 Yearning to hold hinvagain to her heart ; 
 There he lies— witli his blue eyes dim, 
 
 And smiling, childlike lips apart, 
 Tenderly bury the fair young dead, 
 Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; 
 - l*nrve on the wooden slab at his head. 
 (Somebody's Darling lies buried here .' " 
 
 KATE SHELLY. 
 
 Have you heard how a girl saved the lightning 
 express,— 
 Of Kate Shelly, whose father was killed on the 
 road ? 
 
 Were he living to-day, he'd be prond to possess 
 Such a daughter as Kate. Ah! 'twas grit that 
 she showed 
 
 On that terrible evening when Donahue's train 
 
 Jumped the bridge and went down, in the dark- 
 ness and rain. 
 
 She was only eighteen, but a woman in size, 
 With a figure as graceful and lithe as a doe ; 
 
 With peach-blossom cheeks, and with violet eyes. 
 And teeth and complexion like new-fallen snow ; 
 
 With a nature unspoiled and unblemished by ai*» 
 
 With a generous soul, and a warm, noble he'aiT 
 
 'Tis evening— the darkness is dense and profoui' 
 Men linger at home by their bright-blazing fir< 
 
 The wind wildly howls with a horrible sound, 
 And shrieks through the vibrating telegraj 
 wires ; 
 
 The fierce lightning flashes along the dark sky ; 
 
 The rain falls in torrents ; the river rolls by. 
 
 The scream of a whistle ! the rush of a train ! 
 
 The sound of a bell ! a mvsterious light 
 That flashes and flares through the fast-fallk 
 rain ! 
 
 A rumble! a roar! shrieks of human affright ! 
 The falling of timbers! the space of a breath ! 
 A splash in the river ! then darkness and death ! 
 
 Kate Shelly recoils at the terrible crash ; 
 
 The sounds of destruction she happens to hear 
 She springs to the window— she throws up th 
 sash, 
 
 And listens and looks with a feeling of fear. 
 The tall tree-tops groan, and she hears the faint er 
 Of a drowning man down in the river near by ! 
 
 Her heart feebly flutters, her features grow wan. 
 And then through her soul in a moment ther< 
 
 flies 
 A forethought that gives her the strength of 
 
 man- 
 She turns to her trembling old mother and cries 
 " I must save the express— 'twill be here in ai 
 
 hour! " 
 Then out through the door disappears in tt 
 
 shower. 
 
 She flies down the track through the pitiless rail 
 She reaches the river— the water below 
 
 Whirls and seethes through the timbers. SI 
 shudders again : 
 " The bridge! To Moingona God help me to go! 
 
 Then closely about her she gathers her gown 
 
 And on the wet ties with a shiver sinks down. 
 
 Then carefully over the timbers she creeps 
 On her hands and her knees, almost holding her 
 breath. 
 The loud thunder peals and the wind wildly 
 sweeps. 
 And struggles to hurry her downward to death ; 
 But the thought of the train to destruction so near 
 Removes from her soul every feeling of fear. 
 
 With the blood dripping down from each torn 1 
 
 bleeding limb. 
 Slowly over the timbers her dark way she feels; 
 Her fingers grow numb and her head seems to 
 
 swim ; 
 Her strength is fast failing— she staggers! she 
 
 reels ! 
 
 She falls Ah ! the danger is over at last, 
 
 Her feet touch the earth, and the long bridge is 
 
 passed ! 
 
FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 61 
 
 In an instant new life seems to come to her form ; 
 
 She springs to her feet and forgets her despair. 
 On, on to Moingona I She faces the storm, 
 
 She reaches the station— the keeper is there. 
 "Save the lightning-express! No— hang out the 
 
 red light! 
 There's death on the bridge at the river to-night! " 
 
 Out flashes the signal-light, rosy and red 
 ' ud r 
 train, 
 
 Then sounds the loud roar of the swift coming 
 
 The hissing of steam, and there, brightly ahead, 
 
 The gleam of a headlight illumines the rain. 
 •' Down brakes! " shrieks the whistle, defiant and 
 
 shrill: 
 She heeds the red signal— she slackens, she's still ! 
 
 Ah ! noble Kate Shelly, your mission is done ; 
 Your deed that dark night will not fade from 
 our gaze ; 
 An endless renown you have worthily won : 
 
 Let the nation be just, and accord you its praise. 
 Let your name, let your fame, and your courage 
 
 declare 
 What a woman can do, and a woman can dare ! 
 -~Eugene J. Hall, in Harper's Young People. 
 
 THE OLD SERGEANT. 
 
 " Come a little nearer, Doctor !— thank you— let me 
 
 take the cup ; 
 Draw your chair up— draw it closer— just another 
 
 little sup! 
 Maybe you may think I'm better: but I'm pretty 
 
 well used up— 
 Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just 
 
 a-gomgup! 
 
 " Feel my pulse, sir! if you want to, but it ain't 
 
 much use to try "— 
 " Never say that ! " said the surgeon, as he smoth- 
 
 er'd down a sigh ; 
 "It will never do, old comrade! for a soldier to 
 
 say die!" 
 " What you say will make no difference, Doctor ! 
 
 when you come to die. 
 
 Doctor! what has been the matter?' 
 were very faint, they say. 
 sle 
 
 You 
 
 You must try to get to sleep now."— "Doctor! 
 have I been away ? " 
 
 "Not that anybody knows of !"—" Doctor- 
 Doctor ! please to stay ! 
 
 There is something I must tell you, and you wont 
 have long to stay! 
 
 "I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready 
 
 now to go ; 
 Doctor, did you say I fainted ?— but it couldn't ha' 
 
 been so,— / 
 
 For as sure as I'm a sergeant, and was wounded 
 
 at Shiloh, 
 I've this very night been back there, on the old 
 
 field of Shiloh ! 
 
 "This is all that I remember— The last time the 
 Lighter came, 
 
 And the lights had all been lower'd, and the 
 noises much the same, 
 
 He had not been gone five minutes before some- 
 think call'd my name: 
 
 'Orderly Sergeant— Robert Burton ! '—just that 
 way it call'd my name. 
 
 " And I wonder'd who could call mo so (list i nelly 
 
 and so slow,— 
 Knew it couldn't be the Lighter,— he could not 
 
 have spoken so,— 
 And I tried to answer—' Here, sir ! ' but I couldn't 
 
 make it go: 
 For 1 couldn't move a muscle, and I couldn't make 
 
 it go! 
 
 "Then I thought: It's all nightmare, all a hum- 
 bug and a bore ; 
 
 Just another foolish grape-vine— and it wont come 
 anymore; 
 
 But it came, sir! notwithstanding, just the same 
 way as before : 
 
 ' Orderly Sergeant— Robert Burton ! '— even plainer 
 than before. 
 
 " That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst 
 of light, 
 
 And I stood beside the river, where we stood that 
 Sunday night, 
 
 Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs op- 
 posite, 
 
 When the river was perdition, and all hell was op- 
 posite! 
 
 "And the same old palpitation came again in all 
 its power, 
 
 And I heard a bugle sounding as from some celes- 
 tial tower : 
 
 And the same mysterious voice said: 'It is the 
 eleventh hour : 
 
 Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton — it is the 
 eleventh hour ! ' 
 
 this 
 
 It is 
 
 " Doctor Austin !— what day is 
 
 Wednesday night, you know."— 
 '• Yes! to-morrow will be New Year's, and a right 
 
 good time below ! 
 What time is it, Doctor Austin?"— "Nearly 
 
 twelve."—" Then don't you go! 
 Can it be that all this happened— all this— not an 
 
 hour ago ! 
 
 " There was where the gunboats open'd on the 
 
 dark rebellious host ; 
 And where Webster semicircled his last guns upon 
 
 the coast, 
 There were still the two log-houses, just the same, 
 
 or else their ghost,— 
 And the same old transport came and took me 
 
 over— or its ghost ! 
 
 " And the old field lay before me, all deserted far 
 
 and wide ; 
 There was where they fell on Prentiss,— there 
 
 M'Clernand met the tide ; 
 There was where stern Sherman rallied, and 
 
 where Hurlbut's heroes died— 
 Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and 
 
 kept charging till he died. 
 
 " There was where Lew Wallace show'd them he 
 
 was of the canny kin, 
 There was where old Nelson thunder'd, and where 
 
 Rousseau waded in ; 
 There M'Cook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all 
 
 began to win- 
 There was where the grape-shot took me, just as 
 
 we began to win. 
 
 " Now a shroud of snow and silence over every 
 
 thing was spread. 
 And but for this old blue mantle, and the old hat 
 
 on my head, 
 
("2 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 i should not have even doubted, to this moment, I 
 
 was dead, — 
 For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon 
 
 the dead ! 
 
 "Death and silence !— Death and silence, all 
 
 around me as I sped! 
 And behold a mighty Tower, as is builded to the 
 
 dead,— 
 To the Heaven of the heavens, lifted up its mighty 
 
 head, 
 Till the Stars and Stripes oi Heaven all seem'd 
 
 waving from its hea 
 
 " Round and mighty-based it tower'd— up into the 
 
 infinite— 
 And I knew no mortal mason could have built a 
 
 shaft so bright; 
 For it shone like solid sunshine ; and a winding 
 
 stair of light 
 Wound around it and arouftd it till it wound clear 
 
 out of sight ! 
 
 " And behold, as I approach'd it— with a rapt and 
 
 dazzled stare- 
 Thinking that- 1 saw old comrades just ascending 
 
 the great Stair,— 
 Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of— ' Halt! 
 
 and who goes there ! ' 
 ' I'm a friend,' I said, ' if you are.' ' Then ad- 
 vance, sir, to the Stair ! ' 
 
 "I advanced!— That sentry, Doctor! was Elijah 
 
 Ballantyne !— 
 First of all to fall on Monday, after we had form'd 
 
 the line!— 
 • Welcome, my old Sergeant ! welcome ! Welcome 
 
 by that countersign ! ' 
 And he pointed to the scar there, under this old 
 
 cloak of mine I 
 
 •' As he grasp'd my hand I shudder'd, thinking 
 
 only of the grave; 
 But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright 
 
 and bloodless glaive ; 
 'That's the way, sir! to Headquarters.'— ' What 
 
 Headquarters? '— « of the Brave.'— 
 ' By the great Tower ! '— ' That '—he answer'd— ' is 
 
 the way, sir ! of the Brave ! '— 
 
 " Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uni- 
 form of light ; 
 
 At my own so old and tatter'd, and at his so new 
 and bright ; 
 
 4 Ah ! ' said he—' you have forgotten the New Uni- 
 form to-night,— 
 
 Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve 
 o'clock to-night ! ' 
 
 " And the next thing I remember, you were sitting 
 there, and I— 
 
 Doctor, did you hear a footstep? Hark!— God 
 bless you all! Good-bye ! 
 
 Doctor! please to give my musket and my knap- 
 sack, when I die, 
 
 To my son— my son that's coming— he won't get 
 here till I die ! 
 
 " Tell him his old father bless'd him as he never 
 
 did before— 
 And to carry that old musket— Hark! a knock is 
 
 at the door !— 
 Till the Union— See! it opens!" "Father! Father! 
 
 speak once more ! — " 
 *' Bless you ! " gasped the old gray Sergeant, and 
 
 he lay and said no more ! 
 
 —Byron Forceythe Wilson. 
 
 ROVING NED. 
 
 Divorced, did they say ? What ! I, Roving Ned 
 Divorced in disgrace from the woman I wed 
 In the wealth of her beauty, five summers to-night, 
 'Mid the chiming of bells and happiness bright! 
 O, God, can it be ? Have I fallen so low ? 
 Divorced from that bride— and I loved her so ? 
 
 Was that Eden a dream ? Was that husband's first 
 
 kiss 
 But an apple of Sodom in the feast of my bliss ? 
 Were those vows that I- spoke but the words of 
 
 untruth— 
 A perjurer's lie to the love of his youth ? 
 Were those visions I saw but a mirage of fate 
 And the words of endearment the seeds of a hate ? 
 
 Was that life in the cottage a dream of the past ? 
 And the joy that it brought us too precious to 
 
 last? 
 Did the child that was sent us return in its flight 
 To escape the dark shadows now clouding this 
 
 night? 
 Were our hopes, then so bright, to be shrouded in 
 
 gloom, 
 And the roses so sweet but the bloom of the tomb ? 
 
 Bound helpless in sin ! Ah, I see it now plain, 
 And thou, damning glass, hath enwoven the 
 
 chain ! 
 O, sparkle and gleam, but I know thee too well ; 
 Thy diamonds of joy are the jewels of hell. 
 The wealth of thv pleasure is sorrow and care 
 And the spell of thy charm but the gall of despair. 
 
 Ah, sparkle and glimmer, I see in thy tide 
 
 The hand that was raised to a once worshiped 
 
 bride. 
 Ah, sparkle and glitter ! I see~a dread flight 
 From a drunkard enraged through a cold winter's 
 
 night. 
 That husband so proud but a wreck is now left, 
 Of love and affection and manhood bereft. 
 
 I see a lone wanderer over the earth, 
 
 Now shunned and disowned by the kin of his 
 
 birth, 
 So weary of life, but too sinful to die, 
 With the pangs of remorse 'ueath the frowns from 
 
 on high, 
 Far downward he sinks till his oaths sound the 
 
 knell 
 Of a soul that is tottering on the verge of a hell. 
 
 Cursed be~th.ee, glass! Is thy conquest complete ? 
 No! I will grind thee, fiend, yet 'neath my feet! 
 By a mother's last prayer, by the home of my 
 
 birth, 
 I will dash thee in fragments down swift to the 
 
 earth! 
 By the love of that woman that once my name 
 
 bore 
 I will rise from a slave to my manhood once more. 
 
 Come, friends of my youth, there's a soul to be 
 
 saved. 
 Give me of thy -strength, there are storms to be 
 
 braved. 
 Come back, O my will, with all of thy might 
 And make me a giant to battle for right.' 
 To Earth and to Heaven again I will call 
 And snatch even life from the folds of a pall. 
 
 God help me to stand by the vows that I make; 
 God help me, if any, in weakness I break; 
 Lead me not to the tempter but guide me in right 
 Until I am strong in thy mercy and might. 
 Then lead back my bride to her husband again 
 And link with thy blessing the now parted chain. 
 —Sherman D. Richardson. 
 
FAMOUS 
 
 "IC RECITATIONS. 
 
 63 
 
 SMITING THE ROCK. 
 
 The stern old judge, in relentless mood, 
 Glanced at the two who before him stood ; 
 She was bowed and haggard and old, 
 He was young and defiant and bold,— 
 Mother and son ; and to gaze at the pair, 
 Their different attitudes, look and air, 
 One would believe, ere the truth were known, 
 The mother convicted and not the son. 
 
 There was the mother; the boy stood nigh 
 With a shameless look, and his head held high. 
 Age had come over her, sorrow and care; 
 These mattered but little so he was there, 
 A prop to her years and a light to her eyes, 
 And prized as only a mother can prize ; 
 But what for him could a mother say, 
 Waiting his doom on a sentence day. 
 
 Her husband had died in his shame and sin,- 
 And she a widow, her living to win, 
 Had toiled and struggled from morn till night, 
 Making with want a wearisome fight, 
 Bent over her work with resolute zeal, 
 Till she felt her old frame totter and reel, 
 Her weak limbs tremble, her eyes grow dim ! 
 But she had her boy, and she toiled for him. 
 
 And he,— he stood in the criminal dock, 
 With a heart as hard as a flinty rock, 
 An impudent glance and a reckless air, 
 Braving the scorn of the gazers there ; 
 Dipped in crime and encompassed round 
 With proof of his guilt by captors found, 
 Ready to stand, as he phrased it, " game," 
 Holding not crime but penitence, shame. 
 
 Poured in a flood o'er the mother's cheek 
 
 The moistening prayers where the tongue was 
 
 weak, 
 And she saw through the mist of those bitter tears 
 Only the child in his innocent years; 
 She remembered him pure as a child might be, 
 The guilt of the present she could not see ; 
 And for mercy her wistful looks made prayer 
 To the stern old judge in his cushioned chair. 
 
 " Woman," the old judge crabbedly said— 
 
 u Your boy is the neighborhood's plague and dread ; 
 
 Of a gang of reprobates chosen chief; 
 
 An idler and rioter, ruffian and thief. 
 
 The jury did right, for the facts were plain; 
 
 Denial is idle, excuses are vain. 
 
 The sentence the court imposes is one—" 
 
 " Your honor," she cried, "he's my only son." 
 
 The constables grinned at the words she spoke, 
 
 And a ripple of fun through the court-room broke ; 
 
 But over the face of the culprit came 
 
 An angry look and a shadow of shame : 
 
 " Don't laugh at my mother ! " loud cries he ; 
 
 "You've got me fast, and can deal with me ; 
 
 But she's too good 'or your coward jeers, 
 
 And I'll—" then h\ utterance choked with tears. 
 
 The judge for a moment bent his head, 
 And looked at him keenly, and then he said : 
 " We suspend the sentence,— the boy can go; " 
 And the words were tremulous, forced and low. 
 " But say ! " and he raised his finger then— 
 " Don't let them bring you hither again. 
 There is something good in you yet, I know ; 
 I'll give you a chance— make the most of it— Go ! " 
 
 The twain went forth, and the old judge said ; 
 "I meant to have given him a year instead. 
 And perhaps 'tis a difficult thing to tell, 
 If clemency here be ill or well. 
 But a rock was struck in that callous heart, 
 From which a fountain of good may start; 
 For one on the ocean of crime long tossed, 
 Who loves his mother is not quite lost," 
 
 A KEEPER'S STORY. 
 
 1 Stark mad, sir ! A wild, wolfish beast 
 
 Is this Hugh. Did you happen to hear 
 Of his crime ? It was done at Chadd's Ford, 
 
 Chester county, nigh this time last year. 
 No ? Well, sir, it was this way. Of course 
 
 It began with a girl— Kitty Roe— 
 As pretty a lass as e'er stepped 
 
 To her own happy songs to and fro. 
 
 " In garden, in dairy, in kirk, 
 
 She was fair as a blossom to meet, 
 Her hair like a new chestnut shone, 
 
 Her cheek shamed the June roses sweet. 
 Lovers ? Bless vou, a score, I'm sure, 
 
 All bewitched'with her beauty ! Perhaps 
 She might have coquetted. In time 
 
 The list narrowed down to two chaps. 
 
 "One, handsome Joe Blaine, a farm-hand; 
 
 Strong and straight as a sapling was Joe ; 
 Wind-brown 'twixt the beard and the eyes, 
 
 But his forehead was white as the snow ; 
 His hair glittered gold in the sun, 
 
 And his laugh was a pleasure to hear— 
 Alas ! I say 4 was ! ' How it rang 
 
 Through the glad closing days of last year! 
 
 "The other, this fellow you see 
 
 In the cell ; he was called Fighting Hugh. 
 He tended the draw at'the bridge, 
 Where a schooner now and then came 
 through ; 
 A fist like a hammer, a voice 
 
 Rough and deep like a lion's. They say 
 Kitty smiled on his suit awhile 
 Just to tease faithful Joe (a girl's way) ; 
 
 " And so came one fair Sabbath morn 
 
 Bright and beautiful, just as if sin 
 Had fled from the world. Nothing jarred, 
 
 No train smote the ear with its din. 
 A promise Kate gave over night— 
 
 'Twas to ride on a hand-car with Joe— 
 The lasses and lads often sped 
 
 On their holiday journeying so. 
 
 " Joe draped her a seat like a throne, 
 
 Where she sat a young queen, gay and fair. 
 Her scarlet shawl folded about, 
 
 A snowy scarf tied o'er her hair. 
 Joe's strong arms the stout handles whirled, 
 
 Till the grade sent them swiftly along, 
 Quite fearless, nor vessel nor train 
 
 Thrilled a fear in the heart of their song. 
 
 " How the curve of the twin rails shone 
 
 Far away down the line of the road ; 
 How the car with its fair, glad freight 
 
 In the sun softly glittering glowed. 
 So neared they Fox River. The light 
 
 Of its waters danced gay in the sun ; 
 As they rounded the curve so fast 
 
 All the milestones seemed blurred into one. 
 
 ' God save us, the draw ! ' shrieked the girl. 
 ' Look ! ' The twain straight ahead saw their 
 
 fate— 
 The draw was wide open ! and Hugh, 
 With his arms folded, watching them sate. 
 
 "They found them, dead, lying beneath 
 The rough, ragged rock by the mill, 
 Clasped close to each other in death, 
 Wed by ritual solemn and still. 
 
 " A maniac lingers dark Hugh, 
 
 Seeing always that vision go by, 
 Facing always his fearful sin, 
 Hearing always poor Kitty's last cry." 
 
 <~f!thel Rynn, 
 
64 
 
 FAMOUS DRAMATIC RECITATIONS. 
 
 THE CROSSING OF THE BRIDGE. 
 
 Have you ever heard the story 
 How Tim Nesbitt crossed the bridge ? 
 
 When the down express came roaring 
 Hound the curves of Smoky Ridge? 
 
 You remember the big trestle 
 Just this side of Carey's mill ; 
 
 Twenty miles about from Sharon, 
 And as far from Smoky Hill ? 
 
 Half a mile in length— they say so— 
 
 And it's not a yard-stick less- 
 Fifty feet above the creek, too; 
 That's as near as I can guess. 
 
 And just as Tim came round the curve 
 
 And saw the bridge ahead, 
 He felt the track was giving, like, 
 
 And knew the rails had spread. 
 
 Down grade at that, and thirty miles— 
 That was her common run— 
 
 A bridge not fifty yards ahead, 
 Oh Heaven ! what could be done ! 
 
 Like jangling millstones bounced the cars 
 
 Along the sleepers' ends ; 
 Tim had no time to think of wife, 
 
 Of babe, or self, or friends. 
 
 The fireman jumped, but quick as thought 
 
 Tim Nesbitt took it in— 
 The bridge is straight, there is a chance 
 
 For life if he should win. 
 
 And with a mighty jerk he threw 
 
 The throttle open wide— 
 And said a prayer— and "Lady Bess " 
 
 Went on her crazy ride. 
 
 Dreadful ! You might have seen the wood 
 
 And nails, and glasses fly, 
 And splinters, torn from bridge and beam, 
 
 And clamps from every tie. 
 
 While " Lady Bess "just flew across, 
 
 And Tim iust held his breath- 
 While half the passengers had swooned, 
 And half were sure of death. 
 
 But ere the scared had time to pray, 
 
 Or broken wheels to stand, 
 Tim Nesbitt's train had crossed the bridge, 
 
 And we were safe on land. 
 
 I reckon that no other man 
 
 That runs upon the line, 
 Has got a watch as big as his, 
 
 Nor anything so fine. 
 
 For on one side's a picture like 
 
 The creek at Smoky Ridge— 
 And on the other's writ: " To him 
 
 Who run across the bridge." 
 
 — 8. H. M. Byers. 
 
 THE LIFE BRIGADE. 
 
 Wild are the mountainous billows 
 
 That break on the rocky shore, 
 Wildly whistles the storm-wind 
 
 Through crevice, window, and door 
 Down in relentless fury 
 
 Falls a torrent of icy rain, 
 And, back with its wrath, the tempest 
 
 Rides over the rolling main. 
 
 Hark ! 'mid the strife of waters 
 
 A shrill despairing cry, 
 As of some drowning sailor 
 
 In his last agony ! 
 Another! and now are mingled 
 
 Heart-rending shrieks for aid. 
 Lo ! a sinking ship. What ho ! arouse, 
 
 Arouse the Life Brigade ! 
 
 They come with hurrying footsteps: 
 
 No need for a second call ; 
 They are broad awake and ready, 
 
 And willing one and all. 
 Not a hand among them trembles, 
 
 Each tread is firm and free, 
 Not one man's spirit falters 
 
 In the face of the awful sea. 
 
 Yet well may the bravest sailor 
 
 Shrink back appalled to-night 
 From that army of massive breakers 
 
 With their foam-crests gleaming white 
 Those beautiful, terrible breakers, 
 
 Waiting to snatch their prey, 
 And bury yon hapless vessel 
 
 'Neath a monument of spray ! 
 
 But rugged, and strong, and cheery 
 
 Dauntless and undismayed, 
 Are the weather-beaten heroes 
 
 Of the gallant Life Brigade. 
 " To the rescue ! " shouts their leader, 
 
 Nor pauses for reply— 
 A plunge!— and the great waves bear him 
 
 Away to do or die ! 
 
 The whole night long, unwearied, 
 
 They battle with wind and sea, 
 All ignorant and heedless 
 
 Of what their end may be. 
 They search the tattered rigging, 
 
 They climb the quivering mast, 
 And life after life is rescued 
 
 Till the frail ship sinks at last. 
 
 The thunderous clouds have vanished, 
 
 And rose-fingered morn awakes, 
 While over the breast of ocean 
 
 The shimmering sunlight breaks; 
 And the Life Brigade have finished 
 
 The work God gave them to do, 
 Their names are called. " Any missing ?" 
 
 Mournful the answer,—" Two ! " 
 
 Two of the best and bravest 
 
 Have been dragged by the cruel waves 
 Down to the depths unmeasured, 
 
 'Mid thousands of sailor graves! 
 Two lives are given for many ! 
 
 And the tears of sorrow shed, 
 Should be tears of joy and glory 
 
 For the grandeur of the dead ! 
 
 —Minnie Mackay. 
 
 THE BNP. 
 

 
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