"^^0^ <^°^ ,♦ /' ^^^. Kj ♦ • U < V vv .^^r i^ ^, o ,-i°*. 1 k 1 ^BtxL p* 1 s^^2 m^' ... M ^ H ' ^)^K , . ^Wf -^ — '^ ^*^' • '^ v^m ' . JBl Kk :::*Miiii T||li\l|j- "~> _"^ ^ 3^"4ff, ' j ~ ^1i 1 t ^■1 ' i 1 l::':: LI '3L y-^ Copyright, 1897, by Grace Duffie Boylan. \ IKE MORGAN. EVERETT E. LOWRY, J. T. McCUTCHEON, W. SCHMEDTGEN, HARRY O. LANDERS, JULES M. GASPARD, F. HOLME, CLYDE J. NEWMAN, HAROLD R. HEATON. -^ Cover by W. W. DENSLOW. v.yfl CONTENTS. 1 Mr. Brown _ _ _ Heimgang - > - Terry's Repentance When the Moon was Bad Sunrise on Mt. Shasta Lullaby - - - - From the Mine - - - When the Band Played Old Folks Hear the City Choir - If It Is True - - - The Prison Gardener To-morrow - - _ Curve of Country Road Ishmael - - - If Tam O'Shanter 'd Had a Wheel Tempest _ _ - The Quest of Gudrun Sonnet - - - - 64 66 67 73 74 75 76 78 83 86 87 93 94 95 103 104 105 112 nerry Q. Landers. TO MY MOTHER. THE OLD HOUSE. Cold and cheerless, bare and bleak, The old house fronts the shabby street; And the dull windows eastward gaze, As their cobwebbed brows they raise, Just as tho' they looked to see What had become of you and me, And all the other children. The garden at the side, — you know, Where mother's flowers used to grow, — Has run as wild as we'd have grown If we had not her training known, The vines she bent still twine each tree ; As cling her prayers to you and me. And all her other children. Over the eaves, wrinkled and bare, The gray moss floats like tangled hair. If we had heard these echoes flung Down the long halls, when we were young, We'd never scurried off to bed — You and I — thro' the gloom o'erhead, With all the other children. 7 On our wide orbs the eyes of night Gazed softly, with mesmeric light ; When mother bent above our bed The silver moonlight touched her head, And in my dreams her face I'd see, Madonna-like, shine over me — Shine over all her children. The dust drifts o'er the garret floor, The little feet tread there no more ; But o'er the stage, still standing there, The Muse first stalked with tragic air, And whispered low to you and me, Of golden days that were to be For us, and all the children. Good-bye, old house! Thy tattered cloak Is fringed with moss and gray with smoke Within thy walls we used to see A gaunt old wolf named Poverty; Yet from thy rafters' dingy bars A ladder stretched up to the stars — For us, and all the children. A NEW WOMAN, A new woman lives just over the way; But her hands are as soft as the tinted snow That falls from the apple trees in May, And her lips are as sweet, I know. You'd be surprised; -but on suffrage laws She has no views, and she doesn't speak; And even the Bible's flagrant flaws She can stand for another week. Yet, 'tis said, at a wave of her little hand Her subjects bow with an homage true ; And there isn't a right in all the land That isn't her guerdon due. For down a pathway of woven light, That leads to this world from the jeweled skies, She came last eve, with her brow all bright With the dews of Paradise. AT THE REFUGE OF SAINT SOPHIA. J- The afternoon shadows crept into the little sewing- room of the Refuge of Saint Sophia, and the pale mother superior folded her work, smoothing the coarse seams with careful hands, and stepped out on the western porch. Her glance drifted across the well-filled waving fields and rested upon the white road winding across the background of green and slipping from sight in the deep wooded stretch that joined the hazy purple of the far hori- zon. How long the way had been to her torn feet when, after days and nights of ceaseless journeying, she reached this refuge, nestled in the great Swiss mountains, and with a wild and sobbing cry had fallen blind and fainting at its door. Why, that was fifty years ago — fifty years ! And she had prayed so earnestly, it seemed she could not even wait the time of asking, to die then. Ah ! she had learned to live since that time, and had caught the secret of for- getfulness in loving servitude for others. She wondered now, a little vaguely, how the world that she had known would look to her long sheltered eyes. They heard so little in this place, even when nations shook with the toppling down of thrones. And it was well. She, mother of mercy ! she had heard enough. She lifted her hand to shade her eyes and the red sunlight shimmered through its transparent flesh quite as it did that afternoon in May when at her wedding fete she had lifted the ruby wine and cried: "Vive la patrie ! Vive le roi !" looking in eyes that spoke again to hers. But hark! She knew the mutterings long heard around the throne had swelled into a savage cry, and "the faint, long echoing footsteps" become a trampling, living sea, breaking in ever fiercer waves of blood and devastation against the eight grim towers of the Bastile, under whose shadows all the day St. Guillotine counted her beads. It was her wedding day ! Could they not hush for those' tender hours the awful cries and the wild clamor of the blood-drunk mob? She saw again the garden's leafy shade, the fierce- eyed horde that came unbidden guests, the scowling, red-capped woman who tore off her bridal-wreath and raised a crimsoned knife to strike her down. Afterward, through the horror-filled days of hiding and of flight, she felt that she had heard the harsh inswinging of the Bas- tile doors shutting the love-light on her young husband's face forever from her sight. But the pitying friends who saved her life that day told her that he had fallen there, and then she had gone mad ! Hark ! Was that a tum- brel rattling over the pavement? Ah, no; only a peasant's cart moving along the quiet country road. The woman made the sign across her breast, stilling the tempest of her soul. It was always shady in the afternoon where the rose- vines climbed to the mossy roof and laid their dewy blossoms against the gray columns of the wide piazza; and the old man sat where the breeze stole over the jasmine at the side before it came to touch the thin white locks upon his brow, sat there alone with the past, and seeing only the scenes that memory painted on the inner curtains of his sightless eyes. No one knew who he was or where he came fromi beyond the name given in the brief entry in the yellow-leaved register. The writing of that was a little unsteady, too. Quite unlike the mother's usually careful hand. But she had written it the day he came with feeble steps along the dusty road, groping his hesi- tating way up to the ever-open door. "Jean d'Armand," he had answered when asked his name, and even the children noticed that her face grew whiter as she said: "Jean? I did not hear aright. Did you say Jean d'Armand?" The old man turned his face, tense with the listen- ing look the blind have, at her voice and replied: "Oui, madame, Jean d'Armand." She drew the folds of her veil still closer about her face, whispering to herself the stranger's name. The days went round, a skein of light and shadow wound from the hands of Time, and the stranger seemed content. He spoke but seldom to the rest, but lived, as the blind must, in a world peopled with memories. The earth sounds grew so indistinct and low they ceased to jar upon his ear. He heard the music of the poplar trees unfurling their green and silver banners, and all the air was filled with whisperings of peace, the while he waited, a poor pilgrim, at the sunset gates of life. 13 The sisters, flitting noiselessly about, spoke gently to him as they passed his way, and the little children, v/ith wide, shy eyes lifted to his face, vaguely recognized the touch of sorrow there and tried to comfort him. "Is it because you are so near Heaven that your head is touched with snow, Father Jean?" said little Marie, whose gaze had wandered from the mountain's silver crown to the aged head beside her. "No, dear one," he replied; "it is because I am old." The child caught the note of pain in his voice and questioned with a caressing touch: "Does it hurt to be old, monsieur?" "Once I would have thought so, dear one," he re- plied, "before the world I loved so much had crumbled into ashes, but now I have learned to say: " T am old and blind, Men point at me as smitten by God's frown. Afflicted and deserted by my kind, Yet I am not cast down. I am weak, yet strong; I murmur not that I no longer see; Poor, old and helpless, I the more belong, Father, Supreme, to Thee.' " 14 Another listened with the child, as with rapt, un- seeing eyes and glorified face the old man continued: " '0, Merciful One! When men are farthest then art Thou most near; When men pass by me and my weakness shun Thy chariot I hear.' " His voice rose in its triumphant joy, and in the shadows of the ivy at his side the black-robed nun stood with her thin hands clasped across her breast and yearn- ing eyes fixed on his face. "Jean!" The cry burst from her long-disciplined lips. The old man started from his seat. "Who calls me?" he cried. "Who calls my name with the voice I thought drowned in the commune's roar?" "I called you, Jean, Jean d'Armand." And the nun stood there before him, straight and tall, the sunset glow touching her white hair and face with almost saintly beauty. 15 "I called you — " And the heart-throbs broke in waves the simple words: "Now speak my name." He struck his hand against his eyes as if to break the seal of darkness there, and then cried, it seemed to the woman's soul, with a voice like the angels' calling to the dead "Arise 1" "Ninon, Ninon, my wife!" Earth has few moments of such solemn joy; and as he told her how the grave had yawned and turned him, like the Wandering Jew, away, they heard the angelus from the gray, distant tower, and knelt together in the fad- ing light. The darkness deepened and the woman's head slipped over till it rested on his breast; and when the sisters came with loving care to lead her feeble steps away to her bare, white cell for the night's rest they found that One had been before them and had touched the faces of those reunited ones with that still look of peace that men have misnamed death. i6 JIM AND JOHN. They were schoolmates, Jim and John, But Jim never did get on. Wasn't lazy, fur's I know, But jes' took things kinder slow. An' good-natured — well I guess! Though he could get riled at less Than 'ud make most fellers mad — Not to call his temper bad. 'Twas that flashin' in the pan Nat'ral to an Irishman. For the rest, a kinder heart Never took a brother's part. John is diff'rent; alius was. He would never stop because Others might stand in his way — Whether it was work or play. Fact, when all is said and done, He's looked out for number one. Still, I'll give his due to him; He was piouser than Jim. 17 The one boy that kep' the rule 'Way back in that old, red school; Ne'er played hooky, never tried Cheatin' in his sums, or lied. Jim 'ud work an afternoon Helpin' some poor little coon; Miss a day of jolly fun Splittin' wood for Widow Dunn. But he'd cuss, like all possessed, At a boy who'd rob a nest. Wasn't, as I must allow, Saint or angel then. But now, Though a dingy, ragged vest Hangs upon his honest breast, It is not to hide, I know. Wrong to woman, child, or foe. P'raps he don't amount to much In society, an' such. P'raps folks ain't inclined to raise Him before their kids fur praise; But I know him, and I say Better men don't pass this way. John, upon the other hand, Is a niodel for the land. Deacon in the church, with all Of the honors that befall Them that's lucky in their life — Place, 'an wealth, 'an child, 'an wife. But for all that, I am sure. His own soul is mean and poor. No poor brother ever felt Comfort from his hand, or help. No sad tears by him are dried If his purse must be untied. So I'd like to take a look Into that big record book That the angels keep above; Find the place where deeds of love Are set down, and read within The true estimate of Jim! 19 AUF WIEDERSEHEN. J' Say not "good-bye" — the sounds have all regret; I cannot loose your hand with such a word. Our ways part here, and yet, Love, and yet, I cannot leave you till my soul has heard The charm to bring me to your side again, The dear "auf wiedersehen." Say not "adieu" — the word has hidden pain, Within its foreign accents sweet and clear. That haunts my heart with sad and hopeless strain, And pleads with duty just to linger here. Smile courage in mine eyes, Love, and then, Whisper "auf wiedersehen." Say not "farewell" — if thou wouldst have it so; The word, like a wan hand, waves us apart. I cannot leave, mein liebling, will not go, Until you whisper, lying on my heart. The golden bridge between the Now and Then, The sweet "auf wiedersehen." EPH^RUM^S MATRIMONIAL SURPRISES. J' They were sitting too far back from the lal^e shore to see much of the cycling contest, but they did not seem to mind that very much, Beyond the crowd of brightly- garmented people that stretched like a low and jeweled wall in front of them they could catch sight of the lagoon hemmed with its band of vivid emerald sward ; and from there look far off to where the bending heaven touched the waters and the strong east wind snatched snowy clouds from the sapphire sky and tore them into white caps for the waves. Occasionally the old couple would lift their dark faces toward the statue of a man on horseback, outlined against the sky and standing silent and im- movable between them and their world, but if the sight had any significance to them they gave no sign. The cold breeze fluttered the shawl on the woman's ample shoulders, and she drew it closer as she said: "Dar wan't no sich cold fall days w'en we uster walk togedder befo' wah times, war dar, Eph'rum?" She looked a little curiously into the withered black face of the man beside her and continued: "Seems like I couldn't hardly b'leeve dat dis is yo'. I alius 'member yo' like yo' was w'en I saw yo' las'. Lan', how yo' uster rastle; dey couldn't none of 'em fro' yo' 1 An' how yo' could stomp the hoedown ! I ain't neber fo'got dat ! How long yo' b'en lookin' foh me, Eph'rum?" She smoothed the faded ribbon at her throat and smiled at him with the pathetic coquetry of age. The old man coughed apologetically and said with commend- able hesitation: "W — wall, yo' see, I cain't jes' tell how long I mought 'a' be'n lookin' foh yo', honey, ef Tanzy Ann hedn't hed sich a lingerin' disp'sition. It war dis way: Wen yo' was sol' an' moved up de ribber I was dat 'stracted dat de fust t'ing I knowed I v/uz ma'h'd to ole Jim's daughtah. Yo' knowed Tanzy, didn't yo' ? Why she war de putties' — I mean she war dat pore, liT lame nigger ob Jim's. We libed in de cabin whar ole mis' planted de honeysuckle vines, an' — oh, dem vines all died!" The woman was watching him closely, and the wily old man was trying to keep all the remembrances of his past happiness out of his voice, and to explain his long delay in claiming his bride. He saw that he was making some mistakes. "Wall, liT Tanzy Ann wasn't neber vehy well," he continued, "an' I uster tote her roun' in meh ahms like she wuz candy — an' one day she died." Eph'rum turned away and gazed out over the waters — a redeeming light upon his crafty face. "W'en she die?" the woman asked abruptly. "She ben dead twenty- two years de sebenth day ob July," he replied, with unusual promptness and exact- ness as to date. His companion snorted contemptuously. "An' yo' ben lookin' foh me foh twenty-two years? Humph !" "W — wall, 1 done sta'ted out to look foh yo'. I heerd dat yo' war up no'th, an' I come 'long up to 23 Lexington — on meh wey to fin' yo', yo' know. An' ef I didn't come 'cross Lizy Stow. Yo' 'member Lizy ? An' de fust ting I Icnowed slie done got ma'h'd to me — an' dar I wuz ! So I tought I mo ugh t jes as well settle right down dar whar Lizy hed a good bisness in de washin' and ihnin' line. Hi ! how I uster camp down in de sun, 'side de vine dat kivered de cabin, an' heah de music ob de soapsuds bilin' ober on de stove an' de rub-dub ob Lizy's knuckles on the washboa'd ! An' I'd fall fas* asleep jes de minute I'd heah huh rastlin' roun' foh de pail an' gin to look foh me to tote in de rinsh watah." The old man fell into a meditative silence but the woman was visibly impatient. "Lizy Stow uster be pow'ful humbly," she said. "Wen she die ?" "Le's see," he began, reflectively; "I reckon she's ben gone moughty nigh fif- teen years, foh Hepsy an' me had ben ma'h'd ober fourteen years w'en she died, las' week." 24 The listener arose in her wrath. "Yo' ain' gwine tell me dat youse ben ma'h'd since Lizy died, is yo' ?" He quailed a little under her fierce eyes, but an- swered bravely: "W — wall, yo' see, it wus jes like dis. Pearly: Wen Lizy j'ined huh sistahs in de Lor', I sole de flat ihans an' washboa'd and de bushel o' peach-pits we owned, an' den I sta'ted out foh to look foh de lubly floweh I'd ben a pinin' foh so long — dat wuz yo', honey. An' w'en I wuz trabelin' a-huntin' foh yo', who'd I cum 'cross but Hepsy, an' de fust t'ing I knowed — " "De fust t'ing yo' know some udder fool woman '11 mah'y yo', I s'pose," said his companion, glowering upon him in righteous anger, "but I 'tell yo', Mistah Eph'rum Har'son, dat woman ain' gwine ter be me !" She strode away majestically; but an hour later when I passed the place again, they were sitting close together and "Eph'rum" was evidently resigning himself to another matrimonial surprise. AT EVENTIDE. Sometimes the day drags heavily along; The waves of tumult in the busy street Strike on my heart with soulless, ceaseless beat, And I can frame no song. Then comes the eventide; and in a place Upon whose lintel I have written "Home" I rest as one love-crowned on a throne, Forgetting Sorrow's face. A little child, a cuddly, baby thing, Close to my breast from smiling dreams awakes. Dear God! What balm to ease a heart that aches This motherhood doth bring ! My eyes grow dim for sorrows — not mine own, But for the griefs my sister women bear Who have no baby eyes to daunt despair. No child-love to atone. 26 EVEN IN FAR JAPAN. J' It was in the time of the cherry bloom, A twelfth month past in far Japan, When under its over-arching shade She came, with a look as sweet and staid As the dame's on a paper fan. I'd been browsing 'round, as a tourist will, Bored half to death, I'll frankly own, By the snub-nosed roofs, the paper walls, The squat, black gods in their gaudy stalls. And the carvings of bronze and stone. I cared not a rap for the Buddha calm, For one of the idols gray and grim. But here was an "object" diff'rent, quite; And softly along through shade and light She came with her footsteps prim. She'd a scarlet wreath in her raven hair; Her obi hung in a fetching bow: Her feet, in queer, little, fingered hose, Fell each as soft as a falling rose, And I wondered which way she'd go. 27 She paused like a dove that has lost its way, Her soft robe stirr'd o'er her gentle breast. "Damsel," I cried, "are you straying here, With your coolie small and 'rik'sha near. While you utter your soul's behest?" "I haven't a jinrikisha," she said. With cheeks like bloom v/here the sun doth sfrike; "But I've come far, and 'tis growing late, So please go down to the temple gate And wheel along up v/ith my bike." It was in the time of the cherry . bloom — I'm sure of that — and 'twas in japan But did I dream ? Did that vision speak My native slang in the accents meek Of a dame of the paper fan ? OLD **^^.** J' Every day at just such an hour the old man entered the yards and walked slowly up and down annong the engines, lingering longest around old "97," the huge, high- smoke-stacked locomotive, still on duty, but soon to be retired and devoted to a most inglorious end by means of a sham collision. A few of the blue-jeaned heroes around the depot objected more or less vigorously to the presence of the stranger, for it is a dangerous place for the nimble and quick-eyed, and the old man was half blind and his ears were closed to even the shrill whistle of the trains. But some of the men remembered that the bent and feeble veteran was an old engineer, the oldest on the road, and "97" had been for years dearer to him than wife, or child, or friend. Al Reece had kept his post until five years before, carefully concealing from the argus-eyed inspectors the fact of his partial blindness and infirmity. He had been an engineer for fifty years. It is a matter of history that he took the first train over the road; and "97" was his second love. The first he had gone over a bridge with, 29 after feeling her heartbeats quiver through his own breast and feeling her response to his every desire for tv/enty years. He carried a scar on his head for a long time and the heart wound never entirely healed, although the railroad company framed resolutions on what they called his heroism and gave him a brand new engine, right out of the shops. Al called her the "Jewel," after the other one, for he was a young fellow then, not above a little romancing; but later the company changed all the names to numbers and she became known as the "97." It's a strange thing how a man gets to love a creature of iron and steel. There wasn't an engine along the division kept in better shape than "97," New styles were adopted, and all the late inventions came in, but the "old girl" kept her place, and Al Reece kept her in it by his care. The old-fashioned brass mountings were as bright as the day they were fitted on, and there wasn't a speck or a bit of dust about her anywhere. But as time passed on the men began to look half pityingly at the old engineer and whisper that perhaps he would have to be retired before "97" was called in. "Why, he can't see a foot in front of him," said one of the young fellows, "and it's a mighty risk to let a blind man run an engine!" The same thought was moving the directors, for they could no longer ignore the fact of his condition. But those who believe corporations have no souls might have learned much if they had witnessed the scene in the superintendent's office when old Al Reece was pensioned and discharged. The news had been broken to him by a man who looked at the bowed figure with manly tears and at the conclusion of the interview had taken the toil-worn hand, that had held the lever for so many years, in his own as a son might have done. The old engineer lifted his eyes, full of the piteous look the blind have, to his face. "My trip's about over, anyway," he said, "an' I did want to slow up at the terminal on old '97.' But it's all right, sir, it's all right. I might have had some acci- dent on account of my eyes, an' have carried on the folks that wan't ready for the last station. But I don't believe I would. I really didn't need to see with her. She was eyes for me; and she had too much sense to go wrong. "There's jest one favor I want to ask, sir: Have 'em let me through the gates whenever she's in from her trips. It'll be a comfort to us both, sir." For a long time, the engine, under a strong, young hand, kept her regular runs. But she got fractious and cranky, and was finally used only in the yards. Old Al never missed his visit to her, though he grew feebler all the time, and seemed to mourn over her changed and neglected appearance. One day as he leaned against her dull side, patting her and talking of the days they had passed together, a young switchman, new in the yards and ignorant, stepped up to him. 'This is the last day for old '97,'" he called into the dull ears. "Some showmen have bought her, an' they're going to take her down on the siding an' run her off the upper bridge. Two trainloads comin' from Newton to see it. And there'll be fireworks and a great sight." The old man put his hand up to his throat and leaned more heavily against the condemned engine. The young fellow continued: "Better be here. It'll be a big show. She'll have steam up an' be sent wild. Starts at 9 if it's pretty dark." He went whistling away to set the switch for the 8 o'clock flyer, and the old engineer was left alone. But a flush was on the furrowed face, and the dim eyes burned with a strange fire. "She's ready, now," said the director an hour later to a group of trainmen, who had been stoking up the old engine, and hanging her sides with gayly covered banners. "This is her last trip, let her go 1" He threw the throttle wide, and as the engine bounded with a mighty leap toward the grs^de's incline leaped onto the ground. A great crowd gathered along the siding greeted the wild engine with a cheer, which speedily turned into a yell of horror; for as the panting thing madly rushed toward the bridge they saw a figure on the right-hand seat; and as the glow from the furnace lighted the cab with its red splendor it shone upon the fixed, white face of the old engineer, going to his deat'i with "97" WHEN PAPA WAS A LITTLE BOY* J' When papa was a little boy He never had a single toy, 'Cept jes' a knife 'at gran'ma kep' To dig up greens and mignonette; But my ! he had the mostest fun An' mostest larks of anyone. He had a stick jes' like a gun, An', all himself, he made a drum, An' nen he'd march an' march aroun' A-makin' such a drefful soun' 'At gran'ma usto hide her head; "I guess the rebs have come !" she said. An' nen she'd watch a little while. An' nen she'd cry an' nen she'd smile, 'Cause gran'pa wasn't gran'pa nen, He was jes' only "Cap'n Ben." An' papa was a soldier's boy 'At didn't want no common toy. He'd weed the flower beds, and nen He'd whittle out some giant men, 34 An' dip 'em in the bluin' tub An' marcli 'em off wif rub-a-dub. An' cut more trees 'n Wasliin'ton, 'Thout gettin' spanked for even one. His ma said Santy couldn't come 'At Trismus, 'an he missed him some, But Trismus Eve, when all was dark. He made a dreat, big Noah's ark, An' lots of animals an' sings Wif yellow eyes an' dreat, black wings. An' jes' like Santy, packed 'em tight In auntie's stockin' in the night. My ! she was jes' as glad — as glad, 'Cause 'at was all the gifts she had. An' papa laughed to hear her tell 'At Santy liked her awful well ! I've got a sousand sings, I guess; Engines, an' tops, an' printin' press, A Shetlan' pony, an' a goat 'At bumps me down, an' nen a boat. But I wish Papa'd saved 'at toy He played wif w'en he was a boy. 35 THE DOUR NIGHT. Lift high the cup) — it is brimming o'er — Life's measure is shaken together; Though your hand is cold and your heart is sore, Drink, friend, to the changeful weather. For Hope returns and to-day's frown chill Will melt in the smile of another, And there's never a night so ill, so ill, But comes to an end, my brother. Sits Poverty at your hearthstone now, Sole guest at your frugal dinner? There's many a one far worse, I trow. To elbow than that wan sinner. Better a dinner of herbs with him Than a banquet with Pride as neighbor; For he's learned to laugh with his jolly kin. The knights of the brush and faber. It's a merry world, tho' the lights burn low And the embers darken and smoulder; Tho' the night creeps down, and the north winds blow, And the heart grows sadder and older. 36 The skies to-day may be drear and chill, But they'll melt into smiles some other, And there's never a night too dour and ill To meet with the dawn, my brother. MOTHER^S BIRTHDAY. J' Mother tells me in her letter, with an effort to be gay, That she has counted seventy winged years! But the page is slightly crumpled where her nervous fin- gers lay, And here and there I see a mark of tears. So I'll slip away, to-morrow, to the quiet little place With mignonette and sweet briar overgrown; And, stealing in, will kiss her on her startled, joy-filled face; It's mother's birthday, and I'm going home I She says: "The boys are coming, and I wish, my baby, you Could leave your story weaving for a while. I'm near the gates of evening, but I think the dusk and dew Will melt away before your loving smile." And then she tells me simply how her pray'rs attend my way Through all the weary paths I tread alone. My heart grows faint with longing, and I turn aside to say: It's mother's birthday, and I'm going hom®. ROMANCE IN THE IRISH VILLAGE. It was time for the dance in one of the Irish vil- lages at the World's Fair. The green-stockinged lad who played the pipes was beating with his foot the meas- ures of the tune as the shock-haired boy with the emerald sash and hose leaped on the wooden floor and struck the time. Gradually the various groups of people scattered about the court gathered into a circle around the plat- form; and as the time-honored strains that have quick- ened the pulses and bewitched the feet for generations sounded clearer and faster, some of the onlookers forgot the dignity of their American citizenship, and, with hands clapping and bodies swaying, gave vent to their long repressed enthusiasm in words half smothered with the burr of the old tongue. Across the faces of many a substantial man and gracious, dignified woman flitted the look that they had once lifted to the lovely skies of Ireland, and through the smiles that kindled in their eyes shone homesick tears. Monom dho Dhia ! Will the Irish feet ever keep quiet or the Irish blood run slow ? Not while the harp is on the green flag and the heart of Erin feels the 39 mingled joy and pathos of its unuttered music! The jig dancer, with fine young body held erect and light and swift falling feet, warmed to the work. The piper leaned forward in his chair and beat the plat- form with increasing zeal. A smile hung round his mouth and touched his eyes. Suddenly the crowd parted a little at one side and a young girl sprang up and joined the dance. She was an Ameri- can, a visitor, slim, quiet and demure. But the blood of some Celtic ancestor tingled in her veins, darkening her eyes and setting a flame in her cheeks and the pulse of rhyme in her feet. Then 'twas forward an' back, An' across an' around, Wid her hand on her hip, An' her glance on the ground. The gossoon before her Turned faint wid amaze, But he took her soft hand. An' he met her soft gaze. An' the music swirled on As the fire-flies float; Like a bird in the air Hung each golden winged note. Till she tripped the swate time Iv bold "Rory O'More," Wid his heart for a platform Instead of the flure. The music stopped and the girl, blushing, breathless and bewildered, slipped into the cheering crowd. My heart had "been leaping with the melody; and all at once I became conscious that an old man among the spectators on the other side of the platform was gazing at me with the intent look of one trying to grasp and place some elusive resemblance. Our eyes met many times and there was always in his a doubtful and half pathetic questioning. At last he made his way to where I stood, and, baring his silver hair, with old world grace, said, with a smile of such frank friendliness I could find no reason for resentment: **Ah, ye're an Irish gurrl, an' ye've no call to be ashamed of it." 41 "Yes," I replied. "My blood is half and I begin to think my heart is all Irish. My father was a north of Ireland man." "I knew it," he said, with a smile of satisfaction lighting his withered face. And then the gallantry of his race could no longer be suppressed. "I knew it. Yer blue eyes are homesick, an' the smudge underneath thim is the mournin' they're wearin' for Ireland. Wor ye born in the auld country? No? Oah, Erin is quane iv the world!" He drew himself up, erect and soldierlike. Poor, sad-eyed queen! The single emerald in your iron crown outshines, in such fond eyes, the blazing coro- nets of all the earth; and your throne rests on the quivering hearts of such devoted sons. The old man still lingered by my side, but he was silent for a long time. A rem- iniscent look settled upon his features, and when at last he spoke his voice was strangely grave and tender. "I've been watchin' ye for a half hour past," he said; "watchin' yer Irish eyes and smile; an' yer face takes me back across the says an' across the years, for it is like 42 rone, that of a gurrl I used to know when I was a young man. * * * i can hear her laugh as plain as when it rippled over the lakes that war like jewels around old Tyrone county in thim days." "Was that your home?" I lis- tened with a new interest, for he had named my father's county. "Tyrone ? Oah, yes, it war Ty- he replied, "And what was the name of the girl who looked as I look so many years ago?" "Molly Mulholland, it war," he replied, a heart throb breaking through the quiet tone. "Oah, it war Molly Mulholland." I turned to him in great surprise. "She was my own grandmother!" I cried. But his ears were dulled or filled with other voices and he did not seem to sense my words. Strange things like this may happen every day. But my heart still thrills with the wonder of it; for across the seas and across the years this old man came to find in 43 my face the look of the woman he had loved full sixty years ago; the look veiled by the grave from Erin's skies for half a century; the look of my grandmother, Molly Mulholland. A WEATHER PROPHET. Ole Unc' Woodchuck jes' look wise An' whiff de smoke fum out his eyes. "'Fessor," said Br'er Rabbit, den. "When'll spring be yere again! "Dar's some rumors in de town Dat she's been a-sneakin' roun'." Ole Unc' Woodchuck jes' look wise An' whiff de smoke fum out his eyes. "'Fessor," said Br'er Jack, perlite, "Folks dey tink yoh knows a sight. "Yoh's a wedder prophet, shore, Wen yoh shadder's at de doah. "Is spring comin'?" Fro de smoke Ole Unc' Woodchuck looked and spoke: "Yes, I reckon she'll be heah. Like she comes 'bout ev'ry yeah." "Sakes alive !" Br'er Rabbit said. "But Unc' Woodchuck's got a head!" 45 NIGHT. J' In frost 'broidered garments the hushed earth is swaying Out in the firmament's cradle of blue; And now are the daughters of music essaying For the God child, Creation, a slumber song new. Each wave to the shore its weird melody's bringing, Till ocean's grand orchestra sounds on the beach; But tuneless the lute and forgotten the singing, For silence is guarding the portals of speech. The while we yet toiled in the sun. Night was flinging Her veil over Orient gardens so fair; And now in its folds a strange fragrance is clinging, That lulls into slumber the grim warden, Care. And, spellbound, the keeper has left the gate swinging That leads to the dream meadow's poppy-fringed way; So haste thee, ere rose-armed Aurora, upspringing. Calls out from the east the swift cohorts of Day. 46 THE CUBAN AMAZON. Inez Cari, the black leader of the Cuban Amazons, (Feared the naost of the insurgents by the haughty Span- ish dons), Met the troops at Olayita but a week or so gone by, Saw the fierce, unequal battle ere the rebels turned to fly, Then, with all the splendid courage of a soul born to be free, Turned her bosom for the bullets of the Spanish mus- ketry. She had waited with her women in the rude and hostile camp. Watching through the quiet bivouac, bearing burdens on the tramp. Not for her a downy pillow sheltered from the war's alarms; Not for her the twilight crooning as she held her babe in arms. But in that last glorious rally, un- derneath the smoke-filled sky, Inez Cari showed her country how a patriot can die ! 47 Thus it was: The cruel Weyler sent his troops to settle down Like a swarm of yellow jackets on the hills about the town Where the malcontents were hiding; telling them with covert sneer That the Amazons were holding all the countryside in fear, And his own most doughty soldiers, when they ventured an attack On the gaunt, half-naked rebels, had been fiercely driven back. "Shoot them down," he said, "or bring them back as cap- tives to the town, For to tame the fighting furies should be something for renown." With a laugh the men saluted, and swept down upon the field, Held by half a thousand women, who would die but never yield; Half a thousand negro women, who would never wear again On their bent and bleeding shoulders the degrading yoke of Spain. 48 Inez Cari called her women, and then, like a vet'ran true, Gave commands as clear and steady as if 'twere but for review. "Come," she said, "a round of bullets wait within each rifle's throat; Send them singing to the Spaniards, touch a hear/ with ev'ry note. Look, they come! Now, Viva Cuba!" And with that defiant cry Stood they waiting in grim patience as the regiment drew nigh. Silent, till they saw white eyeballs; then their muskets leaped in place, And their eyes gleamed 'long the barrels straight to Spanish .heart or face. Ping ! Death's messengers went singing. But the soldiers answered well, And for ev'ry trooper stricken down a score of women fell; Till the Spanish closed around them, pouring fast a storm of lead, And. alone, brave Inez Cari stood at bay among her dead. "Viva Cuba! Cuba libre!" cried she, smiling in their eyes, Answering with well-aimed bullets all their fierce and mocking cries. Straight and tall as a young cypress, with her naked bosom dyed With the crimson blood fast welling into fuller, richer tide; Dark the heavens grew above her, but she leaned against a tree And sent home another bullet in the cause of Cuba free. 50 Faint the Spanish cries. Caramba! what a jagged, gaping wound ! Inez Cari, turning, staggered, and sank down upon the ground. "Dead, El Capitan!" A soldier ran and bent above her head. But she raised upon her elbow, where she lay, and shot him dead. "Viva Cuba! Cuba libre !" cried she with her dying breath, And the guns of Spain won silence only with the aid of Death. Thus won Inez Carl glory but a week or so ago. On the field of Olayita, where she met the Spanish foe. And from 'neath the blessed banner of this blood-bought land I raise My one harp to strike the measures for a stirring song of praise. "Viva Cuba! Cuba libre!" Could I lift the cry again. Joined by sixty million voices, it would not be raised in vain. THE BELLE OF THE BLOCK. Along about 5 o'clock, when the afternoon sunlight was mellowed a little by slowly purpling shadows, and the red-cheeked factory girls commenced trooping by on their homeward way, we began to watch for her. Perhaps you would not have noticed her among the rest, she was so tiny — quite hidden, if she walked between their irregular phalanxes, or even if one of her sturdy, broad-shouldered companions kept on either side of her in their vague, unspoken sympathy for her infirmity. Not that she re- quired pity! There was not a step among them as light as hers and her small head lifted over the cruelly de- formed shoulders as brightly and as bravely as though she never had heard the whisper "hunchback" as she passed along the street. I often lingered at my window to see her trip up the steps of the dingy boarding-house across the way, and then, if the day were fair, to wait until she reappeared, her little red cap removed and her face and hands glowing rosily from their brisk, cold bath, and noted how she poised and fluttered from one side of the iron guarded porch to the other; for I knew that it would not be long before the handsome blond giant from the corner drug-store would meet the pale young naan from the opposite boarding-house at the foot of those same stairs — for they were rivals, and the little cripple girl was the belle and coquette of the block. It was winter when I saw her first; and since the day that she raised her eyes and answered my bow and smile as she passed, we have been friends. A red carna- tion grew in my window and I often pinned a glowing blossom on the little gray fur boa at her throat; but mine were not the only flowers she wore. I looked across the street upon a charming little love drama, but could not, from my distance, decide which was the more favored lover. The two men seemed equally devoted, but I often wondered if either of them would be willing to take "for better or worse, through sickness and health" the little cripple, who now, as though unconscious of her misfortune, received their homage with all the graciousness of a woman of the world, without betraying by word or sign the slightest preference. I favored the blond at first, he was so splendidly big and strong — and she would need such sure, untiring arms! But I learned that the other was a neighbor, one who had grown up on the farm adjoining her little home, and who had followed 53 her to the city when she came, with the unspoken pur- pose of being near her and shielding her as far as possible from every care and danger. It was a strange and beautiful thing to note the strong, pure love surrounding that helpless little creature, and I often pondered upon the end of the story. Some- times Jo Field, the country lover, would stop to talk with me as he was going home in the twilight, and one night his heart overflowed into^ confidence. "Have you seen Minnie to-day?" he questioned. "I think she is growing pale and thin; that factory is killing her! Oh, if she would only let me take her home!" His voice trembled on the last word and I could see that his dark eyes were full of tears. I hesitated a little, but finally said: "Do you really wish to make that little one your wife?" He looked at me very earnestly and his plain face grew noble as he answered: "It has been my hope since she was a tiny child and I was the only one who could carry her about with- out hurting her. I am the one to take care of her always, and when she will let me I shall take her home." 54 Sunday and yesterday I watched for my little friend and felt an odd sense of anxiety because I did not see her. Sunday is always both holy day and gala day with Minnie; for, good little Christian that she is, she trips off very early to church, and then, with a bright ribbon in her pretty hair and a rose pinned at her throat among the laces of her dainty gown, she flits from window to porch of the house across the way, or walks in the park or along the Lake Shore drive with Jo or the blond young giant from the drug-store. This week I had not seen her, and when last night my bell rang hurriedly I felt a vague sense of alarm and expectancy which was not lessened when Jo entered the room. His face was whiter than usual and deep shadows lay under his eyes. "Minnie was hurt by the cable Saturday," he said in a dull, monotonous voice. "To-night they are to tell me — what — to expect. I thought — may be — I could bear it better — if you should go with me. I " He turned hastily and left the room. I caught up my hat and cape and followed him silently. He walked as though in a dream, his hands hanging at his side, his eyes staring ahead in hopeless misery. I started to cross the street toward her lodgings, but he motioned onward. "To the hospital?" I asked, suddenly comprehending. He nodded, and we boarded the north-bound car and rode far along the brilliantly lighted street, until we reached the quieter neighborhood of the place we sought. My escort breathed unsteadily and walked with quick, nervous steps along the path, shining white in the moonlight, and up to the door. We followed the low-voiced sister through the long, quiet halls and up to a little white-walled room. The man was on his knees beside the snowy iron bed in an instant, his lips falling softly and reverently upon the thin hand outside the counterpane. "Minnie," he whispered gently, yet with an intensity of love and longing; "Minnie, can you speak to me?" The lids fluttered and lifted over the dark eyes and her glance rested upon his face. "Poor old Joey," she whispered, while something like her old arch smile lighted her white and pain-drawn face, "you're going — to have — such a ridic'lous wife." The words were half lost in the long-drawn sigh of perfect contentment. 56 "Minnie!" the rapture of a lifetime was condensed into the utterance of that one word. She nodded faintly and her hand crept up until it rested on his head and then down to cover the pain she knew must gather in his eyes as she said: '♦I can— never walk again— Joey, but," she lifted his face to meet the gladness shining in her own, through all her tears, "but — I am glad I am going to get well." To-morrow they are going to be married. Was there ever anything at once so foolish and so beautiful ? "She needs me now, much more than ever," he explains, "for I could always carry her about in my arms without hurting her, and I have loved her since she was just — so — high." 57 OLD SETTLERS, J' Old Silas Bangs was reely bent On beln' "oldest resident;" Got here in eighteen twenty-one — But Hodge sed that was when he come. An' them two haggled hard an' fast Ter find out which hed come here last. It looked like foolishness ter me Ter see them old chaps disagree. Si chawed terbacca by the pound, And argyfied, when Hodge was 'round, About the time they bridged the creek. Or when John Smith was taken sick. Hodge said his ox team floundered down In a big hole that's now the town. But Bangs was sure as he could be The hole wan't there till twenty-three; An', more'n that, he'd thought it o'er. The road wan't built till twenty-four ! He'd come along an Injun trail An' cut the timber in the swale; 58 That him an' Widder Potter's boy Laid down to make the corduroy Across the swamp, so they could haul Their tavern lumber 'fore the fall, Hodge said that it wan't no such thing ! The log house there was built the spring Of eighteen twenty; an' he knowed Just all about who made that road! Then them old chaps would draw up nigh'r An' growl, like dogs, afore the fire. I've seen 'em fight like barefoot kids, An' clinch an' punch each other's ribs. Till Bangs was down, with Hodge on top, A-whimperin' fur him ter stop ! Hodge was a hundred, an' I guess Si, when he died, was suthin' less. Old settlers is so kinder source They give Si carriages an' hearse. But if a man was ever glad 'Twas Hodge there in the mourners' cab ! He didn't make no bones to say That he had won out, anyway. But arter that he seemed to pine An' sort o' falter in the line; "I ain't jes' sick," he said, "but now Life ain't wuth livin' enny how. Since Si's ben gone I've thought, with pain He'd got the best of me again ! "Wish I'd gone fust; for if I lag Si'U hev another chance ter brag; An' say he paved the golden street ___ Afore it ever tetched my feet. But I dunno as I need care — There's some ahead of him up there I" VINES OF MEMORY. J' Where a regiment is bivouaced In God's quiet acre, there Where you see the banners waving In the fragrance-laden air, I, to-day, beheld a woman, Dark with Ethiopia's hue. Pray beside the lowly pillows Of the sleeping boys in blue. Like a bronze and graven sybil, Freed from silence for a space, Stood she with her soul illuming All her dark and furrowed face. And a score of race and kindred Gathered 'round her as she gave Thanks unto the God of freedom From her place beside the grave. "Lord," she cried, "we bring no garlands On this day to wreathe our dead; But we stretch our hands, unshackled, O'er each low and narrow bed; 6i And the scarlet vines of nnem'ry, Twined with immortelles, will be Rooted in these graves and growing 'Round the flag and up to Thee! "Thou didst strike our chains asunder With thy flaming sword of Right, And from 'neath the cloud of bondage Led us out into the light. Great the price that sealed our ransom At the nation's judgment bar, When for us and for our children Fell the flame-fringed pall of war. "These who rest are they whose life-blood Filled a fount for us to lave, Where a man came forth who entered The red flood a shackled slave, And with level-lidded glances Gazed his master in the face. Never more to cringe and tremble In his base, degraded place. "We, with lifted eyes, are standing 'Tween the dead and quick to-day; 62 The Grand Army of Republic — Still our shield and still our stay, Keep us ever loyal to them, Let the vines of mem'ry be Rooted in these graves and growing Round the flag and up to Thee!" 6?i MR. BROWN. Us children snicker when we hear What big folks say of Mr. Brown; They think he is the proudest man, An' smartest, too, in all the town. But if they'd see him here with us I bet you they would have to laugh; 'Cause we're a whole menagerie An' he's the awful tall giraffe. He has us with him in his room, That's filled with books an' funny things. Like ladies' heads, cut off an' hung Against the wall; an' eagles' wings; An' hor'ble idols from a place Where heathens worship gods of stone; An' skelingtons an' skulls — I guess You wouldn't catch us there alone ! Then Mr. Brown (when we're up there He tells us we can call him "Gus") Gets down upon his hands and knees An' plays he's a rhinoceros. • 64 My, but we're scared ! We run an' squeal, Until he pulls us down, kerchug. Into the surgin' River Nile — That's what he calls the biggest rug. An' he can make the bestest sounds; Jes' like a dog or cat; an' crow Like banty in the chicken yard; Sometime he'll tell me how, I know. An' he thinks cake an' jam an' sweets Are jes' the things that children need To make 'em grow; an' marmalade Is very good for us, indeed. He hasn't any little boy; An' he is awful lonesome, too. I 'spect that if we wasn't here He wouldn't know jes' what to do. I feel so sorry that I pray The Lord to send the angels down To take my pa and ma away So I can live with Mr. Brown. 65 ^^HEIMGANG/' "Heimgang," she said, the quaint old-fashioned speech Curving her lips to smiling e'er it ceased. Without the Dav/n stretched her pale hand to reach The purple clouds and draw them from the East. And light began to filter through the room, From the low window to the raftered wall. Like bars of gold athwart the heavy gloom, While silence brooded softly over all. And up from bar to bar her glances passed, As though it were a ladder to the skies, That her pure soul, freed from its bonds at last, Trod, round by round, up to its Paradise. We knew that she was dying, but her eyes, Dimmed with the bitterness of homesick tears. Grew bright as with a sudden glad surprise. And from her forehead fled the marks of years! Then sweet and clear upon the wings of day The matin bells their tuneful message cast; And, smiling in our eyes, she went her way. Glad, as a tired child, for home, at last. 66 TERRY^S REPENTANCE, Katie flitted cheerily around in her small, bright kit- chen, now and then casting a mildly curious glance at me. She had taken my dripping umbrella and mackin- tosh when I entered, and with her old-time solicitude for my comfort, had gone down on her knees to whisk off my rubbers and to see for herself whether or not the hem of my skirt was forlornly draggled and wet. "You do be so careless, you know, mum; an' widout me to be lookin' afther you — " Katie finished with a look far more eloquent than words and expressing her full appreciation of the great loss I sustained when she and Terrence suspended hos- tilities long enough to be married and go to home-making for themselves. I did miss her, my loyal-hearted, loving little Irish girl ! And I felt a kind of proprietary interest in the tiny three-room flat and liked to slip into its shelter when November chills penetrated to my heart; for Katie was always a tonic to mind and spirit and a sure dispeller of blues, and Terry was a handsome, big-hearted fellow, with all the virtues of his race and enough of other qualities 67 to keep him from being lop-sided. His chief accomplishment was re- pentance and Katie was his un- wearying confessor. "The trials I do be havin' wid Terry, mum," said Katie, stopping in her work and placing one small, red hand upon her hip and looking at me with the dimple in her cheek held sternly in check, "'11 be the death iv me, the saints bless him! Only a wake ago me bread war that white an' sweet it ud make yer mouth wather; an' knowin' the poor service ye have now (with a compassionate sigh), I made bould to sind yez a small loaf fur yer brekquest when Terry was going by yer dure to his work. Well, pwhat did he do but lave it on the cable-car an' go on as continted as ye plaze widout it, niver onct givin' it a thought until I axed him at night war ye plazed. Ah, poor bye, he was that repintant he'd a made yer heart ache !" Katie began laying the table in the clean little room and flitted back and forth as she talked. "Och, the letters and the papers that I give him to put in the mail ! Doesn't he carry them around for 68 weeks like any gintleman, an' when I do be thinkin' me poor ould mother is dead, an' me friends have all for- saken me, Terry finds the letters tucked away com- fortable an' quiet in his pockets; an' he is so repint- int, I hev niver a word of blame fer him. An' no more cud you hev, mum, cud ye know the swate ways iv him." There was a knock at the kitchen door and a small, barefooted boy entered with a pitcher brimming with milk. He stumbled awkwardly, and down it fell, with a crash, breaking the pitcher and dashing and spattering the white fluid over the floor and stove. Katie swooped down like a goddess through the milky way, and, instead of a scolding, gave the boy a seraphic smile and a huge round cooky. "You are very forgiving, Katie," I said, looking at the grease covered floor. "Sure, mum," she said, "it's Terry that kapes me in practice !" "D'ye moind how the dear b'y swore off the drink last month ? To be sure he begun agin the same day, but his will is that strong he can stop any toime as aisy as that!" And Katie tried to snap two round, plump little fingers. 69 "But would ye belave it, mum, last night whin he had smoked up ivery bit iv terbacca in the house he looked at me airnest-like an' sez he, a shakin' his han'some head: 'Katie,' sez he, 'I am goin' to stop the drink an' the terbacca, too, until we have a hundred dollars in the savin's bank. I've been doin' wrong, Katie, an' the money I've spint would buy a snug place of our own an' dress ye warm an' tidy as a lady, wid a foine bunnit for yer pretty head. Oah, I've done wid it!' he sez. An' I war that glad I cried for joy!" "Do you think he will keep his word, Katie?" I asked, a little reluctant to chill her glowing faith with even a hint of my doubt. "Will he kape it?" she replied, her rosy face rad- iant with trustfulness. "Of coorse he'll kape it!" "I thought — that is — I remembered," I began apolo- getically, "that his memory has failed before now in regard to promises that he has made you." The little wife was at once on the defensive. "Ah, sure, mum," she said, "it isn't his memory at all, at all, it's just his forgettery phat makes the trouble ! But he'll be true to his word, mum, jist ye moind him. Ah, ye should hev seen the two meltin' eyes whin he 70 promised me ! Niver a poipe or a glass of beer agin till he's saved the money, God bless him ! I think I hear his stip on the stair this blessed minit. Arrah, Teddy dear — Och! bad luck till ye, Terrence McGuire I" Terry came in unabashed and debonair. His bonnie face was wreathed with smoke rolling up from the cigar held between his strong, white teeth. Katie snatched his bright tin dinner pail from his hand and ran into the pantry with it. Womanlike, she wished to keep from her friend the full measure of his faithlessness and on her face was all the shame when he called cheerfully: "I say, Katie, why did ye run off wid the beer?" '♦Your wife has just been telling me how you had promised to stop drinking and smoking, Terry. I should not be surprised if she felt a little sorrowful and disap- pointed in you," I said. "Pah, Katie, me darlint," he said, walking over to where she sat in a disconsolate little heap, rocking her- self mournfully; and smoothing her dark curls with his big. tender hand. "Don't ye be afther moindin' a little thing like that. Sure I'll quit the drink an' all the minit ye ax me to, for good. Dhry yer pretty eyes, thin, darlint, an' I'll niver bring sorrow til thim agin." He kissed her drooping mouth and her doubtful face back into smiling trustfulness. "Ah, mum," said Katie with a contented sigh as I said good-night, "Terry is so repintint !" And I went down the stairs and into the rain-swept street, meditating upon the ways of women. WHEN THE MOON WAS BAD. Muriel, out on the porch alone, When the dark came down and the birds grew still. Tunefully hunamed in an undertone, While the crickets chirped 'neath the windowsill. She knew why the twinkling stars were sewn, To button the Evening's garments fast, For she had seen how the Wind had blown And snatched their folds as he rudely passed. The shadows came with their footsteps soft; And the baby smiled with a new delight, As down from the silver orb aloft Was stretched a ladder of moonbeams bright. "0, mama, look at the pretty moon!" She cried as it rose in the spangled sky; But a lazy cloud came over, soon, And veiled the light while it drifted by. And mama saw just a little maid, With sad, wet eyes and a quivering chin, "Oh, dear!" — she sobbed — "it was bad, I'm 'fraid, For — the Lord's — been — an' tooken' it in!" It vras early dawn and^the gray mist hung like a veil from sky to earth. All at once a ray of light shot upward from the east, and touched with silver, brilliant as the shield of Hippias, a jutting cloud high up against the sky, . A hugfe white shape grew slowly from the gloom, til!, iMsrrced by the light that deepened with each bre^h, the veil of mist broke into tremulous billows of amethyst, that surged around the mountain's base and slowly swept up over its emerald sides and snowy crest until it rested, like the halo of a saint, above the still, white grandeur of its brow. And all the heav/n-touched,. eternal hills, flinging their limpid waterfalls liH^ shattered rainbows from high Tock to rock, burst in thf- whiteness of their glory into Sight— and/it was day^^^ y LULLABY. Sleep, Beloved, sleep. Through the night watch deep. He will give His angels charge concerning thee Let thy evening prayer Loose the chains of care And thy slumber calm and peaceful be. Sleep, Beloved, sleep, For a legion fleet Is encamped upon the circling hills of night; From this world below Swift-winged heralds go To the courts of Heaven, where all is light. Sleep, Beloved, sleep — Ah, thou may'st not weep ! See, thy mother holds thee close against her breast! Smile in mine eyes, dear, Alone, I am here, God's own anointed — rest, baby, rest. 75 FROM THE MINE. D'ye know what it means to work under there, Away from the sunshine and outer air — The only free gifts even God can give To help a man in his struggle to live? Where the laugh of a child, the song of a bird, The voice of a woman, are never heard; Where the only sound is the click, clang, click Of your badge of power, the miner's pick? The thought of the damp grows a haunting dread, Not for ourselves — we were better dead; But for children, for wives, who bide above, With little to live on but faithful love; Smiling through hunger and cold, womanwise, And raising new hope when an old hope dies; And nerving our arms for a coming day, When for honest work there'll be honest pay. We burrow and store, like the senseless mole, Roofed and inclosed by the glittering coal. That changes to gold at touch of your hand — Gold for fresh pleasures, new treasures, more land, 76 But leaves us blackhanded, and famished, and sick Witli naught in our hands but the shovel and pick — . Strong keys, which will some day, it may be, unlock The door that ne'er yielded to timider knock. We look from the dark and we cannot well see In the glare of the world how this thing can be, That you, who 're but men such as we, can hold The balance of pow'r, the will and the gold, While we, e'en as if we'd gone to the wall, And borne on our ears the brand of your awi Must slave in your mines and sullenly turn To beg for the wage we honestly earn. 77 WHEN THE BAND PLAYED. J' Up the street marched the village band, resplendent in uniforms of blue and gold and followed by the usual crowd of boys with steps all lengthened for the martial tread. "0, Columbia, the gem of the ocean, The home of the brave and the free." The stirring strains rang on the air and thrilled the hearts of old and young, quickening their feet and setting them in time. Even the old blind man resting by the wayside lifted his head and listened to the sounds. At first they only touched his soul with faint, confused remem- brances; then the music seemed to bear him back to the familiar scenes he once had known. Now he seems to see his mother on the vine-clad porch, shading her eyes with her hand, and watching him as he goes A down the long hill toward the wooded stretch, where deep shadows waver across the yellow road, and beyond which he can hear the klingle- klangle of the cowbells from the meadow just below the brook. October stands in those familiar paths; he feels her spicy breath full in his face, as the whirling, iris-tinted leaves shower around him and roguish squirrels scurry daringly along the way. He is a boy again. But hark! "0, say, can you see by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming." Ah! now he sees his father with that strange, set look upon his face, as he came to him in the twilight of a summer day, and said, a little tremulously, but with a new thrill in his voice: "My boy, our country needs us — are you ready?" Ready ? Ah ! was he not ? He feels again the thrill and glow of those days of preparation, and then! Oh, if he could have known that the fair head of the girl he loved would never rest upon his breast again; if he could have known that kiss was the last her sweet lips would ever give him in this world ! 79 His gray head dropped still lower on his breast, and over the dust and grime on his fur- rowed cheeks rolled the slow tears. The music / continued, but now the air was changed, and before the sightless eyeballs of the old man the f notes flashed up and down like balls of fire: "Yes, we'll rally 'round the flag, boys. We'll rally once again, shouting the battle cry of freedom." Again he feels the shock and long, reverberating roar of battle. Robert, his brother, bears the stars and stripes. He sees them floating now above the blue, on- moving ranks. Huzza ! On comes the storm of shot and shell; the minies scream a death song as they pass, and the dense smoke falls like a flame-fringed pall. His comrade on the left drops out of sight; he was his tent mate and his lifelong friend; no matter. For- ward! He leaps aside to dodge a circling shell; a warm spray showers on his cheek and hand — the life-blood of his comrade on the right; — still, Forward! The lines are 80 closing, are together now. A trooper's saber cuts his brother down, a gray clad arm grasps for the falling flag. There is a shot, a rain of blows, a deadly, hate-filled con- flict, hand to hand, and then a blinding, ^2^ torturous flash that hides the flag forever ir from his sight — but it is saved ! Yes — "Down with the traitor And up with the stars !" The old man had risen to his feet and stood erect and soldier-like until the band passed by. He was poor, blind and helpless, but now no longer felt forgotten and alone. He settled down again, and soon the dews of evening cooled his brow, and slowly, up above, unfurled the starry banner of the firmament. The boys had broken ranks and hurried to their room; and as one young fellow untied the tasseled bugle from his arm he raised it to his lips to sound tattoo — "Blow out your lights, you lazy bummers. Blow out your lights and go to bed." The well-known strains rang clear, and as the old man heard the notes his patient face shone with a great content. "The boys are all in camp," he murmured, "and soon we'll all be going home — going home." He laid his hands across his loyal heart and turned his face, a patriot's countersign, up toward the watchful sentinels of night. And in the morning, when some passer- by tried to awaken him, with kindly touch, he found that he had answered to the heavenly reveille. OLD FOLKS HEAR THE CITY CHOIR. J' Father an' me are gettin' old; We ain't used to the way Of goin' to hear the singin', 'stead Of preachin', Sabbath Day. So when we was with Andrew's folks, An' Sunday mornin' come, We s'posed we'd hear the word an' jine In the sweet hymns they sung. An' when we stood in that dim aisle, 'Neath arched an' fluted stone, A ray of light touched father's hair An' his worn features shone. The organ's grand an' solemn tone Jest sounded like a prayer, An' when it stopped I seemed to feel Wings beatin' through the air. "The prodigal," the preacher said, "Of sinnin' weary grown, Has left the swine an' now has turned His face toward his home." 83 Then all at once the choir riz. It almost made me laugh To hear that young soprany shriek: "Bring in the fatted calf!" "Bring in the fatted calf, the calf," Implored the alto low, An' all the rest jined in, as if They couldn't let it go. The tenor's pleadin' touched my heart; A critter'd been a stone Not to have come a friskin' in In answer to that tone. Waal, pa, he sot with eyebrows bent, Like bushes touched with snow A-growin' round some sheeny lake, Half hidin' its blue glow. But when the bass had started in A callin' fur that calf, He jist reached fur his handkerchief To cover up a laugh. 84 "Bring in the fatted, fatted calf," Bellow'd the base; an' stars ! Our grandson, John, called (half asleep): "Grandpa, let down the bars!" 85 IF IT IS TRUE. If it is true that here and ever3nvhere About me is a spirit-peopled air, Where loved ones wait To guide me, when at last I win the race, Up through the fragrant fields of star-hung space To heaven's gate; If it is true that from all bondage free The one who loved me here still loveth me, Then tell me, friend: Why, like a bar of steel 'tween me and harm, Does he not stretch and hold his mighty arm And me defend? Think you he drank forgetfulness with Death ? That he, unmoved, can hear my sobbing breath And anguish wild? Nay, tell me rather that, in dreamless rest, He lieth where no cry can reach his breast Of his hurt child. 86 THE PRISON GARDENER. "I let him putter around among the flowers some," said the warden, with a good-humored look toward the conservatory, where the old man was at work. "It occu- pies his mind and he doesn't do the plants any harm. He used to be a gardener, and a good one, too, I take it, by the handiness he shows in pruning and transplant- ing now. "Oh, yes, he's a criminal, sure enough. He's been here for fourteen years, but as he has made time by good behavior — poor old fellow, he's never been a minute's trouble — his term will expire \n a few months. He was sentenced for twenty-one years." I looked through the windows of the plant-house and saw the convict in his stripes bending over a rose, a look of tenderness, such as a mother gives a little child, upon his face. The warden was looking at him too. 87 "Who would believe that man could be a mur- derer?" I said. "I thought the love of flowers was a religion strong for the right a-s well as for the beautiful." "Yes, and to make the illustration more striking, the flowers made him a murderer. He was a harmless, sober, industrious citizen, mild in his ways and benevolent, as far as his means would allow, to all he came in contact with. "One day a mischievous boy trampled down a bed of violets and roused the old man to perfect fury. He warned the lad, alternately begging and threatening him with the law, but the boy was impudent and defied him. "A white rose of choice variety had just begun to blossom, and the little fellow turned his attention to it, destroying buds and all. The old man's light hoe was leaning against the fence. He snatched it up— and in a minute the boy was dying among the trampled violets. "I think the poor old fellow's mind has given away a little. He wanders at times, and sometimes my eyes get dim when I look at him, although I've been an officer in this state prison for more than twenty years, and am pretty well hardened and seasoned to such things." I looked from the rugged features of the warden, firm of mouth and kind of eye, to the pale face with its silver hair and sad, dim eyes, still bending lovingly over the " flowers in the conservatory. I am not a woman to carry dainties to please the epicurean tastes of burglars, or to comfort esthetic murderers with bouquets, but I wanted to talk with this man. "May I speak to him, or is it against your rules?" I asked. "Well, we don't encourage much visiting, but you can go in and talk to him a little while." The man lifted his eyes and looked at me as I pushed aside the vines that hung over the arching door of the greenhouse and made my way to his side, bowing slightly to my greeting. He was visibly embarrassed, and a dazed, pitiful expression troubled his eyes. "How beautiful that lily is!" I exclaimed. "Can you tell me the name of it ?" He named the lovely thing, and then half shyly pointed out another of the same family, but of different coloring, and lost his diffidence in talking of the subject so dear to his heart. "I suppose there are some fine gardens in Chicago 89 now?" he said, with a question in his voice. "Fine gar- dens and greenhouses. I heard there was a new one at Lincoln Park. The flowers ought to be looking well now; an' later — a little later — the chrysanthemums '11 be here. I shouldn't wonder if I would see the chrysanthemums, for I shall get out of here the last of October, if things go well; but do you think" — his voice grew indescribably wistful — "do you think there'll be any roses left?" I answered him hopefully. "Well, mebbe there will, mebbe there will," he replied. "I want to see their faces first of all. No one will know me but the roses. "Oh, yes, I have had them here; but they don't thrive in prison air, and I am, some way, hurt to have them brought in from outside. Did you say they would be blooming in Lincoln Park in October? Ah, thank ye, kindly; that quite heartens me ! "Fourteen years is a long time, miss, but I guess the time goes on about as it does anywhere, though I 'spose you don't think so. •'Have I suffered? Well, not much, except remorse, miss; and that is harder than aught else. I killed a little lad that pestered me and abused the flowers. God knows 90 I didn't mean to, an' I don't even know how it was done. But there's no use talkin' of it now. I was willin' to die for what I had done, but they put me here instead, an' I was shut up between these walls when they had the World's Fair!" His voice was quivering and broken with excitement, and I knew that something moved him mightily. He stopped caressing the flowers and leaned against the door casing, a deep flush rising to his forehead. "Miss, if I could have escaped then I would, if I'd died for it; an' I'd walked all the way there, an' I'd found that wooded island they tell about, an' the man that kept it. Then I'd been willin' to come back!" "But there were other things at the Fair besides the flowers " "Not for me, miss; not for me." "And there were interesting people from all over the world, princes and statesmen and " "Excuse me, but did you ever see a man working among his flowers by the name of " "Uncle John Thorpe?" He had hesitated a little and I spoke the name for the sole joy of speaking it. He clasped his hands and leaned 91 toward me, a new light of hope and eagerness in his eyes, "That's the man! That's the man!" he exclaimed, "An' when I get out of here I'm goin' straight to him, an' I'm goin' to beg him to let a poor old prison bird rest in his garden. Do you b'lieve he'll let me work for him, at little odd jobs, until he sees the flowers know me an' will let me tend 'em?" His tones were full of eagerness, and his old hands shook tremulously. And I — without leave and yet with- out one quiver of uncertainty — answered heartily and positively: "Yes!" And so, when October comes. Uncle John Thorpe, and you see an old man, with clean-shaven face and close-cut hair, with cheap new garments and an air of great haste and pitiful wistfulness and uncertainty coming your way, you are to open the gate of your garden and let him in. ga TO-MORROW. J' To-morrow, I had said through the long night, To-morrow, I shall have my heart's delight. And all the wrong of yesterday made right. And then from out my casement, sweet and clear, A bird's first waking notes came to my ear, And the fair maid of many hopes drew near. One moment from the curtains of the night I saw her bent to touch the East with light, Then vanish like a phantom from my sight. And lo ! at once the shadows, dull and gray, The rosy arms of Morning flung away. And at my door, all giftless, was To-day. 93 fK turn di]co\ihlry roadA'hat slips ^|(m sigh////^ ^*^m fhreadl the fragrant^mazes of m^ W6do ("Wbere daffodils ace peeping from fheir Ipoas, 'Ancl^entfans turn shy glances toward the ^ghtv^o hm^ich of field to pass, .a hill's incline^ ^-^Y » sudden taming in the willow lane; fl^A faint tap tkp -against the/window And all i irold gainst my^^^rt is ^