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HER FATHER'S CONSENT. 
 
 ^ 
 
The 
 
 Dramatic Reciter 
 
 A MODERN BOOK OF ELOCUTION, READINGS, 
 RECITATIONS, DIALOGUES AND PLAYS 
 
 FOR HOME, SCHOOL AND ALL 
 
 PUBLIC AND SOCIAL 
 
 ENTERTAINMENTS 
 
 RICHARD LINTHICUM 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTION, SPECIAL SELECTIONS AND LESSON TALKS 
 
 BY 
 
 MARVIN VICTOR HINSHAW 
 
 OF THE HINSHAW SCHOOL OF ORATORY AND MUSIC 
 
 PHOTO-PICTURES FROM LIFE 
 
 CHICAGO- 1 
 
 THE MADISON BOOK CO 
 
 1903 
 
 v •■ , ' - 
 
 '.:•:,. 
 
^ 
 
 ,^ 
 
 N 
 
 V 
 
 the library of 
 congress, 
 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 MAR 2 1903 
 
 CLASS ^-<XXc. No 
 
 j 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1902, 
 
 SY 
 
 RICHARD LINTHICUM 
 
PREFACE 
 
 f~\ NE of the most pleasing and rational forms of entertainment is in those public and 
 V-X private gatherings at which selections from the best literature are read and 
 recited, dialogues and tableaux presented, together with drills, marches, pantomime 
 and musical features, which go to make up the programmes on such occasions. They 
 not only afford enjoyable recreation, but are instructive and educative as well, incul- 
 cating and developing sound patriotism, and teaching in the most pleasing way the 
 great moral lessons of life. 
 
 The publishers of this volume have learned from experience that there is a gen- 
 eral demand for a book to supply the material for these entertainments, which shall 
 not only contain the choicest selections in the English language, but shall have a 
 practical value through the arrangement by an expert of these selections into pro- 
 grammes for every occasion. 
 
 In this volume, prepared by a writer of wide experience, both in literature and in 
 the direction of home, church and school entertainments, the publishers feel confi- 
 dent that they have met this demand. 
 
 The introductory chapter on THE ART OF ELOCUTION contains complete 
 instructions and rules laid down by the best teachers of elocution, for the guidance of 
 those who wish to read, speak, recite, sing, act, or take part in any entertainment, public 
 or private. This chapter teaches how to cultivate, develop, and use the voice; how 
 to make correct gestures, how to give correct expression in recitations through the use 
 of the head, the eyes, the arms, the body, and the lower limbs, and at the same time 
 teaches the reader how to acquire gracefulness and self-possession, which are so 
 necessary to a successful appearance in public. To these instructions have been 
 added Physical Culture Exercises for the body, which are so simple that anyone can 
 quickly learn and perform them. 
 
 Many of the selections both in prose and in verse are original and appear in print 
 in this volume for the first time. 
 
 The variety of original and selected recitations and dialogues is shown by the 
 various divisions made with reference to the subjects of which the selections treat: 
 
 Juvenile Gems for the Children contains selections suitable for little folks of all 
 ages, from the smallest tot to boys and girls who are verging on young manhood and 
 womanhood. They are all selections which the children themselves like and were sub- 
 mitted to the approval of children of various ages before they were compiled in this 
 volume. 
 
 Patriotism and War contains the best patriotic and stirring literature that has been 
 written from Revolutionary days to and including our war with Spain. National and 
 School Holidays contain appropriate selections for each day observed as a holiday 
 either in the nation or in the school, including New Year's Day, Lincoln's Birthday, 
 
 7 
 
8 PREFACE. 
 
 Washington's Birthday, Arbor Day, Decoration Day, Flag Day, Fourth of July, Labor 
 Day, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas. 
 
 Around the Evening Lamp is a department containing selections to be read or 
 recited in the home circle after the evening lamp has been lit and the family has gath- 
 ered around it for entertainment. 
 
 A great deal of space has been given to dialogues and pieces in which a half dozen 
 or more persons can take part. There is such a great variety of these that some one 
 or more of them will be found suitable for every occasion or form of entertainment that 
 can arise. 
 
 Particular care has been used in preparing and selecting Tableaux, Pantomimes, 
 Drills, and similar features, including the Maypole Dance and the Minuet, all ar- 
 ranged in attractive manner, with full explanation and direction how to present them. 
 Other attractive features and departments in this volume will be found in the depart- 
 ments of Humorous Recitations, Religious and Moral, Dialect Selections, Temperance, 
 Dramatic Readings, Orations of the World's Great Men, Love and Sentiment, and Mis- 
 cellaneous Selections. 
 
 For the guidance and instruction of persons getting up and directing entertain- 
 ments at home or in the church and school, a series of programmes are presented in this 
 volume which will be found to meet the demand of every occasion. 
 
 The magnificent illustrations in this volume are not only sumptuous and beauti- 
 ful but they have the same practical value as the selections. They are made from actual 
 photographs of real scenes presented at public entertainments, and in addition to their 
 beauty and appropriateness as works of art, they will serve to guide and instruct be- 
 ginners in the art of appearing successfully in public entertainments. 
 
 It will be seen from the foregoing that the claim made for this volume as a COM- 
 PLETE AND THOROUGHLY PRACTICAL SPEAKER AND RECITER is well 
 founded. 
 
 Very respectfully, THE PUBLISHERS. 
 
Unttobuction anb Hesson ftatk 
 
 By MARVIN VICTOR HINSHAW 
 
 OF THE HINSHAW SCHOOL OF ELOCUTION, ORATORY AND MUSIC 
 
 ^* ^* %£rl 
 
 The art of elocution and oratory is not, 
 as many erroneously suppose, an artificial 
 combination of tones, looks and gestures, 
 but is the scientific portrayal of thoughts 
 and emotions by means of vocal and 
 physical expression. A knowledge of a 
 few fundamental rules and principles which 
 govern these methods of expression will 
 equip the elocutionist or orator to appear to 
 advantage before an audience. The meas- 
 ure of success to be attained afterward will 
 depend upon the speaker's capacity to 
 think the thoughts and feel the emotions to 
 be expressed. 
 
 Naturalness, ease and grace are essential 
 to success in public speaking. The easiest 
 and most graceful position is to stand 
 erect, not stiffly, but naturally, with one foot 
 slightly in advance of the other and the 
 weight of the body on the back foot. Then 
 .speak clearly and distinctly; do not hurry 
 your enunciation of words, but speak every 
 syllable plainly, sounding all of the conso- 
 nants at the end of the words, but sustain- 
 ing only the vowels. 
 
 While speaking, support the tone entirely 
 by the breath ; do not use the muscles of the 
 throat for this purpose. Speak from the 
 diaphragm, in other words let the tones 
 come from the chest and not from the 
 
 throat, otherwise the voice will not carry, 
 and the audience will hear only a confusion 
 of gutteral sounds. The power which 
 propels the breath is in the diaphragm and 
 walls of the chest, therefore diaphragmatic 
 breathing is always correct, and not abdom- 
 inal breathing as many suppose. Speak 
 with forceful and compact breath, and 
 never breathe in the middle of the phrase, 
 — but only between phrases — all pauses 
 which occur during the continuance of a 
 phrase must be made without renewing the 
 breath in order to be effective. 
 
 Correct phrasing can be acquired by al- 
 ways speaking in phrases, and not by the 
 live or semi-phrase. 
 
 While it is essential to correct speaking 
 that there should be no hurry, it is quite as 
 important that the delivery should not be 
 prolonged, but that each phrase and sen- 
 tence should be spoken with regularity. 
 
 Aside from the regular pauses indicted 
 by punctuation, the speaker should always 
 make such pauses as will strengthen the 
 meaning of the words. A word can fre- 
 quently be emphasized to a greater degree 
 by a momentary pause than it can by any 
 stress of voice. 
 
 In another chapter will be found sug- 
 gestions concerning gesture with the most 
 
10 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 important gestures illustrated by photo- 
 graphs. To this I wish to add that although 
 correct gesture is one of the greatest aids 
 of expression, too many gestures will spoil 
 the effect of what would otherwise be a 
 most successful effort. Therefore, I advise 
 the use of few gestures and only such as 
 will tend to emphasize what is said. 
 
 The rules for speaking apply with the 
 same force and exactness to reading, for 
 reading should be a perfect facsimile of 
 speaking. 
 
 In speaking, reading, or portraying a 
 character in a dialogue or play speak with 
 the face as well as the voice. Exercise the 
 facial muscles and practice until you can 
 control them, for the emotions of Anger, 
 Love, Grief, Fear, Surprise, Hate, etc., 
 should be mirrored in the face as well as 
 conveyed by the voice. 
 
 Every part of the body can be made to 
 aid expression — the arms, the hands, the 
 eyes, the legs, the feet, the head — there is 
 use for them all, particularly in portraying 
 characters in dialogues and plays, where 
 
 there is wider range of expression than in 
 a single recitation: 
 
 But whether the character to be por- 
 trayed, whether in recitation, dialogue or 
 play, the speaker should always speak in 
 a voice natural to such a character, and 
 for the time being imagine himself or her- 
 self that particular individual. 
 
 The selections in this volume are ad- 
 mirably adapted to the widest range of 
 elocutionary, oratorical and dramatic ex- 
 pression, and embrace a wide variety of the 
 best literature for use in public and private 
 entertainments. 
 
 The illustrations are very effective and 
 will greatly aid the speaker to appear before 
 the public to the best advantage, inasmuch 
 as they portray actual scenes in a great 
 variety of entertainments. The photo-pic- 
 tures which accompany the lesson on Ges- 
 ture show the expression of various emo- 
 tions, through the attitude, the position of 
 the arms and other parts of the body. The 
 facial expression is excellent in all of them 
 and they are a safe guide to any student of 
 elocutionary art. M. V. H. 
 
Photo by Byron, N. Y. 
 
 THE SWEETEST STORY EVER TOLD. 
 
A PLEA FOR FORGIVENESS. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Preface 7 
 
 Introduction 9 
 
 Contents 13 
 
 Index 14 
 
 List of Illustrations 17 
 
 Art of Elocution 21 
 
 National Readings and Declamations 31 
 
 Around the Evening Lamp 55 
 
 Patriotism and War 69 
 
 Juvenile Gems for the Children 85 
 
 Choice Humor 115 
 
 Love and Sentiment 129 
 
 Told in Dialect 141 
 
 Modern Dialogues and Plays 153 
 
 Dramatic Readings and Recitations 221 
 
 Treasure Trove — World Favorites 241 
 
 Great Orations 255 
 
 Temperance Selections 265 
 
 Religious Readings 279 
 
 Effective Tableaux 287 
 
 Miscellaneous Selections 299 
 
 Little Nature Studies 351 
 
 Clever Monologues 359 
 
 Tiny Tots 371 
 
 Descriptive Recitations 379 
 
 Encores 413 
 
 Humorous and Pathetic 439, 461 
 
 13 
 
INDEX 
 
 Jt 
 
 A Bird Story 352 
 
 A Birthday Address 33 
 
 A Boy's Wish 377 
 
 A Christmas Pantomime 287 
 
 A Dream 136 
 
 A Farmer Father's Philosophy 131 
 
 A Father's Advice to His Son 317 
 
 A Gentleman 316 
 
 A Good Country For All 41 
 
 A Grove of Historic Trees 180 
 
 A Home Where God Is 283 
 
 A Human Question Point 90 
 
 A Legend of Bregenz 407 
 
 A Little Boy's Essay on Kats 351 
 
 A Love Song 131 
 
 A Memorial Day Exercise 50 
 
 A Newsboy in Church 410 
 
 A New Year's Talk 46 
 
 A Pageant of the Months iS3 
 
 A Peach Pie 179 
 
 A Picture 136 
 
 A Private Rehearsal 367 
 
 A Race for Life 236 
 
 "A Sermon In Flowers 354 
 
 A Small Boy's Advice 377 
 
 A Song for Your Birthday 103 
 
 A String of Bird's Eggs 35§ 
 
 A Tale of Whoa 428 
 
 A Tenement House Guest 405 
 
 A Tragedy of the Plains 402 
 
 A Woman's Rights Meeting 195 
 
 A Wonderful Discovery 118 
 
 About Firecrackers 86 
 
 About Ready to Show Off 106 
 
 Abraham Brought to Bay 58 
 
 Absalom 449 
 
 Address for Decoration Day 52 
 
 Ain't He Cute? 416 
 
 Always Consult Your Wife 311 
 
 An April Welcome 355 
 
 An Uncomplaining Man 327 
 
 Arathusa's Brother Jack 99 
 
 Arizony Ray 331 
 
 Aunty Doleful Cheers the Sick ^364 
 
 Baby on the Train 113 
 
 Babykin, Boykin no 
 
 Baby's Opinions 122 
 
 Backbiters Bitten 183 
 
 Barbara Frietchie 70 
 
 Barcarolle ^369 
 
 Battle Hymn of the Republic 71 
 
 Be Careful What You Say 427 
 
 Be in Earnest 97 
 
 Beautiful Annabel Lee 252 
 
 Because She Loved Him. 130 
 
 Bedtime .328 
 
 Ben Hur's Chariot Race 221 
 
 Bill and Joe 251 
 
 Bill Smith's Courtship 124 
 
 Birth of the New South 260 
 
 BJaine's Oration on Garfield 257 
 
 Bob-o'-link ; 353 
 
 Borrowing Trouble 420 
 
 Boys Wanted 112 
 
 Brevities , 30S 
 
 Burial Under Fire 69 
 
 Cabin Philosophy 340 
 
 Calling a Boy in the Morning 117 
 
 Canadian Camping Song 314 
 
 Casey at the Bat 306 
 
 Cassius Against Caesar 233 
 
 Cato On Immortality 459 
 
 Caudle's Shirt Buttons 115 
 
 Charity's Meal 442 
 
 Children's Alphabet 371 
 
 Chorus of the Flowers 335 
 
 Conkling's Eulogy of Grant 259 
 
 Consolation 151. 
 
 Contented Jim 319 
 
 Contentment Better Than Riches 433 
 
 Couldn't Take the Hint 94 
 
 Courtship at the Huskin' Bee 145 
 
 Dare and Do 378 
 
 Death-bed of Benedict Arnold 459 
 
 Death of Little Jo 444 
 
 Death of Little Nell 280 
 
 De Bugle on De Hill 82 
 
 Decoration Day 41 
 
 De Cote-House In De Sky 147 
 
 Der Drummer 150 
 
 Dominion Day 315 
 
 Don't 91 
 
 "Don't Cheer, Boys; They're Dying" 81 
 
 Drink and Die 267 
 
 Drinking A Home 271 
 
 Easter 422 
 
 Easter Flowers 351 
 
 Easter Morning 377 
 
 Evangeline on the Prairie 133 
 
 Evening at the Farm 98 
 
 Exercise in Pronunciation 60 
 
 Farmer Ben's Theory 128 
 
 Faro Bill's Sermon 60 
 
 Fire In the Woods 224 
 
 Flag of the Rainbow 79 
 
 Forget Me Not 354 
 
 Forty Years Ago 248 
 
 Fox and Geese 218 
 
 Garfield's Tribute to His Fallen Comrades... 37 
 
 George Washington's Little Hatchet 87 
 
 Gettysburg, 1895 78 
 
 Going Home To-day 379 
 
 Good-night, Papa 268 
 
 Got Stripes Down His Legs 326 
 
 Grandfather's Story 72 
 
 Grandma's Knitting Story 397 
 
 Grandma's Wedding Day 398 
 
 Grant's Heritage 262 
 
 Greeting 107 
 
 Grind Your Axe In the Morning 421 
 
 Hans' Registered Letter 148 
 
 Have Only Good Words for All 104 
 
 Have You Planted a Tree 43 
 
 Henry V. at Harfleur 240 
 
 Her First Party 418 
 
 Hiawatha 293 
 
 Hiawatha's Wooing 59 
 
 His Best Prayer. , 331 
 
INDEX. 
 
 15 
 
 Hobson and His Chosen Seven 81 
 
 Hobson's Choice 202 
 
 Hopper and Bee 357 
 
 How Did Dis Yere World Git Yere? 141 
 
 How Ruby Played 229 
 
 How the Children Are Taught 105 
 
 How to Act Shadow Pictures 288 
 
 I Have Drank My Last Glass 270 
 
 If in 
 
 If I Were a Flower 352 
 
 Immortality ,. 284 
 
 In Liquor 375 
 
 In Manila Bay 447 
 
 In Many Lands 376 
 
 It's My Nature 420 
 
 Jack and the Rabbit 93 
 
 Jest 'Fore Christmas 39 
 
 Jim 336 
 
 Jim Bludso, of "The Prairie Belle" 151 
 
 Joe 337 
 
 John Anderson 246 
 
 Katrina's Visit to New York 143 
 
 Keep a Stiff Upper Lip 339 
 
 Kindness and Cruelty 178 
 
 Kit Carson's Ride .*. 322 
 
 Kitty in School 100 
 
 Labor - 49 
 
 Larrie O'Dee 416 
 
 Leave Old Glory As It Is 449 
 
 Lessons From Scripture Flowers 332 
 
 Like Other Men 313 
 
 Limpy Tim 440 
 
 Lincoln on Slavery t 258 
 
 Lincoln's Address at Gettysburg 256 
 
 Little Boy Blue 91 
 
 Little Breeches 149 
 
 Little By Little 90 
 
 Little Dot 108 
 
 Little Orphant Annie 95 
 
 Little Red Riding Hood 168 
 
 Lorraine Lorree 313 
 
 Love's Railway 299 
 
 Love's Year 132 
 
 Lying In China 422 
 
 Mabel and Her Mother 96 
 
 Macbeth to the Dagger 228 
 
 Making Success 380 
 
 Mammy's Hushaby 150 
 
 Marching Song of the Rough Riders 82 
 
 Mark Twain as a Farmer 413 
 
 McKinley's Eulogy of Lincoln 255 
 
 Measuring the Baby 456 
 
 Memorial Day 38 
 
 Memory 427 
 
 Minnie Had a Little Lamb 376 
 
 Misled by the Moon 143 
 
 Mistletoe 40 
 
 Money Musk 300 
 
 Morn on the Mountain 355 
 
 Mother and Poet. 461 
 
 Mother Earth and the May Queen 197 
 
 Mother's Punkin' Pies 305 
 
 Motion Song With the Hands 375 
 
 Mr. Meek's Dinner 341 
 
 Mr. Pinchem's Clerk 177 
 
 Mr. Spoopendyke's Share 57 
 
 Mrs. Rabbit's School 89 
 
 My Bob Sled 430 
 
 My Dear True-Love 373 
 
 My First Recitation 392 
 
 My Little Sister 378 
 
 Nathan Hale 77 
 
 Nearer Home 282 
 
 Nobody's Child 455 
 
 O, Captain, My Captain 426 
 
 Old Bob's Life Insurance 117 
 
 Old Ironsides 71 
 
 Old Mart and Me 307 
 
 On the Skaguay Trail 314 
 
 On Time — A Farce 186 
 
 One, Two, Three 434 
 
 Only a Boy 90 
 
 Only a Lock of Soft Gold Hair 132 
 
 Only Nation With a Birthday 417 
 
 Opening Address no 
 
 Othello's Apology 232 
 
 Our Heroic Dead 40 
 
 Our Lost Treasure 129 
 
 Over the River 252 
 
 Over the Telephone 344 
 
 Papa's Sum in Fractions 55 
 
 Partnership 373 
 
 Pat Dolan's Wedding 161 
 
 Pat's Excelsior 116 
 
 Patience Works Wonders. 100 
 
 Pauline Pauloona 435 
 
 Pitcher or Jug 431 
 
 Platonic 134 
 
 Playing Lovers 129 
 
 Poor Adam 374 
 
 President Lincoln's Favorite Poem 241 
 
 Pretty Groups for Children 298 
 
 Quebec 80 
 
 Queer English Language 121 
 
 Recessional 283 
 
 Regulas to the Romans 457 
 
 Rhoomatiz or Suthin' Else 362 
 
 Rock Me to Sleep, Mother 246 
 
 Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 249 
 
 Roger and 1 250 
 
 Running a Race 374 
 
 Sample Rooms 276 
 
 Sand 312 
 
 Saved By a Song 274 
 
 Saving Mother 321 
 
 Seth Peters' Report of Daniel Webster's 
 
 Speech 234 
 
 Seven Ages of Man 228 
 
 Shake Und Der Vidder 142 
 
 She Didn't Want Much 99 
 
 Simon Soggs' Thanksgiving 38 
 
 Sister Sallie Jones 424 
 
 Somebody 326 
 
 Sometime, Somewhere 281 
 
 Spoopendyke's Bicycle 67 
 
 Sylvy Hook on Clubs and Societies 359 
 
 Taking the Census 174 
 
 Temperance Speech 269 
 
 Thanksgiving in Many Lands 35 
 
 That's Our Baby 104 
 
 The Aged Prisoner 452 
 
 The American Boy 89 
 
 The Babies' Bedtime 372 
 
 The Bad Little Boys 85 
 
 The Bald-Headed Tyrant 86 
 
 The Best Sewing Machine 330 
 
16 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 The Bitterness of Childhood 375 
 
 The Blue and the Gray 35 
 
 The Bootblack 454 
 
 The Boy and the Boot 378 
 
 The Boy to the Schoolmaster 328 
 
 The Brakeman at Church 61 
 
 The Bridal Pledge 265 
 
 The Broomstick Drill 285 
 
 The Brownie's Christmas 43 
 
 The Builders 423 
 
 The Cat's Bath 107 
 
 The Character and Work of Gladstone 261 
 
 The Child and the Star 108 
 
 The Child Musician 458 
 
 The Christmas Ball 371 
 
 The Christian Gladiator 388 
 
 The Church Choir 123 
 
 The Closing Year 349 
 
 The Coming Millions 338 
 
 The Countersign Was Mary 451 
 
 The Courtin' 429 
 
 The "Coward" in Battle 76 
 
 The Creeds of the Bells 279 
 
 The Dead Doll 113 
 
 The Delinquent Subscriber 401 
 
 The Dignity of Labor 42 
 
 The Doll Queen 92 
 
 The Doll's Funeral 92 
 
 The Doll's Lesson 85 
 
 The Drummer Boy's Burial 396 
 
 The Dying Boy 441 
 
 The Dying Soldier 391 
 
 The Eagle Screams 52 
 
 The Eggs That Never Hatch 318 
 
 The Engine Driver's Story 238 
 
 The Exile of Erin 242 
 
 The Fading Leaf 439 
 
 The Farmer's Life 96 
 
 The Five Little Chickens 104 
 
 The Flying Dutchman 308 
 
 The Foolish Little Maiden 415 
 
 The Fountain of Tears 130 
 
 The Girl Behind the Man Behind the Gun.. .140 
 
 The Good Old Time Religion 426 
 
 The Harvest Queen and Her Maidens 194 
 
 The Hole in His Pocket 87 
 
 The Hurricane 253 
 
 The Huskin' 139 
 
 The Hypochondriac 361 
 
 The Last of the Choir 386 
 
 The Little German Mother 384 
 
 The Little Hunchback 97 
 
 The Little Old Log House Where We Were 
 
 Born 301 
 
 The Little Rid Hin 146 
 
 The Little Speaker 108 
 
 The Man That Married 317 
 
 The Man Who Knows It All 428 
 
 The Manger of Bethlehem 37 
 
 The Masquerade 365 
 
 The May Pole 290 
 
 The Meaning of the American Flag 41 
 
 The Men Who Lose 310 
 
 The Might of Love 404 
 
 The Minuet 292 
 
 The Mites In the Cheese 431 
 
 The Name of Kate 122 
 
 The Naughty Boy 112 
 
 The Old Arm Chair 249 
 
 The Old Farm Kitchen 31 
 
 The Old Oaken Bucket 247 
 
 That Old Red Sunbonnet 425 
 
 The Old Year and the New 46 
 
 The Rail Fence 417 
 
 The Regular Army Man 74 
 
 The Resettlement of Arcadia 63 
 
 The Rough Rider 299 
 
 The Ruler Iv the Town 147 
 
 The Seasons ic6 
 
 The Shipwreck 385 
 
 The Singer's Climax 446 
 
 The Small Boy's Troubles 103 
 
 The Soldier's Wife 448 
 
 The Song of the Gun 75 
 
 The Squirrel's Lesson 114 
 
 The Streams of Life 310 
 
 The Street of By-and-By in 
 
 The Tables Turned 433 
 
 The Three Holidays 45 
 
 The Torpedo Boat 79 
 
 The True Gentleman 319 
 
 The True Story of Little Boy Blue 109 
 
 The Two Glasses. *. 272 
 
 The Two Great Flags 76 
 
 The Unhappy Home 166 
 
 The Usual Way 133 
 
 The Village Blacksmith 245 
 
 The Volunteer Organist. 409 
 
 The Volunteer's Uniform 346 
 
 The Worn Wedding Ring 135 
 
 The Wreck of the Hesperus. 387 
 
 The Young Seamstress 419 
 
 Their Preferences 377 
 
 There Is No Death 282 
 
 There Is No Unbelief 284 
 
 They All Sang Annie Laurie 325 
 
 They've Stopped Selling Liquor in Town. .. .273 
 
 Three for the Tots 376 
 
 Through Grandfather's Spectacles 334 
 
 To a Mouse In a Trap 302 
 
 Too Late for the Train 303 
 
 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp 275 
 
 Trekking 80 
 
 Two Women's Lives 327 
 
 Valedictory 94 
 
 Valedictories 53 
 
 Vat I Call Him 433 
 
 Watching Baby As It Sleeps 114 
 
 Watching the New Year In 36 
 
 Water 432 
 
 Washington's Birthday 453 
 
 What About the Hired Man 333 
 
 What Little Things Can Do 105 
 
 When I Built the Cabin 56 
 
 When Mamma Cleans House 93 
 
 When Pa Begins to Shave 103 
 
 When School Days Are Ended 215 
 
 When the Spanish War Broke Out 75 
 
 Where He Did It 374 
 
 Which Loved Her Best 418 
 
 Whistling in Heaven 237 
 
 Why Betty Didn't Laugh 420 
 
 Why He Wouldn't Sell the Farm 394 
 
 Why She Didn't Stay in the Poorhouse 320 
 
 Willie's Signal for Jesus 383 
 
 Yawcob Strauss 152 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Her Father's Consent Frontispiece 
 
 The Sweetest Story Ever Told II 
 
 A Plea for Forgiveness 12 
 
 Dignity 21 
 
 Ridicule 2I 
 
 Awkward Imitation 22 
 
 Discernment 22 
 
 Gracefulness 2 3 
 
 The Awkward Salute 23 
 
 Surprise 2 4 
 
 Coquetry 24 
 
 Cheerfulness 25 
 
 Sauciness 25 
 
 Fearlessness 26 
 
 Fear 26 
 
 Anxiety 27 
 
 Reproach 27 
 
 Innocent Coyness 28 
 
 Wonderment 28 
 
 The Ideal Poise 29 
 
 The Soldier's Farewell 30 
 
 Telling Mother 47 
 
 Love's Doubts and Fears 48 
 
 From the Absent One 65 
 
 The Unseen Threat 66 
 
 Barbara Frietchie 83 
 
 Grandfather's Story 84 
 
 Wide Awake 101 
 
 A Day Dream 101 
 
 The Donkey Express 102 
 
 "I Wonder If It's a Valentine?" 119 
 
 The Telltale Letter 120 
 
 The Proposal 137 
 
 "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose !" 138 
 
 The Maypole Dance 155 
 
 Children's Drill 156 
 
 A Struggle For Life 189 
 
 A Dramatic Scene From Darkest Africa 190 
 
 A Token of Love 207 
 
 The Duet 208 
 
 "I Am Innocent; Before Heaven I Declare 
 
 It!" 225 
 
 A Dark Plot 226 
 
 Sharing A Sorrow 243 
 
 The Pledge of Love and Honor 244 
 
 The Unhappy Home 277 
 
 Fairer Than the Lily 278 
 
 Enraptured 278 
 
 Our Little Artist (Plate I) 295 
 
 Our Little Artist (Plate II) 296 
 
 The Letter to Papa (Plate I) 329 
 
 The Letter to Papa (Plate II) 330 
 
 "When Grandma Danced the Minuet" 347 
 
 "Guard!" 348 
 
 The First Party 381 
 
 The Christmas Ball 382 
 
 "Don't Go. For My Sake, Don't Go" 399 
 
 The Listeners 400 
 
 17 
 
Exercises for tbe BofcE 
 
 t5* ^5* (5* 
 
 1. With body erect and hands at sides, 
 move the head to right and left, and for- 
 ward and backward ; cultivates the muscles 
 of the neck. 
 
 2. With hands on the hips, move the 
 upper part of the body to right and left, 
 and forward and backward ; this cultivates 
 the muscles of the chest and back. 
 
 3. Close the hands, extend the arms in 
 front, and bring the hands together behind 
 the back; repeat at least twenty times. 
 
 4. Stand erect, with arms straight at 
 the sides ; move the arms outward from 
 the sides, and elevate them, bringing the 
 hands above the head; repeat at least 
 twenty times. 
 
 5. Hold the right arm out horizontally, 
 palm of hand upward ; double the left arm, 
 the tips of the fingers resting on the shoul- 
 der; then stretch out the left arm, at the 
 same time doubling the right arm and 
 placing the tips of the fingers on the right 
 shoulder ; repeat, and then make the move- 
 ments with both arms simultaneously. 
 
 6. Holding the arms straight, swing 
 them with a rotary motion, thrusting them 
 forward a!s they are elevated and back- 
 ward as they are lowered, bringing them to 
 the sides, and then repeat. 
 
 7. Lift the hands from the sides to the 
 shoulders, then raise the arms at full length 
 above the head, and also extend them hori- 
 zontally, dropping them at the sides; re- 
 peat. 
 
 8. Standing erect, with the hands on the 
 hips, lower the body, bending the knees, 
 the weight resting on the toes, and rise ; 
 repeat at least fifteen times, but not too 
 fast. 
 
 9. Placing the hands on the hips, right 
 
 leg forward and left leg slightly bent; 
 thrust the body forward, thus straighten- 
 ing the left leg and bending the right ; then 
 placing the left leg forward, repeat move- 
 ments. 
 
 10. With the body bent forward, closed 
 hands between the knees, raise the body 
 and elevate the hands above the head, tak- 
 ing care to keep the arms straight ; repeat. 
 
 11. Place the hands on the front side of 
 the hips, bend the body forward, and then 
 rise to an erect position, at the same time 
 throwing the head backward ; repeat. 
 
 12. Steady yourself with one hand on 
 a chair; place the other hand on the hip 
 and swing the leg forward across the other ; 
 then backward ; repeat and then swing the 
 other leg in like manner. 
 
 13. Steady yourself with one hand on a 
 chair, place the other hand on the hip, and 
 swing the leg forward and backward ; re- 
 peat, and then swing the other leg in like 
 manner. 
 
 14. Stretch the body forward, placing 
 the hands on the bottom of a chair ; then 
 straighten the arms and raise the body. 
 This must not be repeated so many times as 
 to render the muscles sore and stiff. 
 
 15. Extend the arms forward at full 
 length, palms downward ; then move the 
 hands backward and forward as far as pos- 
 sible ; this renders the fingers and muscles 
 of the wrist pliant. 
 
 16. Stand erect with hands on the hips 
 and light weight on the head ; then rise on 
 the toes and fall. 
 
 17. Extend the arms slightly from the 
 sides, close the hands and then rotate 
 them; this cultivates the muscles of the 
 arms. 
 
 18 
 
XLhc Hrt of Elocution 
 
 How to Read and Recite Correctly with Rules for the Cultivation of the Voice 
 
 i£* t^* &5* 
 
 ELOCUTION is the art of reading and 
 speaking correctly. Its rules relate 
 chiefly to the management of the voice in 
 the expression of thought and emotion. 
 
 The vocal qualifications, necessary to 
 enable the reader or speaker to bring out 
 the sense and sentiment of discourse in a 
 pleasing and impressive manner, are.: 
 
 First, a clear, full, resonant voice. 
 
 Second, a perfectly distinct, and correct 
 articulation. 
 
 Third, such a control of the voice, as to 
 be able to vary its modulations at pleasure. 
 
 Ignorance of the right way of using the 
 lungs and the larynx, in speaking, reading, 
 singing, has caused more cases of bronchi- 
 tis and pulmonary consumption among stu- 
 dents, vocalists, clergymen and other public 
 speakers, than all other causes combined. 
 
 The right use of the breathing apparatus, 
 in connection with the exercise of the 
 voice, ought, therefore, to be the first sub- 
 ject to which the attention of the student of 
 Elocution is called. Before the pupil is 
 permitted to read a sentence, he must be 
 taught, not by precept, but by example, 
 how to manage the breath while exercising 
 the voice. 
 
 The person thus trained will speak, read 
 or sing, in a clear, full, natural tone, and 
 will grow up, in a great measure, free from 
 the worst faults and defects in Elocution. 
 
 BREATHING EXERCISE. 
 
 Stand or sit erect ; keep the head up and 
 the chest expanded; throw the shoulders 
 well back ; place the hands upon the hips, 
 with the fingers pressing upon the abdo- 
 
 men, and the thumbs extending backward ; 
 inhale the breath slowly, until the lungs 
 are fully inflated, retaining the breath for 
 a few moments, then breathing it out as 
 slowly as it was taken in. 
 
 Let the chest rise and fall freely at every 
 inspiration, and take care not to make the 
 slightest aspirate sound, in taking or giving 
 out the breath. 
 
 Continue to take in and throw out the 
 breath with increasing rapidity, until you 
 can instantly inflate, and, as suddenly, 
 empty the lungs. Repeat this exercise sev- 
 eral times a day, and continue it as long as 
 it is unattended with dizziness or other un- 
 pleasant feelings. 
 
 EXPRESSION - . 
 
 Expression includes the rules and exer- 
 cise which relate to the management of 
 the voice, the look, gesture and action, in 
 the expression, thought, sentiment and 
 passion. 
 
 Exercises in articulation should be prac- 
 ticed until a good control of the voice has 
 been obtained. 
 
 A good articulation consists in giving to 
 each element in a syllable its due propor- 
 tion of sound and correct expression, so 
 that the ear can readily distinguish each 
 word, and every syllable that is uttered. 
 
 A full pure tone of voice, and a good 
 articulation, constitute the basis of every 
 other excellence in reading and oratory. 
 
 TESTING THE VOICE. 
 
 To obtain a full, deep, rich tone, the stu- 
 dent must resort to every conceivable ex- 
 pedient for modifying the voice. When- 
 
 19 
 
20 
 
 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 ever he utters a sound that is very pleasing 
 to the ear, or that impresses his mind as 
 being very striking or significant, he should 
 repeat it, until he can command it without 
 difficulty at his pleasure. 
 
 The most significant, impressive and 
 pleasing tones of the voice can not be 
 taught, or even described; the pupil, if he 
 ever learns them, must find them out for 
 himself, by careful, persevering practice. In 
 short, he must try every. plan, and resort to 
 every appliance that he can command, in 
 his endeavors to perfect himself in the art 
 of reading and speaking with ease, ele- 
 gance and impressive effect. 
 
 STYLES OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 One of the most important matters to be 
 considered before engaging in a reading or 
 declamatory exercise, is the style or man- 
 ner in which the piece should be given. 
 
 In Argument, the style must be char- 
 acterized by directness and earnestness. 
 
 In Description, the speaker must proceed 
 in precisely the same manner that he would 
 if he were actually describing the thing 
 spoken of. 
 
 In Narration, he must proceed as if nar- 
 rating some part of his own experience. 
 
 In Persuasion, he must use those tones, 
 looks and gestures only, which he knows 
 are appropriate to persuasion. 
 
 In Exhortation, he must appeal, beseech 
 and implore, as the case may require. 
 
 In pieces of a mixed character, he must 
 vary the style to suit the sentiment and 
 character of the passage. 
 
 When the reader understands the prin- 
 ciples and rules which have been discussed, 
 sufficiently well to be able to give a cor- 
 rect, practical exemplification of each of 
 them, he ought to select passages for him- 
 self, suitable as exercises in cadence, pause, 
 parenthesis, antithesis, climax, amplifica- 
 tion, repetition and transition; also in 
 
 pitch, force, stress, movement, quantity, in 
 personation, in style, and in every rule in 
 modulation and expression. 
 
 He must especially practice in every 
 kind of stress, and with every degree of 
 force, from the most subdued whisper to 
 the shout of enthusiastic exultation. 
 GENERAL RULES FOR THE CULTIVA- 
 TION OF THE VOICE, 
 
 The only basis upon which a full, firm, 
 pure tone of voice can be formed, is deep 
 and copious breathing. To do this the 
 chest must be well thrown out, the head 
 erect, and the throat and mouth opened so 
 wide that the voice will meet with no ob- 
 struction in its course. 
 
 The great object in commencing any sys- 
 tematic course of vocal culture, ought to 
 be to deepen and strengthen the voice. To 
 accomplish this, the student must, in his 
 vocal exercises, stretch the muscles about 
 the throat and the root of the tongue, and 
 those that regulate the action of the lower 
 jaw, so as to form the voice lower down in 
 the throat than he is in the habit of doing. 
 COMPASS OF THE VOICE. 
 
 To increase the compass of the voice, de- 
 claim short passages which require intense 
 force on a high pitch. The pupil will dis- 
 cover, after the voice has been thus taxed 
 to its highest capabilities, that it will per- 
 form its office with surprisingly greater 
 facility and ease on the natural key, and 
 in a lower pitch than he could reach be- 
 fore. 
 
 The most contracted and superficial voice 
 may soon be made strong and flexible by 
 this kind of exercise ; and it cannot be im- 
 proved in any other way. If your voice is 
 feeble, practice singing, shouting and de- 
 claiming with the utmost force, at the top 
 of the voice", whenever opportunity pre- 
 sents itself, and it will soon acquire suffi- 
 cient strength and resonance. 
 
THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 21 
 
 Gestures 
 
 Gesture, to be appropriate and impres- 
 sive, must be natural. When gesture has 
 its origin in the mere caprice of the 
 speaker, it will appear artificial and out of 
 place. 
 
 LcH_C 
 
 The speaker who is unable to manage his 
 
 
 
 gj ^ 
 
 
 
 
 H^ ^t *k< ■^k 
 
 HE 
 
 ■L 
 
 
 
 
 
 R«s 
 
 
 Hi 
 
 
 ^ise 
 
 
 
 
 H ■ B. 
 
 
 
 4^BJ Bv H^H^Hi 
 
 
 Dignity 
 
 voice, is never easy and graceful in his 
 gestures. 
 
 If the voice is exercised on too high 
 a key, or in a harsh, aspirated, guttural, or 
 impure tone of any kind, the attitude will 
 be stiff and awkward, and the gestures 
 broken, irregular and difficult. But the 
 speaker who has a good command of his 
 voice, if he understands his subject, and is 
 self-possessed, will speak with ease; and 
 
 his gesticulation, if not always graceful, 
 will be appropriate and expressive. 
 
 Before the pupil can be easy and natural 
 in his action and gesticulation, he must 
 have perfect control of his voice. Any at- 
 tempt, therefore, which he may give to the 
 cultivation of gesture and action, before he 
 has obtained a good control of his voice, 
 will be labor spent in vain. 
 
 Stand or sit erect, in an -easy and grace- 
 ful position, and hold the book in the left 
 hand on a level with the face. Look from 
 your book to the audience, as often and as 
 long at a time as you can, without missing 
 the place. Make but few gestures, and then 
 only when you are looking at your audi- 
 ence. To gesticulate while your eye is 
 resting upon the book is not only inappro- 
 priate, but ridiculous: 
 
 In didactic or unimpassioned discourse, 
 gesticulation is not necessary, farther than 
 occasionally to slightly change the position 
 and movement of the hands, or to move 
 the head and body sufficiently to look at 
 
 Ridicule 
 
22 
 
 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 your audience from right to left. In dis- 
 course of this character the gestures and 
 movements should be executed slowly, and 
 as gracefully as possible. In stating un- 
 important particulars, or speaking about 
 matters which require a quiet, narrative 
 style, the right arm and hand should be 
 chiefly used. 
 
 There are three positions in which the 
 hand and arm may rest, and, by slowly 
 changing from one to the other of these 
 positions, stiffness and rigidity in the gest- 
 ures of the arm will be avoided. 
 
 First : Let the arm hang naturally by the 
 side. 
 
 Second : Let the hand rest upon the hip, 
 the elbow thrown well backward. 
 
 Awkward Imitation 
 
 Discernment 
 
 Third : Let it rest between the buttons of 
 your vest, on your bosom. 
 
 In all these positions the muscles of the 
 arm and hand must be relaxed, so that the 
 attitude may be, at once, easy and natural. 
 
 Descriptive gestures are those used in 
 pointing out or describing objects. The 
 pupil will soon acquire skill in the use of 
 these, by practicing in accordance with the 
 following instructions : 
 
 Pronounce the names of a few objects 
 near you, and, as you mention the name of 
 
THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 23 
 
 Gracefulness 
 
 each, extend the arm and point the fore- 
 finger or the open hand, in the direction of 
 the object, completing the gesture the mo- 
 ment you utter the accented syllable of the 
 name of the word : thus, 
 
 i. The gentleman on my right, the lady 
 on my left, the vacant chair before me, the 
 books, maps and pictures all around me. 
 
 2. High, Low, Left, Right: on pro- 
 nouncing the word HIGH, raise the hand 
 gracefully above the head ; on LOW, let 
 
 it fall slowly and gracefully ; LEFT, let 
 the arm and hand be extended to the left; 
 on the word RIGHT, to the right. 
 
 3. Before commencing the gesture al- 
 ways let the eye glance in the direction of 
 the object, concerning which you are about 
 to speak. 
 
 4. Do not move the arm and hand to 
 the intended position by the shortest course, 
 but describe a waving line, and let the 
 motion be rather slow, until the position is 
 almost reached, then let the hand move 
 
 quickly 
 gesture. 
 
 to its place, in completing the 
 
 The Awkward Salute 
 
TEE ART OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 Surprise 
 
 When the student has obtained a toler- 
 able command over his arms, hands and 
 lower limbs, let him select for himself short 
 passages suitable as exercises in descriptive 
 gesture and action. 
 
 I. Their swords flashed in front, 
 While their plumes waved behind. 
 
 2. His throne is on the mountain top, 
 
 His fields the boundless air, 
 And hoary hills, that proudly prop 
 The skies, his dwelling are. 
 
 3. Mountains above, earth's, ocean's 
 plain below. 
 
 4. Death in the front, destruction in 
 the rear. 
 
 5. See through this air, this ocean, and 
 
 this earth, 
 All matter quick, and bursting into 
 birth. 
 The hanging down of the head denotes 
 shame or grief. 
 
 The holding of it up, pride or courage. 
 To nod forward implies assent. 
 To toss the head back, dissent. 
 The inclination of the head implies diffi- 
 dence or languor. 
 
 The head is averted, in dislike or horror. 
 It leans forward, in attention. 
 
 Coquetry 
 
THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 25 
 
 THE EYES. 
 
 The eyes are raised in prayer. 
 
 They weep, in sorrow. 
 
 They burn, in anger. 
 
 They are downcast or averted, in shame 
 or grief. 
 
 They are cast on vacancy, in thought. 
 
 They are cast in various directions, in 
 doubt and anxiety. 
 
 THE ARMS. 
 
 The placing of the hand on the head, 
 indicates pain and distress. 
 
 Sauciness 
 
 On the eyes, shame or sorrow. 
 
 On the hips, an injunction of silence. 
 
 On the breast, an appeal to conscience. 
 
 The hand is waved or flourished, in joy 
 or contempt. 
 
 Both hands are held supine, or they are 
 applied, or clasped in prayer. 
 
 Both are held prone, in blessing. 
 
 They are clasped, or wrung in affliction. 
 
 They are held forward, and received, in 
 friendship. 
 
 THE BODY. 
 
 The body held erect, indicates steadi- 
 ness and courage. 
 
26 
 
 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 Fearlessness 
 
 Thrown back, pride. 
 
 Stooping forward, condescension or com- 
 passion. 
 
 Bending, reverence or respect. 
 
 Prostration, the utmost humility or 
 abasement. 
 
 THE LOWER LIMBS. 
 
 The firm position of the lower limbs, sig- 
 nifies courage or obstinacy. 
 
 Bended knees indicate timidity, or weak- 
 ness. 
 
 The lower limbs advance, in desire or 
 courage. 
 
 They retire, in aversion or fear. 
 
 Start, in terror. 
 
 Stamp, in authority or anger. 
 
 Kneel, in submission or prayer. 
 
 These are a few of the simple gestures 
 which may be termed significant. 
 
 Fear 
 
THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 27 
 
 VOCAL EXERCISE PREPARATORY TO 
 READING OR SPEAKING IN PUBLIC. 
 
 A beneficial influence is exerted on the 
 voice, by the most vigorous and sustained 
 exercises upon the elementary sounds, and 
 by reading and declaiming with the utmost 
 force consistent with purity of tone, imme- 
 diately before retiring for the night. The 
 organs of speech are thus rendered flexible 
 for exercise on the succeeding day. Even 
 an interval of only an hour or two, between 
 the preliminary exercise and the subsequent 
 effort, will, in most cases; afford the organs 
 of speech time to rest, and resume their 
 natural state. 
 
 Reproach 
 
 The best course that can be pursued to 
 prepare the voice for speaking within a 
 short time, is to repeat all the elementary 
 sounds several times in succession ; then 
 declaim a few select passages; first, with 
 ordinary force, in the middle pitch; then, 
 progressively elevate the pitch and increase 
 the force and the rate of utterance ; lastly, 
 go over them two or three times in the 
 deepest and lowest tone you can reach. 
 
TT- 
 
 28 
 
 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 NATURAL PITCH OF VOICE. 
 
 "Every person has some pitch of voice 
 in which he converses, sings and speaks 
 with greater effect and facility than in any 
 other. It should be an object of constant 
 solicitude, with every person who desires to 
 become a good speaker or reader, to find 
 what is the natural pitch of his voice. 
 
 Innocent Coyness 
 
 HOW TO ACQUIRE A CONTROL OF THE 
 
 VOICE IN EITHER HIGH OR LOW 
 
 KEY. 
 
 By exercising the voice with great force, 
 for a short time in a low key — paradoxical 
 as it may seem — you will immediately 
 afterward be able to speak with much 
 greater ease upon a high key ; and by ex- 
 ercising the voice with great force in a very 
 high pitch, you will be able within a short 
 time afterward, to read or speak, with 
 greater ease than before, on a low or very 
 low pitch. 
 
 Wonderment 
 
1 
 
 
 4 fl 
 
 i . B 
 
 
 
 :( », ^Bj? 
 
 . -■'■■, i 
 
 i Iff J 1 ^^Hj 
 
 
 1 w 
 
 
 |y ^ L**™ 
 
 THE IDEAL POISE. 
 
THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL. 
 
National Readings 
 and Declamations 
 
 Selections suitable for New Year's, Lincoln's Birthday, Washington's Birthday, Easter, 
 Arbor Day, Decoration Day, Flag Day, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas. 
 
 — — .^ ^ — — — — — — — 
 
 ] 
 
 THE OLD FARM KITCHEN. 
 
 IN an old New England kitchen, where a 
 warm wood fire burned bright, 
 Sat honest Farmer Ketcham and his wife 
 
 one winter night. 
 The wind without was wailing, with a wild 
 
 and woeful sound, 
 And the fleecy folds of the drifting snow 
 
 lay deep upon the ground; 
 But what cared Farmer Ketcham for the 
 
 tumult out of doors, 
 For he had foddered the cattle and done the 
 
 other chores. 
 And snug in the chimney-corner in his 
 
 easy-chair he sat, 
 Silently smoking his old clay pipe and 
 
 pooring the purring cat; 
 While plying her knitting-needles, his wife 
 
 rocked to and fro, 
 Humming a hymn and dreaming a dream 
 
 of the long ago. 
 
 Over the old-time fire-place a rusty musket 
 
 hung, 
 And a score of strings of apples from the 
 
 smoky ceiling swung. 
 While, back in the dingy corner, the tall 
 
 clock ticked away, 
 And looked like the sagging farmhouse, 
 
 fast falling to decay. 
 The knitting fell from the woman's hands, 
 
 the old man turned about, 
 He took the pipe from his mouth and 
 
 slowly knocked the ashes out; 
 And, after thinking a moment, he said, 
 
 with a solemn air — 
 
 " 'Tis Christmas Eve, but the stockin's 
 don't hang by the chimbley there." 
 
 The woman sighed, and then replied, in a 
 
 sad and faltering tone, 
 "The years hev come and the years hev 
 
 gone, and we are ag'in alone, 
 An', I hev jest been thinkin' o' a Christ- 
 mas long ago. 
 When the winders were frosted over an' 
 
 the ground wus white with snow; 
 When we sat in the chimbley-corner, by the 
 
 firelight's cheerful gleam, 
 When our lives were full o' promise, an' 
 
 the futur' but a dream, 
 When all the rest o' our folks hed gone 
 
 away to bed, 
 An' we sat an' looked an' I listened to the 
 
 whispered words you said, 
 Till home from Benson's store came 
 
 rollickin' brother John, 
 An' a peekin' thro' the winder, saw what 
 
 wus agoin' on; 
 Then how the neighbors tattled an' talked 
 
 all over town, 
 Till you an' I were married an' quietly 
 
 settled down. 
 
 "While a rummagin' thro' the cobwebs in 
 
 the garret t'other day, 
 I found a pile o' broken toys in a corner 
 
 stowed away; 
 An' a lot o' leetle worn out boots a layin' 
 
 in a heap, 
 Ez they used to lay on the kitchen floor 
 
 31 
 
32 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 when the boys hed gone to sleep. 
 I looked at the worn-out trundle-bed, an' 
 
 the cradle long laid by, 
 An' a leanin' ag'in the chimbley there, I 
 
 couldn't help but cry — 
 Fur the faces o' my children came back to 
 
 me once more, 
 An' I almost heard the patter o' their feet 
 
 upon the floor. 
 I tho't o' the'r happy voices an' the leetle 
 
 prayers they said, 
 Ez they used to gather round me when 
 
 'twas time to go to bed. 
 
 "Of all the earthly treasures we prize in 
 
 this world below, 
 The ones we love the fondest are the first 
 
 to fade and go. 
 Of all the beautiful children that came to 
 
 our fireside, 
 The one we loved most dearly wus our 
 
 leetle girl that died. 
 How calm in her leetle coffin she looked in 
 
 her last repose, 
 Ez sweet ez the fairest lily, ez pure ez a 
 
 tuberose. 
 An' I can well remember the sadness o' 
 
 the day, 
 When my heart wus well nigh broken ez 
 
 they carried her away. 
 
 "The oldest o' our children wus a proud 
 
 and han'some boy, 
 He wus his father's fondest hope an' his 
 
 mother's pride an' joy, 
 I used to play with his chubby hands an' 
 
 kiss his leetle feet, 
 An' wonder ef ever a babe wus born more 
 
 beautiful an' sweet; 
 An' many a night, by candle light, when he 
 
 was snug in bed, 
 I've patched his leetle clo's with weary 
 
 hands an' an achin' head. 
 We sent him away to college; he did un- 
 commonly well, 
 
 Till he went to live in the city, an' married 
 
 a city belle — 
 O' all our earthly trials; o' all our worldly 
 
 care; 
 The cold neglect o' a thankless child is the 
 
 hardest o' all to bear. 
 His wife "is a woman with only high notions 
 
 in her head; 
 She couldn't well knit a stockin', nor bake 
 
 a loaf of bread. 
 'She plays on the grand pianner, nor works 
 
 with her "lily hands, 
 An' she talks in a foreign lingo that no 
 
 one understands; 
 Whenever I go to see her, I tell you it 
 
 makes me smile 
 To see how it hurts her feelin's to look at 
 
 my country style. 
 
 "The youngest o' our livin' boys I never 
 
 could understand; 
 He didn't take to le'rnin' no more'n a fish 
 
 to land, 
 He wus wayward an' hard to govern, not 
 
 altogether bad, 
 He wus firm, an' proud, an' set in his ways, 
 
 but not a vicious lad. 
 An' somehow we couldn't keep him quite 
 
 under our control, 
 But I know that he had an honest heart, 
 
 an' a true an' noble soul, 
 An' a mother's prayers will go with him 
 
 wherever he may be ; 
 God keep him safe an' bring him home in 
 
 His good time to me. 
 
 "I miss our children's voices, fur all hev 
 
 gone away — 
 One hez gone to the better land, an' the 
 
 rest hev gone astray. 
 I wonder ef up in Heaven, where all is 
 
 bright an' fair, 
 Ef we will meet our children an' they will 
 
 love us there?" 
 
NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATION IS. 
 
 33 
 
 There was a rap at the outside door, the 
 
 old folks gave a start; 
 The woman sprang from her rocking-chair 
 
 with a flutter at her heart; 
 The door swung widely open and banged 
 
 against the wall, 
 And into the farmhouse kitchen strode a 
 
 stranger dark and tall. 
 The mother looked at his bearded face a 
 
 moment in surprise; 
 She saw a quiver about his mouth and a 
 
 glad look in his eyes; 
 She lifted up her hands to Heaven, she 
 
 uttered a cry of joy, 
 
 And bowed her white head lovingly on the 
 breast of her wayward boy. 
 
 The red flame glowed upon the hearth, the 
 
 beech logs cracked and steamed; 
 And on the floor and time-worn walls the 
 
 firelight glowed and gleamed; 
 That old New England kitchen had never 
 
 been more bright 
 Than it was to Farmer Ketcham and his 
 wife that winter night. 
 — From "Original Recitations," by 
 
 Eugene I. Hall. 
 By special permission of the Author. 
 
 t2r* t&* t&rl 
 
 A BIRTHDAY ADDRESS. 
 
 (Suitable for recitation 
 
 GENTLEMEN :— Since nobody wishes 
 to die everybody must be glad he 
 was born. It is a good thing to have a 
 birthday, but its pleasure is increased when 
 your friends in this substantial way indi- 
 cate their joy that you came into the world. 
 Artemus Ward said: "It would have been 
 ten dollars in the pocket of Jefferson 
 Davis if he had never been born." But 
 the only limitation upon natal festivities is 
 the necessity of making a speech. The 
 difficulty increases when the occasion has 
 called together such a good company. 
 
 It is an indisputable fact that the whole 
 people of the United States were never so 
 powerful, or so prosperous, or collectively 
 and individually possessed so much in op- 
 portunity, in liberty, in education, in em- 
 ployment, in wages, in men wha from 
 nothing have become powers in the com- 
 munity, and boys who from poverty have 
 secured education and attained compe- 
 tence, as to-day. A young man who can 
 pay a dollar for a dinner and do no in- 
 justice to his family has started success- 
 
 at any birthday party.) 
 
 fully in his career. There is scarcely one 
 now present who cannot remember the dif- 
 ficulty, the anxieties and the work of se- 
 curing his first surplus dollar. Everyone 
 of you from that dollar has, because of 
 American conditions, and a true concep- 
 tion of American liberty, become a leader 
 in the pulpit, at the bar, in medicine, in 
 journalism, in art, in the management of 
 industries, in the work of firms and cor- 
 porations and in business of every kind. 
 This assemblage — and its like can be gath- 
 ered in every state, county, city and vil- 
 lage in our country — illustrates that true 
 spirit of commercialism which inspires am- 
 bition and makes a career; that true de- 
 velopment of American manhood which is 
 ever striving for something better in its 
 material conditions, which has time for the 
 work of the church, for politics, for the 
 public service, for the improvement of the 
 home and the pleasures of and for the fam- 
 ily. 
 
 As we advance in life we appreciate 
 more day by day the value of time. 
 
34 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 With every revolution of the earth there 
 is less left. We must economize it. We 
 who are active in affairs and must meet 
 many people find out who are the enemies 
 and who the friends of our time. The 
 scatter-brain dissipates and the sure-footed 
 man conserves it. The late Leopold 
 Morse, while a member of Congress, was 
 entertained at a big house on Fifth avenue. 
 A guest said: "Delighted to see you, 
 Morse. Where are you stopping?" Morse 
 replied: "At the St. Cloud Hotel." His 
 friend said: "For Heaven's sake, Morse, 
 don't do that again; that's the San Clou." 
 The next day Morse went into his bank- 
 er's, who said: "Glad to see you, Morse; 
 where are you stopping?" Morse said, "At 
 the San Clou." The banker said: "Come 
 off your perch. That may do in Boston, 
 but here it's plain English, St. Cloud." 
 Morse, much distressed, was stopped on 
 Wall street soon after by an acquaintance, 
 who said: "Morse, I want to come and see 
 you this evening; where are you stopping?" 
 Morse answered: "Hanged if I know." 
 Morse should have been sure of himself 
 and stuck to it. The man who ought to be 
 killed after the first half hour is the one who, 
 having made an engagement, uses thirty 
 minutes in developing a matter in which 
 he knows you are interested and then pro- 
 ceeds, having gained, as he thinks, your 
 confidence, to exploit the scheme for which 
 he came. I always turn that man down. 
 
 The sure-footed man is a benefactor. 
 In the pulpit he gives your something to 
 take home to think about and talk over 
 at the Sunday dinner; at the bar he makes 
 the jury in a short time think his way and 
 the judge is influenced by his directness 
 and lucidity. He states his business 
 proposition to you so quickly and so clearly 
 that you know instantly whether you can 
 afford to embark in it or not. He dis- 
 
 misses his board of directors with a ten- 
 minute statement which reveals to them 
 the exact condition and true prospects of 
 the company. He tells a story so that the 
 point punctures and delights you without 
 giving you the horrors of knowing it long 
 before he is through. You sit beside him 
 if you can at dinner, you select him for 
 your companion in travel, you take him 
 into your business if he is free and you 
 make him your executor in your will. 
 
 My friends, we pass this way but once. 
 We cannot retrace our steps to any pre- 
 ceding milestone. Every time the clock 
 strikes, it is both the announcement of the 
 hour upon which we are entering and the 
 knell of the one which is gone. Each night 
 memory balances the books and we know 
 before we sleep whether the result is on 
 the right or the wrong side of our account. 
 In some measure we can meet the injunc- 
 tion of the poet who said: 
 "Think that day lost whose low descend- 
 ing sun, 
 Views from thy hand no noble action 
 done." 
 
 There is no cant in this sentiment. The 
 noble action does not mean necessarily 
 anything in the realms of romance or hero- 
 ism. It may be the merest commonplace 
 in business or association, a word of sym- 
 pathy, kindness or encouragement, a little 
 help sorely needed and not felt by the 
 giver, but if it has shed one beam of bright- 
 ness into the life of another the dividend is 
 earned. The older we grow the more we 
 realize that life is worth the living. We 
 think too little of the fun there is in it. We 
 are too parsimonious of laughter. We do 
 not appreciate as we ought the man or the 
 woman who can make us forget while we 
 are amused. We cannot help the past and 
 that man is a fool who lives in it. To-day 
 is a better day than yesterday, but to-mor- 
 
NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 35 
 
 row is the land of promise. Let us walk 
 through our pathways be they rugged or 
 smooth, believing in Browning's beautiful 
 lines : 
 
 The earth is crammed with Heaven, 
 And every common bush afire with God, 
 But only he who sees takes off his shoes. 
 — Chauncey M. Depew. 
 
 J* c5* ^* 
 
 THANKSGIVING IN MANY LANDS. 
 
 THERE'S Thanksgiving turkey for you, 
 little boy, 
 But 'round the North Pole, where it's 
 quiet, 
 They're dining to-day on a slice of roast 
 
 whale 
 With fricasseed snowballs and polar bear's 
 
 tail, 
 And the milk is ice cream when it reaches 
 the pail, 
 For the cows have pistache in their diet. 
 Just listen to that, little Johnny! 
 
 There's a bonny plum pudding for you, 
 little boy, 
 But the little boys 'round the equator 
 Have cocoanut stew and a salad of dates, 
 
 And an orange a minute as big as their 
 
 pates, 
 And a little brown monkey to hand round 
 the plates, 
 And bananas are used for potater! 
 Just think about that, little Johnny! 
 
 There's mince pie and doughnuts for you, 
 little boy, 
 But abroad all the children are living 
 On wonderful dishes, I couldn't say what, 
 So queer and so spicy, so cold and so 
 hot! 
 But the best thing of all doesn't fall to their 
 lot— 
 For they haven't got any Thanksgiving! 
 You wouldn't like that, little Johnny! 
 — Juliet Wilbor Tompkins. 
 
 t2& t3& i2& - 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 
 
 (The custom of decorating the graves, both of Federal and Confederate soldiers on Decora- 
 tion Day, makes this recitation peculiarly appropriate for Decoration Day exercises.) 
 
 BY the flow of the inland river, 
 Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
 Where the blades of the grave-grass 
 quiver, 
 Asleep in the ranks of the dead: — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 Waiting the judgment day; 
 Under the one, the Blue, 
 Under the other, the Gray. 
 
 These in the robings of glory, 
 
 Those in the gloom of defeat, 
 All with the battle-blood gory, 
 
 In the dusk of eternity meet: — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; 
 Under the laurel, the Blue, 
 
 Under the willow, the Gray. 
 
 From the silence of sorrowful hours, 
 
 The desolate mourners go, 
 Lovingly laden with flowers, 
 
 Alike for the friend and the foe: — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; 
 Under the roses, the Blue, 
 
36 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 Under the lilies, the Gray. 
 
 So, with an equal splendor, 
 
 The morning sun-rays fall, 
 With a touch impartially tender, 
 On the blossoms blooming for all:- 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; 
 Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
 Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 
 
 So, when the summer calleth, 
 On forest and field of grain, 
 With an equal murmur falleth 
 The cooling drip of the rain: — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; 
 Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
 Wet with the rain, the Gray. 
 
 Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
 The generous deed was done; 
 In the storm of the years that are fading, 
 No braver battle was won: — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; 
 Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
 Under the garlands, the Gray. 
 
 No more shall the war cry sever, 
 Or the winding rivers be. red; 
 They banish our anger forever 
 
 When they laurel the graves of our 
 dead! 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; 
 Love and tears for the Blue, 
 Tears and love for the Gray. 
 
 *£* fc5* d?* 
 
 WATCHING THE NEW YEAR IN 
 
 GOOD old days — dear old days 
 When my heart beat high and 
 bold— 
 When the things of earth seemed full of 
 mirth 
 And the future a haze of gold! 
 Oh, merry was I that winter night, 
 
 And gleeful our little one's din, 
 And tender the grace of my darling's face 
 
 As we watched the New Year in. 
 But a voice — a spectre's that mocked at 
 love — 
 Came out of the yonder hall; 
 "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" 'twas the solemn 
 clock 
 That ruefully croaked to all. 
 
 Yet what knew we of the griefs to be 
 
 In the year we longed to greet? 
 Love — love was the theme of the sweet, 
 
 sweet dream 
 I fancied might never fleet! 
 
 But the spectre stood in that yonder 
 gloom, 
 And these were the words it spake: 
 "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — and they seemed 
 to mock 
 A heart about to break. 
 
 'Tis New Year's eve, and again I watch 
 
 In the old familiar place, 
 And I'm thinking again of that old time 
 when 
 
 I looked on a dear one's face. 
 Never a little one hugs my knee, 
 
 And I hear no gleeful shout — 
 I am sitting alone by the old hearth-stone, 
 
 Watching the old year out. 
 But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom 
 
 That solemnly calls to me; 
 "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — for so the clock- 
 Tells of a life to be; 
 "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — 'tis so the clock 
 
 Tells of eternity. — Eugene Field. 
 
NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 37 
 
 GARFIELD'S TRIBUTE TO HIS FALLEN COMRADES. 
 
 IF silence is ever golden, it must be here, 
 beside the graves of fifteen thousand 
 men, whose lives were more significant 
 than speech, and whose death was a poem, 
 the music of which can never be sung. 
 With words we make promises, plight 
 faith, praise virtue. Promises may not be 
 kept, plighted faith may be broken, and 
 vaunted virtue be only the cunning mark 
 of vice. 
 
 We do not know one promise these men 
 made, one pledge they gave, one word 
 they spoke; but we do know they summed 
 up and perfected by one supreme act 
 the highest virtue of men and citizens. 
 For love of country they accepted death, 
 and thus resolved all doubts and made im- 
 mortal their patriotism and their virtue. 
 For the noblest man that lives there still 
 remains a conflict. He must still with- 
 stand the assaults of time and fortune; 
 must still be assailed with temptations be- 
 fore which lofty natures have fallen. But 
 with these, the conflict ended, the victory 
 was won, when death stamped on them the 
 great seal of heroic character, and closed 
 a record which years can never blot. 
 
 At the beginning of the Christian era 
 an imperial circus stood on the summit of 
 what is now known as the Vatican Mount 
 
 in Rome. There gladiator slaves died for 
 the sport of Rome, and wild beasts fought 
 with wilder men. In that arena, a Gali- 
 lean fisherman gave up his life, a sacrifice 
 for his faith. No human life was ever so 
 nobly avenged. On that spot was reared 
 the proudest Christian temple ever built 
 by human hands. As the traveler descends 
 the Apennines, he sees the dome of St. Pe- 
 ter's rising above the desolate Campagna, 
 and the dead city, long before the seven 
 hills and ruined palaces appear to his view. 
 The fame of the dead fisherman has out- 
 lived the glory of the Eternal City. 
 
 Seen from the western slope of our 
 Capitol, this spot is not unlike the Vatican 
 Mount. A few years ago the soil beneath 
 our feet was watered with the tears of 
 slaves. Yonder proud Capitol awakened 
 no pride, inspired no hope. The face of 
 the goddess was turned toward the sea, 
 and not toward them. But thanks be to 
 God, this arena of slavery is a scene of 
 violence no longer! This will be forever 
 the sacred mountain of our Capitol. Here 
 is our temple. Its pavement is the 
 sepulcher of heroic hearts; its dome, the 
 bending heaven; its altar candles, the 
 watching stars. 
 
 — lames A. Garfield. 
 
 t5* 10* 1£& 
 
 THE MANGER OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 THERE'S a song in the air! 
 There's a star in the sky! 
 There's a mother's deep prayer 
 And a baby's low cry! 
 And the star rains its fire while the Beau- 
 tiful sing, 
 For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a 
 King. 
 
 There's a tumult of joy 
 
 O'er the wonderful birth, 
 For the virgin's sweet boy 
 Is the Lord of the earth, 
 Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beau- 
 tiful sing, 
 For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a 
 King! 
 
38 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 In the light of that star 
 
 Lie the ages impearled; 
 And that song from afar 
 Has swept over the world. 
 Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful 
 
 sing, 
 In the homes of the nations that Jesus is 
 King! 
 
 We rejoice in the light, 
 And we echo the song 
 That comes down through the night 
 From the heavenly throng. 
 Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they 
 
 bring, 
 And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and 
 King. 
 
 c5* %2& &9* 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 
 THE cycling years again have brought 
 To us, Memorial Day; 
 The gallant men who bravely fought 
 
 For us are old and gray. 
 Their numbers, year by year, grow less, 
 
 And more are laid away, 
 Where we with flowers their graves may 
 dress, 
 On each Memorial Day. 
 
 Then bring the blossoms fair and sweet, 
 
 To deck each grass-grown bed, 
 While reverently we all repeat: 
 
 "Here lie our honored dead, 
 Whose memory we will all revere 
 
 Till time shall pass away, 
 And sacred keep with every year 
 
 A new Memorial Day." 
 
 — Emma Shaw. 
 
 t3& t&& %£& 
 
 SIMON SOGG'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 L 1 
 
 ET Earth give thanks," the deacon 
 said, 
 And then the proclamation read. 
 
 "Give thanks fer what an' what about?" 
 Asked Simon Soggs when church was out. 
 "Give thanks fer what? I don't see why; 
 The rust got in an' spiled my rye, 
 And hay wan't half a crop, and corn 
 All wilted down and looked forlorn. 
 The bugs jest gobbled my pertaters, 
 The what-you-call-em lineaters, 
 And gracious! when you come to wheat, 
 There's more than all the world can eat; 
 Onless a war should interfere, 
 Crops won't bring half a price this year; 
 I'll hev to give 'em away, I reckon!" 
 
 "Good for 
 deacon. 
 
 the poor!" exclaimed the 
 
 "Give thanks fer what?" asked Simon 
 
 Soggs. 
 "Fer th' freshet carryin' off my logs? 
 Fer Dobbin goin' blind? Fer five 
 Uv my best cows, that was alive 
 Afore the smashin' railroad come 
 And made it awful troublesome? 
 Fer that hay stack the lightnin' struck 
 And burnt to ashes? — thund'rin luck! 
 For ten dead sheep?" sighed Simon Soggs. 
 The Deacon said, "You've got yer hogs!" 
 
 "Give thanks? and Jane and baby sick? 
 I e'enmost wonder if ole Nick 
 Ain't runnin' things!" 
 
 The deacon said, 
 "Simon! yer people might be dead!" 
 
NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 39 
 
 "Give thanks!" said Simon Soggs again. 
 
 "Jest look at what a fix we're in! 
 
 The country's rushin' to the dogs 
 
 At race horse speed!" said Simon Soggs. 
 
 "Rotten all through — in every State, — 
 
 Why, ef we don't repudiate, 
 
 We'll hev to build, fer big and small, 
 
 A poor-house that'll hold us all. 
 
 All round the crooked whisky still 
 
 Is runnin' like the Devil's mill; 
 
 Give thanks? How mad it makes me feel, 
 
 To think how office-holders steal! 
 
 The taxes paid by you and me 
 
 Is four times bigger'n they should be; 
 
 The Fed'ral Gov'ment's all askew, 
 
 The ballot's sech a mockery, too! 
 
 Some votes too little, some too much, 
 Some not at all — it beats the Dutch! 
 And now no man knows what to do, 
 Or how is how, or who is who. 
 Deacon! corruption's sure to kill! 
 This 'glorious Union' never will, 
 I'll bet a continental cent, 
 Elect another President! 
 Give thanks fer what, I'd like to know?" 
 
 The deacon answered, sad and low, 
 "Simon! It fills me with surprise, 
 Ye don't see where yer duty lies; 
 Kneel right straight down, in all the muss, 
 And thank God that it ain't no wuss!" 
 — W. A. Croifut. 
 
 t0& t£fc e5* 
 
 _ 
 
 JEST 'FORE 
 
 (Recitation for a boy 
 
 FATHER calls me William, sister calls 
 me Will, 
 Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call 
 
 me Bill. 
 Mighty glad I ain't a girl — ruther be a 
 
 boy, 
 Without them sashes, curls, an' things 
 
 that's worn by Fauntleroy! 
 Love to chawnk green apples an' go swim- 
 
 min' in the lake — 
 Hate to take the castor-ile they give for 
 
 belly-ache! 
 'Most all the time, the whole year round, 
 
 there ain't no flies on me, 
 But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I 
 
 kin be! 
 
 Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him 
 
 on the cat; 
 First thing she knows she doesn't know 
 
 where she is at! 
 Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes 
 
 out to slide, 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 from seven to ten.) 
 
 'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all 
 
 hook a ride, * 
 
 But sometimes when the grocery man is 
 
 worrited an' cross, 
 He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups 
 
 up his hoss, 
 An' then I laff an' holler: "O, ye never 
 
 teched me!" 
 But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I 
 
 kin be! 
 
 Gran'ma says she hopes that when I get 
 
 to be a man, 
 I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother 
 
 Dan, 
 As was et up by the cannibuls that lives 
 
 in Ceylon's He, 
 Where every prospeck pleases, an' only 
 
 man is vile! 
 But gran'ma she has never been to see a 
 
 Wild West show, 
 Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or 
 
 else I guess she'd know 
 
40 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 That Buff'lo Bill an' cowboys is good 
 
 enough for me! 
 Excep' just 'fore Christmas, when I'm 
 
 good as I kin be! 
 
 And then old Sport he hangs around, so 
 
 solemn-like an' still, 
 His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the 
 
 matter, little Bill?" 
 The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' 
 
 wonders what's become 
 Of them two enemies of hern that used to 
 
 make things hum! 
 But I am so perlite an' tend so earnestly 
 
 to biz, 
 That mother says to father: "How im- 
 proved our Willie is!" 
 But father, havin' been a boy hisself, 
 
 suspicions me 
 
 When, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good 
 as I kin be! 
 
 For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of 
 
 candies, cakes, an' toys, 
 Was made, they say, for proper kids an' 
 
 not for naughty boys; 
 So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' 
 
 * mind yer p's and q's, 
 An' don't bust out your pantaloons, and 
 
 don't wear out your shoes; 
 Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" 
 
 to the men, 
 An' when they's company, don't pass yer 
 
 plate for pie again; 
 But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to 
 
 see upon the tree, 
 Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin 
 
 be! — Eugene Field. 
 
 
 OUR HEROIC DEAD. 
 
 O 
 
 SUN, subdue your splendor; 
 O birds, forget your mirth ; 
 O robe of mist so tender, 
 
 Enshroud a lifeless earth. 
 O sea renew your mourning; 
 
 O winds, a requiem play; 
 O heart, with grief's intoning, 
 December wrest from May. 
 A nation weeps 
 And vigil keeps 
 O'er her heroic dead. 
 
 O sun, unsheath your lances; 
 
 Fling out your rainbow arch; 
 O music that entrances, 
 
 Sound a triumphal march. 
 O flag by heaven's portals 
 
 Unfurl your gleaming bars; 
 For there earth's dear immortals 
 Forever placed your stars. 
 A nation's praise 
 Its tribute pays 
 To her heroic dead. 
 
 t5* (J* ^* 
 
 MISTLETOE. 
 
 WHEN on the chandelier I saw 
 The mistletoe and holly, 
 The one conclusion I could draw 
 Led me straight on to folly. 
 
 For Marjory, with cheeks aglow 
 And lips, each one a berry, 
 
 Was smiling at the mistletoe 
 A smile peculiar, very. 
 
 I watched them both, and when above 
 Her head the green leaves fluttered, 
 
 I caught and kissed the girl I love 
 And something tender uttered. 
 
NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 41 
 
 She blushed, of course; the deed was done. 
 
 Quoth she: "Since kissing's pleasant, 
 I'll give you just another one, 
 
 To be your Christmas present." 
 
 Good lovers all, take note of this, 
 The Christmas prank of Cupid. 
 
 A spray of mistletoe amiss 
 Were nothing short of stupid. 
 
 t^» c?* ^* 
 
 DECORATION DAY. 
 
 AGAIN with reverent hands we strew 
 Our heroes' graves with flowers of 
 spring; 
 How swift doth time's increasing flow, 
 These hallowed days around us bring! 
 
 And as we stand in silence near 
 Their sacred dust, a gift we lay 
 
 Upon each lowly altar here, 
 
 That shall not with the flowers decay!, 
 
 For grateful memory twines anew 
 Her offering with the garlands fair, 
 
 Laid where long sleep the brave and true, 
 Whose honored dust we shield with 
 
 care. 
 
 ^* <£T* t£rl 
 
 THE MEANING OF THE AMERICAN 
 
 (Recitation for a boy.) 
 
 FLAG. 
 
 THE American flag means, then, all 
 that the fathers meant in the Rev- 
 olutionary War; it means all that the 
 Declaration of Independence meant; it 
 means all that the Constitution of a peo- 
 ple, organizing for justice, for liberty, and 
 for happiness, meant. 
 
 The American flag carries American 
 ideas, American history, and American 
 feeling. 
 
 Beginning with the colonies and com- 
 ing down to our time, in its sacred her- 
 aldry, in its glorious insignia, it has 
 
 gathered and stored chiefly this supreme 
 idea: Divine Right of Liberty in Man. 
 
 Every color means liberty, every thread 
 means liberty, every form of star and beam 
 of light means liberty — liberty through 
 law, and laws for liberty. Accept it, then, 
 in all its fullness of meaning. It is not a 
 painted rag. It is a whole national history 
 It is the Constitution. It is the Govern- 
 ment. It is the emblem of the sovereignty 
 of the people. It is the Nation. — From a 
 speech by Henry Ward Beecher. 
 
 £fr tzr* t&* 
 
 A GOOD COUNTRY FOR ALL. 
 
 (For a very little girl. The speaker should wear the national colors, either combined in a 
 dress or as decorations to a white dress.) 
 
 I WEAR these three colors to-day, 
 The beautiful red, white and blue, 
 Because 'tis the Fourth of July, 
 And I thought I'd celebrate too. 
 
 I know that our country began 
 
 (Though I'm sure I cannot tell why), 
 
 One morning so long, long ago, 
 And that was the Fourth of July. 
 
 But one thing for certain and sure 
 
 I've found out, although I'm so small, 
 
 'Tis a country good to be in 
 
 For little folks, big folks, and all. 
 
42 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 THE DIGNITY OF LABOR. 
 
 (An oration for 
 
 THERE is dignity in toil — in toil of the 
 hand as well as toil of the head — in 
 toil to provide for the bodily wants of an 
 individual life, as well as in toil to promote 
 some enterprise of world-wide fame. All 
 labor that tends to supply man's wants, to 
 increase man's happiness, to elevate man's 
 nature — in a word, all labor that is honest 
 — is honorable too. Labor clears the for- 
 est, and drains the morass, and makes the 
 "wilderness rejoice and blossom as the 
 rose." Labor drives the plow, and scatters 
 the seeds, and reaps the harvest, and 
 grinds the corn, and converts it into bread, 
 the staff of life. Labor, tending the pas- 
 tures and sweeping the waters, as well as 
 cultivating the soil, provides with daily 
 sustenance the nine hundred millions of 
 the family of man. Labor gathers the gos- 
 samer web of the caterpillar, the cotton 
 from the field, and the fleece from the flock, 
 and weaves it into raiment soft and warm 
 and beautiful, the purple robe of the prince 
 and the gray gown of the peasant being 
 alike its handiwork. Labor moulds the 
 brick, and splits the slate, and quarries the 
 stone and shapes the column, and rears 
 not only the humble cottage, but the 
 gorgeous palace, and the tapering spire, 
 and the stately dome. Labor, diving deep 
 into the solid earth, brings up its long- 
 hidden stores of coal to feed ten thousand 
 furnaces, and in millions of homes to defy 
 the winter's cold. 
 
 Labor explores the rich veins of deeply- 
 buried rocks, extracting the gold and silver, 
 the copper and tin. Labor smelts the iron, 
 and moulds it into a thousand shapes for 
 use and ornament, from the massive pillar 
 to the tiniest needle, from the ponderous 
 anchor to the wire gauze, from the mighty 
 
 Labor Day.) 
 
 fly-wheel of the steam engine to the pol- 
 ished purse-ring or the glittering bead. 
 Labor hews down the gnarled oak, and 
 shapes the timber, and builds the ship, and 
 guides it over the deep, plunging through 
 the billows, and wrestling with the tem- 
 pest, to bear to our shores the produce of 
 every clime. Labor, laughing at difficul- 
 ties, spans majestic rivers, carries viaducts 
 over marshy swamps, suspends bridges 
 over deep ravines, pierces the solid moun- 
 tain with the dark tunnel, blasting rocks 
 and filling hollows, and while linking to- 
 gether with its iron but loving grasp all 
 nations of the earth, verifying, in a literal 
 sense, the ancient prophecy, "Every valley 
 shall be exalted, and every mountain and 
 hill shall be brought low;" labor draws 
 forth its delicate iron thread, and stretch- 
 ing it from city to city, from province to 
 province, through mountains and beneath 
 the sea, realizes more than fancy ever 
 fabled, while it constructs a chariot on 
 which speech may outstrip the wind, and 
 compete with lightning, for the telegraph 
 flies as rapidly as thought itself. 
 
 Labor, the mighty magician, walks forth 
 into a region uninhabited and waste; he 
 looks earnestly at the scene, so quiet in its 
 desolation, then waving his wonder-work- 
 ing wand, those dreary valleys smile with 
 golden harvests; those barren mountain- 
 slopes are clothed with foliage ; the furnace 
 blazes; the anvil rings; the busy wheel 
 whirls round; the town appears; the temple 
 of religion rears its lofty front; a forest of 
 masts rises from the harbor. On every 
 side are heard the sounds of industry and 
 gladness. 
 
 Labor achieves grander victories, it 
 weaves more durable trophies, it holds 
 
NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS 
 
 43 
 
 wider sway than the conqueror. His name 
 becomes tainted and his monuments crum- 
 ble; but labor converts his red battlefields 
 
 into gardens, and erects 
 significant of better things. 
 
 monuments 
 
 -Anonymous. 
 
 (5* t5* ^* 
 
 HAVE YOU PLANTED A TREE? 
 
 (For Arbor Day.) 
 
 WHAT do we plant when we plant the 
 tree? 
 We plant the ship, which will cross the sea, 
 We plant the mast to carry the sails; 
 We plant the planks to withstand the gales, 
 The keel, the keelson, and beam and knee; 
 We plant the ship when we plant the tree. 
 
 What do we plant when we plant the tree? 
 We plant the houses for you and me; 
 We plant the rafters, the shingles, the 
 floors, 
 
 We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, 
 The beams and siding, all parts that be; 
 We plant the house when we plant the tree. 
 
 What do we plant when we plant the tree? 
 A thousand things that we daily see: 
 We plant the spire that out-towers the 
 
 crag; 
 We plant the staff for country's flag; 
 We plant the shade from the hot sun 
 
 free ; — 
 We plant all these when we plant the tree. 
 
 t5* «£• t5* 
 
 THE BROWNIE'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 (Imagine this a real occurrence, and yourself the giver.) 
 
 THE Brownie who lives in the forest — 
 Oh, the Christmas bells they ring! 
 He has done for the farmer's children 
 Full many a kindly thing: 
 
 When their cows were lost in the gloam- 
 ing 
 
 He has driven them safely home; 
 He has led their bees to the flowers, 
 
 To fill up their golden comb; 
 
 At her spinning the little sister 
 Had napped till the setting sun — 
 
 She awoke, and the kindly Brownie 
 Had gotten it neatly done; 
 
 Oh, the Christmas bells they are ringing! 
 
 The mother she was away, 
 And the Brownie 'd played with the baby 
 
 And tended it all the day; 
 
 
 The Brownie who lives in the forest, 
 Oh, the Christmas bells they ring! 
 
 He has done for the farmer's children 
 Full many a kindly thing. 
 
 'Tis true that his face they never, 
 For all their watching, could see; 
 
 Yet who else did the kindly service, 
 I pray, if it were not he? 
 
 But the poor little friendly Brownie, 
 
 His life was a weary thing; 
 For never had he been in holy church 
 
 And heard the children sing; 
 
 And never had he had a Christmas; 
 
 Nor had bent in prayer his knee; 
 He had lived for a thousand years, 
 
 And all weary-worn was he. 
 
44 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 Or that was the story the children 
 Had heard at their mother's side; 
 
 And together they talked it over, 
 One merry Christmas-tide. 
 
 The pitiful little sister 
 
 With her braids of paly gold, 
 And the little elder brother, 
 
 And the darling five-year-old, 
 
 All stood in the western window — 
 'Twas toward the close of day — 
 
 And they talked about the Brownie 
 While resting from their play. 
 
 "The Brownie, he has no Christmas," 
 
 The dear little sister said, 
 And a-shaking as she spoke 
 
 Her glossy, yellow head; 
 
 "The Brownie, he has no Christmas; 
 
 While so many gifts had we, 
 To the floor last night they bended 
 
 The boughs of the Christmas-tree." 
 
 Then the little elder brother, 
 
 He spake up in his turn, 
 With both of his blue eyes beaming, 
 
 While his cheeks began to burn: 
 
 "Let us do up for the Brownie 
 
 A Christmas bundle now, 
 And leave it in the forest pathway 
 
 Where the great oak branches bow. 
 
 "We'll mark it, 'For the Brownie,' 
 And 'A Merry Christmas Day!' 
 
 And sure will he be to find it, 
 For he goeth home that way!' " 
 
 Then the tender little sister 
 With her braids of paly gold, 
 
 And the little elder brother, 
 And the darling five-year-old, 
 
 Tied up in a little bundle 
 
 Some toys, with a loving care, 
 
 And marked it, "For the Brownie," 
 In letters large and fair, 
 
 And "We wish a Merry Christmas!" 
 And then, in the dusk, the three 
 
 Went to the wood and left it 
 Under the great oak tree. 
 
 While the farmer's fair little children 
 Slept sweet on that Christmas night, 
 
 Two wanderers through the forest 
 Came in the clear moonlight. 
 
 And neither one was the Brownie, 
 
 But sorry were both as he; 
 And their hearts, with each fresh footstep, 
 
 Were aching steadily. 
 
 A slender man with an organ 
 Strapped on by a leathern band, 
 
 And a girl with a tambourine 
 A-holding close to his hand. 
 
 And the girl with the tambourine, 
 
 Big sorrowful eyes she had; 
 In the cold white wood she shivered, 
 
 In her ragged raiment clad. 
 
 "And what is there here to do?" she said; 
 
 "I'm froze i' the light o' the moon! 
 Shall we play to these sad old forest trees 
 
 Some merry and jigging tune? 
 
 "And, father, you know it is Christmas- 
 time, 
 
 And had we staid i' the town 
 And I gone to one o' the Christmas-trees, 
 
 A gift might have fallen down! 
 
 "You cannot certainly know it would not: 
 I'd ha' gone right under the tree! 
 
 Are you sure that none o' the Christmases 
 Were meant for you and me?" 
 
 "These dry dead leaves," he answered her, 
 sad, 
 
NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 45 
 
 "Which the forest casteth down, 
 Are more than you'd get from a Christmas 
 tree 
 In the merry and thoughtless town. 
 
 "Though to-night be the Christ's own 
 birthday night, 
 
 And all the world hath grace, 
 There is not a home in all the world 
 
 Which holdeth for us a place." 
 
 Slow plodding adown the forest path, 
 "And now, what is this?" he said; 
 
 And the children's bundle he lifted up, 
 And "For the Brownie," read, 
 
 And "We wish a Merry Christmas Day!" 
 "Now if this be done," said he, 
 
 "Somewhere in the world perhaps there, is 
 A place for you and me!" 
 
 And the bundle he opened softly: 
 "This is children's tender thought; 
 
 Their own little Christmas presents 
 They have to the Brownie brought. 
 
 "If there liveth such tender pity 
 Toward a thing so dim and low, 
 
 There is kindness sure remaining 
 Of which I did not know. 
 
 "Oh, children, there's never a Brownie — 
 
 That sorry, uncanny thing; 
 But nearest and next are the homeless 
 
 When the Christmas joy-bells ring." 
 
 Out laughed the little daughter, 
 And she gathered the toys with glee: 
 
 "My Christmas present has fallen! 
 This oak was my Christmas-tree!" 
 
 Then away they went through the forest, 
 The wanderers, hand in hand; 
 
 And the snow, they were both so merry, 
 It glinted like the golden sand. 
 
 Down the forest the elder brother, 
 In the morning clear and cold, 
 
 Came leading the little sister 
 And the darling five-year-old. 
 
 "Oh," he cries, "He's taken the bundle!" 
 
 As carefully round he peers; 
 "And the Brownie has gotten a Christmas 
 
 After a thousand years!" 
 
 ^* ^* ;5* 
 
 THE THREE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 (For a girl 
 FIRST BOY. 
 
 OF all the days of all the year," 
 Cried loyal Freddy Bly, 
 "The very splendid-est of all 
 
 Comes early in July. 
 Think of the fun! the glorious noise! 
 That is the day — at least for boys." 
 
 SECOND BOY. 
 "Of all the days of all the year," 
 
 Said little Robin Gray, 
 "The very best, I do believe, 
 
 and two boys.) 
 
 Will be Thanksgiving day. 
 A fellow has such things to eat! 
 Thanksgiving day cannot be beat." 
 
 GIRL. 
 
 "Of all the days of all the year," 
 Sang pretty Nan, "remember 
 
 The dearest, happiest and best 
 Is coming in December. 
 
 What girl or boy, north, east, south, west, 
 
 But knows that Christmas day is best?" 
 — Annie L. Hannah. 
 
4-1 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 Or that was the story the children 
 Had heard at their mother's side; 
 
 And together they talked it over, 
 One merry Christmas-tide. 
 
 The pitiful little sister 
 
 With her braids of paly gold, 
 And the little elder brother, 
 
 And the darling five-year-old, 
 
 All stood in the western window — 
 'Twas toward the close of day — 
 
 And they talked about the Brownie 
 While resting from their play. 
 
 "The Brownie, he has no Christmas," 
 
 The dear little sister said, 
 And a-shaking as she spoke 
 
 Her glossy, yellow head; 
 
 "The Brownie, he has no Christmas; 
 
 While so many gifts had we, 
 To the floor last night they bended 
 
 The boughs of the Christmas-tree." 
 
 Then the little elder brother, 
 
 He spake up in his turn, 
 With both of his blue eyes beaming, 
 
 While his cheeks began to burn: 
 
 "Let us do up for the Brownie 
 
 A Christmas bundle now, 
 And leave it in the forest pathway 
 
 Where the great oak branches bow. 
 
 "We'll mark it, 'For the Brownie,' 
 And 'A Merry Christmas Day!' 
 
 And sure will he be to find it, 
 For he goeth home that way !' " 
 
 Then the tender little sister 
 With her braids of paly gold, 
 
 And the little elder brother, 
 And the darling five-year-old, 
 
 Tied up in a little bundle 
 
 Some toys, with a loving care, 
 
 And marked it, "For the Brownie," 
 In letters large and fair, 
 
 And "We wish a Merry Christmas!" 
 And then, in the dusk, the three 
 
 Went to the wood and left it 
 Under the great oak tree. 
 
 While the farmer's fair little children 
 Slept sweet on that Christmas night, 
 
 Two wanderers through the forest 
 Came in the clear moonlight. 
 
 And neither one was the Brownie, 
 
 But sorry were both as he; 
 And their hearts, with each fresh footstep, 
 
 Were aching steadily. 
 
 A slender man with an organ 
 Strapped on by a leathern band, 
 
 And a girl with a tambourine 
 A-holding close to his hand. 
 
 And the girl with the tambourine, 
 
 Big sorrowful eyes she had; 
 In the cold white wood she shivered, 
 
 In her ragged raiment clad. 
 
 "And what is there here to do?" she said; 
 
 "I'm froze i' the light o' the moon! 
 Shall we play to these sad old forest trees 
 
 Some merry and jigging tune? 
 
 "And, father, you know it is Christmas- 
 time, 
 
 And had we staid i' the town 
 And I gone to one o' the Christmas-trees, 
 
 A gift might have fallen down ! 
 
 "You cannot certainly know it would not: 
 I'd ha' gone right under the tree! 
 
 Are you sure that none o' the Christmases 
 Were meant for you and me?" 
 
 "These dry dead leaves," he answered her, 
 sad, 
 
NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 45 
 
 "Which the forest casteth down, 
 Are more than you'd get from a Christmas 
 tree 
 In the merry and thoughtless town. 
 
 "Though to-night be the Christ's own 
 birthday night, 
 
 And all the world hath grace, 
 There is not a home in all the world 
 
 Which holdeth for us a place." 
 
 Slow plodding adown the forest path, 
 "And now, what is this?" he said; 
 
 And the children's bundle he lifted up, 
 And "For the Brownie," read, 
 
 And "We wish a Merry Christmas Day!" 
 "Now if this be done," said he, 
 
 "Somewhere in the world perhaps there, is 
 A place for you and me!" 
 
 And the bundle he opened softly: 
 "This is children's tender thought; 
 
 Their own little Christmas presents 
 They have to the Brownie brought. 
 
 "If there liveth such tender pity 
 Toward a thing so dim and low, 
 
 There is kindness sure remaining 
 Of which I did not know. 
 
 "Oh, children, there's never a Brownie — 
 
 That sorry, uncanny thing; 
 But nearest and next are the homeless 
 
 When the Christmas joy-bells ring." 
 
 Out laughed the little daughter, 
 
 And she gathered the toys with glee: 
 
 "My Christmas present has fallen! 
 This oak was my Christmas-tree!" 
 
 Then away they went through the forest, 
 The wanderers, hand in hand; 
 
 And the snow, they were both so merry, 
 It glinted like the golden sand. 
 
 Down the forest the elder brother, 
 In the morning clear and cold, 
 
 Came leading the little sister 
 And the darling five-year-old. 
 
 "Oh," he cries, "He's taken the bundle!" 
 
 As carefully round he peers; 
 "And the Brownie has gotten a Christmas 
 
 After a thousand years!" 
 
 «5* t.5* $?• 
 
 THE THREE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 (For a girl 
 FIRST BOY. 
 
 OF all the days of all the year," 
 Cried loyal Freddy Bly, 
 "The very splendid-est of all 
 
 Comes early in July. 
 Think of the fun! the glorious noise! 
 That is the day — at least for boys." 
 
 SECOND BOY. 
 "Of all the days of all the year," 
 
 Said little Robin Gray, 
 "The very best, I do believe, 
 
 and two boys.) 
 
 Will be Thanksgiving day. 
 A fellow has such things to eat! 
 Thanksgiving day cannot be beat." 
 
 GIRL. 
 
 "Of all the days of all the year," 
 Sang pretty Nan, "remember 
 
 The dearest, happiest and best 
 Is coming in December. 
 
 What girl or boy, north, east, south, west, 
 
 But knows that Christmas day is best?" 
 — Annie L. Hannah. 
 
46 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 
 
 RING out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
 The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
 The year is dying in the night; 
 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 
 
 Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
 Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 
 The year is going, let him go; 
 
 Ring out the false, ring in the true. 
 
 Ring out the grief that saps the mind 
 For those that here we see no more; 
 Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 
 
 Ring in redress to all mankind. 
 
 Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
 And ancient forms of party strife; 
 Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
 
 And sweeter manners, purer laws. 
 
 t5* *£• «i5* 
 
 A NEW YEAR'S TALK. 
 
 HERE I am," said the New Year, 
 popping his head in at the door. 
 
 "Oh! there you are, eh?" replied the Old 
 Year. "Come in and let me have a look 
 at you, and shut the door after you, 
 please!" 
 
 The New Year stepped lightly in, and 
 closed the door carefully. 
 
 "Frosty night," he said. "Fine and 
 clear, though. I have had a delightful 
 journey." 
 
 "Humph!" said the Old Year. "I don't 
 expect to find it delightful, with this rheu- 
 matism racking my bones. A long, cold, 
 drive, I call it; but to be sure, I thought it 
 pleasant when I was your age, youngster. 
 Is the sleigh waiting?" 
 
 "Yes," replied the other. "But there is 
 no hurry. Wait a bit, and tell me how' 
 matters are in these parts." 
 
 "So, so!" the Old Year answered, shak- 
 ing his head. "They might be better, and 
 yet I suppose they might be worse, too. 
 They were worse before I came; much 
 worse, too. I have done a great deal. Now 
 I expect you, my boy, to follow my ex- 
 ample, and be a good year all the way 
 through." 
 
 "I shall do my best," said the New Year, 
 
 "depend upon it! And now tell me a little 
 what there is to do." 
 
 "In the first place," replied the other, 
 "you have the weather to attend to. To 
 be sure, you have a clerk to help you in 
 that, but he is not always to be depended 
 upon; there is a great deal of work in the 
 department. The seasons have a way of 
 running into each other, and getting 
 mixed, if you don't keep a sharp lookout 
 on them; and the months are a trouble- 
 some, unruly set. Then you must be care- 
 ful how to turn on wet and dry weather; 
 your reputation depends in a great meas- 
 ure on that. But you must not expect to 
 satisfy everybody, for that is impossible. 
 If you try to please the farmers the city 
 people will complain; and if you devote 
 yourself to the cities, the country people 
 will call you all manner of names. I had 
 rather devote myself to apples and that 
 sort of a thing; everybody speaks of me as 
 'a great apple year;' 'a glorious year for 
 grapes!' and so on. That is very gratify- 
 ing to me. And one thing I want you to 
 do very carefully; that is, to watch the 
 leaves that are turned." 
 
 "I thought Autumn attended to that sort 
 of thing," said his companion. 
 
Photo by Byron, N. Y. 
 
 TELLING MOTHER. 
 
NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 49 
 
 "I don't mean leaves of trees," said the 
 Old Year. "But at the beginning of a year, 
 half the people in the world say, 'I am go- 
 ing to turn over a new leaf!' meaning they 
 intend to behave themselves better in vari- 
 ous respects. As a rule, leaves do not stay 
 turned over. I know a great many little 
 boys who promised me to turn over a new 
 leaf in regard to tearing their clothes and 
 losing their jack-knives, and bringing 
 mud into the house on their boots, and lit- 
 tle girls who were going to keep their 
 bureau drawers tidy and their buttons 
 sewed on. But I haven't seen much im- 
 provement in most of them. Indeed, what 
 can you expect of the children, when the 
 parents set them the example? Why, there 
 is a man in this neighborhood who has 
 turned over a new leaf in the matter of 
 smoking every year since 1868, and after 
 the first week of each New Year he smokes 
 like a chimney all the rest of the year." 
 
 "What is his name?" inquired the New 
 Year, taking out his note-book. 
 
 "His name is Smith — John Smith," said 
 the Old Year. "There are a great many 
 
 of them, and all the rest are probably as 
 bad, as the particular one I mention, so you 
 need not be too particular." 
 
 "I'll attend to it," said the New Year. 
 "Any other suggestions?" 
 
 "Well," said the Old Year, smiling, "I 
 have never found that young people, or 
 young years, were very apt to profit by 
 good advice. You must go your own way 
 after all. Don't start any new inventions — 
 there have been quite enough lately. 
 Above all, take care of the children, and 
 give them all the good weather you can 
 conscientiously. And now," he added, ris- 
 ing slowly and stiffly from his seat by the 
 fire, "the horses are getting impatient, and 
 my time is nearly up, so I start on my long 
 drive. You will find everything in pretty 
 good shape, I think, though, of course, you 
 will think me an old fogy as perhaps I am. 
 Well! well! good-bye, my boy! Good luck 
 to you ! And whenever you hear my name 
 mentioned, try to put in a good word for 
 
 old " (here give the number of the 
 
 year). 
 
 — Laura E. Richard. 
 
 K0& xZfr e£* 
 
 LABOR. 
 
 (Recitation for Labor Day.) 
 
 PAUSE not to dream of the future be- 
 fore us; 
 Pause not to weep the wild cares that 
 come o'er us; 
 Hark how creation's deep, musical chorus, 
 
 Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! 
 Never the ocean wave falters in flowing ; 
 Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
 More and more richly the rose heart keeps 
 glowing, 
 Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 
 
 "Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; 
 
 "Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ring- 
 ing: 
 
 Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing 
 Speaks to thy soul from out nature's 
 great heart. 
 
 From the dark cloud flows the life-giving 
 shower; 
 
 From the rough sod blows the soft-breath- 
 ing flower; 
 
 From the small insect, the rich coral 
 bower; 
 
50 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his 
 part. 
 
 Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet 
 
 us, 
 Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, 
 Rest from sin promptings that ever en- 
 treat us, 
 Rest from world-sirens that lure us to 
 ill. 
 
 Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on 
 thy pillow 
 
 Work — thou shalt ride over Care's com- 
 ing billow; 
 
 Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weep- 
 ing willow; 
 Work with a stout heart and resolute 
 will! 
 
 Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman 
 reaping, 
 
 How through his veins goes the life cur- 
 rent leaping! 
 
 How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride 
 sweeping, 
 True as a sunbeam the swift sickle 
 guides. 
 
 Labor is wealth! In the sea the pearl 
 groweth ; 
 
 Rich the queen's robe from the frail co- 
 coon floweth; 
 
 From the fine acorn the strong forest 
 bloweth ; 
 Temple and statue the marble block 
 hides. 
 
 — F. S. Osgood. 
 
 £n> i&l l3& 
 
 A MEMORIAL DAY EXERCISE. 
 
 ELLA M. POWERS. 
 
 PATRIOTIC SONG (in which all join). 
 Selected. 
 
 ORIGINAL ADDRESS (or suitable 
 recitation). 
 Speaker A. — 
 The May-day air is hushed and still, 
 
 The far-off muffled drums I hear, 
 With measured tread up yonder hill, 
 
 The brave old soldiers now appear. 
 
 Our flag floats solemnly above 
 Their heads, now bent and gray, 
 
 But hearts are filled with tender love, 
 As they march on their way. 
 
 These men bore sabers years ago, 
 To-day they bear sweet flowers, 
 
 These to their comrades they bestow 
 In May-day's fairest hours. 
 
 But here a train of children bright 
 Are marching on this way 
 
 With flags and flowers — a gladsome sight 
 On each Memorial Day. 
 
 Enter seven children; the fourth in order 
 bears a large flag; the others carry 
 wreaths of flozvers and small Hags. The 
 wreaths should be made of red, of white, 
 and of blue flozvers (tzvo of each color). 
 They march in to soft, muffled drum- 
 beats. They halt, and face about in line. 
 
 Speaker A. — 
 
 Why are you marching here to-day, 
 
 With flags and wreaths of flowers, pray? 
 
 Flag Bearer. — 
 
 As long as this old flag shall wave, 
 
 We'll deck with flowers each soldier's grave ; 
 
 Their names we honor and revere, 
 
 And loving tributes pay each year. 
 
 All form semi-circle during the delivery of 
 MEMORY GEMS : 
 
 O Land of lands ! to thee we give 
 
 Our prayers, our hopes, our service free ; 
 
NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 51 
 
 For thee thy sons shall nobly live, 
 
 And at thy need shall die for thee. 
 
 — Whittier. 
 
 Oh, tell me not that they are dead, — that 
 generous host, that airy array of invisible 
 heroes. They hover as a cloud above this 
 nation. — Beecher. 
 
 They fought to give us peace, and lo ! 
 
 They gained a better peace than ours. 
 — Phebe Cary. 
 
 Selected quotations or recitations — found 
 on other pages, or in Lyceum Night, Nos. 
 13 and 23 — can be given, alternately, by as 
 many as desire, after which 
 Numbers one and five hold up their wreaths 
 
 of red: 
 1. — 
 Our wreaths are of crimson — a blood-red 
 
 hue, 
 And before us our volunteers pass in re- 
 view, 
 For the red of defiance to battle incites, 
 To strife and to war the hero invites. 
 
 5-— 
 
 Deep sounding on the ear, there came 
 
 The din of battles' dread alarms ; 
 The muttered roll of myriad drums, 
 
 The cannon's roar, the clash of arms ; 
 The clanking squadron's measured tread, 
 
 The trumpet's wild and martial notes, 
 While proudly gleaming overhead 
 The standard of our country floats, — 
 The Stars and Stripes. 
 All zvave their flags gently during the last 
 two lines. Wreaths are lotvcrcd as two 
 and six raise wreaths of white: 
 2. — 
 
 We bear the wreaths of white, so pure, 
 The conflict has ceased and peace shall en- 
 dure; 
 No North and no South, no East and no 
 
 West, 
 But one land, united in peace and at rest. 
 
 No more sounds the trumpet or bugle's 
 
 loud call, 
 But quiet and peace now reigns over all. 
 6.— 
 The earth has healed her wounded breast, 
 
 The cannons plough the field no more; 
 The heroes rest! Oh, let them rest 
 
 In peace along the peaceful shore! 
 They fought for peace, for peace they fell ; 
 They sleep in peace, and all is well. 
 
 — Joaquin Miller. 
 
 Three and seven raise wreaths of blue: 
 
 3-— 
 
 We bear the wreaths of heavenly hue, 
 The flowers that bid us all be true, 
 True to the soldiers now at rest, 
 True to the land we love the best. 
 
 7-— 
 
 We'll never forget those brave deeds of old, 
 
 Of heroes, — a true, loyal band, 
 Who faced the dangers of war untold, 
 
 Who fought and who died for our land. 
 4 (Flag Bearer). — 
 To-day we strew these sweetest flowers 
 
 O'er the mounds of our heroes brave, 
 With reverent thought through the solemn 
 hours, 
 
 We deck each soldier's grave. 
 Whether he fought in the blue or the gray, 
 
 Under the palm or the pine, 
 Each hero with equal love we pay, 
 
 Each deed shall equally shine; 
 And these flowers of red, and the white 
 ones pure, 
 
 And the blooms of heavenly blue, 
 Are the colors of this old flag secure, 
 
 To which each soldier was true. 
 All (waving Hags). — 
 We love forever the stars and stripes, 
 
 Forever to them we are true, 
 We love our land and our dear old flag, 
 
 Of the red, and white, and blue. 
 These colors have long been the nation's 
 pride, 
 
^9 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 Their beauty we ever adore, 
 By the red, white, and blue we ever abide, 
 May they wave forevermore. 
 
 All march out singing, 
 and Blue." 
 
 'The Red, White, 
 
 <5* t(5* «£• 
 
 ADDRESS FOR DECORATION DAY. 
 
 COMPANIONS and Friends: We 
 meet on this solemn occasion, in the 
 performance of a sacred duty, — to revive 
 memories of our departed heroes, to recount 
 their deeds of valor and self-sacrifice, and 
 to bedeck anew their honored graves with 
 these emblems of purity, — these beautiful 
 flowers of May. 
 
 The poet says : 
 
 "After life's fitful fever he sleeps well." 
 So, indeed, does the hero who awaits the 
 great roll-call. Flowers spring up on his 
 grave, and the winds of early summer fan 
 our cheeks as we scatter tokens of love upon 
 the grassy mound, while a voice seems to 
 whisper : Yes, life is a fever, we are all in 
 its heated grasp. But pause in the delirium 
 of haste for the things of this world, and 
 come aside from the "madding crowd," to 
 join the kindlier procession where your 
 brow will cool and your pulse slacken. 
 
 Away with any who say this day is only 
 a sentiment. It bears more fruit than tears 
 and flowers. The old song, " 'Tis love that 
 makes the world go round," answers such 
 cavillers. So when America overflows with 
 love and forgiveness till each earth-corner 
 feels the glow, then can we say "How far 
 yon little candle sheds its beams !" Only 
 
 thus shall war-clouds depart and the dove 
 of Peace fold her wings on the weary world. 
 Only thus shall the sword be beaten into a 
 ploughshare, — shall the bliss of Eden re- 
 turn. 
 
 Say not either that this memorial per- 
 petuates strife! It may be to us' the high- 
 way of Peace. It calls. Excelsior ! and that 
 upward way is not marred by bloodstains, 
 but strewn with lilies and forget-me-nots, — 
 emblems of purity and remembrance. Let 
 us, then, obey these voices which say : 
 "Rest, and come up higher." The road 
 may yet look steep, the black wings of War 
 and Death may still shadow the upward 
 path, but Memorial Day gleams out each 
 year with sunshine that will, in time, drive 
 all clouds away. Let America be the leader 
 up to the purer air ! Let all nations follow 
 her to the "Plains of Peace" ! — and in that 
 day all people will see the full fruition of 
 hopes and tears. 
 
 Pass, then, with reverent tread 
 Among the sleeping dead ; 
 Whilst flowers adorn the sod 
 Let prayers ascend to God 
 From grateful hearts, that He 
 Will keep us ever free. 
 
 <£ <£ & 
 
 THE EAGLE SCREAMS. 
 
 1AM the American Eagle, 
 And my wings flap together. 
 Likewise, I roost high, 
 And I eat bananas raw. 
 
 Rome may sit on her 
 Seven hills and howl, 
 But she cannot 
 Sit on me ! 
 
NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 53 
 
 Will she please put that 
 In her organ and grind it? 
 
 I am mostly a bird of peace, 
 
 And I was born without teeth, 
 
 But I've got talons 
 
 That reach from the storm- 
 
 Beaten coasts of the Atlantic 
 
 To the golden shores of the 
 
 Placid Pacific, 
 
 And I use the Rocky Mountains 
 
 As whetstones to sharpen them on. 
 
 I never cackle till I 
 
 Lay an egg; 
 
 And I point with pride 
 
 To the eggs I've laid 
 
 In the last hundred years or so. 
 
 I'm game from 
 The point of my beak 
 To the star-spangled tip 
 
 Of my tail feathers, 
 And when I begin 
 To scratch gravel, 
 Mind your eye! 
 
 I'm the cock of the walk, 
 And the hen bird of the 
 Goddess of Liberty, 
 The only gallinaceous 
 E Pluribus Unum 
 On record. 
 
 I'm an Eagle from Eagleville, 
 
 With a scream on me that makes 
 
 Thunder sound like 
 
 Dropping cotton 
 
 On a still morning, 
 
 And my present address is 
 
 Hail Columbia, 
 
 U. S. A. ! ! 
 
 See? 
 
 «5* t,?* &?* 
 
 VALEDICTORIES. 
 
 THE time has come when we must say 
 Good-bye to all so true, 
 And to life's field of action go, 
 
 For we've a work to do. 
 With our life's purpose e'er in view, 
 
 May we with cheerful heart, 
 And with a patient, willing hand 
 Ever do well our part. 
 
 Let us go onward, that by us 
 
 Some little good be wrought, 
 And teach the good and beautiful 
 
 That we have here been taught. 
 Let us in all our future years 
 
 Forever faithful be, 
 And aid each good and noble work, 
 
 That we in life may see. 
 
 May we each moment well employ, 
 The rich seeds daily sow 
 
 Of truth, of joy, and happiness, 
 
 As on through life we go. 
 When we the victory have won, 
 
 When all life's tasks are o'er, 
 We'll meet with those we hold so true, 
 
 To say good-bye no more. 
 
 OH, joyous day ! we gladly welcome 
 thee; 
 Before thy light cares fly and leave us free ; 
 But one regret still lingers in each heart 
 That now from Alma Mater we must part. 
 
 Thus far we've walked together, side by 
 
 side, 
 Along the strand where beats the angry 
 
 tide ; 
 But now upon its waters dark and blue 
 We must embark — life's journey to pursue. 
 
54 
 
 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 
 
 Yet "ever onward" we will bravely steer, 
 With God our pilot we have naught to fear ; 
 All trials we will meet nor wear a frown — 
 Without the cross we know there is no 
 crown. 
 
 And if adown the shadowy by and by 
 
 We doubting gaze with straining, anxious 
 
 eye, 
 A moment turn aside the tide of care 
 To breathe for each a loving, hopeful 
 
 prayer. 
 
 And then once more our hearts will joyful 
 • rise, 
 
 Cheered by the ray of light from youth's 
 blue skies; 
 
 While to our tasks we'll turn as ne'er before 
 
 With "Onward!" as our watchword ever- 
 more. 
 
 TO-DAY our school-days end. A place 
 we take 
 'Mong workers on a sea both large and 
 
 wide. 
 With willing hands and every power 
 
 awake, 
 We now advance to scenes by us untried. 
 Oh, may we each as years receding glide, 
 Have strength to toil tho' stormy waves roll 
 
 high ; 
 Life's waters may we ever safely ride, 
 
 Push on with hopeful heart and watchful 
 eye, 
 
 Remembering that our Captain strong is al- 
 ways nigh. 
 
 It is with pleasure that we look ahead, 
 
 Our Guide is one of love and yet of might. 
 
 When all our feeble strength has from us 
 fled, 
 
 He'll pilot us across life's sea aright, 
 
 And ever mid the deepest gloom send light. 
 
 The sail is set but where's the shore, my 
 friends, 
 
 Which we shall reach? Oh, is it dark or 
 bright ? 
 
 Which strand we gain upon ourselves de- 
 pends — 
 
 The dark or bright, when at God's call our 
 journey ends. 
 
 If but for self we live upon this earth, 
 
 A dark, dark shore will greet our weary 
 
 eyes, 
 In work for others lies the truest worth, 
 Though oft such work our love and pa- 
 tience tries, 
 We must not e'en the smallest task despise. 
 As we do deeds for Christ our spirit nears 
 A shining shore where jasper walls arise, 
 And when our Father's throne of light ap- 
 pears, 
 We'll dwell in peace with Him thro' endless 
 years. 
 
The selections in this department have been made with a view of supplying the most enter- 
 taining readings and recitations for the family circle when it gathers, at 
 the end of the day, around the evening lamp. 
 
 t2& t0& (5* 
 
 PAPA'S SUM IN FRACTIONS. 
 
 ( ( F)APA," sa id a little West End girl 
 1 the other evening, "I'm in fractions 
 now, but I don't understand it. Tell me 
 about some of these examples." 
 
 "Certainly, certainly," said the father. 
 "What's the trouble?" 
 
 "Why, it says here that if a man travels 
 25,795 rniles in 25^ days, how many miles 
 will he travel in one day?" 
 
 "Say, Maria," said the old man, as he 
 looked beamingly at his wife, "doesn't that 
 remind us of old times? La me! It just 
 takes me back to the little old log school- 
 house in the woods. Why, Maria, I re- 
 member one day — " 
 
 "But, papa," interrupted the child, "I'm 
 in a hurry. What's the answer?" 
 
 "Oh! yes. Yes, of course. Give me the 
 example again. Now I have it. If a man 
 travels 25,795 miles in 25! days, how many 
 miles will he travel in one day? That's an 
 easy one. Maria, do you remember that 
 little red-headed fellow who sat in front of 
 you and annoyed you with his bean-shoot- 
 er, and that hideous little Mary Bennett?" 
 
 "But, papa, what's the answer?" 
 
 "Oh! the answer; let me see." 
 
 The man figured and calculated and said 
 "oh!" and "ah!" and scratched out and be- 
 gan again. Then he put his pencil in his 
 mouth, paused a long while, and at last 
 said: 
 
 "Maria, I've sorter forgotten about this 
 fraction of a day business. How does it 
 go?" 
 
 "Why, John," said the good woman, 
 "You-er, you-er find the greatest common 
 divisor, and — " 
 
 "Say, Maria, that reminds me of the joke 
 about the janitor who saw these very 
 words on the blackboard: 'Find the great- 
 est common divisor,' and he said: 'Well, is 
 that durned thing lost again?' Curious 
 how these — " 
 
 "But, papa, what's the answer?" 
 
 "Oh! yes; where was I? Well, you 
 divide the 25,795 by 25^, and the result will 
 be the answer." 
 
 "I know, papa, but what's the result?" 
 
 "Didn't I just tell you that the result 
 would be the answer? All you have to do 
 is to put down the multiplicand — multipli- 
 cand! Where have I heard that word? 
 Why, Maria, it just makes me want to get 
 out and play marbles and hookey and 
 things." 
 
 "But, Henry, you haven't solved that 
 problem for the child." 
 
 "That's so. Well, here goes. Twenty- 
 five goes in 25 once; 25 into 7 no times, 
 and into 79 three times and 4. And 45 
 once and 20, or twenty twenty-fifths of 25 
 and one-halfths, or 1,031 and one-fifths, 
 or—" 
 
 55 
 
56 
 
 AROUND TEE EVENING LAMP. 
 
 "Henry, what are you talking about?" 
 "Maria, I started out to find that great- 
 est common divisor of yours, but 'tain't no 
 use. I say that any man who would un- 
 dertake to walk 25,795 miles in 25-^ days is 
 just a plain, ordinary, every-day fool. He 
 can't do it." 
 
 "But, papa, what's the — " 
 
 "It hasn't got any answer. Just say to 
 your teacher that it is preposterous — the 
 idea of a man taking such a pedestrian tour 
 as that. Truth is, Maria," he added con- 
 fidentially to his wife, "I never did know 
 anything about fractions." 
 
 
 WHEN I BUILT THE CABIN— TWO PICTURES. 
 
 The poem which follows is from the pen of John Howard Bryant, brother of William Cullen 
 
 Bryant, after he reached his ninetieth year. It was written in Princeton, 111., 
 
 where his home was since he pitched his cabin as a young man more 
 
 than a half century ago, and where he lived ever afterwards. 
 
 HERE, five and sixty years ago, I said 
 I'll build a shelter for the years to 
 come; 
 And here, upon spring's flowery sod, I laid 
 The rude foundation of my cabin home. 
 
 Words cannot paint the beauty of the 
 scene; 
 Fire had consumed the sere grass all 
 around, 
 And in advance of the returning green, 
 Gay nodding violets covered all the 
 ground. 
 
 Then came the crimson phlox, and many 
 
 a flower 
 Unnamed, from Nature's bounteous 
 
 hand was cast; 
 The early summer brought a liberal dower, 
 " That bloomed and faded as the season 
 
 passed. 
 
 The teeming earth in autumn's golden 
 hours 
 Poured forth the glory of the waning 
 year, 
 And far as sight could reach, the myriad 
 flowers, 
 Tn serried ranks o'erspread the landscape 
 here. 
 
 The purple aster, and the golden-rod, 
 In queenly dress stood rivals side by 
 side; 
 And there, beneath the radiant smile of 
 God, 
 Lay the vast splendor gleaming far and 
 wide. 
 
 My thoughts recur to that far distant day, 
 The glory that entranced my youthful 
 eye; 
 Glory, alas ! forever passed away, 
 
 From the dear scenes that still around 
 me lie. 
 
 Ages unknown, this beauty unsurpassed, 
 Came with the violets, died with au- 
 tumn's sheen; 
 But the white civilizer came at last, 
 
 And with his plowshare spoiled the 
 charming scene. 
 
 For beauty spoiled, new beauty came in- 
 stead, 
 And stately maize soon crowned the 
 virgin soil; 
 White harvests gave the waiting nation's 
 bread, 
 Joy, peace and competence repaid the 
 toil. 
 
ABOUND TEE EVENING LAMP. 
 
 57 
 
 Orchards and gardens smiled through all 
 the land. 
 And happy cottage homes were every- 
 where, 
 And cities rose, as if a magic wand 
 
 Had touched the earth, and, lo! a town 
 was there. 
 
 All this has passed before my wondering 
 eyes; 
 This mighty tide of life has still swept 
 on, 
 Scaled the vast heights that pierce our 
 western skies, 
 And built proud cities by the Oregon. 
 
 «5* e5* ^* 
 
 MR. SPOOPENDYKE'S SHAVE. 
 
 M 
 
 Y dear!" exclaimed Mr. Spoopen- 
 dyke, dropping his razor and ex- 
 amining his chin with staring eyes, "my 
 dear, bring the court plaster, quick! I've 
 ploughed off half my chin!" 
 
 "Let me see," demanded Mrs. Spoopen- 
 dyke, bobbing up and fluttering around her 
 husband. "Great gracious, what a cut! 
 Wait a minute!" and she shot into a closet 
 and out again. 
 
 "Quick!" roared Mr. Spoopendyke. "I'm 
 bleeding to death! fetch me that court plas- 
 ter!" 
 
 "Oh, dear!" moaned Mrs. Spoopendyke, 
 "I put it — on, where did I put it?" 
 
 "Dod gast that putty!" yelled Mr. Spoop- 
 endyke, who had heard his wife imperfect- 
 ly. "What d'ye think this is, a crack 
 in the wall? Got some sort of a notion that 
 there is a draught through here? Court 
 plaster, I tell ye! Bring me some court 
 plaster before I pull out the side of this 
 house and get some from the neighbors!" 
 
 Just then it occurred to Mrs. Spoopen- 
 dyke that she had put the plaster in the 
 clock. 
 
 "Here it is, dear!" and she snipped off a 
 piece and handed it to him. 
 
 Mr. Spoopendyke put it on the end of his 
 tongue, holding his thumb over his wound. 
 When it was thoroughly wetted, it stuck 
 fast to his finger, while the carnage ran 
 down his chin. He jabbed away at the cut, 
 
 but the plaster hung to his digit until 
 finally his patience was thoroughly ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 "What's the matter with the measly busi- 
 ness?" he yelled. "Wher'd ye buy this plas- 
 ter? Come off, dod gast ye!" ami as he 
 plucked it off his finger it grew to his 
 thumb. "Stick, will ye?" he squealed, plug- 
 ging at the cut in his chin. "Leave go that 
 thumb !" and he whirled around on his heel 
 and pegged at it again. "Why don't ye 
 bring me some court plaster?" he shrieked, 
 turning on his trembling wife. "Who 
 asked ye for a leech? Bring me something 
 that knows a thumb from a chin!" and he 
 planted his thumb on the wound and 
 screwed it around vindictively. This time 
 the plaster let go and slipped up to the 
 corner of his mouth. 
 
 "Now, it's all right, dear," smiled Mrs. 
 Spoopendyke, with a fearful grin. "May be 
 you've got the same idea that the court 
 plaster has! P'raps you think that mouth 
 was cut with a razor ! May be you're under 
 the impression that this hole in my visage 
 was meant to succumb to the persuasion of 
 a bit of plaster! Come off! Let go that 
 mouth!" and as he gave it a wipe it stuck 
 to the palm of his hand as if it had been 
 born there. 
 
 "Let me try," suggested Mrs. Spoopen- 
 dyke, "I know how to do it." 
 
 "Then why didn't ye do it first?" howled 
 
58 
 
 AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. 
 
 Mr. Spoopendykc. "What did you want 
 to wait until I'd lost three gallons of gore 
 for? Oh, you know how to do it! You 
 want a linen back and a bottle of mucilage 
 up at your side to be a country hospital. 
 Stick! Dod gast ye!" and he clapped the 
 wrong hand over his jaw. "I'll hold ye 
 here till ye stick, if I hold ye till my wife 
 learns something!" and Mr. Spoopendyke 
 pranced up and down the room with a face 
 indicative of stern determination. 
 
 "Let me see, dear," said his wife ap- 
 proaching him with a smile, and gently 
 drawing away his hand she deftly adjusted 
 another piece of plaster. 
 
 "That was my piece after all," growled 
 Mr. Spoopendyke, eyeing the job and 
 
 glancing at the palm of his hand to find 
 his piece of plaster gone. "You always 
 come in after the funeral." 
 
 "I guess you'll find your piece sticking 
 in the other hand, dear," said Mrs. Spoop- 
 endyke pleasantly. 
 
 "Of course you can tell," snorted Mr. 
 Spoopendyke, verifying his wife's assertion 
 with a glance. "If I had your sight and a 
 pack of cards, I'd hire a shot tower and set 
 up for an astronomer!" and Mr. Spoopen- 
 dyke, who evidently meant astrology, wore 
 that piece of blood-stained court plaster on 
 his hand all day long, rather than admit, 
 by taking it off, that his wife had ever been 
 right in anything. 
 
 (5* «f9* *5* 
 
 ABRAHAM BROUGHT TO BAY. 
 
 I SAT on the seat with the colored man 
 who drove me down to the railroad 
 depot with a shacklety old wagon, and as 
 we left the hotel he said: 
 
 "Boss, if yo' kin dun say ober a few big 
 words on de way down, de ole man will be 
 'xtremely disobleeged to yo'." 
 
 "How big words do you want?" 
 
 "Can't git 'em too " big, boss. I'ze a 
 powerful hand to 'member big words an' 
 git 'em off when a calamitous occasion pre- 
 dominates." 
 
 "Do you expect to find use for them this 
 morning?" 
 
 "Reckon I does, sah. My son, Abraham, 
 works down to de depot, an' whenever I 
 cums around he tries to show off ober me 
 an' make me feel small. He'll try it on dis 
 mawnin', fur suah, an' I jest want to be 
 dun fixed to paralyse his desirability. Spit 
 'm right out, boss, an' de ole man won't 
 forgit yo' when de watermillyun sezum 
 cums ag'n." 
 
 We had about half a mile to go, and be- 
 fore we reached the depot I gave him a 
 large and choice assortment of Webster's 
 longest vocabularic curiosities. 
 
 When we drew up at the platform Abra- 
 ham was there, and also a dozen white 
 people who were to go out on the 
 train. It was a good opportunity for the 
 son to show off, and he realized it, and 
 came forward and waved his arm and 
 shouted : 
 
 "Yo' dar, ole man; ha'n't I dun toled yo' 
 'bout four hundred times not to sagaciate 
 dat stupendous ole vehicle in de way of de 
 omnibus? Sum ole niggers doan seem to 
 have no mo' idea of de consaguinity of re- 
 cititude dan a squash." 
 
 "Was yo' spokin' to me, sah?" stiffly de- 
 manded the father, as he stood up and 
 glared at Abraham. 
 
 "Of co'se I was." 
 
 "Den, sah, I want yo' to distinctly under- 
 stand dat, when de co-operashun of de im- 
 
ABOUND TEE EVENING LAMP. 
 
 59 
 
 perialism seems to assimilate a disreputa- 
 ble infringement of hereditary avaricious- 
 ness, I shall retract my individuality, but 
 not befo' — not befo', sah!" 
 
 Abraham's eyes hung out, his com- 
 plexion became ash color, and his knees 
 bent under him as if the springs were about 
 
 to give way. It was a long minute before 
 he could utter a sound, and then he 
 reached for my trunk with the muttered ob- 
 servation: 
 
 "Befo' de Lawd, but things am gittin' so 
 mixed up I can't dun tell whedder I'm his 
 son or his fader!" 
 
 t5* ^* c5* 
 
 HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 
 
 AT the feet of Laughing Water 
 Hiawatha laid his burden, 
 Threw the red deer from his shoulders ; 
 And the maiden looked up at him, 
 Looked up from her mat of rushes, 
 Said with gentle look and accent, 
 "You are welcome, Hiawatha !" 
 Very spacious was the wigwam, 
 Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened 
 With the gods of the Dacotahs 
 Drawn and painted on its curtains, 
 And so tall the doorway, hardly 
 Hiawatha stooped to enter, 
 Hardly touched his eagle feathers 
 As he entered at the doorway. 
 
 Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
 From the ground fair Minnehaha 
 Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
 Brought forth food and set before them, 
 Water brought them from the brooklet, 
 Gave them food in earthen vessels, 
 Gave them drink in bowls of basswood, 
 Listened while the guest was speaking, 
 Listened while her father -answered, 
 But not once her lips she opened, 
 Not a single word she uttered, 
 
 Yet, as in a dream she listened 
 To the words of Hiawatha, 
 As he talked of old Nokomis, 
 Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
 As he told of his companions, 
 Chibiabos, the musician, 
 And the very strong man, Kwasind 
 
 And of happiness and plenty, 
 
 In the land of the Ojibways, 
 
 In the pleasant land and peaceful. 
 
 "After many years of warfare, 
 Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
 There is peace between the Ojibways 
 And the tribe of the Dacotahs :" 
 Thus continued Hiawatha, 
 And then added, speaking slowly, 
 "That this peace may last forever, 
 And our hands be clasped more closely, 
 And our hearts be more united, 
 Give me as my wife this maiden, 
 Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
 Loveliest of Dacotah women ?" 
 
 And the ancient arrow-maker 
 Paused a moment ere he answered, 
 Smoked a little while in silence, 
 Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 
 Fondly looked at Laughing Water ; 
 And made answer very gravely ; 
 "Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; 
 Let your heart speak, Minnehaha !" 
 
 And the lovely Laughing Water 
 Seemed more lovely as she stood there, 
 Neither willing nor reluctant, 
 As she went to Hiawatha, 
 Softly took the seat beside him, 
 While she said and blushed to say it, 
 "I will follow you, my husband !" 
 
 This was Hiawatha's wooing! 
 Thus it was he won the daughter 
 Of the ancient arrow-maker 
 
60 
 
 AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. 
 
 In the land of the Dacotahs ! 
 From the wigwam he departed, 
 Leading with him Laughing Water ; 
 Hand in hand they went together, 
 Through the woodland and the meadow, 
 Left the Old Man standing lonely 
 At the doorway of his wigwam, 
 Lleard the Falls of Minnehaha 
 Calling to them from the distance, 
 Crying to them from afar off, 
 "Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!" 
 And the ancient arrow-maker 
 Turned again unto his labor, 
 
 Sat down by his sunny doorway, 
 Murmuring to himself, and saying : 
 "Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
 Those we love, and those who love us ! 
 Just when they have learned to love us, 
 When we are old and lean upon them, 
 Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
 With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
 Wanders piping through the village 
 Beckons to the fairest maiden, 
 And she follows where he leads her, 
 Leaving all things for the stranger!" 
 
 — H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 t5* *5* <£• 
 
 EXERCISE IN PRONUNCIATION. 
 
 A JOCUND, sacrilegious son of Belial, 
 who suffered from bronchitis, having 
 exhausted his finances at the annual joust, 
 in order to make good the deficit, resolved 
 to ally himself to a comely, lenient and 
 docile young lady of the Malay or Caucas- 
 ian race. He accordingly purchased a 
 calliope, a coral necklace of chameleon hue, 
 and securing a suite of rooms at a hotel, 
 he engaged the head waiter as his coad- 
 jutor. He then dispatched a letter of the 
 most unexceptionable calligraphy extant, 
 with a sentimental hemistich, inviting the 
 young lady to an orchestral concert. 
 
 She was harassed, and with a truculent 
 
 look revolted at the idea, refused to con- 
 sider herself sacrificable to his desires, and 
 sent a polite note of refusal, on receiving 
 which, he procured a carbine and bowie 
 knife, said that he would not now forge 
 fetters hymeneal with the queen, went to 
 an isolated spot, severed his jugular vein, 
 and discharged the contents of his carbine 
 into his abdomen, with a grimace at the 
 raillery of his acquaintances. He suc- 
 cumbed and was irrefragably dead, and 
 neither vagaries nor pageantry were per- 
 mitted when he was conveyed to the mau- 
 soleum followed by his enervated canine. 
 
 i(5* c5* ^* 
 
 FARO BILL'S SERMON. 
 
 (He tells the story of the Prodigal Son.) 
 
 [Faro Bill, of Leadville, had experienced religion, and soon thereafter, during the 
 
 absence of the regular preacher, volunteered to preach the Sunday sermon.] 
 
 FELLER citizens, the preacher bein' 
 absent, it falls on me to take his hand 
 and play it fur all it is worth. You all know 
 that I'm just learnin' the game, an' of 
 course I may be expected to make wild 
 breaks, but I don't believe there's a rooster 
 
 in the camp mean enough to take advan- 
 tage o' my ignorance and cold deck me 
 right on the first deal. I'm sincere in this 
 new departure, an' I believe I've struck a 
 game that I can play clear through without 
 copperin' a bet, for when a man tackles 
 
AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. 
 
 61 
 
 such a lay out as this he plays every card 
 to win, and if he goes through the deal as 
 he orter do, when he lays down to die an' 
 the last case is reddy to slide from the box 
 he can call the turn every time. 
 
 "I was readin' in the Bible to-day that 
 yarn about the Prodigal Son, and I want 
 to tell you the story. The book don't give 
 no dates, but it happened long, long ago. 
 This Prodigal Son had an old man that put 
 up the coin every time the kid struck him 
 for a stake, an' never kicked at the size of 
 the pile, either. I recon the old man was 
 pretty well fixed, an' when he died he in- 
 tended to give all his wealth to this kid an' 
 his brother. Prod gave the old man a little 
 game o' talk one day, and induced him to 
 whack up in advance o' the death racket. 
 He'd no sooner got his divy in his fist than 
 he shook the old man an' struck out to take 
 in some o' the other camps. He had a 
 way-up time for awhile, and slung his cash 
 to the front like he owned the best playin' 
 lead on earth; but hard luck hit him at last 
 an' left him flat. The book don't state 
 what he went broke on, but I recon he got 
 steered up again some brace game. But 
 anyhow he got left without a chip or a 
 four-bit piece to go an' eat on. An old 
 granger then tuk him home an' set him to 
 
 herdin' hogs, an' here he got so hard up 
 an' hungry that he piped off the swine 
 while they were feedin,' and he stood in 
 with them on a shuck lunch. He soon 
 weakened on such plain provender, and 
 says to himself, says he: 'Even the old 
 man's hired hands are livin' on square 
 grub, while I'm worrin' along here on corn 
 husks straight. I'll just take a grand tum- 
 ble to myself, an' chop on this racket at 
 once. I'll skip back to the governor and 
 try to fix things up, and call for a new deal.' 
 So off he started. 
 
 "The old man seed the kid a-comin', and 
 what do you reckon he did? Did he pull 
 his gun and lay for him, intendin' to wipe 
 him as soon as he got into range? Did he 
 call the dogs to chase him off the ranch? 
 Did he hustle round for a club and give 
 him a stand off at the front gate? Eh? 
 Not to any alarming extent he didn't; no 
 sir. The Scripture book says he waltzed 
 out to meet him, and froze to him on the 
 spot and kissed him and then marched him 
 off to a clothing store, and fitted him out 
 in the nobbiest rig to be had for coin. 
 Then the old gent invited all the neighbors, 
 and killed a fat calf, and gave the biggest 
 blow-out the camp ever seen." 
 
 s5* t5* si?* 
 
 THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. 
 
 TO me comes the brakeman, and seat- 
 ing himself on the arm of the seat 
 says: 
 
 "I went to church yesterday." 
 
 "Yes?" I said, with that interested in- 
 flection that asks for more. "And what 
 church did you attend?" 
 
 "Which do you guess?" he asked. 
 
 "Some union mission church?" I haz- 
 arded. 
 
 "Naw," he said, "I don't like to run on 
 these branch roads very much. I don't 
 often go to church, and when I do, I want 
 to run on the main line, where your run is 
 regular and you go on a schedule time and 
 don't have to wait on connections. I don't 
 like to run on a branch. Good enough, 
 but I don't like it." 
 
 "Episcopal?" I guessed. 
 
 "Limited Express," he said; "all palace 
 
G2 
 
 AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. 
 
 cars and $2 extra for a seat; fast time, and 
 only stop at big stations. Nice line, but 
 too exhaustive for a brakeman. All train 
 men in uniform, conductor's punch and 
 lantern silverplated, and no train boys al- 
 lowed. Then the passengers are allowed to 
 talk back at the conductor; and it makes 
 them too free and easy. No, I couldn't 
 stand the palace cars. Rich road, though. 
 Don't often hear of a receiver being ap- 
 pointed for that line. Some mighty nice 
 people travel on it, too." 
 
 "Universalist?" I suggested. 
 
 "Broad-gauge," said the brakeman, "does 
 too much complimentary business. Every- 
 body travels on a pass. Conductor doesn't 
 get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at all 
 flag-stations, and won't run into anything 
 but a union depot. No smoking-car on 
 the train. Train orders are vague though, 
 and the train men don't get along well with 
 the passengers. No, I don't go to the 
 Universalist, though I know some awfully 
 good men who run on that road." 
 
 "Presbyterian?" I asked. 
 
 "Narrow-gauge, eh?" said the brakeman, 
 "pretty track, straight as a rule; tunnel 
 right through a mountain rather than go 
 round it; spirit-level grade; passengers 
 have to show their tickets before they get 
 on the train. Mighty strict road, but the 
 cars are a little harrow; have to sit one in a 
 seat and no room in the aisle to dance. 
 Then there's no stop-over tickets allowed; 
 got to go straight through to the station 
 you're ticketed for, or you can't get on at 
 all. When the car's full no extra coaches; 
 cars built at the shops to hold just so many 
 and nobody else allowed on. But you 
 don't often hear of an accident on that 
 road. It's run up to the rules." 
 
 "Maybe you joined the Free-Thinkers?" 
 I said. 
 
 "Scrub road," said the brakeman; "dirt 
 
 road-bed and no ballast; no time card and 
 no train despatchers. All trains run wild 
 and every engineer makes his own time, 
 just as he pleases. Smoke if you want to; 
 kind of go-as-you-please road. Too many 
 side-tracks, and every switch wide open all 
 the time, with the switchman sound asleep 
 and the target lamp dead out. Get on as 
 you please and get off when you want to. 
 Don't have to show your tickets, and the 
 conductor isn't expected to do anything 
 but amuse the passengers. No, sir, I was 
 offered a pass, but I don't like the line. 
 I don't like to travel on a line that has no 
 terminus. Do you know, sir, I asked a 
 division superintendent where that road 
 run to, and he said he hoped to die if he 
 knew. I asked a conductor who he got his 
 orders from, and he said he didn't take 
 orders from any living man or dead ghost. 
 And when I asked the engineer who he got 
 his orders from, he said he'd like to see 
 anybody give him orders, he'd run that 
 train to suit himself or he'd run it into the 
 ditch. Now you see, sir, I'm a railroad 
 man, and I don't care to run on a road that 
 has no time, makes no connections, runs 
 nowhere and has no Superintendent. It 
 may be all right, but I've railroaded too 
 long to understand it." 
 
 "Did you try the Methodist?" I said. 
 
 "Now you're shouting," he said with 
 some enthusiasm. "Nice road, eh? Fast 
 time and plenty of passengers. Engines 
 carry a power of steam and don't you for- 
 get it; steam gauge shows a hundred and 
 enough all the time. Lively road; when 
 the conductor shouts 'all aboard,' you can 
 hear him to the next station. Good, whole- 
 souled, companionable conductors; ain't 
 a road in the country where the passengers 
 feel more at home. No passes; every pas- 
 senger pays full traffic rates for his ticket. 
 Wesleyan house airbrake on all trains, too ; 
 
ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. 
 
 63 
 
 pretty safe road, but I didn't ride over it 
 yesterday." 
 
 "Maybe you went to the Congregational 
 church?" 
 
 "Popular road," said the brakeman; "an 
 old road, too; one of the very oldest in this 
 country. Good road bed and comfortable 
 cars. Well managed road, too; directors 
 don't interfere with division superintend- 
 ents and train orders. Road's mighty pop- 
 ular, but it's pretty independent, too. 
 Say, didn't one of the division superintend- 
 ents down East discontinue one of the 
 oldest stations on this line two or three 
 years ago? But it's a mighty pleasant road 
 to travel on. Always has such a splendid 
 class of passengers." 
 
 "Perhaps you tried the Baptist?" I 
 guessed. 
 
 "Ah, *ha!" said the brakeman; "she's a 
 daisy, isn't she! river road; beautiful 
 curves; sweep around anything to keep 
 close to the river. Takes a heap of water 
 to run it through; double tanks at every 
 
 station, and there isn't an engine in the 
 shops that can pull a pound or run a mile 
 in less than two gauges. But it runs 
 through a lovely country; these river roads 
 always do; river on one side and hills on 
 the other, and it's on a steady climb up 
 the grade all the way till the run ends 
 where the fountain-head of the river be- 
 gins. Yes, sir, I'll take the river road every 
 time for a lovely trip, sure connections and 
 good time, and no prairie dust blowing in 
 at the windows. And yesterday when the 
 conductor came around for the tickets with 
 a little basket punch, I didn't ask him to 
 pass me, but I paid my fare like a little 
 man — twenty-five cents for an hour's run 
 and a little concert by the passengers 
 throwed in. I tell you, Pilgrim, you take 
 the river road when you want — ■ — " 
 
 But just here the long whistle from the 
 engine announced a station, and the brake- 
 man hurried to the door shouting: "Zions- 
 ville! Zionsville! This train makes no stops 
 between here and Indianapolis!" 
 
 THE RESETTLEMENT OF ARCADIA. 
 
 (From "Songs of the Great Dominion.") 
 
 THE rocky slopes for emerald had 
 changed their garb of gray, 
 When the vessels from Connecticut came 
 
 sailing up the bay, 
 There were flashing lights on every wave 
 
 that drew the strangers on, 
 And wreaths of wild arbutus round the 
 brows of Blomidon. 
 
 Five years in desolation the Acadian land 
 
 had lain, 
 Five golden harvest moons had wooed the 
 
 fallow fields in vain; 
 Five times the winter snows caressed, and 
 
 summer sunsets smiled, 
 
 On lonely clumps of willows, and fruit trees 
 growing wild. 
 
 There was silence in the forest, and along 
 
 the Uniac shore, 
 And not a habitation from Canard to 
 
 Beausejour, 
 But many a ruined cellar and many a 
 
 broken wall 
 Told the story of Acadia's prosperity, and 
 
 fall ! 
 
 And even in the sunshine of that peaceful 
 
 day in June, 
 When Nature swept her harp, and found 
 
 the strings in perfect tune, 
 
64 
 
 ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. 
 
 The land seemed calling wildly for its own- 
 ers, far away, 
 
 The exiles scattered on the coast from 
 Maine to Charleston Bay. 
 
 Where, with many bitter longings for their 
 fair homes and their dead, 
 
 They bowed their heads in anguish, and 
 would not be comforted ; 
 
 And like the Jewish exiles, long ago, be- 
 yond the sea, 
 
 They could not sing the songs of home in 
 their captivity ! 
 
 But the simple Norman peasant-folk shall 
 
 till the land no more, 
 For the vessels from Connecticut have 
 
 anchored by the shore, 
 And many a sturdy Puritan, his mind with 
 
 Scripture stored, 
 Rejoices he has found at last his "garden 
 
 of the Lord." 
 
 There are families from Jolland, from Kil- 
 lingworth and Lyme ; 
 
 Gentle mothers, tender maidens, and strong 
 men in their prime ; 
 
 There are lovers who have plighted their 
 vows in Coventry, 
 
 And merry children, dancing o'er the ves- 
 sels' decks in glee. 
 
 They come as came the Hebrews into their 
 
 promised land, 
 Not as to wild New England's shores came 
 
 first the Pilgrim band, 
 The Minas fields were fruitful, and the 
 
 Gaspereau had borne 
 To seaward many a vessel with its freight 
 
 of yellow corn. 
 
 They come with hearts as true as their 
 
 manners blunt and cold, 
 To found a race of noble men of stern 
 
 New England mould, 
 
 A race of earnest people, whom the com- 
 ing years shall teach 
 
 The broader ways of knowledge and the 
 gentler forms of speech. 
 
 They come as Puritans, but who shall say 
 
 their hearts are blind 
 To the subtle charms of Nature and the 
 
 love of humankind? 
 The Blue Laws of Connecticut have shaped 
 
 their thought, 'tis true, 
 But human laws can never wholly Heaven's 
 
 work undo. 
 
 And tears fall fast from many an eye long 
 
 time unused to weep, 
 For o'er the fields lay whitening the bones 
 
 of cows and sheep — 
 The faithful cows that used to feed upon 
 
 the broad Grand Pre, 
 And with their tinkling bells come slowly 
 
 home at close of day. 
 
 And where the Acadian village stood, its 
 roofs o'ergrown with moss, 
 
 And the simple wooden chapel with its 
 altar and its cross, 
 
 And where the forge of Basil sent its 
 sparks towards the sky, 
 
 The lonely thistle blossomed and the fire- 
 weed grew high. 
 ******* 
 
 The broken dykes have been rebuilt a cen- 
 tury and more, 
 
 The cornfields stretch their furrows from 
 Canard to Beausejour, 
 
 Five generations have been reared beside 
 the fair Grand Pre 
 
 Since the vessels from Connecticut came 
 sailing up the bay. 
 
 And now across the meadows, while the 
 
 farmers reap and sow, 
 The engine shrieks its discords to the hills 
 
 of Gaspereau; 
 
5 
 § 
 
 K 
 
 w 
 Hi 
 
ABOUND TEE EVENING LAMP. 
 
 67 
 
 And ever onward to the sea, the restless 
 
 Fundy tide 
 Bears playful pleasure yachts and busy 
 
 trade ships side by side. 
 
 And the Puritan has yielded to the soften- 
 ing touch of time, 
 
 Like him who still content remained in 
 Killingworth and Lyme; 
 
 And graceful homes of prosperous men 
 make all the landscape fair, 
 
 And mellow creeds and ways of life are 
 rooted everywhere. 
 
 And churches nestle lovingly on many a 
 glad hillside, 
 
 And holy bells ring out their music in the 
 eventide ; 
 
 But here and there, on untilled ground, 
 apart from glebe or town, 
 
 Some lone surviving apple-tree stands leaf- 
 less, bare and brown. 
 
 And many a traveler has found, as thought- 
 lessly he strayed, 
 
 Some long-forgotten cellar in the deepest 
 thicket's shade, 
 
 And clumps of willows by the dykes, sweet- 
 scented, fair and green, 
 
 That seemed to tell again the story of 
 Evangeline. 
 
 — Arthur Wentzvorth Eaton. 
 
 & <& & 
 
 SPOOPENDYKE'S BICYCLE. 
 
 NOW, my dear," said Mr. Spoopendyke, 
 hurrying up to his wife's room, "If 
 you'll come down in the yard I've got a 
 pleasant surprise for you." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Mrs. Spoopendyke, 
 "what have you got, a horse?" 
 
 "Guess again," grinned Mr. Spoopen- 
 dyke. "It's something like a horse." 
 
 "I know! It's a new parlor carpet. 
 That's what it is!" 
 
 "No, it isn't,, either. I said it's some- 
 thing like a horse; that is, it goes when 
 you make it. Guess again." 
 
 "Is it paint for the kitchen walls?" asked 
 Mrs. Spoopendyke, innocently. 
 
 "No, it ain't and it ain't a hogshead of 
 stove blacking, nor a set of dining-room 
 furniture, nor it ain't seven gross of sta- 
 tionary wash tubs. Now guess again." 
 
 "Then it must be some lace curtains for 
 the sitting-room windows. Isn't that just 
 splendid?" and Mrs. Spoopendyke patted 
 her husband on both cheeks and danced up 
 and down with delight, 
 
 "It's a bicycle, that's what it is!" growled 
 Mr. Spoopendyke. "I bought it for ex- 
 ercise and I'm going to ride it. Come down 
 and see me." 
 
 "Well, ain't I glad," ejaculated Mrs. 
 Spoopendyke. "You ought to have more 
 exercise, if there's exercise in anything, it's 
 in a bicycle. Do let's see it!" 
 
 Mr. Spoopendyke conducted his wife to 
 the yard and descanted at length on the 
 merits of the machine. 
 
 "In a few weeks I'll be able to make a 
 mile a minute," he said, as he steadied the 
 apparatus against the clothes post and pre- 
 pared to mount. "Now you watch me go 
 to the end of this path." 
 
 He got a foot into one treadle and went 
 head first into a flower patch, the machine 
 on top, with a prodigious crash. 
 
 "Hadn't you better tie it up to the post 
 until you get on?" suggested Mrs. Spoop- 
 endyke. 
 
 "Leave me alone, will ye?" demanded 
 Mr. Spoopendyke, struggling to an even 
 
68 
 
 AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. 
 
 keel. "I'm doing most of this myself. 
 Now you hold on and keep your mouth 
 shut. It takes a little practice, that's all." 
 
 Mr. Spoopendyke mounted again and 
 scuttled along four or five feet and flopped 
 over on the grass plat. 
 
 "That's splendid!" commended his wife. 
 "You've got the idea already. Let me hold 
 it for you this time." 
 
 "If you've got any extra strength you 
 hold your tongue, will ye?" growled Mr. 
 Spoopendyke. "It don't want any holding. 
 It ain't alive. Stand back and give me 
 room, now." 
 
 The third trial Mr. Spoopendyke ambled 
 to the end of the path and went down all 
 in a heap among the flower pots. 
 
 "That's just too lovely for anything!" 
 proclaimed Mrs. Spoopendyke. "You 
 made more'n a mile a minute, that time." 
 * "Come and take it off!" roared Mr. 
 Spoopendyke. "Help me up! Dod gast 
 the bicycle!" and the worthy gentleman 
 struggled and plunged around like a whale 
 in shallow water. 
 
 Mrs. Spoopendyke assisted in righting 
 him and brushed him off. 
 
 "I know where you make your mistake," 
 said she. "The little wheel ought to go 
 first, like a buggy. Try it that way going 
 back." 
 
 "Maybe you can ride this bicycle better 
 than I can," howled Mr. Spoopendyke. 
 "You know all about wheels! What you 
 need now is a lantern in your mouth and 
 ten minutes behind time to be the City 
 Hall clock ! If you had a bucket of water 
 and a handle you'd make a steam grind- 
 stone! Don't you see the big wheel has 
 got to go first?" 
 
 "Yes, dear," murmured Mrs. Spoopen- 
 
 dyke, "but I thought if you practiced with 
 the little wheel at first, you wouldn't have 
 so far to fall." 
 
 "Who fell?" demanded Mr. Spoopen- 
 dyke. "Didn't you see me step off? I 
 tripped, that's all. Now you just watch me 
 go back." 
 
 Once more Mr. Spoopendyke started in, 
 but the big wheel turned around and 
 looked him in the face, and then began to 
 stagger. 
 
 "Look out!" squealed Mrs. Spoopen- 
 dyke. 
 
 Mr. Spoopendyke wrenched away and 
 kicked and struggled, but it was of no avail. 
 Down he came, and the bicycle was a hope- 
 less wreck. 
 
 "What'dye want to yell for!" he shrieked. 
 "Couldn't ye keep your measly mouth 
 shut? What'd ye think we are, anyhow, a 
 fog horn? Dod gast the measly bicycle!" 
 and Mr. Spoopendyke hit it a kick that 
 folded it up like a bolt of muslin. 
 
 "Never mind, my dear," consoled Mrs. 
 Spoopendyke, "I'm afraid the exercise was 
 too violent anyway, and I'm rather glad 
 you broke it." 
 
 "I s'pose so," snorted Mr. Spoopendyke. 
 "There's sixty dollars gone." 
 
 "Don't worry, love. I'll go without "the 
 carpet and curtains, and the paint will do 
 •well enough in the kitchen. Let me rub 
 you with arnica." 
 
 But Mr. Spoopendyke was too deeply 
 grieved by his wife's conduct to accept any 
 office at her hands, preferring to punish 
 her by letting his wounds smart rather than 
 get well, and thereby relieve her of any 
 anxiety she brought on herself by acting so 
 outrageously under the circumstances. 
 — Stanley Huntley. 
 
 
Patriotism and War \Q 
 
 In this department are embraced the choicest patriotic literature and descriptive scenes of 
 war from Colonial days to the present time. 
 
 t£* e^* t?* 
 
 BURIAL UNDER FIRE. 
 
 (Can be used either as 
 
 HIGH on the ridge where the marines 
 pitched their tents on the shore of 
 Guantanamo Bay, the first Cuban soil 
 taken by American troops, are the graves 
 of the men who were killed in the first land 
 fighting of our war with Spain. They were 
 buried under fire by men who overlooked 
 no tithe of the solemn ceremony, although 
 the singing of Spanish bullets rose clear 
 above the voice of the chaplain. 
 
 The burial squad was composed of 
 marines from the Texas. Wrapped in 
 flags, the honorable winding sheet of 
 soldiers killed in battle, the bodies were 
 borne from a tent in which they had lain 
 to a trench dug by men who made it deep 
 because their fear that the drenching 
 Cuban rains would give their comrades to 
 the buzzards was greater than their fear of 
 the death they risked as they plied pick 
 and shovel. 
 
 Chaplain Jones of the Texas, the firing 
 squad, a few officers and some correspond- 
 ents stood bareheaded about the grave. 
 From the thick cover beyond there came 
 the irregular "putt, putt, putt" of skirmish 
 fire and the regular sputter of the machine 
 guns. There marines and Spanish guer- 
 rillas were fighting from thicket to thicket. 
 Soon there would be more dead to bury, 
 we thought. 
 
 Gently the men of the Texas lowered the 
 flagwound "jollies" — "Soldier and sailor, 
 
 a reading or a recitation.) 
 
 too," as Kipling has it — into the earth. 
 The chaplain stood with his back to the 
 cover from which came the rattle of 
 musketry, and began the solemn service. 
 Slow and deliberate fell the words, and 
 seldom has their import been realized more 
 fully than it was there at the edge of the 
 bullet-threshed jungle. 
 
 "Man that is born of woman " 
 
 A bullet pecked the earth at his feet and 
 sent it flying. Others sang overhead. 
 Some leaves and twigs fell from the near- 
 est trees. A man or two dropped behind 
 the earth thrown out of the grave. The 
 Spanish were firing on the burial party. 
 
 The marines of the Texas raised their 
 heads for a second and bowed them again. 
 They made no other motion. The officer 
 in command, pale ordinarily, flushed red 
 as if angered by the enemy's sacrilege. 
 
 The chaplain moved a pace from where 
 he was standing and turned his face toward 
 the thicket from which the bullets were 
 coming. Then his words fell slowly and 
 gravely, "Man that is born of woman," and 
 so to the end. 
 
 As he faced the fire those who had 
 sought shelter stood up instantly and 
 bowed their heads reverently. The fire 
 slackened, ceased. The earth fell on the 
 flags and covered them, and the heroes 
 wrapped within. A man or two dropped 
 a tear and a tender, parting word to his 
 69 
 
70 
 
 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 comrades, and the burial party, its duty fit- 
 tingly done, moved seaward over the crest 
 of the ridge out of range. 
 
 Half way down the crooked path which 
 led to the landing two of the men who had 
 stood steadily at the grave were marked 
 by a Spanish sharp-shooter, and a Mauser 
 bullet "pinged" above them. They ran for 
 
 cover like startled game, for the funeral 
 was over and they had no desire to make 
 another. 
 
 But the men who were at the grave that 
 day will remember long and with a solemn 
 sense of their great lesson the words, "Man 
 that is born of woman." 
 
 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 
 
 U 
 
 P from the meadows rich with corn, 
 Clear in the cool September morn, 
 
 The clustered spires of Frederick stand, 
 Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 
 
 Round about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 
 
 On that pleasant morn of the early fall, 
 When Lee marched over the mountain 
 wall. 
 
 Over the mountain winding down, 
 Horse and foot into Fredericktown. 
 
 Forty flags with their silver stars, 
 Forty flags with their crimson bars, 
 
 Flapped in the morning wind; the sun 
 Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 
 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
 Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; 
 
 Bravest of all in Fredericktown 
 
 She took up the flag the men hauled down. 
 
 In her attic window the staff she set, 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his slouched hat left and right 
 He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 
 
 "Halt!" the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 
 "Fire" — out blazed the rifle blast. 
 
 It shivered the window pane and sash, 
 It rent the banner with seam and gash. 
 
 Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, 
 Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 
 
 She leaned far out on the window sill, 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
 "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
 But spare your country's flag," she said. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
 Over the face of the leader came; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirred 
 To life at that woman's deed and word. 
 
 "Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
 Dies like a dog. March on!" he said. 
 
 All day long through Frederick street 
 Sounded the tread of marching feet; 
 
 All day long that free flag tost 
 Over the heads of the serried host. 
 
 Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
 
 On the loyal winds that loved it well. 
 
 And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
 Shone over it with a warm good-night. 
 
PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 n 
 
 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 
 
 And the soldier rides on his raids no more. 
 
 Honor to her, and let a tear 
 
 Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
 Flag of Freedom and Union, wave. 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Round thy symbol of light and law; 
 
 And ever the stars above look down 
 On thy stars below in Fredericktown. 
 — John Greenleaf Whit tier. 
 
 g3* t^* t&rl 
 
 "OLD IRONSIDES." 
 
 (Written with reference to the proposed breaking up of the famous frigate "Constitution.") 
 
 AY, tear her tattered ensign down! 
 Long has it waved on high, 
 And many an eye has danced to see 
 
 That banner in the sky; 
 Beneath it rung the battle-shout, 
 
 And burst the cannon's roar: 
 The meteor of the ocean air 
 
 Shall sweep the clouds no more! 
 
 Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 
 Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
 
 When winds were hurrying o'er the flood 
 And waves were white below, 
 
 No more shall feel the victor's tread, 
 Or know the conquered knee; 
 
 The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
 The eagle of the sea! 
 
 O better that her shattered hulk 
 
 Should sink beneath the wave! 
 Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
 
 And there should be her grave: 
 Nail to the mast her holy flag, 
 
 Set every threadbare sail, 
 And give her to the god of storms, 
 
 The lightning and the gale! 
 
 — Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 t5* c5* *(?• 
 
 BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 MINE eyes have seen the glory of the 
 coming of the Lord: 
 He is trampling out the vintage where the 
 
 grapes of wrath are stored; 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His 
 terrible swift sword: 
 His tKUth is marching on. 
 
 I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a 
 
 hundred circling camps: 
 They have builded Him an altar in the 
 
 evening dews and damps; 
 I can read His righteous sentence by the 
 
 dim and flaring lamps. 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery Gospel, writ in burn- 
 ished rows of steel: 
 
 "As ye deal with my contemners, so with 
 you my grace shall deal; 
 
 Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the 
 serpent with his heel, 
 Since God is marching on." 
 
 He has sounded forth the trumpet that 
 
 shall never call retreat; 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men before 
 
 His judgment-seat: 
 Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be 
 
 jubilant, my feet! 
 Our God is marching on. 
 
72 
 
 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born 
 across the sea, 
 
 With a glory in His bosom that trans- 
 figures you and me : 
 
 As He died to make men holy, let us die 
 to make men free, 
 While God is marching on. 
 
 — Julia Ward Howe. 
 
 t2rt X£pt f2r* 
 
 GRANDFATHER'S STORY. 
 
 (In old-time English costume.) 
 
 DO my darlings want the story 
 I have told so oft before, 
 Of the little drummer laddie 
 
 And his gallant deed of yore? 
 But you love to hear about it? 
 
 Aye, my children, that is well, 
 'Twas a bright and brave example 
 
 Of the spirit that should dwell 
 In the hearts of British children, 
 
 Be they high or be they low; 
 Just "Fear God and do your duty," 
 
 It is all in that, you know. 
 
 Little Jack — I think I see him, 
 
 Stand as you are standing now, 
 With his cap set trim and jaunty 
 
 On the curls around his brow; 
 He was but a child, my darlings, 
 
 Not much older, Will, than you; 
 And his cheeks were just as rosy, 
 
 And his eyes were just as blue. 
 Not a man of us but blessed him 
 
 For the spirit kind and gay, 
 That we never knew to fail him 
 
 From the time we marched away. 
 
 From the time his mother kiss'd him, 
 
 As she held him to her heart, 
 And he kept the childish tears back, 
 
 Though God knows 'twas hard to part. 
 Then the great ship bore us over 
 
 The blue ocean, lone and wide, 
 To the distant lands where many, 
 
 Many a British soldier died. 
 Many a mile our army plodded 
 
 'Neath the burning foreign sun; 
 
 Many a night we had no shelter 
 When the toilsome day was done. 
 
 Very often sick and hungry, 
 
 We marched on in sorry plight; 
 But in marching, or in halting, 
 
 By the camp fire's blaze at night, 
 Little Jack, the drummer laddie, 
 
 Cheered us as we onward went; 
 Making light of every hardship, 
 
 Always blithesome and content, 
 Full of boyish pranks and laughter, 
 
 Full of kindly winsome ways, 
 And his gallant spirit bore him 
 
 Through the hardest, longest days. 
 
 Not a man of us but loved him, 
 
 Though we were but rough and wild, 
 E'en Sir John, our grim old Colonel, 
 
 On the drummer laddie smiled. 
 But, at last, our march was ended, 
 
 And, at last, we knew the foe 
 We had come to fight was near us, 
 
 In the valley down below. 
 Well, the night before the battle 
 
 Our young Captain spoke to me, 
 Short and sharp, as was his custom, — 
 
 "Sergeant Moore, that gap you see, 
 
 Pick your men, and guard it strictly, 
 
 Post a sentinel outside, 
 And be smart, my man, about it" — 
 
 And he turn'd away to ride. 
 Up jumped Jack, the little drummer, 
 
 "Sergeant Moore, you'll let me go?" 
 And he looked with eyes beseeching, 
 
PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 73 
 
 "I've sharp ears, as well you know." 
 Aye, I knew it; not a hunter 
 
 Of a red deer on the track, 
 Was so keen and quick of hearing 
 
 As our blithesome drummer Jack. 
 
 So I took him, it was wrong, dears — 
 
 He was such a child, you see, 
 And 'twas older hands we wanted, 
 
 And the captain trusted me. 
 Down the dark defile we scrambled, 
 
 And beyond the gap we saw 
 Where the foe was camped before us; 
 
 'Twas not wider than a door — 
 That dark gap between two hillsides; 
 
 And I saw if we could keep 
 'Gainst the enemy its entrance, 
 
 Safe that night our men might sleep. 
 
 Little Jack crept just outside it; 
 
 "I shall hear them if they stir," 
 In my ear he whispered softly, 
 
 As he leaned against a fir. 
 "And you'll stay there!" I commanded, 
 
 As I held him by the arm — 
 "You'll not stir a step, my laddie, 
 
 Save to give us the alarm!" 
 And he answered, "Trust me, Sergeant, 
 
 I'll not stir, or close an eye; 
 'Twill be safe to-night — our army — 
 
 Or I'll know the reason why." 
 
 'Twas his safety that I thought of; 
 
 Do you mark me, Bess and Will? 
 I was fearful of his straying 
 
 Into danger down the hill. 
 For I knew his fearless spirit, 
 
 And I meant he should abide 
 Where, at lightest hint of danger, 
 
 I could call him to my side. 
 But 'twas long before the dawning 
 
 That a breathless comrade came, 
 Bidding us fall back, and quickly — 
 
 Speaking in the captain's name. 
 
 They'd not try to pass, he told us, 
 
 As along the path we filed, 
 And we all — may God forgive us! 
 
 In our haste forgot the child. 
 But not far had we proceeded 
 
 Ere we heard the rolling boom, 
 Up the narrow path behind us, 
 
 Of our lad's familiar drum, 
 Followed by the crack and rattle 
 
 Of a rifle in our rear. 
 So we turned upon the instant — 
 
 (In our hearts an awful fear 
 For the child we had deserted) — 
 
 Face to face we met the foe. 
 There were but a score of them, Will — 
 
 How we cut them down, you know. 
 
 On we went; some few were wounded; 
 
 It was but the chance of war — 
 'Till we heard a feeble drum-beat, 
 
 And a well-known blithe "hurrah!" 
 There was Jack beneath the fir tree, 
 
 With a broken leg and arm, 
 While, with but one hand, brave laddie, 
 
 He was beating the alarm. 
 Dropping shots, you see, had struck him, 
 
 And he fainted, so he said, 
 And the enemy had left him 
 
 'Neath the dusky fir for dead. 
 
 But he soon came to, and fearing 
 
 They'd surprise us in the pass, 
 On his drum he beat a warning 
 
 As he lay upon the grass. 
 "But what ailed you not to follow 
 
 When you heard us move away!" 
 Thus Tasked him, sitting sadly 
 
 By his little cot next day. 
 "Follow you?" he cried. "Why, Sergeant, 
 
 You had told me not to stir 
 From the spot where I was posted, 
 
 In the shelter of the fir. 
 
 Could I disobey my orders? 
 I was sentinel, you know, 
 
74 
 
 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 And you were not out of hearing 
 
 When I caught a sound below; 
 And the enemy was on me — 
 
 I'd have beat you a tattoo 
 If I'd had the time; but, Sergeant, 
 
 I was hit before I knew. 
 Then I tried to warn you after, 
 
 Lest they took you by surprise; 
 It was but my duty, Sergeant," 
 
 Said the lad with shining eyes. 
 
 Thus he saved our camp; we knew it; 
 
 And the bravest in the land, 
 When the boy got well, have said it, 
 
 As they shook him by the hand. 
 "But we cannot all be heroes;" 
 
 Nay, my lad, you're right enough; 
 
 But we can be brave and faithful, 
 And, believe me, that's the stuff 
 
 Which makes best and bravest soldiers. 
 Strong to bear and swift to do — 
 
 Are the boys who learn contentment, 
 And are patient, kind and true. 
 
 Don't make much of little hardships, 
 
 Help a comrade when you can; 
 You'll have many a foe to fight, Will, 
 
 Ere you come to be a man. 
 So will you, my darling Bessie, 
 
 As to womanhood you grow; 
 But "Fear God and do your duty," 
 
 That's the safest rule I know. 
 
 — Helen Marion Burnside. 
 
 & <£ J* 
 
 THE REGULAR ARMY MAN. 
 
 HE ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere," 
 Ter sparkle in the sun; 
 He don't parade with gay cockade, 
 
 And posies in his gun; 
 He ain't no "pretty" soldier boy, 
 
 So lovely, spick and span ; 
 He wears a crust of tan and dust, 
 The Reg'lar Army man; 
 The marchin', parchin', 
 Pipe-clay starchin', 
 Reg'lar Army man. 
 
 He ain't at home in Sunday-school, 
 
 Nor yet a social tea; 
 And on the day he gets his pay 
 
 He's apt ter spend it free; 
 He ain't no temp'rance advocate; 
 
 He likes ter fill the can; 
 He's kinder rough an', maybe, tough, 
 
 The Reg'lar Army man; 
 The rarin', tarin', 
 Sometimes swearin', 
 
 Reg'lar Army man. 
 
 No State'll call him "noble son!" 
 
 He ain't no ladies' pet, 
 But let a row start anyhow, 
 
 They'll send for him, you bet! 
 He don't cut any ice at all 
 
 In fash'n's social plan; 
 He gits the job ter face a mob, 
 
 The Reg'lar Army man; 
 The millin', drillin', 
 Made for killin', 
 
 Reg'lar Army man. 
 
 They ain't no tears shed over him 
 
 When he goes off ter war; 
 He gits no speech nor prayerful "preach" 
 
 From Mayor or Governor; 
 He packs his little knapsack up 
 
 And trots off in the van, 
 Ter start the fight and start it right, 
 
 The Reg'lar Army man; 
 The rattlin', battlin', 
 Colt or Gatlin', 
 
 Reg'lar Army man. 
 
PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 He makes no fuss about the job, 
 He don't talk big or brave, 
 
 He knows he's in ter fight and win 
 Or help fill up a grave; 
 
 He ain't no "mamma's darlin'," but 
 He does the best he can; 
 
 And he's the chap that wins the scrap, 
 The Reg'lar Army man ; 
 The dandy, handy, 
 Cool and sandy, 
 Reg'lar Army man. 
 
 — Joe Lincoln. 
 
 <£& t.5* g?5 
 
 WHEN THE SPANISH WAR BROKE OUT. 
 
 HE gits roun' now on just one peg 
 Ter beat the very Ian'! 
 Thank God ! he's only got one leg — 
 
 They won't take my ol' man. 
 (He lost that leg in our last war, 
 But I could never tell whut fer.) 
 
 I sets an' sees him hobblin' roun' — 
 They's sojers passin' through, 
 
 An' "Dixie's" wakin' up the town, 
 An' "Yankee Doodle" too. 
 
 I hears him holler, "Hip, hooray!" 
 
 (Thank God! they can't take him away.) 
 
 He seen his fightin' days. He went 
 
 With Jackson an' with Lee. 
 An' now he's come ter be content 
 
 Ter set roun' home with me. 
 He's lost one leg — that's gone shore. 
 Thank God! he'll never lose no more. 
 
 But when the ban' plays "Dixie" — my! 
 
 It sets him wild ag'in! 
 He cheers the boys a-trompin' by 
 
 An' want's ter jine in! 
 But I— I sez, "Come, that'll do! 
 They don't want one-leg folks like you." 
 
 So let 'em fight from left ter right 
 
 All over sea an' land — 
 I thank the Lord, by day an' night, 
 
 They won't take my ol' man! 
 He's lost one leg — that's gone fer shore. 
 Thank God! he'll never lose no more. 
 
 
 THE SONG OF THE GUN. 
 
 THE furnace was white with steel 
 a-light, 
 When my newborn spirit came 
 In a molten flood of the war-god's blood, 
 In a passion of fire and flame. 
 
 I looked o'er the deep from a lofty steep 
 With a strong heart full of pride ; 
 
 Like a king alone on his stately throne 
 Whose word no man denied. 
 
 My thunder spoke from the battle smoke, 
 When the waves ran crimson red, 
 
 And heroes died by my iron side, 
 Till the foreign foemen fled. 
 
 The sentence of death was in my breath, 
 And many a ship went down — 
 
 Oh, the gun is lord of the feeble sword, 
 And greater is his renown. 
 
 Now the long grass hides my rusty sides, 
 And round me the children play; 
 
 But I dream by night of a last great fight, 
 Ere the trump of the Judgment Day. 
 
 For men must fight in the cause of right, 
 Till the time when war shall cease; 
 
 And the song of the gun will ne'er be done 
 Till the dawn of lasting peace. 
 
76 
 
 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 THE TWO GREAT FLAGS. 
 
 TWO proud flags to the skies unfurled, 
 Types of an English-speaking 
 world ; 
 Types of the world that is yet to be, 
 Rich and happy and proud and free; 
 Types of a world of peace and law, 
 Closer together in friendship draw! 
 Can ye descry with the sight of seers, 
 What shall be wrought in coming years? 
 E'en but a century more will teach 
 A thousand millions the English speech! 
 Vast Australia, from sea to sea, 
 Peopled all with our kin will be. 
 Grand New Zealand, a busy hive, 
 Britain in duplicate then, will thrive; 
 While the Dark Continent, dark no more, 
 Lighted with industry, law and love. 
 India's boundless, human sea, 
 Great and honored and justly free, 
 India th^en shall speak the tongue 
 Shakespeare uttered and Milton sung. 
 What of Columbia's later fame? 
 What for her can the century claim? 
 Ask what the century past has done; 
 
 Gaze on the triumphs that she has won. 
 Give the imagination rein; 
 People each tenantless hill and plain; 
 Swell her borders, and all around, 
 View the Republic, ocean bound! 
 Yes, but a century more will teach 
 A thousand millions the English speech. 
 And, as the centuries onward roll, 
 Earth shall feel it from pole to pole. 
 Speech, the grandest that man has known, 
 Gathering thought from every zone ; 
 Law, the best that the human mind 
 Ever devised to rule mankind; 
 Literature, from every pen 
 Ever wielded to gladden men, — 
 Covering Earth like a whelming sea, 
 Anglo-Saxon the world shall be. 
 Two proud flags to the skies unfurled, 
 Types of an English-speaking world ; 
 Types of the world that is yet to be, 
 Types of a world of peace and law, — 
 Close together in friendship draw! 
 
 — Hubert M. Skinner. 
 
 c5* ^s £* 
 
 THE "COWARD" IN BATTLE. 
 
 THERE is a regiment with its right 
 flank resting on the woods — its left 
 in an open field near a group of haystacks. 
 Three pieces of artillery in front have been 
 playing in the pine thicket half a mile away 
 for the last ten minutes, but without pro- 
 voking any reply. 
 
 Watch this man — this Second Lieuten- 
 ant of Company F. He is almost a giant 
 in size. He has a fierce eye, a roaring 
 voice, and men have said that he was as 
 brave as a lion. When the regiment was 
 swung into position and the battery opened 
 he said to himself: "How foolish in us to 
 attack the enemy when he was seeking to 
 
 retreat! This blunder will cost us many 
 lives. Our fire will soon be returned, and it 
 will be good-by to half our regiment. I 
 shall be one of the first to fall. If I was 
 one of the rear-rank privates, I'd give all 
 the money I hope ever to have." 
 
 As three— five — ten minutes pass away 
 and the fire is not returned, the coward be- 
 gins to pluck up heart. He blusters at the 
 men, tries to joke with the officers on his 
 right, and says to himself: "This may turn 
 out all right after all. We are in no danger 
 thus far, and if the enemy retreats we shall 
 share the credit. I must try and make 
 everybody believe that I am disappointed 
 
PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 77 
 
 because we have not been ordered to ad- 
 vance." 
 
 Boom — shriek — crash! Now the enemy 
 open fire in reply. They have six guns to 
 answer three. In two minutes they have 
 the range and a shell kills or wounds five 
 or six men. The coward's cheeks grow 
 pale. He whispers: "Great heavens; we 
 shall all be slaughtered! Why doesn't the 
 colonel order us to retire? Why are men 
 kept here to be shot down in this way? 
 What a fool I was not to go on the sick 
 list last night! If it wasn't that so many 
 are looking at me, I'd lie down to escape 
 the fire!" 
 
 Another shell — a third — fourth — fifth, 
 and thirty or forty men have been killed. 
 Men won't stand that long. They must 
 either retreat or advance. 
 
 "We shall advance," whispers the cow- 
 ard. The order will come to dash forward 
 and take those guns. Shot and shell and 
 grape will leave none of us alive. What 
 folly to advance! I hope I may be slightly 
 wounded, so I shall have an excuse for 
 seeking cover in some of these ditches." 
 
 An aid rides up to the Colonel and gives 
 an order. The Colonel rides to the head 
 of his line and orders the lines dressed for 
 an advance. The men dress under a hot 
 fire, and the coward groans aloud: "It is 
 awful to die this way! How idiotic in me 
 to accept a commission — to enter the ser- 
 vice — to put myself in front of certain 
 death! Oh, dear! If I could only get some 
 excuse for lagging behind!" 
 
 The lines dash forward into the smoke — 
 the enemy's fire grows more rapid — the 
 dead and wounded strew the ground. 
 Where and what of the coward? Three 
 days later, the Colonel's report will read: 
 
 "I desire to make special mention of 
 Lieutenant . As the regiment ad- 
 vanced, the Captain and First Lieutenant 
 of Company F were killed by the same 
 shell, leaving the Second Lieutenant of 
 Company F in command. He was equal 
 to the emergency. Springing to the head 
 of the company, he encouraged the men, 
 led them straight at the guns, two pieces of 
 which were captured by the Company." 
 
 A month later the coward was a Captain. 
 
 t?* t£* «5* 
 
 NATHAN HALE. 
 
 SPEED, speed thee forth," said Wash- 
 ington, 
 On Harlem's battle plain, 
 
 "For yonder lies the British foe, 
 Bring back his plans of battle, Go!" 
 The volunteer of twenty-one, 
 
 Whose heart was never known to quail, 
 Bowed — heard his orders, — bowed again, 
 'Twas Captain Nathan Hale. 
 
 One night when shone the harvest moon, 
 His boat shot thro' the spray, 
 Blithely across the starlit sound 
 To where upon Manhattan's ground 
 
 The British were encamped, and soon 
 
 The soldier-boy was on their trail — • 
 
 Captured their plans, — "Now for the fray," 
 Cried fearless Nathan Hale. 
 
 But e'er his noble task was done 
 Within the foeman's bounds, 
 
 A yell came up from Briton throats, 
 He saw their shining scarlet coats — 
 "What, ho ! a spy from Washington," 
 
 Ah, Heaven, then was he doomed to 
 fail; 
 As round a hare spring famished hounds, 
 They close round Nathan Hale. 
 
rs 
 
 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 Condemned to death the hero lay 
 With shackles on his limbs, 
 And mem'ry brought New London 
 
 town, 
 His sweetheart with her curls of brown, 
 His anxious mother, old and gray, 
 
 Alas, how will they hear the tale. 
 A welcome tear and blue eye dims 
 Of valiant Nathan Hale. 
 
 They led him forth 'mid gibes and jeers 
 To meet the patriot's fate, 
 
 The solace of God's Holy Word 
 He asked, but ne'er a Briton stirred, 
 
 Their oaths still fell upon his ears, 
 
 Their robber flag waved in the gale, 
 
 Their eyes fired by revenge and hate 
 
 » Were fixed on Nathan Hale. 
 
 Like bloodhounds eager for his gore 
 They cried out, "Hang the spy." 
 Undaunted there the hero stands, 
 And lifting up his shackled hands, 
 
 The while his captors raved and swore, 
 A flush came o'er his cheek so pale 
 
 "Back, cowards, I'll show you how to die," 
 Cried noble Nathan Hale. 
 
 "A hundred lives, ye knaves accurst 
 I'd yield, and bliss were crowned, 
 
 To burn that blood-stained rag o'crhead, 
 
 And raise the Stars and Stripes instead. 
 I'm ready now, fiends, do your worst, 
 
 To Freedom's glorious dawn all hail!" 
 The hangman's rope is thrown around 
 
 The neck of Nathan Hale. 
 
 Forgotten ? ne'er while Freedom's stars 
 Shine forth in deathless light, 
 
 From out the flag he loved so well, 
 For which he lived and fought and fell. 
 His guerdon was the soldier's scars. 
 
 And death, far from his native vale — 
 Brave heart, that throbbed for love and 
 right, 
 Brave soldier, Nathan Hale. 
 
 t5* c5* *2fa 
 
 GETTYSBURG, 1895. 
 
 THE fields of Gettysburg are green 
 Where once the red blood ran; 
 The oak leaves throw a dancing sheen 
 
 Where perished horse and man; 
 The saplings whisper on the hill 
 
 Where rolled a fiery tide, 
 And songbirds splash the laughing rill 
 Where armies fought and died. 
 
 A marble sentry scans the field 
 
 And granite cannons frown 
 Where dusty regiments once wheeled 
 
 And shot and shell rained down; 
 But o'er the sentry's martial face 
 
 Now sits the cooing dove, 
 Breaking the silence of the place 
 
 With murmuring notes of love. 
 
 The only colors in the glades 
 
 Are those of buds and flowers ; 
 The swift and sudden fusillades 
 
 Are made by passing showers. 
 Huge haycarts now are chariot cars, 
 
 And soldiers, boys at play; 
 The only camp fires are the stars, 
 
 The fiery glory, day. 
 
 Thank God that all things in this life 
 
 Together move for right; 
 That Night and her half-sister, Strife, 
 
 Shall die in joy and light; 
 That through a mystery above 
 
 His mercies ne'er shall cease; 
 That out of hate shall issue love, 
 
 And out of war come peace. 
 
PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 79 
 
 FLAG OF THE RAINBOW. 
 
 This recitation may be made very effective if the National Flag be placed where it can be 
 
 readily pointed to. The "Star Spangled Banner" might be played 
 
 softly during the rendering of the poem. 
 
 FLAG of the rainbow, and banner of 
 stars, 
 Emblem of light and shield of the lowly, 
 Never to droop while our soldiers and tars 
 Rally to guard it from outrage unholy. 
 
 Never may shame or misfortune attend it, 
 Enmity sully, or treachery rend it, 
 
 While but a man is alive to defend it : 
 Flag of the rainbow, and banner of stars. 
 
 Flag of a land where the people are free, 
 Ever the breezes salute and caress it ; 
 
 Planted on earth, or afloat in the sea, 
 
 Gallant men guard it, and fair women 
 bless it. 
 
 Fling out its folds o'er a country united, 
 
 Warmed by the fires that our forefathers 
 lighted, 
 Refuge where down-trodden man is in- 
 vited : 
 Flag of the rainbow, and banner of stars. 
 
 Flag that our sires gave in trust to their 
 sons, 
 Symbol and sign of a liberty glorious, 
 While the grass grows and the clear water 
 runs, 
 Ever invincible, ever victorious. 
 
 Long may it waken our pride and devotion, 
 Rippling its colors in musical motion, 
 
 First on the land, and supreme on the 
 ocean : 
 Flag of the rainbow, and banner of stars. 
 
 SHE'S a floating boiler crammed with 
 fire and steam ; 
 A toy, with dainty works like any watch ; 
 A working, weaving basketful of tricks — ■ 
 Eccentric, cam and lever, cog and notch. 
 She's a dashing, lashing, tumbling shell of 
 steel, 
 A headstrong, kicking, nervous, plung- 
 ing beast ; 
 A long, lean ocean liner — trimmed down 
 small ; 
 A bucking broncho harnessed for the 
 East. 
 She can rear and toss and roll 
 Your body from your soul, 
 
 And she's most unpleasant wet — to say 
 the least! 
 
 (5* g5* <■?* 
 
 THE TORPEDO-BOAT. 
 
 But 
 
 see her slip in, sneaking down, at 
 night ; 
 All a-tremble, deadly, silent — Satan sly. 
 Watch her gather for the rush, and catch 
 her breath! 
 See her dodge the wakeful cruiser's 
 sweeping eye. 
 Hear the humming! Hear her coming! 
 Coming fast! 
 (That's the sound might make men wish 
 they were at home, 
 Hear the rattling Maxim, barking rapid 
 fire), 
 See her loom out through the fog with 
 bows afoam! 
 Then some will wish for land — 
 They'd be sand fleas in the sand 
 
 Or yellow grubs reposing in the loam, 
 
80 
 
 PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 QUEBEC. 
 
 (From "Songs of the 
 
 OUEBEC ! how regally it crowns the 
 height, 
 Like a tanned giant on a solid throne! 
 Unmindful of the sanguinary fight, 
 The roar of cannon mingling with the 
 
 moan 
 Of mutilated soldiers years agone, 
 That gave the place a glory and a name 
 Among the nations. France was heard to 
 
 groan; 
 England rejoiced, but checked the proud 
 
 acclaim, — 
 
 Great Dominion.") 
 
 A brave young chief had fall'n to vindi- 
 cate her fame. 
 Wolfe and Montcalm! two nobler names 
 
 ne'er graced 
 The page of history, or the hostile plain; 
 No braver souls the storm of battle faced, 
 Regardless of the danger or the pain. 
 They passed unto their rest without a stain 
 Upon their nature or their generous hearts. 
 One graceful column to the noble twain 
 Speaks of a nation's gratitude, and starts 
 The tear that Valor claims and Feeling's 
 self imparts. 
 
 t.5* <5* c5* 
 
 TREKKING. 
 
 Song of the Boer women. 
 
 TREKKING trekking, trekking! Will 
 never the trekk be done? 
 Will never the rest, will never the home be 
 
 won and forever won? 
 Are we only as beasts of the jungle afoot 
 
 for the fleeing prey, 
 With a lair in the bush at midnight, on the 
 
 veldt a trackless way ? 
 Ever the word is "onward" — ever our white 
 
 train goes 
 Deeper and deeper northward beyond the 
 
 grasp of our foes — 
 Deeper and deeper northward our fathers 
 
 went before, 
 But the door of the veldt is closed, is closed ! 
 
 Where can we trekk to more? 
 
 Trekking, trekking, trekking! Think you 
 
 we love not our home ? 
 Think you my father prized not the farm 
 
 of the yellow loam? 
 And mother, I see her weeping beside my 
 
 brother tall, 
 
 Turning and gazing northward beyond the 
 
 mountain wall. 
 The cattle, they seem to be standing dumb 
 
 in a brute despair; 
 With a longing look at the pastures they 
 
 feel the trekk in the air ! 
 Even old Yok seems broken ; he turns from 
 
 the tempting bones; 
 I see him there in the corner, manlike, 
 
 brooding alone ! 
 
 Trekking, trekking, trekking! Through 
 the Zululand we go, 
 
 The midnight tiger stalking us, and ever the 
 savage foe — 
 
 Before — the savage foe to meet, the "red- 
 coat" foe behind — 
 
 What have we done to be blown about like a 
 leaf upon the wind ? 
 
 Ah, over the Vaal we shall find our peace — 
 over the rushing Vaal — 
 
 The Lord has led us to rest at last ; blindly 
 we followed his call; 
 
PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 
 
 81 
 
 The land he promised is ours to keep — is 
 
 ours forever to keep — 
 Piet, what noise is that in the fold ? Think 
 
 you a wolf at the sheep ? 
 
 Trekking, trekking, trekking! We have 
 
 trekked till our tall, strong men 
 Have sworn an oath by our father's God we 
 
 shall never trekk again ! 
 The doors of the northward veldt are 
 
 closed; the doors of our heart are 
 
 strong ; 
 
 They shall ope their lock to a brother's 
 
 knock, but not to the threat of wrong ! 
 There is the gun your father bore when he 
 
 climbed Majuba's hill; 
 'Tis yours, Piet, to bear it now with your 
 
 father's faith and will, 
 For the land is ours — the land is ours — if 
 
 ever a land was won ; 
 You go at the dawn, you say, my son ? Yes, 
 
 go at the dawn, my son ! 
 
 — John Jerome Rooney. 
 
 *0& t&N t&* 
 
 DON'T CHEER, BOYS; THEY'RE DYING. 
 
 When the Spanish ships were sinking at the battle of Santiago and the waters were thick 
 
 with dead and dying Spaniards, the sailors on the United States battleship Texas 
 
 began to cheer. Captain Philip checked them with these words : 
 
 "Don't cheer, boys, the poor devils are dying." 
 
 THE smoke hangs heavy o'er the sea, 
 Beyond the storm-swept battle line, 
 Where floats the flag of Stripes and Stars, 
 Triumphant o'er the shattered foe. 
 The walls of Morro thunder still their fear ; 
 Helpless, a mass of flame, the foeman 
 
 drifts, 
 And o'er her decks the flag of white. 
 Hushed voices pass the word from lip to 
 
 lip, 
 And grimy sailors silent stand beside the 
 
 guns, 
 "Cease firing. An enemy is dying. 
 Do not cheer." 
 
 "An enemy is dying. Do not cheer." 
 Thy servants' glorious tribute to Thy name, 
 Christ, Lord, who rules the battle well, 
 Who, watching, guards our destinies, 
 And seeth e'en the sparrows fall. 
 Redly, through the drifting smoke, the sun 
 
 looks down 
 On silent guns and shot-pierced bloody 
 
 wreck, 
 Long lines of weary men, with heads bowed 
 
 low, 
 Give thanks, in presence of Thy reaper 
 
 grim. 
 Thy will be done, O Lord, Thou rulest all. 
 
 t5* <5* ^* 
 
 HOBSON AND HIS CHOSEN SEVEN. 
 
 COME, kings and queens the world 
 around, 
 Whose power and fame all climes resound ! 
 Come, sailors bold and soldiers brave, 
 Whose names shall live beyond the grave ! 
 Come, men and women, come, boys and. 
 girls, 
 
 Wherever our flag to the breeze unfurls! 
 Come one, come all, let none stand back, 
 Come, praise the men of the Merrimac ! 
 Out from the water, out from the fire, 
 Out from the jaws of death most dire! 
 Far up in the fame and light of heaven, 
 See Hobson with his chosen seven ! 
 
82 
 
 PATRIOTISM AND WAR, 
 
 MARCHING SONG OF THE ROUGH RIDERS. 
 
 ROUGH riders were we from the west, 
 Gallant gentlemen the rest, 
 Of volunteers the best; 
 Rallied to the flag at Roosevelt's behest 
 To carve our way to glory. 
 
 When the Spanish shells and shrapnel 
 burst, 
 Our losses were the worst — 
 The chaplain even cursed. 
 "Charge!" cried Colonel Roosevelt, and 
 charged the first 
 To carve our way to glory. 
 
 Our rapid fire tore the Spanish line to bits, 
 And scared them into fits ; 
 Their leaders lost their wits ; 
 
 Up the hill we went and stormed their rifle 
 pits - 
 To carve our way to glory. 
 
 Intrenched within the pits long we lay, 
 
 By night as well as day, 
 
 Sore at the delay; 
 In our rear the yellow fever raged at Sib- 
 oney 
 
 To cheat us out of glory. 
 
 When no bloody Spaniards are left to run, 
 
 Cuba will be won, 
 
 Our duty will be .done; 
 Dead and living every single one 
 
 Has carved his way to glory. 
 
 c5* t.5* «■£• 
 
 DE BUGLE ON DE HILL. 
 
 1DOAN' like de noise er de marchin' ob 
 de boys — 
 An' I 'low I doan' s'pose I evah will — 
 Er de trampin' ob de feet to de drum's 
 wild beat, 
 Er de blowin' ob de bugle on de hill. 
 Hit minds me ob de day when Gabe 
 marched away 
 An' ole missus stood beside de cabin do'; 
 Sumpin' whispahed in my eah 'bout my 
 little volunteah, 
 An' sade he nevah will come back no 
 mo'. 
 
 I's thinkin' mos' to-day ob how he marched 
 away, , 
 
 Wid de bright sun a-climbin' up de sky; 
 Marched out an' down the street to de 
 drum's wild beat, 
 An' den how dey fotched 'im home to 
 die. 
 
 Oh, de sad, moanful way missus bowed her 
 head to pray, 
 When Gabe said, "Hit's gittin' mighty 
 still, 
 But I'll rise an' jine de boys when I heah 
 de cannon's noise, 
 Er de soun' ob de bugle on de hill!" 
 
 Dar's a spot mighty deah to dis ole darky 
 heah, 
 Whar de sunshine am peekin' frough de 
 palms. 
 Wid his hands 'pon his breast dar my sol- 
 dier's gone to rest, 
 Jest peacefully a-sleepin' in de calms; 
 An' de drum's wild beat er de tread ob 
 
 marchin' feet 
 I know cain't disturb 'im now until 
 De Lo'd gibs command, den I know he'll 
 rise an' stan' 
 At de blowin' ob de bugle on de hill. 
 
/ 
 
 o 
 in 
 
Juvenile Gems for the Children 
 
 This department has been selected and arranged with a view of providing the children 
 
 with the kind of recitations they like. It embraces a wide variety — cute, pretty, 
 
 funny, patriotic, and moral. Each piece has been submitted to children 
 
 who have taken part in public entertainments and has met with 
 
 their enthusiastic approval. 
 
 t£T* t5* «5* 
 
 THE DOLL'S LESSON. 
 
 A doll is seated in a small chair facing the audience. A little girl, wearing glasses and 
 with a book in her hand, addresses the doll. 
 
 WELL, little girl, you wish to come to 
 school, do you? I hope you are 
 a very good girl, and will not give me any 
 trouble. What is your name? Lucy, is it? 
 Well, Lucy, do you know your letters? 
 Can you read and spell and write? You 
 don't know anything, eh? How shocking! 
 Well, then, I will try to teach you how to 
 spell your name the first thing, because 
 every little girl, when she is as big as you, 
 ought to know how to spell her name. 
 Lucy — that's an easy name to spell. Now 
 
 say "L" — you can remember that if you'll 
 just think of "Aunt El.;" then "U"— u, 
 remember, not me — that's L-U. Next 
 comes "C" — that's what you do with your 
 eyes, you know — "C." L-U-C, and the 
 last is "Y," that's easy— "Y." Why, of 
 course! And now you have it all! — L (for 
 Aunt El.)-U (not me)-C (with your 
 eyes)-and Y (why, of course) — Lucy. 
 
 That is very good. You'll soon be a 
 good scholar, I see! Now you may take a 
 recess. 
 
 t&fr t^* ^* 
 
 THE BAD LITTLE BOYS. 
 
 THREE bad little boys kept wide 
 awake 
 Once on a Christmas Eve; 
 Though their mothers tucked them up in 
 
 bed 
 And kissed and covered each curly head, 
 They just played make-believe. 
 
 "We'll wait and watch for Santa Claus, 
 And we won't make any noise ; 
 
 And we'll see him drop 
 
 From the chimney-top!" 
 Said these wicked little boys. 
 
 Then the house grew lonely — dark and 
 still, 
 
 And the fire died in the grate 
 And the wind that over the chimney blew 
 Wailed like a witch, and said: "You-oo 
 
 Are sitting up too late." 
 
 And the snow that pelted the window-pane 
 
 Made faces at them all; 
 And the clock on the mantel ticked, "Oh, 
 
 ho! 
 I know — I know — I know — I know!" 
 
 And the shadows danced on the wall. 
 
 85 
 
86 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 The clothes in the corner looked like 
 ghosts 
 With the shadows over them shed; 
 
 And they wanted to scream, but they 
 
 couldn't speak, 
 For they heard the stairs go crickety- 
 
 creak, 
 Like the goblins were going to bed! 
 
 And then — down the chimney came Santa 
 Claus, 
 Fresh from his snowy sleigh; 
 But they thought 'twas a ghost from the 
 
 goblin crowd, 
 And all together they screamed so loud 
 That they frightened him away! 
 
 — Frank L. Stanton. 
 
 
 ABOUT FIRE CRACKERS. 
 
 (For a boy.) 
 
 IF there were no fire crackers 
 What could a small boy do 
 To keep the nation's birthday? 
 I do not know. Do you? 
 
 How can I show my gladness 
 For Independence Day, 
 
 Unless with noisy crackers 
 I bang and blaze away? 
 
 When I am a man like you, 
 (Points to some one in the audience), 
 
 I shall not make a noise, 
 But instead, Fll sit and scold 
 
 About those noisy boys. 
 
 So, hurrah! I'm glad we shipped 
 King George across the seas, 
 
 If we hadn't, pray, what use 
 Could I have had for these? 
 (Pulls a pack of fire-crackers out of each pocket and holds them up.) 
 
 &5* «5* c5* 
 
 THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT. 
 
 OH! the quietest home on earth had I, 
 No thought of trouble, no hint of 
 care; 
 Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by, 
 And Peace had folded her pinions there. 
 But one day there joined in our household 
 
 band 
 A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 
 
 Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, 
 
 And no one ventured to ask him why ; 
 Like slaves we trembled before his might, 
 Our hearts stood still when we heard 
 him cry; 
 For never a soul could his power with- 
 stand, 
 
 That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- 
 land. 
 
 He ordered us here, and he sent us there— 
 Though never a word could his small 
 lips speak — 
 With his toothless gums and his vacant 
 stare, 
 And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, 
 Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, 
 "Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's- 
 land." 
 
 But his abject slaves they turned on me ; 
 Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend 
 me there 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 87 
 
 The while they worshiped with bended 
 knee 
 The ruthless wretch with the missing 
 hair, 
 For he rules them all with relentless hand, 
 This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- 
 land. 
 
 Then I searched for help in every clime, 
 For Peace had fled from my dwelling 
 now 
 
 Till I finally thought of old Father Time, 
 And low before him I made my bow. 
 
 "Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, 
 This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- 
 land?" 
 
 Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, 
 And a smile came over his features grim. 
 I'll take the tyrant under my care: 
 
 Watch what my hour-glass does to him. 
 The veriest humbug that ever was 
 
 planned. 
 Is this same bald-head from No-man's- 
 land. 
 
 <£• &5* c5* 
 
 THE HOLE IN HIS POCKET. 
 
 GUESS what he had in his pocket. 
 Marbles and tops and sundry toys 
 Such as always belong to boys, 
 A bitter apple, a leathern ball? 
 Not at all. 
 
 What did he have in his pocket? 
 A bubble-pipe, and a rusty screw, 
 A brass watch-key, broken in two, 
 A fish-hook in a tangle of string? — 
 No such thing. 
 
 What did he have in his pocket? 
 
 Ginger-bread crumbs, a whistle he made, 
 Buttons, a knife with a broken blade, 
 A nail or two and a rubber gun ? — 
 Neither one. 
 
 What did he have in his pocket? 
 Before he knew it slyly crept 
 Under the treasures carefully kept, 
 And away they all of them quickly stole — 
 Twas a hole! 
 
 t?" t&f* t&fr 
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON'S LITTLE HATCHET. 
 
 (Told by Robert J. Burdette, the Preacher-Humorist, with occasional questions by a five- 
 year-old hearer.) 
 
 AND so, smiling, we went on. 
 "Well, one day, George's father — " 
 
 "George who?" asked Clarence. 
 
 "George Washington. Fie was a little 
 boy, then, just like you. One day his 
 father—" 
 
 "Whose father?" demanded Clarence, 
 with an encouraging expression of interest. 
 
 "George Washington's; this great man 
 we are telling you of. One day George 
 Washington's father gave him a little 
 hatchet for a — " 
 
 "Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear 
 child interrupted with a gleam of bewitch- 
 ing intelligence. Most men would have 
 got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, 
 but we didn't. We knew how to talk to 
 children. So we went on: 
 
 "George Washington. His — " 
 
 "Who gave him the little hatchet?" 
 
 "His father. And his father—" 
 
 "Whose father?" 
 
 "George Washington's." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
88 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 "Yes, George Washington. And his 
 father told him—" 
 
 "Told who?" 
 
 "Told George." 
 
 "Oh, yes, George." 
 
 And we went on, just as patient and as 
 pleasant as you could imagine. We took 
 up the story right where the boy inter- 
 rupted, for we could see he was just crazy 
 to hear the end of it. We said: 
 
 "And he was told—" 
 
 "George told him?" queried Clarence. 
 
 "No, his father told George — " 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Yes; told him he must be careful with 
 the hatchet—" 
 
 "Who must be careful?" 
 
 "George must." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Yes; must be careful with his hatch- 
 et—" 
 
 "What hatchet?" 
 
 "Why, George's." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "With the hatchet, and not cut himself 
 with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave 
 it out in the grass all night. So George 
 went round cutting everything he could 
 reach with his hatchet. And at last he 
 came to a splendid apple tree, his father's 
 favorite, and cut it down and — " 
 
 "Who cut it down?" 
 
 "George did." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "But his father came home and saw it 
 the first thing, and — " 
 
 "Saw the hatchet?" 
 
 "No, saw the apple tree. And he said, 
 'Who has cut down my favorite apple 
 tree?' " 
 
 "What apple tree?" 
 
 "George's father's. And everybody said 
 they didn't know anything about it, and — " 
 
 "Anything about what?" 
 
 "The apple tree." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "And George came up and heard them 
 talking about it — " 
 
 "Heard who talking about it?" 
 
 "Heard his father and the men." 
 
 "What were they talking about?" 
 
 "About this apple tree." 
 
 "What apple tree?" 
 
 "The favorite tree that George cut 
 down." 
 
 "George who?" 
 
 "George Washington." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "So George came up and heard them 
 talking about it, and he — " 
 
 "What did he cut it down for?" 
 
 "Just to try his little hatchet." 
 
 "Whose little hatchet?" 
 
 "Why, his own, the one his father gave 
 him." 
 
 "Gave who?" 
 
 "Why, George Washington." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "So George came up and he said, 
 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I — ' " 
 
 "Who couldn't tell a lie?" 
 
 "Why, George Washington. He said, 
 'Father, I cannot tell a lie. It was — ' " 
 
 "His father couldn't?" 
 
 "Why, no; George couldn't." 
 
 "Oh! George? oh yes!" 
 
 " 'It was I cut down your apple tree ; I 
 did—' " 
 
 "His father did?" 
 
 "No, no; it was George said this." 
 
 "Said he cut his father?" 
 
 "No, no, no; said he cut down his apple 
 tree." 
 
 "George's apple tree?" 
 
 "No, no; his father's." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "He said—" 
 
 "His father said?" 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 89 
 
 "No, no, no; George said. 'Father, I 
 cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little 
 hatchet.' And his father said: 'Noble 
 boy, I would rather lose a thousand trees 
 than have you tell a lie.' " 
 
 "George did?" 
 
 "No, his father said that." 
 
 "Said he'd rather have a thousand apple 
 trees?" 
 
 "No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a 
 thousand apple trees than — " 
 
 "Said he'd rather George would?" 
 
 "No, said he'd rather he would than 
 have him lie." 
 
 "Oh! George would rather have his 
 father lie?" 
 
 We are patient and we love children, but 
 if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and got her 
 prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't 
 believe all Burlington could have pulled 
 us out of the snarl. And as Clarence 
 Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pat- 
 tered down the stairs we heard him telling 
 his ma about a boy who had a father named 
 George, and he told him to cut down an 
 apple tree, and he said he'd rather tell a 
 thousand lies than cut down one apple 
 tree. 
 
 c5* c5* &?* 
 
 THE AMERICAN BOY. 
 
 LOOK up, my young American! 
 Stand firmly on the earth, 
 Where noble deeds and mental power 
 Give titles over birth. 
 
 A hallow'd land thou claim'st my boy, 
 
 By early struggles bought, 
 Heaped up with noble memories, 
 
 And wide, aye, wide as thought! 
 
 What though we boast no ancient towers 
 Where "ivied" streamers twine, 
 
 The laurel lives upon our soil, 
 The laurel, boy, is thine. 
 
 And though on "Cressy's distant field," 
 
 Thy gaze may not be cast, 
 While through long centuries of blood 
 
 Rise spectres of the past, — 
 
 The future wakes thy dreamings high, 
 And thou a note mayst claim — 
 
 Aspirings which in after times 
 Shall swell the trump of fame. 
 
 And when thou'rt told of knighthood's 
 shield 
 
 And English battles won, 
 Look up, my boy, and breathe one word — ■ 
 
 The name of Washington. 
 
 e3* <5* g5* 
 
 MRS. RABBIT'S SCHOOL. 
 
 M 
 
 RS. RABBIT had a school 
 Of little bunnies, five; 
 Said she: "I think each one's a fool, 
 As sure as I'm alive. 
 
 "I've tried to leach them numbers, 
 I've tried to make them sing, 
 
 And now the term is almost out, 
 They haven't learned a thing." 
 
 Committee came, one day, to see 
 If they were doing well 
 
 She told him how, of all the five, 
 Not one could read or spell. 
 
 Said he: "My friend, I do believe 
 
 Of time it is a waste 
 To try and teach a rabbit, 
 
 And not consult his taste." 
 
90 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 So, he took away their "Primers," 
 
 And in each little paw 
 He placed — now what do you suppose? 
 
 A good-sized turnip, raw. 
 
 How they got on, I cannot tell, 
 
 But this, I know, is true: 
 When school was out, they knew as much 
 
 As other rabbits do. 
 
 — "Treasure Trove." 
 
 <£ «?* & 
 
 LITTLE BY LITTLE. 
 
 ONE step and then another, and the 
 longest walk is ended; 
 One stitch and then another, and the wid- 
 est rent is mended; 
 One brick upon another, and the highest 
 
 wall is made; 
 One flake upon another, and the deepest 
 snow is laid. 
 
 Then do not frown nor murmur at the 
 
 work you have to do, 
 Or say that such a mighty task you never 
 
 can get through; 
 But just endeavor, day by day, another 
 
 point to gain, 
 And soon the mountain that you feared 
 
 will prove to be a plain. 
 
 t5* *(?» g5* 
 
 A HUMAN QUESTION POINT. 
 
 SIXTY questions make an hour, 
 One for every minute; 
 And Neddy tries, with all his might, 
 To get more questions in it. 
 
 Sixty questions make an hour, 
 
 And as for a reply; 
 The wisest sage would stand aghast 
 
 At Neddy's searching "Why?" 
 
 Sixty questions make an hour, 
 And childhood's hours are brief; 
 
 So Neddy has no time to waste, 
 No pauses for relief. 
 
 Sixty questions make an hour, 
 Presto! Why, where is Ned? 
 
 Alas, he's gone, and in his place 
 A Question Point instead! 
 
 %?* £rl c?* 
 
 ONLY A BOY. 
 
 ONLY a boy with his noise and fun, 
 The veriest mystery under the sun; 
 As brimful of mischief and wit and glee, 
 As ever a human frame can be, 
 And as hard to manage — what! ah me! 
 'Tis hard to tell, 
 Yet we love him well. 
 
 Only a boy with his fearful tread, 
 
 Who cannot be driven, must be led! 
 
 Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats, 
 
 And tears more clothes and spoils more 
 
 hats, 
 Loses more kites and tops and bats 
 Than would stock a store 
 For a week or more. 
 
 Only a boy with his wild, strange ways, 
 With his idle hours or his busy days, 
 With his queer remarks and his odd replies, 
 Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise, 
 Often brilliant for one of his size, 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 Si 
 
 As a meteor hurled 
 From the planet world. 
 
 Only a boy who may be a man 
 
 If nature goes on with her first great plan — 
 
 If intemperance or some fatal snare 
 
 Conspires not to rob us of this our heir, 
 Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our 
 care, 
 
 Our torment, our joy! 
 
 "Only a boy!" 
 
 t3& t3* (3* 1 
 
 DON'T. 
 
 I BELIEVE, if there is one word that 
 grown-up folks are more fond of using 
 to us little folks, than any other word in 
 the big dictionary, it is the word D-o-n-t. 
 
 It is all the time "Don't do this," and 
 "Don't do that," and "Don't do the other," 
 until I am sometimes afraid there will be 
 nothing left that we can do. 
 
 Why, for years and years and years, ever 
 since I was a tiny little tot, this word 
 "Don't" has been my torment. It's "Liz- 
 zie, don't make a noise, you disturb me," 
 and "Lizzie, don't eat so much candy, it 
 will make you sick," and "Lizzie, don't be 
 so idle," and "Don't talk so much," and 
 "Don't soil your clothes," and "Don't 
 everything else." One day I thought I'd 
 count how many times I was told not to do 
 things! Just think! I counted twenty- 
 three "don'ts," and I think I missed two or 
 three little ones besides. 
 
 But now it is my turn. I have got a 
 chance to talk, and I'm going to tell some 
 of the big people when to Don't! That 
 is what my piece is about. First, I shall 
 tell the papas and mammas — Don't scold 
 the children, just because you have been at 
 a party the night before, and so feel cross 
 and tired. Second, Don't fret and make 
 wrinkles in your faces, over things that 
 cannot be helped. I think fretting spoils 
 big folks just as much as it does us little 
 people. Third, Don't forget where you put 
 your scissors, and then say you s'pose the 
 children have taken them. Oh! I could 
 tell you ever so many "don'ts," but I think 
 I'll only say one more, and that is — Don't 
 think I mean to be saucy, because all these 
 don'ts are in my piece, and I had to say 
 them. 
 
 — E. C. Rook. 
 
 5," (£• <5* 
 
 LITTLE BOY BLUE. 
 
 (The children's favorite recitation.) 
 
 THE little toy dog is covered with dust, 
 But sturdy and stanch he stands; 
 And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 
 
 And his musket molds in his hands. 
 Time was, when the little toy dog was new, 
 
 And the soldier was passing fair, 
 And that is the time when our Little Boy 
 Blue 
 Kissed them and put them there. 
 
 "Now, don't you go till I come," he said, 
 
 "And don't you make any noise!" 
 So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, 
 
 He dreamt of the pretty toys. 
 And as he was dreaming, an angel song 
 
 Awakened our Little Boy Blue — 
 O, the years are many, the years are long, 
 
 But the little toy friends are true. 
 
92 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue, they 
 stand, 
 
 Each in the same old place, 
 Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 
 
 The smile of a little face. 
 
 And they wonder, as waiting these long 
 years through 
 In the dust of that little chair, 
 What has become of our Little Boy Blue 
 Since he kissed them, and put them 
 there. — Eugene Field. 
 
 ta& i2& iSfr 
 
 THE DOLL QUEEN. 
 
 THE little rag doll is queen — 
 Her realm is a maiden's heart, 
 And there she will reign serene, 
 And play the important part. 
 A bundle of rags is she, 
 
 With collar of scraggy fur; 
 She's only a doll to me, 
 But more than a doll to her. 
 
 A doll that I thought a prize 
 
 I gave to the little maid, 
 That opened and shut its eyes, 
 
 And beauty of face displayed; 
 But somehow it seemed to me 
 
 She never received the care 
 I daily and hourly see 
 
 Bestowed on a doll less fair. 
 
 The doll that can really talk, 
 
 The doll in the silken dress, 
 The doll that is made to walk, 
 
 Lies lonely in some recess; 
 Forgotten and pushed aside, 
 
 It lies in the dust apart, 
 While that of the rags in pride 
 
 Is held to the maiden's heart. 
 
 The doll is a doll to me, 
 
 A bundle of rags and fur, 
 And yet I am quick to see 
 
 It's more than a doll to her; 
 And so it maintains its place, 
 
 Unrivaled it holds its own; 
 In rags and a painted face 
 
 It stands in her heart alone. 
 
 ^* t5* ^* 
 
 THE DOLL'S FUNERAL. 
 
 WHEN my dolly died, when my dolly 
 died, 
 I sat on the step and cried, and I cried; 
 And I couldn't eat any jam and bread, 
 'Cause it didn't seem right when my doll 
 
 was dead. 
 And Bridget was sorry as she could be, 
 For she patted my head and "Oh," said 
 
 she, 
 "To think that the pretty has gone and 
 
 died!" 
 Then I broke out afresh, and I cried and 
 
 cried. 
 
 And all the dollies from all around 
 Came to see my doll put under the ground ; 
 There were Lucy and Mary Clack 
 Brought their dolls over all dressed in 
 
 black. 
 And Emmeline Hope and Sara Lou 
 Came over and brought their dollies, too. 
 And all the time I cried, and cried, 
 'Cause it hurt me so when my dolly died. 
 
 We dressed her up in a new white gown, 
 With ribbons and laces all around; 
 And made her coffin in a box 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 93 
 
 Where my brother keeps his spelling 
 
 blocks, 
 And we had some prayers, and a funeral, 
 
 too; 
 And our hymn was "The Two Little Girls 
 
 in Blue." 
 But for me, I only cried and cried, 
 'Cause it truly hurt when my dolly died. 
 
 We dug her a grave in the violet bed, 
 
 And planted violets at her head; 
 
 And we raised a stone and wrote quite 
 
 plain : 
 "Here lies a dear doll who died of pain." 
 
 And then my brother he said "Amen," 
 And we all went back to the house again. 
 But all the time I cried and cried, 
 Because 'twas right when my doll had died. 
 
 And then we had more jam and bread, 
 But I didn't eat 'cause my doll was dead. 
 But I tied some crape on my dollhouse 
 
 door, 
 And then I cried and cried some more. 
 I couldn't be happy, don't you see! 
 Because the funeral belonged to me. 
 And then the others went home and then 
 I went out and dug up my doll again. 
 
 t£rl t?* *2^ 
 
 WHEN MAMMA CLEANS HOUSE. 
 
 OUR folks have been cleaning house — 
 and, oh! it is just dreadful, I think! 
 Why, a little girl might just as well haye 
 no mamma as to have a mamma who is 
 cleaning house. She does not have any 
 time to tend to me at all. She ties her head 
 up in an old apron, and wears an ugly old 
 dress, and she don't look a bit pretty. Then 
 she pulls everything out of its place, and 
 the house looks — oh! so bad. We do not 
 have any good dinners, either 'cause 
 there's no time to stop to get them ready. 
 And I cannot find my dear Margaret that 
 
 was broken a little, and the sawdust ran 
 out of her. Mamma said she made so 
 much dirt that she must be burnt up, and 
 oh! I'm afraid that is where she has gone. 
 And ever so many of my playthings are 
 lost — lost in the housecleaning. What if 
 they were old and broken! I loved them. 
 So is it any wonder I think housecleaning 
 is a dreadful thing? 
 
 When I grow up to be a big woman, I 
 mean never to clean house at all, but be 
 just as dirty and happy as I can. What's 
 the world made of if it isn't made of dirt? 
 
 t5* t3* <5* 
 
 JACK AND 
 
 A GAY little rabbit, 
 Of frolicsome habit, 
 Went out for a cool midnight stroll; 
 And a strange fixture meeting, 
 Though it set his heart beating, 
 "Dear me!" said the rabbit, "how droll!" 
 
 He stopped for a minute, 
 
 To see what was in it. 
 
 And nibbled a bit at the bait; 
 
 THE RABBIT. 
 
 Very tempting he found it, 
 
 He walked all around it, 
 
 And then he went in at the gate. 
 
 But quicker than winking, 
 
 And quicker than thinking, 
 
 Master Rabbit was swung on high, 
 
 And not a bit tardy, 
 
 Came little Jack Hardy 
 
 From where he'd been hiding close by. 
 
94 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 The old moon was crying, 
 
 The pine-trees were sighing, 
 
 And I think that the stars were in tears, 
 
 As into his casket, 
 
 Jack's snug, covered basket, 
 
 Poor Bunny was dropped by the ears. 
 
 Then Jack fled the gateway, 
 In order that straightway 
 Some other good game he might trap, 
 When Bunny kicked over 
 The basket and cover, 
 And scampered off to his home and his 
 wife! 
 
 t5* t5* t5* 
 
 VALEDICTORY. 
 
 THE golden glow of a summer's day 
 Rests over the verdant hills, 
 And the sunlight falls with mellow ray 
 
 On fields and laughing rills; 
 But ere its last beam fades away 
 
 Beyond the mountain high, 
 Our lips must bravely, sadly say 
 The parting words, "Good-bye." 
 
 Kind friends and parents gathered here, 
 
 Our gratitude is yours 
 For all your care and sympathy, 
 
 Which changelessly endures. 
 We'll try to use the present hours 
 
 So they will bring no sigh, 
 When to our happy days of school 
 
 We say our last "Good-bye." 
 
 Dear teacher, we shall ne'er forget 
 
 The lessons you have taught: 
 We trust the future may perfect 
 
 The work your hands have wrought; 
 And may they bring good gifts to you, 
 
 These years that swiftly fly, 
 And may you kindly think of those 
 
 Who bid you now "Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye!" it shall not be farewell — 
 
 We hope again to meet; 
 But happy hours are ever short, 
 
 And days of youth are fleet. 
 There's much to learn and much to do. 
 
 Oh, may our aims be high, 
 And ever lead toward that bright land, 
 
 Where none shall say "Good-bye." 
 
 COULDN'T TAKE THE HINT. 
 
 YOUNG SPOONOGLE never knows 
 when to leave when he calls on a 
 young lady; he likes the sound of his own 
 voice so well that he talks on and on, while 
 the poor girl grows light-headed with the 
 tax on her strength and wishes the mantle- 
 piece of Elijah would fall on the tiresome 
 caller. 
 
 There is a young lady in a certain city 
 who made up her mind to give Spoonogle 
 a lesson. So one Sunday night when he 
 called, she was as cordial as possible up to 
 eleven o'clock. Then, having had a four- 
 volume history of Spoonogle's life, with an 
 
 extended account of his influence in politics 
 and business, she began to get dizzy and 
 have a ringing in her ears. At that mo- 
 ment her young brother rushed into the 
 room, and said hurriedly: 
 
 "Pa wants the morning papers, sis!" 
 
 "Look in the vestibule, Willie," she 
 answered gently. "I think I heard the boy 
 leaving them some hours ago." 
 
 Spoonogle never took the hint, but 
 drawled on about one thing and another 
 in which the oft-repeated letter I, as usual, 
 bore a conspicuous part. 
 
 The next interruption was the head of 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 95 
 
 the house, who entered briskly rubbing his 
 hands. "Good morning — good morning," 
 he said cheerily. "Ha! Spoonogle, you're 
 out early. Well, 'early bird catches the 
 worm.' It's going to be a fine day, from 
 present appearances." 
 
 Spoonogle was dazed, but he concluded 
 the old man had been drinking, and sat 
 back with a "Come one, come all, this rock 
 shall fly from its firm base as soon as yours 
 truly" air that was decided and convinc- 
 ing. 
 
 A half hour passed away, and the good 
 mother hurried in. 
 
 "Dear me! I'm late," she said as she en- 
 tered, "I smelled the coffee an hour ago 
 and knew breakfast was waiting; but — oh! 
 Good morning, Mr. Spoonogle!" Then 
 the sweet youth took the hint, and drawing 
 himself together, he got out into the hall 
 and opened the front door, just as the 
 hired girl rung a bell, and the small boy 
 yelled "Breakfast!" over the banisters. 
 
 <5* ^* t5* 
 
 LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE. 
 
 LITTLE Orphant Annie's come to our 
 house to stay, 
 An' wash the cups an' saucers up, and 
 
 brush the crumbs away, 
 An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' 
 
 dust the hearth, an' sweep, 
 An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' 
 
 earn her board and keep; 
 An' all us other children, when the supper 
 
 things is done, 
 We set around the kitchen fire an' has the 
 
 mostest fun 
 A-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells 
 
 about, 
 An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you 
 Ef you 
 Don't 
 
 Watch 
 Out! 
 
 Onct they was a little boy wouldn't say his 
 
 pray'rs — 
 An' when he went to bed at night, away 
 
 up-stairs, 
 His mammy heard him holler, an' his 
 
 daddy heard him bawl, 
 An' when they turned the kivvers down he 
 
 wasn't there at all! 
 
 An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' 
 
 cubby-hole, an' press, 
 An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' 
 
 everywheres, I guess, 
 But all they ever found was this — his pants 
 
 an' round-about — 
 An' the gobble-uns '11 git you 
 Ef you 
 Don't 
 
 Watch 
 Out! 
 
 An' one time a little girl 'ud alius laugh an' 
 
 grin, 
 An' make fun of ever' one an' all her blood 
 
 an' kin. 
 An' onct, when they was "company," an' 
 
 old folks was there, 
 She mocked 'em, an' shocked 'em, an' said 
 
 she didn't care! 
 An' jist as she kicked her heels an' turn't 
 
 to run an' hide, 
 They was two great Big Black Things 
 
 a-standin' by her side, 
 An' they snatched her through the ceilin', 
 
 'fore she knowed what she's about! 
 An' the gobble-uns '11 git you 
 
96 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 Ef you 
 Don't 
 
 Watch 
 Out! 
 
 An' little Orphant Annie says, when the 
 
 blaze is blue, 
 An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind 
 
 goes Woo-oo! 
 An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the 
 
 moon is gray, 
 An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all 
 
 squenched away — 
 You better mind your parents and yer 
 
 teachers fond an' dear, 
 An' cherish them 'at loves you, and dry 
 
 the orphant's tear, 
 An' he'p the po' an' needy ones 'at clusters 
 
 all about, 
 Er the gobble-uns '11 git you 
 Ef you 
 Don't 
 
 Watch 
 Out! 
 
 <5* *5* (5* 
 
 MABEL AND HER MOTHER. 
 
 AT her easel, brush in hand, 
 Clad in silk attire, 
 Painting "sunsets" vague and grand 
 
 (Clumsy clouds of fire!) 
 Flaxen hair in shining sheaves; 
 
 Pink and pearly -skin; 
 Fingers, which, like lily leaves, 
 
 Neither toil nor spin; — 
 At her belt a sun-flower bound, 
 
 Daisies on the table, 
 Plaques and panels all around — 
 
 That's aesthetic Mabel! 
 
 In the kitchen, fork in hand, 
 
 Clad in coarse attire, 
 Dishing oysters, fried and panned, 
 
 From a blazing fire: 
 Dusty hair in frowsy knots; — 
 
 Worn and withered skin; — 
 Fingers brown and hard as nuts, 
 
 (When the frosts begin;) — 
 Baking-board, one side aground; 
 
 Washtub, on the other; 
 Pots and skillets all around, — 
 
 That is Mabel's mother! 
 
 10*1 t&rl &5* 
 
 THE FARMER'S LIFE. 
 
 (For Four 
 
 First Boy. 
 
 THIS is the way the happy farmer 
 Plows his piece of ground, 
 (Extend arms forward as though holding 
 
 a plow.) 
 That from the little seeds he sows 
 A large crop may abound. 
 
 This is the way he sows the seed, 
 (Make motion as of taking seed out of a 
 bag and scattering with the right 
 hand.) 
 
 Boys.) 
 
 Dropping with careful hand, 
 In all the furrows well prepared 
 Upon the fertile land. 
 
 This is the way he cuts the grain 
 
 (Make motion as of cutting with a scythe.) 
 
 When bending with its weight; 
 And thus he bundles it in sheaves, 
 (Arms curved downward and extended for- 
 ward.) 
 
 Working long and late. 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 97 
 
 And then the grain he threshes thus 
 (Hands as though grasping a Hail, and 
 strike with force.) 
 And stores away to keep; 
 
 And thus he stands contentedly 
 (Stand straight, arms folded and smile on 
 face.) 
 And views the plenteous heap. 
 
 ^w *5* t5* 
 
 BE IN EARNEST. 
 
 NEVER be ashamed to say, "I do not 
 know." Men will then believe you 
 when you say, "I do know." Never be 
 ashamed to say, "I can't afford it;" "I 
 can't afford to waste time in the idleness to 
 which you invite me;" or "I can't afford 
 the money you ask. me to spend." Never 
 affect to be other than you are — either 
 wiser or richer. 
 
 Learn to say "No" with decision; "Yes" 
 with caution. "No" with decision when- 
 
 ever it resists temptation; "Yes" with 
 caution whenever it implies a promise; for 
 a promise once given is a bond inviolable. 
 A man is already of consequence in the 
 world when it is known that we can im- 
 plicitly rely upon him. Often have I 
 known a man to be preferred in stations of 
 honor and profit because he had this repu- 
 tation; when he said he knew a thing, he 
 knew it; and when he said he would do a 
 thing, he did it. 
 
 ^W ^* ^w 
 
 THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK. 
 
 I'M nine years old! an' you can't guess 
 how much I weigh, I bet! 
 Last birthday I weighed thirty-three! An' 
 
 I weigh thirty yet! 
 I'm awful little for my size — I'm purt' 
 
 nigh littler 'an 
 Some babies is! — an' neighbors all calls 
 
 me "The Little Man!" 
 An' Doc one time he laughed and said: 
 
 "I 'spect, first thing you know, 
 You'll have a spike-tail coat an' travel with 
 
 a show!" 
 An' nen I laughed — till I looked round 
 
 an' Aunty was a-cryin' — 
 Sometimes she acts like that, 'cause I got 
 
 "curv'ture of the spine !" 
 
 I set — while Aunty's washing — on my little 
 
 long-leg stool, 
 An' watch the little boys and girls a-skip- 
 
 pin' by to school; 
 
 An' I peck on the winder an' holler out 
 
 an' say: 
 "Who wants to fight the little man 'at dares 
 
 you all to-day?" 
 An' nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' 
 
 little girls peeks through, 
 An' they all says : " 'Cause you're so big, 
 
 you think we're 'feared o' you?" 
 An' nen they yell, and shake their fist at 
 
 me, like I shake mine — 
 They're thist in fun, you know, 'cause I 
 
 got "curv'ture of the spine!" 
 
 At evening, when the ironin's done, an' 
 
 Aunty's fixed the fire, 
 An' filled an' lit the lamp, and trimmed the 
 
 wick an' turned it higher, 
 An' fetched the wood all in fer night, an' 
 
 locked the kitchen door, 
 An' stuffed the ole crack where the wind 
 
 blows in up through the floor — 
 
98 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 She sets the kittle on the coals, an' biles 
 
 an' makes the tea, 
 An' fries the liver an' mush, an' cooks a 
 
 egg fcr me; 
 An' sometimes — when I cough so hard — 
 
 her elderberry wine 
 Don't go so bad fer little boys with "curv'- 
 
 ture of the spine." 
 
 But Aunty's all so childish like, on my 
 
 account, you see, 
 I'm 'most feared she'll be took down — 
 
 an' 'at's what bothers me — 
 
 'Cause ef my good ole Aunty ever would 
 git sick an' die, 
 
 I don't know what she'd do in Heaven — 
 till I come, by an' by, 
 
 For she's so ust to all my ways, an' every- 
 thing, you know, 
 
 An' no one there like me, to nurse, an' 
 worry over so — 
 
 'Cause all the little childrens there's so 
 straight an' strong an' fine, 
 
 They's nary angel 'bout the place with 
 "curv'ture of the spine." 
 
 — James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 t5* t£& <5* 
 
 EVENING AT THE FARM. 
 
 OVER the hill the farm-boy goes, 
 His shadow lengthens along the 
 land, 
 A giant staff in a giant hand; 
 In the poplar-tree, about the spring, 
 The katydid begins to sing; 
 
 The early dews are falling; 
 Into the stone heap darts the mink; 
 The swallows skim the river's brink; 
 And home to the woodland fly the crows, 
 When over the hill the farm-boy goes, 
 Cheerily calling, 
 "Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" 
 Farther, farther, over the hill, 
 Faintly calling, calling still, 
 "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" 
 
 Into the yard the farmer goes, 
 With grateful heart, at the close of day; 
 Harness and chain are hung away; 
 In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow; 
 The straw's in the stack, the hay in the 
 mow, 
 The cooling dews are falling: 
 The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, 
 The pigs come grunting to his feet, 
 The whinnying mare her master knows, 
 
 When into the yard the farmer goes, 
 His cattle calling: 
 "Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" 
 While still the cow-boy, far away, 
 Goes seeking those that have gone as- 
 tray — 
 "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" 
 
 Now to her task the milkmaid goes, 
 
 The cattle come crowding through the 
 
 gate, 
 Lowing, pushing, little and great; 
 About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, 
 The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, 
 While the pleasant dews are falling: 
 The new milch heifer is quick and shy, 
 But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, 
 And the white stream into the bright pail 
 
 flows, 
 When to her task the milkmaid goes, 
 Soothingly calling, 
 "So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" 
 The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, 
 And sits and milks in the twilight cool, 
 Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!" 
 
 To supper at last the farmer goes, 
 The apples are pared, the paper read, 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 99 
 
 The stories are told, then all to bed. 
 Without, the crickets' ceaseless song 
 Makes shrill the silence all night long; 
 
 The heavy dews are falling. 
 The housewife's hand has turned the lock; 
 Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; 
 The household sinks to deep repose, 
 
 But still in his sleep the farm-boy goes 
 Singing, calling — 
 "Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" 
 And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, 
 Drums in the pail with the flashing 
 streams, 
 Murmuring, "So, boss! so!" 
 
 tS* *<?* <<?* 
 
 ARATHUSA'S BROTHER JACK. 
 
 M 
 
 Y name's Jack. I'm eight years old. 
 I've a sister Arathusa, and she calls 
 me a little torment. I'll tell you why: You 
 know Arathusa has got a beau, and he 
 comes to see her every night, and they turn 
 the gas 'way, 'way down 'till you can't 
 hardly see. I like to stay in the room with 
 the gas on full blaze, but Arathusa skites 
 me out of the room every night. 
 
 I checked her once, you better believe. 
 You know she went to the door to let Al- 
 phonso in, and I crawled under the sofa. 
 Then they came in, and it got awful dark, 
 and they sat down on the sofa, and I 
 couldn't hear nothing but smack! smack! 
 smack! Then I reached out and jerked 
 Arathusa's foot. Then she jumped and said 
 "Oh, mercy, what's that?" and Alphonso 
 said she was a "timid little creature." "Oh, 
 Alphonso, I'm happy by your side, but 
 when I think of your going away it almost 
 breaks my heart." 
 
 Then I snickered right out, I couldn't 
 help it, and Arathusa got up, went and 
 peeked through the keyhole and said, "I 
 do believe that's Jack, nasty little torment, 
 he's always where he isn't wanted." Do 
 you know this made me mad, and I crawled 
 out from under the sofa and stood up be- 
 fore her and said, "You think you are smart 
 because you have got a beau. I guess I 
 know what you've been doing; you've been 
 sitting on Alphonso's lap, and letting him 
 kiss you like you let Bill Jones kiss you. 
 You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If 
 it hadn't been for that old false front of 
 yours, pa would have let me have a bicycle 
 like Tom Clifford's. You needn't be grind- 
 ing them false teeth of yours at me, I ain't 
 a-going out of here. I ain't so green as I 
 look. I guess I know a thing or two. I 
 don't care if you are twenty-eight years 
 old, you ain't no boss of me!" 
 
 
 SHE DIDN'T WANT MUCH. 
 
 1 WANTS a piece of cal'co 
 To make my doll a dess; 
 I doesn't want a big piece ; 
 
 A yard'll do, I guess. 
 I wish you'd fred my needle, 
 And find my fimble, too — 
 I has such heaps o' sewin' 
 I don't know what to do. 
 L.ofC. 
 
 I wants my Maud a bonnet 
 
 She hasn't none at all; 
 And Fred must have a jacket; 
 
 His ozzer one's too small. 
 I wants to go to grandma's; 
 
 You promised me I might. 
 I know she'd like to see me; 
 
 I wants to go to-night. 
 
100 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 She lets me wipe the dishes, 
 
 And see in grandpa's watch — 
 I wish I'd free, four pennies 
 
 To buy some butter-scotch. 
 My Hepsy tored her apron 
 
 A tum'lin down the stair, 
 And Caesar's lost his pantloons. 
 
 And needs anozer pair. 
 
 I wants some newer mittens — 
 I wish you'd knit me some, 
 
 'Cause most my fingers freezes, 
 They leaks so in the fum. 
 
 I wored 'em out last summer, 
 
 A pullin' George's sled; 
 I wish you wouldn't laugh so — 
 
 It hurts me in my head. 
 
 I wish I had a cookie; 
 
 I'm hungry's I can be. 
 If you hasn't pretty large ones, 
 
 You'd better bring me free. 
 I wish I had a p'ano — 
 
 Won't you buy me one to keep? 
 O, dear! I feels so tired, 
 
 I wants to go to sleep. 
 
 tSfr t5* <£* 
 
 PATIENCE WORKS WONDERS. 
 
 IF a string is in a knot, 
 Patience will untie it. 
 Patience can do many things; 
 Did you ever try it? 
 
 If 'twas sold at any shop 
 
 I should like to buy it; 
 But you and I must find our own; 
 
 No other can supply it. 
 
 t£& t&& 10* 
 
 KITTY IN SCHOOL. 
 
 COME, Kitty, I'll tell you what 
 We'll do this rainy day; 
 Just you and I, all by ourselves, 
 At keeping school, will play. 
 
 The teacher, Kitty, I will be; 
 
 And you shall be the class; 
 And you must close attention give, 
 
 If you expect to pass. 
 
 No, Kitty, "C-A-T" spells "cat." 
 Stop playing with you tail! 
 
 Your are so heedless, I am sure. 
 In spelling you will fail. 
 
 "C-A" oh, Kitty! do sit still! 
 
 You must not chase that fly! 
 You'll never learn a single word, 
 
 You do not even try. 
 
 I'll tell you what my teacher says 
 
 To me most ev'ry day- 
 She says that girls can never learn 
 
 While they are full of play. 
 
 So try again — another word; 
 
 "L-A-C-E" spells "lace." 
 Why, Kitty, it is not polite 
 
 In school to wash your face ! 
 
 You are a naughty, naughty puss, 
 
 And keep you in I should; 
 But then, I love you, dear, so much 
 
 I don't see how I could! 
 
 Oh, see! the sun shines bright again! 
 
 We'll run out doors and play; 
 We'll leave our school and lessons for 
 
 Another rainy day. 
 
 — Kate Ulmer. 
 
xa 
 in 
 
 X 
 
 >* 
 w 
 M 
 
 o 
 
 R 
 W 
 
 H 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 103 
 
 THE SMALL BOY'S TROUBLES. 
 
 BEFORE they had arithmetic 
 Or telescopes or chalk 
 Or blackboards, maps and copybooks, 
 When they could only talk ; 
 
 Before Columbus came to show 
 
 The world geography, 
 What did they teach the little boys 
 
 Who went to school like me? 
 
 There wasn't any grammar then, 
 They couldn't read or spell, 
 
 For books were not invented, yet 
 I think 'twas just as well; 
 
 There were not any rows of dates 
 
 Or laws or wars or kings 
 Or generals or victories 
 
 Or any of those things ; 
 
 There couldn't be much to learn, 
 There wasn't much to know ; 
 
 'Twas nice to be a boy 
 Ten thousand years ago. 
 
 For history had not begun, 
 
 The world was very new, 
 And in the schools I don't see what 
 
 The children had to do. 
 
 Now always there is more to learn; 
 
 How history does grow ! 
 And every day they find new things 
 
 They think we ought to know. 
 
 And if it must go on like this 
 
 I'm glad I live today, 
 For boys ten thousand years from now 
 
 Will not have time to play! 
 
 — Answers. 
 
 c5* <i5* <5* 
 
 A SONG FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY. 
 
 UPON the day each child is born, 
 Each year, so runs the tale, 
 An angel in the early morn 
 Its birthday comes to hail. 
 
 And for each deed of holy love 
 That last year thou hast done, 
 
 He brings a kiss from heaven above 
 And seals thee for his own. 
 
 f^b f&& i&i 
 
 WHEN PA BEGINS TO SHAVE. 
 
 WHEN Sunday mornin' comes around 
 My pa hangs up his strop, 
 An' takes his razor out an' makes 
 
 It go c'flop! c'flop! 
 An' then he gits his mug an' brush 
 
 An' yells t' me, "Behave!" 
 I tell y'u, things is mighty still — 
 When pa begins t' shave. 
 
 Then pa he stirs his brush? round 
 
 An' makes th' soapsuds fly; 
 An' sometimes, when he 3tirs too hard, 
 
 He gits some in his eye, 
 
 I tell y'u, but it's funny then 
 
 To see pa stamp and rave; 
 But y'u mustn't git ketched laffin' — 
 
 When pa begins t' shave. 
 
 Th' hired hand he dassent talk, 
 
 An' even ma's afeared, 
 An' y'u can hear th' razor click 
 
 A-cuttin' through pa's beard! 
 An' then my Uncle Bill he laffs 
 
 An' says: "Gosh! John, you're brave," 
 An' pa he swears, an' ma jest smiles — « 
 
 When pa begins t' shave, 
 
104 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 When pa gits done a-shavin' of 
 
 His face, he turns around, 
 And Uncle Bill says: "Why, John, 
 
 Yu'r chin looks like plowed ground!" 
 
 An' then he laffs — jest laffs an' laffs, 
 
 But I got t' behave, 
 Cos things's apt to happen quick — 
 
 When pa begins t' shave. 
 
 — Harry Douglass Robbins. 
 
 %2& q?* (5* 
 
 THAT'S OUR BABY. 
 
 ONE little row of ten little toes, 
 To go along with a brand-new nose, 
 Eight new fingers and two new thumbs, 
 That are just as good as sugar-plums — 
 
 That's baby. 
 
 One little pair of round new eyes, 
 Like a little owl's, so old and wise, 
 One little place they call a mouth, 
 Without one tooth from north to south — 
 
 That's baby. 
 
 Two little cheeks to kiss all day, 
 Two little hands, so in his way, 
 A brand-new head, not very big, 
 That seems to need a brand-new wig — 
 
 That's baby. 
 
 Dear little row of ten little toes, 
 How much we love them nobody knows; 
 Ten little kisses on mouth and chin, 
 What a shame he wasn't a twin! — 
 
 That's baby. 
 
 «<?• c?* i£* 
 
 HAVE ONLY GOOD WORDS FOR ALL. 
 
 IF anything unkind you hear 
 About someone you know, my dear, 
 Do not, I pray you, it repeat, 
 When you that someone chance to meet; 
 For such news has a leaden way 
 Of clouding o'er a sunny day. 
 
 But if you something pleasant hear 
 About someone you know, my dear, 
 Make haste — to make great haste 'twere 
 
 well — 
 To her or him the same to tell; 
 For such news has a golden way 
 Of lighting up a cloudy day. 
 
 t5* <£& fc5* 
 
 THE FIVE LITTLE CHICKENS. 
 
 SAID the first little chicken, 
 With a queer little squirm, 
 "I wish I could find 
 A fat little worm." 
 
 Said the next little chicken, 
 With an odd little shrug, 
 
 "I wish I could find 
 A fat little slug." 
 
 Said the third little chicken, 
 With a sharp little squeal, 
 
 "I wish I could find 
 
 Some nice yellow meal." 
 
 Said the fourth little chicken, 
 With a small ;igh of grief, 
 
 "I wish I could find 
 A little green loaf." 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 105 
 
 Said the fifth little chicken, 
 With a faint little moan, 
 
 "I wish I could find 
 A wee gravel stone." 
 
 "Now, see here," said the mother 
 From the green garden patchy 
 
 "If you want any breakfast, 
 Just come here and scratch." 
 
 «,?• «5* <<5* 
 
 WHAT LITTLE THINGS CAN DO. 
 
 A TINY drop of water, 
 Within the ocean lay, 
 A coaxing sunbeam caught her, 
 
 And bore her far away; 
 Up, up — and higher still — they go, 
 With gentle motion, soft and slow. 
 
 A little cloud lay sleeping, 
 
 Across the azure sky, 
 But soon it fell a-weeping, 
 
 As cold the wind rushed by, 
 And cried and cried herself away; 
 It was a very rainy day. 
 
 The little raindrops sinking, 
 
 Ran trickling through the ground, 
 And set the rootlets drinking, 
 
 In all the country round, 
 But some with laughing murmur, said, 
 "We'll farther go," and on they sped. 
 
 A little spring came dripping 
 The moss and ferns among, 
 
 A silver rill went tripping, 
 And singing sweet along, 
 
 And calling others to its side, 
 
 Until it rolled — a river wide. 
 
 And with the ocean blending, 
 
 At last its waters run, 
 Then is the story ending? 
 
 Why, no! 'tis just begun, 
 For in the ocean as before, 
 The drop of water lay once more. 
 
 fe5* t5* t^* 
 
 HOW THE CHILDREN ARE TAUGHT. 
 
 RAM it in, cram it in; 
 Children's heads are hollow, 
 Slam it in, jam it in ; 
 Still there's more to follow — 
 Hygiene and history, 
 Astronomic mystery, 
 Algebra, histology, 
 Latin, etymology, 
 Botany, geometry, 
 Greek and trigonometry. 
 Ram it in, cram it in; 
 
 Children's heads are hollow. 
 
 Rap it in, tap it in; 
 
 What are teachers paid for? 
 Bang it in, slam it in; 
 
 What are children made for? 
 Ancient archaeology, 
 Aryan philology, 
 Prosody, zoology, 
 Physics, clinictology, 
 Calculus and mathematics, 
 Rhetoric and hydrostatics. 
 Hoax it in, coax it in ; 
 
 Children's heads are hollow. 
 
 Scold it in, mold it in; 
 
 All that they can swallow. 
 Fold it in, mold it in, 
 
 Still there's more to follow. 
 Faces pinched, and sad, and pale, 
 Tell the same undying tale — 
 
106 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 Tell of moments robbed from sleep, 
 Meals untasted, studies deep. 
 Those who've passed the furnace through, 
 With aching brow, will tell to you 
 How the teacher crammed it in, 
 Rammed it in, jammed it in, 
 
 Crunched it in, punched it in, 
 Rubbed it in, clubbed it in, 
 Pressed it in, Garessed it in, 
 Rapped it in and slapped it in — 
 When their heads were hollow. 
 
 *5* ^* t5* 
 
 ABOUT READY TO SHOW OFF. 
 
 KIND friends and dear parents, we wel- 
 come you here 
 To our nice pleasant school-room, and 
 
 teacher so dear; 
 We wish but to show how much we have 
 
 learned, 
 And how to our lessons our hearts have 
 been turned. 
 
 But hope you'll remember we all are quite 
 
 young, 
 And when we have spoken, recited, and 
 
 sung, 
 
 »J* «5* t5* 
 
 You will pardon our blunders, which, as all 
 
 are aware, 
 May even extend to the president's chair. 
 
 Our life is a school-time, and till that shall 
 
 end, 
 With our Father in heaven for teacher and 
 
 friend, 
 Oh, let us perform well each task that is 
 
 given, 
 Till our time of probation is ended in 
 
 heaven. 
 
 THE SEASONS. 
 
 (This recitation can be made very effective when given by four girls dressed to represent the 
 
 four seasons.) 
 
 Spring. — 
 
 IS this a time to be gloomy and sad, 
 When our mother Nature laughs 
 around, 
 When even the deep blue heavens look 
 glad, 
 And gladness breathes from the blossom- 
 ing ground? 
 
 The clouds are at play in the azure space, 
 And their shadows at play on the bright 
 green vale; 
 
 And here they stretch to the frolic chase, 
 And there they roll on the easy gale. 
 
 And look at the broad-faced sun, how he 
 smiles 
 
 On the dewy earth that smiles on his ray, 
 On the leaping waters and gay young isles ; 
 Aye, look, and he'll smile thy gloom 
 away. 
 
 Summer. — 
 
 When summer comes in radiant dress, 
 
 And sunshine floods the land, 
 And blossoms, buds and butterflies 
 
 Are seen on every hand, 
 It's quite beyond disputing 
 
 That, far more than the rest — 
 The winter, spring, and autumn — 
 
 I love sweet summer best. 
 
 Autumn. — 
 
 There's music in the air, 
 Soft as the bee's low hum; 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 107 
 
 There's music in the air, 
 
 When the autumn days are come. 
 Fairies sweet, your songs we hear, 
 
 At times you're sad, then full of cheer; 
 Come out! come out! we know you're 
 near, 
 
 By the music in the air. 
 
 Winter. — 
 
 Old winter comes forth in his robe of 
 white ; 
 
 He sends the sweet flowers far out of sight; 
 He robs the trees of their green leaves 
 bright; 
 And freezes the pond and river. 
 
 We like the spring with its fine fresh air; 
 We like the summer with flowers so fair; 
 We like the fruits we in autumn share, 
 And we like, too, old winter's greeting. 
 
 ^* £& t£r* 
 
 THE CAT'S BATH. 
 
 (A "Little 
 
 AS pussy sat washing her face by the 
 gate, 
 A nice little dog came to have a good 
 chat; 
 And after some talk about matters of state, 
 Said, with a low bow, "My dear Mrs. Cat, 
 I really do hope you'll not think I am rude; 
 I am curious, I know, and that you may 
 say — 
 Perhaps you'll be angry — but no, you're 
 too good — 
 Pray why do you wash in that very odd 
 way? 
 Now I every day rush away to the lake, 
 And in the clear water I dive and I 
 swim; 
 I dry my wet fur with a run and a shake, 
 
 And am fresh as a rose and neat as a pin. 
 But you any day in the sun may be seen, 
 
 Folks' " song.) 
 
 Just rubbing yourself with your red lit- 
 tle tongue; 
 I admire the grace with which it is done — 
 But really, now, are you sure you get 
 yourself clean?" 
 The cat, who sat swelling with rage and 
 surprise 
 At this could no longer her fury contain, 
 For she had always supposed herself rather 
 precise, 
 And of her sleek neatness had been 
 somewhat vain; 
 So she flew at poor doggy and boxed both 
 his ears, 
 Scratched his nose and his eyes, and spit 
 in his face, 
 And sent him off yelping; from which it 
 appears 
 Those who ask prying questions may 
 meet with disgrace. 
 
 ^* <2* *£& 
 
 GREETING. 
 
 KIND friends, we welcome you to-day 
 With songs of merry glee; 
 Your loving smiles we strive to win, 
 Each face we love to see. 
 
 Sweet welcomes then to one and all, 
 And may your smiles approve; 
 
 And may we never miss the light 
 Of faces that we love. 
 
108 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 THE LITTLE SPEAKER. 
 
 (To be spoken 
 
 YOU'D scarce expect a boy like me 
 To get up here where all can see, 
 And make a speech as well as those 
 Who wear the largest kind of clothes. 
 
 I think it was in olden time, 
 That some one said in funny rhyme, 
 "Tall aches from little tie-corns grow, 
 Large screams from little children flow." 
 
 And if that rhymer told the truth, 
 Though I am now a little youth, 
 
 by a very small boy.) 
 
 Perhaps I'll make as great a noise, 
 As some who are much larger boys. 
 
 I will not speak of Greece and Rome, 
 But tell you what I've learned at home. 
 And what was taught me when at school, 
 While sitting on a bench or stool; 
 
 I've learned to talk, and read, and spell, 
 And don't you think that's pretty well 
 For such a little boy as I? 
 But I must leave you — so good-bye. 
 
 *2& *5* t5* 
 
 LITTLE DOT. 
 
 (The touching incident that gave rise to the following lines occurred in one of our 
 large cities. Crouched upon the curbstone in a blinding snowstorm there was a little match- 
 girl apparently not more than six years old. Attracted by her sobs, an old gentleman 
 approached her and kindly asked, "Who are you, my little girl, that you are here in this 
 storm?" Raising her large brown eyes, brimming with tears, she sobbed, "Oh, I'm only little 
 Dot!") 
 
 CROUCHING on the icy pavement, 
 Sobbing, shivering with the cold, 
 Garments scant around her clinging, 
 
 All her matches yet unsold; 
 Visions of a cheerless garret, 
 
 Cruel blows not soon forgot, 
 While through choking sobs the murmur, 
 "Oh, I'm only little Dot!" 
 
 Deeper than the icy crystals, 
 
 Though their keenness made her start, 
 Is the hungry, aching longing 
 
 In the little match-girl's heart. 
 
 No kind voice to cheer and comfort; 
 
 Ah! by fortune quite forgot, 
 Who can wonder at the murmur, 
 
 "Oh, I'm only little Dot!" 
 
 Far above the clouds and snowstorms, 
 
 Where the streets have pearly gates, 
 In that home a sainted mother, 
 
 For the little match-girl waits. 
 By the throng of waiting angels, 
 
 Little one, you're ne'er forgot; 
 In the home of many mansions 
 
 There is room for little Dot. 
 
 ^* ^* (5* 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 
 
 SHE had been told that God made all 
 the stars 
 That twinkled up in heaven, and now she 
 
 stood 
 Watching the coming of the twilight on, 
 
 As if it were a new and perfect world 
 And this were its first eve. She stood alone 
 By the low window, with the silken lash 
 Of her soft eye upraised and her sweet 
 mouth 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 109 
 
 Half parted with the new and strange de- 
 light 
 Of beauty that she could not comprehend, 
 And had not seen before. The purple folds 
 Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky, 
 That looked so still and delicate above, 
 Filled her young heart with gladness, and 
 
 the eve 
 Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
 Stood looking at the west with that half- 
 smile, 
 
 As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. 
 Presently in the edge of the last tint 
 Of sunset, where the blue was melted 
 Into the faint golden mellowness, a star 
 Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 
 Burst from her lips, and putting up her 
 
 hands, 
 Her simple thought broke forth expres- 
 sively, 
 "Father, dear father! God has made a star!" 
 
 —N. P. Willis. 
 
 t5* *2* c?* 
 
 THE TRUE STORY OF LITTLE BOY BLUE. 
 
 LITTLE Boy Blue, as the story goes, 
 One morning in summer fell fast 
 asleep, 
 When he should have been, as every one 
 knows, 
 Watching the cows and sheep. 
 
 Now all of you will remember what 
 
 Came of the nap on that summer morn; 
 
 How the sheep got into the meadow-lot, 
 And the cows got into the corn. 
 
 Neglecting a duty is wrong, of course, 
 But I've always felt, if we could but 
 know, 
 That the matter was made a great deal 
 worse 
 Than it should have been, and so 
 
 I find in my sifting, that there was one 
 Still more to blame than Little Boy Blue. ' 
 
 I am anxious to have full justice done, 
 And so, I know, are you. 
 
 The one to blame I have found to be 
 (I'm sorry to say it) little Bo-Peep; 
 
 You will remember, perhaps, that she 
 Also was minding sheep. 
 
 Well, little Bo-Peep came tripping along — 
 (The sheep she tended were running at 
 large)— 
 
 Where little Boy Blue sat singing a song, 
 And faithfully watching his charge. 
 
 Said little Bo-Peep, "It's a burning shame 
 That you should sit here from week to 
 week. 
 
 Just leave your work, and we'll play a game 
 Of — well — of hide and seek." 
 
 It was dull work, and he liked to play 
 Better, I'm sure, than to eat or sleep; 
 
 He liked the bloom of the summer day; — 
 And he liked — he liked Bo-Peep. 
 
 And so, with many a laugh and shout, 
 They hid from each other — now here — 
 now there; 
 
 And whether the cows were in or out, 
 Bo-Peep had never a care. 
 
 "I will hide once more," said the maiden 
 fair, 
 
 "You shall not find me this time, I say — 
 Shut your eyes up tight, and lie down there 
 
 Under that stack of hay. 
 
110 
 
 JUVENILE OEMS. 
 
 "Now wait till I call," said Miss Bo-Peep, 
 And over the meadows she slipped away, 
 
 With never a thought for cows or sheep — 
 Alas! Alas! the day. 
 
 She let down the bars, did Miss Bo-Peep— 
 Such trifles as bars she held in scorn — 
 
 And into the meadows went the sheep, 
 And the cows went into the corn. 
 
 Then long and patiently waited he 
 
 For the blithesome call from her rosy 
 lips; 
 
 He waited in vain — quite like, you see, 
 The boy on the burning ship. 
 
 And by and by, when they found Boy Blue 
 In the merest doze, he took the blame. 
 
 I think it was fine in him — don't you — 
 Not to mention Bo-Peep's name? 
 
 And thus it has happened that all these 
 years 
 He has borne the blame she ought to 
 share. . 
 Since I know the truth of it, it appears 
 To me to be only fair 
 
 To tell the story from shore to shore, 
 From sea to sea, and from sun to sun, 
 
 Because, as I think I have said before, 
 I like to see justice done. 
 
 So, whatever you've read or seen or heard, 
 Believe me, good people, I tell the true 
 
 And only genuine — take my word — 
 Story of little Boy Blue. 
 
 i3& w& te& 
 
 OPENING ADDRESS. 
 
 I AM a tiny tot, 
 And have not much to say; 
 But I must make, I'm told, 
 The "Welcome Speech" to-day. 
 
 Dear friends, we're glad you've come 
 To hear us speak and sing. 
 
 We'll do our very best 
 To please in every thing. 
 
 Our speeches we have learned; 
 
 And if you'll hear us through, 
 You'll see what tiny tots — 
 
 If they but try — can do. 
 
 (3* *5* t5* 
 
 BABYKIN BOYKIN. 
 
 DID the baskety woman a-sweeping the 
 sky 
 Discover the Babykin there? 
 Did she tumble him down from his nest on 
 high 
 Through all of the sky-blue air? 
 Did she find there was never a room to 
 spare 
 In the toe of her sister's shoe? 
 Surely that was enough to scare 
 The Babykin Boykin-Boo! 
 
 Did the moony man give him half a crown 
 
 And tell him he'd better be born? 
 And with Jack and Jill was he tumbled 
 down 
 
 One summery, shiny morn? 
 Or did Babykin Boykin come to town 
 
 On a cow with a crumpled horn? 
 Did the Babykin lie on his back asleep 
 
 On a mattress of genuine hair? 
 And did Simon the Simple and Little 
 Bopeep 
 
JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Come skipping along to the fair? 
 Did they blatantly blow a terrible blare 
 
 On the horn of the Little Boy Blue, 
 To wake him up with an awful scare? 
 
 Poor Babykin Boykin-Boo! 
 
 But if Babykin Boykin now will stay, 
 
 We'll feed him on victuals and drink, 
 And the Muffety maiden will give him 
 some whey 
 
 And a pat of her curds, I think. . 
 And the toes of the Banbury dame shall 
 play, 
 And her fingery bells go "chink!" 
 And the hey-diddle cow shall jump in the 
 air 
 As high as she used to do. 
 Oh, dear me! but she must not scare 
 Our Babykin Boykin-Boo! 
 
 — /. Edmund V. Cooke. 
 
 l3*l \£nt t&& 
 
 IF. 
 
 IF I were a man," said the restless lad, 
 "I'd never give up and be still and sad. 
 Were my name but known in the lists of life 
 I'd never say die till I'd won the strife. 
 But who will challenge the steel of youth, 
 Though his heart be brave, and his motto 
 
 'truth'? 
 There's work to be done in this life's short 
 
 span, 
 But, alack-a-day! I am not a man." 
 
 "If I were a boy," says the toiler gray, 
 "I'd fashion my lot in a better way. 
 I'd hope and labor both day and night, 
 And make ambition my beacon light. 
 Were my bark but launched upon youth's 
 
 bright stream 
 I'd bend to the oar, nor drift nor dream, 
 Till I reached the haven of peace and joy — 
 But, alack-a-day ! I am not a boy." 
 
 t5* «.?• ti5* 
 
 THE STREET OF BY-AND-BY. 
 
 "By the street of 'By-and-By' one arrives 
 
 OH! shun the spot, my youthful friends, 
 I urge you to beware; 
 Beguiling is the pleasant way, and softly 
 
 breathes the air; 
 Yet none have ever passed to scenes en- 
 nobling, great and high, 
 Who once began to linger in the street of 
 By-and-by. 
 
 How varied are the images arising to my 
 
 sight 
 Of those who wished to shun the wrong, 
 
 who loved and prized the right, 
 Yet from the silken bonds of sloth, they 
 
 vainly strove to fly, 
 
 at the house of 'Never.' " — Old Saying. 
 
 Which held them gently prisoned in the 
 street of By-and-by. 
 
 A youth aspired to climb the height of 
 
 Learning's lofty hill; 
 What dimmed his bright intelligence — 
 
 what quelled his earnest will? 
 Why did the object of his quest still mock 
 
 his wistful eye? 
 Too long, alas! he tarried in the street of 
 
 By-and-by. 
 
 "My projects thrive," the merchant said; 
 "when doubled is my store, 
 
 How freely shall my ready gold be show- 
 ered among the poor!" 
 
112 
 
 JUVENILE OEMS. 
 
 Vast grew his wealth, yet strove he not the 
 
 mourner's tear to dry; 
 He never journeyed onward from the street 
 
 of By-and-by. 
 
 "Forgive thy erring brother, he hath wept 
 
 and suffered long," 
 I said to one, who answered — "He hath 
 
 done me grievous wrong; 
 Yet will I seek my brother, and forgive him 
 
 ere I die; — " 
 Alas! Death shortly found him in the street 
 
 of By-and-by! 
 
 The wearied worldling muses upon lost 
 and wasted days, 
 
 Resolved to turn hereafter from the error 
 
 of his ways, 
 To lift his groveling thoughts from earth, 
 
 and fix them on the sky: 
 Why does he linger fondly in the street of 
 
 By-and-by? 
 
 Then shun the spot, my youthful friends; 
 work on, while yet you may; 
 
 Let not old age o'ertake you as you sloth- 
 fully delay, 
 
 Lest you should gaze around you, and dis- 
 cover with a sigh, 
 
 Yon have reached the house of "Never" 
 by the street of By-and-by. 
 
 — Mrs. Abdy. 
 
 t3"* t2r* t&* 
 
 BOYS WANTED. 
 
 BOYS of spirit, boys of will, 
 Boys of muscle, brain and power, 
 Fit to cope with anything. 
 These are wanted every hour. 
 
 Not the weak and whining drones, 
 
 Who all troubles magnify; 
 Not the watchword of "I can't," 
 
 But the nobler one, "I'll try." 
 
 Do whate'er you have to do> 
 With a .true and earnest zeal ; 
 
 Bend your sinews to the task, 
 "Put your shoulder to the wheel.' 
 
 Though your duty may be hard, 
 
 Look not on it as an ill; 
 If it be an honest task, 
 
 Do it with an honest will. 
 
 In the workshop, on the farm, 
 At the desk, where'er you be, 
 
 From your future efforts, boys, 
 Comes a nation's destiny. 
 
 i^* (£• t&rt 
 
 THE NAUGHTY BOY. 
 
 ONCE I was naughty — ran away 
 To see what I could see; 
 It was a horrid poky day — 
 My mother punished me. 
 
 She didn't whip me — wisht she had, 
 
 So hard she left a mark! 
 She shut me up for being bad: 
 
 The room was big and dark. 
 
 It was so dark I thought I saw 
 Strange creatures' awful eyes, 
 
 And I was scared and couldn't draw 
 My breath for screarns and cries. 
 
 I wisht something would gobble me, 
 
 And so I didn't stir; 
 Then I'd be gone, and mother, she — 
 
 Guess that would punish her I 
 
 — William S. Lord. 
 
JUVENILE OEMS. 
 
 113 
 
 BABY ON THE TRAIN. 
 
 EVERYBODY restless, 
 Grumbling at the dust, 
 Growling at the cinders, 
 Pictures of disgust. 
 
 Axle hot and smoking, 
 Train delayed an hour, 
 
 How the faces lengthen, 
 Sullen, wrinkled, sour. 
 
 Sudden transformation — 
 
 Passengers in smiles — 
 Scowls and frowns have vanished- 
 
 What is it beguiles? 
 
 Grimy face and fingers, 
 Mouth all over crumbs, 
 
 Smeary wrist contrasting 
 
 Pink and clean-sucked thumb. 
 
 Round head nodding, bobbing, 
 
 Blue eyes full of fun, 
 Wind-blown tresses shining 
 
 Golden in the sun. 
 
 Everybody cheerful, 
 
 No remarks profane, 
 Magic change effected — 
 
 Baby on the train. 
 
 ^% ^% ^w 
 
 THE DEAD DOLL. 
 
 YOU needn't be trying to comfort me, 
 I tell you my dolly is dead! 
 There's no use in saying she isn't 
 
 With a crack like that in her head. 
 It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt 
 Much to have my tooth out that day. 
 And then when the man most pulled my 
 Head off you hadn't a word to say. 
 
 And I guess you must think I'm a baby 
 
 When you say you can mend it with 
 glue! 
 As if I didn't know better than that; 
 
 Why just suppose it were you! 
 You might make her look all mended, 
 
 But what do I care for looks; 
 Why, glue's for chairs, and tables, 
 
 And toys and the backs of books. 
 
 My dolly, my own little daughter! 
 
 Oh, but it's the awfullest crack! 
 It just makes me sick to think 
 
 Of the sound, when her poor head went 
 whack 
 Against that horrible brass thing 
 
 That holds up the little shelf. 
 
 Now, nursey, what makes you remind me? 
 I know that I did it myself. 
 
 I think you must be crazy, 
 
 You'd get her another head? 
 What good would forty heads do her? 
 
 I tell you my dolly is dead! 
 And to think I hadn't quite finished 
 
 Her elegant new spring hat, 
 And I took a sweet ribbon of hers 
 
 To tie on that horrid cat! 
 
 When my mama gave me that ribbon, 
 
 I was playing out in the yard. 
 She said to me most expressly, 
 
 "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde." 
 And I went and put it on Tabby, 
 
 And Hildegarde saw me do it. 
 But I said to myself, "O never mind, 
 
 I don't believe she knew it." 
 
 But I know she knew it now, 
 
 And I just believe, I do, 
 That her poor little heart was broken, 
 
 And so her head broke, too; 
 
114 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS. 
 
 Oh, my baby, my little baby, 
 I wish my head had been hit, 
 
 For I've hit it over and over, 
 And it wasn't cracked a bit. 
 
 But since the darling is dead 
 
 She'll want to be buried, of course. 
 
 We will take my little wagon, nurse, 
 And )£OU shall be the horse. 
 
 And I'll walk behind and cry, 
 And we'll put her in this, you see, 
 
 This dear little box, and we'll bury 
 Her then under the maple tree. 
 
 And papa will make me a tombstone 
 
 Like the one he made for my bird, 
 And he'll put what I tell him on it, 
 
 Yes, every single word. 
 I shall say, "Here lies Hildegarde, 
 
 A beautiful doll who is dead. 
 She died of a broken heart 
 
 And a dreadful crack in her head." 
 
 t2& t&* w* 
 
 THE SQUIRREL'S LESSON. 
 
 TWO little squirrels, out in the sun, 
 One gathered nuts and the other had 
 none; 
 "Time enough yet," his constant refrain; 
 "Summer is still only just on the wane." 
 
 Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate: 
 He roused him at last, but he roused him 
 
 too late; 
 Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud, 
 And gave little squirrel a spotless white 
 
 shroud. 
 
 Two little boys in a schoolroom were 
 
 placed, 
 One always perfect, the other disgraced; 
 
 "Time enough yet for my learning," he 
 
 said; 
 "I will climb, by and by, from the foot to 
 
 the head." 
 
 Listen, my darling; their locks are turned 
 
 gray; 
 One as a Governor sitteth to-day ; 
 The other, a pauper, looks out at the door 
 Of the almshouse, and idles his days as of 
 
 yore. 
 Two kinds of people we meet every day: 
 One is at work, the other at play, 
 Living uncared for, dying unknown — 
 The busiest hive hath ever a drone. 
 
 t5* t£& *2& 
 
 WATCHING BABY AS IT SLEEPS. 
 
 SLEEP, baby, sleep! 
 Thy father watches his sheep ; 
 Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree, 
 And down comes a little dream on thee. 
 Sleep, baby, sleep! 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep! 
 
 The large stars are the sheep; 
 The little stars are the lambs, I guess; 
 
 And the gentle moon is the shepherdess. 
 Sleep, baby, sleep! 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep! 
 
 Our Savior loves His sheep; 
 He is the Lamb of God on high, 
 Who for our sakes came down to die. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep! 
 
Humor is the sauce of all literature. The humorous selections in this department are of 
 sufficient variety to supply the sauce for any program or form of entertainment. 
 
 *£• c?* ti5* 
 
 CAUDLE'S SHIRT BUTTONS. 
 
 THERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a 
 little better temper than you were 
 this morning. There, you needn't begin 
 to whistle; people don't come to bed to 
 whistle. But it's just like you, I can't 
 speak, that you don't try to insult me. 
 Once, I used to say you were the best crea- 
 ture living; now, you get quite a fiend. 
 Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. 
 It's the only time I have to talk to you, 
 and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all 
 day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a 
 word at night ; and it isn't often I open my 
 mouth, goodness knows. Because once 
 in your lifetime your shirt wanted a but- 
 ton, you must almost swear the roof off 
 the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. 
 Caudle! you don't know what you do when 
 you're in a passion. You were not in a 
 passion, weren't you? Well, then, I don't 
 know what a passion is; and I think I 
 ought to by this time. I've lived long 
 enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know 
 that. 
 
 It's a pity you haven't something worse 
 to complain of than a button off your shirt. 
 If you'd some wives,, you would, I know. 
 I'm sure I'm never without a needle and 
 thread in my hand; what with you and the 
 children, I'm made a perfect slave Of. And 
 what's my thanks? Why, if once in your 
 life a button's off your shirt — what do you 
 say "ah" at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or 
 twice, or three times, at most. I'm sure, 
 
 Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are 
 better looked after than yours. I only wish 
 I'd kept the shirts you had when you were 
 first married! I should like to know 
 where your buttons were then? 
 
 Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's 
 how you always try to put me down. You 
 fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to 
 speak, you won't hear me. That's how you 
 men always will have all the talk to your- 
 selves : a poor woman isn't allowed to get 
 a word in. A nice notion you have of a 
 wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of 
 but her husband's buttons. A pretty no- 
 tion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if 
 poor women only knew what they had to 
 go through! What with buttons, and one 
 thing and another! They'd never tie them- 
 selves to the best man in the world, I'm 
 sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle? 
 — Why, do much better without you, I'm 
 certain. 
 
 And it's my belief, after all, that the but- 
 ton wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that 
 you pulled it off, that you might have 
 something to talk about. Oh, you're ag- 
 gravating enough, when you like, for any- 
 thing! All I know is, it's very odd the 
 button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure 
 no woman's a greater slave to her hus- 
 band's buttons than I am. I only say it's 
 very odd. 
 
 However, there's one comfort; it can't 
 last long. I'm worn to death with your 
 
 "5 
 
116 
 
 CROWE HUMOR. 
 
 temper, and I shan't trouble you a great 
 while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare 
 say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! 
 That's your love; that's your feeling. I 
 know that I'm sinking every day; we shall 
 
 see how your second wife will look after 
 your buttons. Yes, Caudle, you'll find out 
 the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll 
 think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll 
 never have a blessed button to your back. 
 
 «5* *i5* ^* 
 
 PAT'S EXCELSIOR. 
 
 ? r T , WAS growin' dark so terrible fasht, 
 
 1 Whin through a town up the 
 
 mountain there pashed 
 
 A broth of a boy, to his neck in the shnow ; 
 
 As he walked, his shillaleh he swung to and 
 
 fro, 
 Saying: "It's up to the top I am bound 
 for to go, 
 
 Be jabbers!" 
 
 He looked mortal sad, and his eye was as 
 
 bright 
 As a fire of turf on a cowld winther night; 
 And nivir a word that he said could ye tell 
 As he opened his mouth and let out a yell, 
 "It's up till the top of the mountain I'll go, 
 Onless covered up wid this bodthersome 
 
 shnow 
 
 Be jabbers!" 
 
 Through the windows he saw, as he thrav- 
 
 eled along, 
 The light of the candles and fires so warm, 
 But a big chunk of ice hung over his head; 
 Wid a shnivel and groan, "By St. Patrick!" 
 
 he said, 
 "It's up to the very tip-top I will rush, 
 And then if it falls, it's not meself it'll crush, 
 Be jabbers!" 
 
 "Whisht ,a bit," said an owld man, whose 
 hair was white 
 
 As the shnow that fell down on that mis- 
 erable night; 
 
 "Shure ye'll fall in the wather, me bit of a 
 lad, 
 
 Fur the night is so dark and the walkin' 
 
 is bad." 
 Bedad! he'd not lisht to a word that was 
 
 said, 
 But he'd go to the top, if he went on his 
 
 head, 
 
 Be jabbers! 
 
 A bright, buxom young girl, such as likes 
 to be kissed, 
 
 Axed him wouldn' he stop, and how could 
 he resist? 
 
 So shnapping his fingers and winking his 
 eye, 
 
 While shmiling upon her, he made this re- 
 ply— 
 
 "Faith, I meant to kape on till I got to the 
 top, 
 
 But, as yer shwate self axed me, I may as 
 well shtop, 
 
 Be jabbers!" 
 
 He shtopped all night and he shtopped all 
 day — 
 
 And ye mustn't be axin whin he did go 
 away; 
 
 Fur wouldn't he be a bastely gossoon 
 
 To be lavin his darlint in the swate honey- 
 moon? 
 
 Whin the owld man has his praties enough 
 and to spare, 
 
 Shure he might as well shtay if he's com- 
 fortable, there 
 
 Be jabbers! 
 
CHOICE RUMOR. 
 
 117 
 
 CALLING A BOY IN THE MORNING. 
 
 CALLING a boy up in the morning 
 can hardly be classed under the 
 head of "pastimes," especially if the boy is 
 fond of exercise the day before. And it is 
 a little singular that the next hardest thing 
 to getting a boy out of bed is getting him 
 into it. There is rarely a mother that is a 
 success at rousing a boy. All mothers 
 know this; so do their boys. And yet the 
 mother seems to go at it in the right way. 
 She opens the stair door and insinuatingly 
 observes, "Johnny." There is no response. 
 "Johnny." Still no response. Then there 
 is a short, sharp "John," followed a mo- 
 ment later by a long and emphatic "John 
 Henry." A grunt from the upper regions 
 signifies that an impression has been made; 
 and the mother is encouraged to add, 
 "You'd better be getting down here to 
 
 your breakfast, young man, before I come 
 up there an' give you something you'll 
 feel." This so startles the young man that 
 he immediately goes to sleep again. And 
 the operation has to be repeated several 
 times. A father knows nothing about this 
 trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a 
 soda bottle ejects its cork, and the "John 
 Henry" that cleaves the air of that stair- 
 way goes into that boy like electricity, and 
 pierces the deepest recesses of his nature. 
 And he pops out of that bed and into his 
 clothes, and down the stairs, with a 
 promptness that is commendable. ■ It is 
 rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the 
 paternal summons. About once a year is 
 believed to be as often as is consistent Vith 
 the rules of health. He saves his father a 
 great many steps by his thoughtfulness. 
 
 <5* &?* (5* 
 
 OLD BOB'S LIFE INSURANCE. 
 
 (A very effective reading.) 
 
 OLD BOB conceived the idea of hav- 
 ing his life insured. 
 
 "How much do you weigh?" asked the 
 examining physician. 
 
 "I weighs 'bout fifteen pounds more den 
 my wife does." 
 
 "Well, but how much does she weigh?" 
 
 "I'se dun forgot; but she's a whopper, 
 lemme tell you." 
 
 "How tall are you?" 
 
 "Who— me?" 
 
 "Yes, you." 
 
 "Lemme s,ee. Does yere know Abe 
 Sevier whut worked fur ole man Plum- 
 mer?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Wall, I'se sorry, fur I ain't quite ez tall 
 ez he is." 
 
 The doctor, after weighing old Bob and 
 measuring his height, asked: 
 
 "Hold old are you?" 
 
 "Who— me?" 
 
 "Yes, of course, you. You are being 
 examined." 
 
 "Dat's a fack. Wall, lemme see. My 
 birfday comes in July, an' now whut I 
 wants ter git at is how many July I ken 
 recolleck. Ain't dat de p'int?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Wall, lemme see. Bleme ef I knows. 
 Suppose we make it August, 'stead of 
 July?" 
 
 "What difference would that make?" 
 
 "Doan' know, but it's jes ez easy." 
 
 "I'll put you down at fifty." 
 
 "Put who down at fifty?" 
 
118 
 
 CHOICE HUMOR. 
 
 "You, of course. How old is your 
 father?" 
 
 " 'Bout er hunnered an' ten." 
 
 "You don't tell me so?" 
 
 "Yes, I does." 
 
 "Is he in good health?" 
 
 "Oh, no, sah; dat ain't whar he is. He's 
 in de grabe." 
 
 "Thought you said he is no?" 
 
 "He is. You didn't ax me how old he 
 wuz when he died." 
 
 "Well, how old was he when he died?" 
 
 " 'Bout forty." 
 
 "Had he enjoyed good health?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sah; de healthiest man yer eber 
 seed." 
 
 "Did he have a lingering disease?" 
 
 "Whut sorte 'zeaze?" 
 
 "Was he sick very long?" 
 
 "Oh, no, sah. He drapped off mighty 
 sudden." 
 
 "Heart disease?" 
 
 "No, sah." 
 
 "Did the doctors attend him?" 
 
 "No, sah." 
 
 "Well, what did they say was the mat- 
 ter with him?" 
 
 "Da didn't say much o' nothin'. One o' 
 'em climbed up an' put his year agin de ole 
 man an' said dot he wuz dead enough ter 
 be cut down. Den de sheriff cut him down 
 an' put him in er box. Doan' think dat 
 he had heart 'zcaze, boss. Think dat he 
 had some sorter trouble wid his naik." 
 
 "Look here, I don't believe that you 
 want your life insured." 
 
 "I doan' b'lebe I dose, sah, since yer's 
 gunter pry inter a man's family history. 
 Good day, sah." 
 
 «£* t5* t,5* 
 
 A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 MR and Mrs. Jones had just finished 
 their breakfast. Mr. Jones had 
 pushed back his chair and was looking 
 under the lounge for his boots. Mrs. Jones 
 sat at .the table, holding the infant Jones 
 and mechanically working her forefinger 
 in its mouth. Suddenly she paused in the 
 motion, threw the astonished child on its 
 back, turned as white as a sheet, pried open 
 its mouth, and immediately gasped "Eph- 
 raim!" 
 
 Mr. Jones, who was yet on his knees 
 with his head under the lounge, at once 
 came forth, rapping his head sharply on 
 the side of the lounge as he did so, and, 
 getting on his feet, inquired what was the 
 matter. 
 
 "O Ephraim," said she, the tears rolling 
 down her cheeks and the smiles coursing 
 up. 
 
 "Why, what is it, Aramathea?" asked 
 the astonished Mr. Jones, smartly rubbing 
 his head where it had come in contact with 
 the lounge. 
 
 "Baby!" she gasped. 
 
 Mr. Jones turned pale and commenced 
 to sweat. 
 
 "Baby! O, O, O Ephraim! Baby has 
 —baby has got — a little toothey, oh, oh!" 
 
 "No!" screamed Mr. Jones, spreading 
 his legs apart, dropping his chin and star- 
 ing at the struggling heir with all his 
 might. 
 
 "I tell you it is," persisted Mrs. Jones, 
 with a slight evidence of hysteria. 
 
 "Oh, it can't be!" proteste*d Mr. Jones, 
 preparing to swear if it wasn't. 
 
 "Come here and see for yourself," said 
 Mrs. Jones. "Open it 'ittle. mousy-wousy 
 
CHOICE HUMOR. 
 
 121 
 
 for its own muzzer; that's a toody-woody ; 
 that's a blessed 'ittle 'ump o' sugar." 
 
 Thus conjured, the heir opened its 
 mouth sufficiently for the father to thrust 
 in his finger, and that gentleman having 
 convinced himself by the most unmistak- 
 able evidence that a tooth was there, im- 
 mediately kicked his hat across the room, 
 buried his fist in the lounge, and declared 
 with much feeling that he could lick the 
 individual who would dare to intimate that 
 he was not the happiest man on the face 
 of the earth. Then he gave Mrs. Jones a 
 hearty smack on the mouth and snatched 
 up the heir, while that lady rushed trem- 
 blingly forth after Mrs. Simmons, who 
 lived next door. 
 
 In a moment Mrs. Simmons came tear- 
 ing in as if she had been shot out of a gun, 
 and right behind her came Miss Simmons 
 
 QUEER ENGLISH 
 
 \\7 E'LL begin with a box, and the 
 
 at a speed that indicated that she had been 
 ejected from two guns. 
 
 Mrs. Simmons at once snatched the heir 
 from the arms of Mr. Jones and. hurried it 
 to the window, where she made a careful 
 and critical examination of its mouth, 
 while Mrs. Jones held its head and Mr. 
 Jones danced up and down the room, and 
 snapped his fingers to show how calm he 
 was. 
 
 It having been ascertained by Mrs. Sim- 
 mons that the tooth was a sound one, and 
 aUso that the strongest hopes for its future 
 could be entertained on account of its 
 coming in the new of the moon, Mrs. Jones 
 got out the necessary material and Mr. 
 Jones at once proceeded to write seven dif- 
 ferent letters to as many persons, unfolding 
 to them the event of the morning and in- 
 viting them to come on as soon as possible. 
 
 LANGUAGE. 
 
 E'LL begin with 
 plural is boxes, 
 But the plural of ox should be oxen, not 
 
 oxes; 
 Then one fowl is a goose, but two are called 
 
 geese, 
 Yet the plural of moose should never be 
 
 meese; 
 You may find a lone mouse or a whole nest 
 
 of mice, 
 But the plural of house is houses, not hice; 
 If the plural of man is always called men, 
 Why shouldn't the plural of pan be called 
 
 pen? 
 The cow in the plural may be cows or kine, 
 But a bow if repeated is never called bine, 
 And the plural of vow is vows, never vine. 
 
 If I speak of a foot and you show me your 
 
 feet, 
 And I give you a boot, would a pair be 
 
 called beet? 
 
 If one is a tooth, and a whole set are teeth, 
 Why shouldn't the plural of booth be called 
 
 beeth? 
 If the singular's this and the plural is these, 
 Should the plural of kiss ever be nicknamed 
 
 keese? 
 Then one may be that and three would be 
 
 those, 
 Yet hat in the plural would never be" hose, 
 And the plural of cat is cats, not cose. 
 
 We speak of a brother, and also of 
 
 brethren, 
 But though we say mother, we never say 
 
 methren ; 
 Then the masculine pronouns are he, his 
 
 and him, 
 But imagine the feminine she, shis and 
 
 shim. 
 So the English, I think, you all will agree, 
 Is the queerest language you ever did see. 
 
122 
 
 CHOICE HUMOR. 
 
 THE NAME OF KATE. 
 
 T 
 
 (For a school 
 HERE'S something in the name of 
 
 Kate 
 
 Which many will condemn; 
 But listen, now, while I relate 
 The traits of some of them. 
 
 There's Deli-Kate, a modest dame, 
 And worthy of your love ; 
 
 She's nice and beautiful in frame, 
 As gentle as a dove. 
 
 Communi-Kate's intelligent, 
 As we may well suppose; 
 
 Her faithful mind is ever bent 
 On telling what she knows. 
 
 There's Intri-Kate, she's so obscure 
 Tis hard to find her out; 
 
 For she is often very sure 
 To put your wits to rout. 
 
 Prevari-Kate's a stubborn maid, 
 She's sure to have her way; 
 
 The cavilling, contrary jade 
 Objects to all you say. 
 
 There's Alter- Kate, a perfect pest, 
 Much given to dispute; 
 
 entertainment.) 
 
 Her prattering tongue can never rest, 
 You cannot her refute. 
 
 There's Dislo-Kate, in quite a fret, 
 Who fails to gain her point; 
 
 Her case is quite unfortunate, 
 And sorely out of joint. 
 
 Equivo-Kate no one will woo; 
 
 The thing would be absurd, 
 She is so faithless and untrue, 
 
 You cannot take her word. 
 
 There's Vindi-Kate, she's good and true, 
 And strives with all her might 
 
 Her duty faithfully to do, 
 And battle for the right. 
 
 There's Rusti-Kate, a country lass; 
 
 Quite fond of rural scenes; 
 She likes to trample through the grass 
 
 And loves the evergreens. 
 
 Of all the maidens you can find, 
 There's none like Edu-Kate; 
 
 Because she elevates the mind 
 And aims to something great. 
 
 t^* ^* t5* 
 
 BABY'S OPINIONS. 
 
 [The following selection can be made very humorous if the person reading it assumes 
 the tones of a very little child, and in appropriate places imitates the cry of a baby.] 
 
 I AM here. And if this is what they call 
 the world, I don't think much of it. 
 It's a very flannelly world, and smells of 
 paregoric awfully. It's a dreadful light 
 world, too, and makes me blink, I tell you. 
 And I don't know what to do with my 
 hands. I think I'll dig my fists in my eyes. 
 No, I won't. I'll scratch at the corner of 
 my blanket and chew it up, and then I'll 
 holler; whatever happens, I'll holler. And 
 
 the more paregoric they give me, the 
 louder I'll yell. That old nurse puts the 
 spoon in the corner of my mouth, side- 
 wise like, and keeps tasting my milk her- 
 self all the while. She spilt snuff in it las-t 
 night, and when I hollered, she trotted 
 me. That comes of being a two-days-old 
 baby. Never mind; when I'm a man, I'll 
 pay her back good. There's a pin stick- 
 ing in me now, and if I say a word about 
 
CHOICE HUMOR. 
 
 123 
 
 it, I'll be trotted or fed; and I would rather 
 have catnip-tea. I'll tell you who I am. I 
 found out to-day. I heard folks say, 
 "Hush ! don't wake up Emeline's baby" ; 
 and I suppose that pretty, white-faced wo- 
 man over on the pillow is Emeline. 
 
 No, I was mistaken; for a chap was in 
 here just now and wanted to see Bob's 
 baby; and looked at me and said I was a 
 
 funny little toad, and looked just like Bob. 
 He smelt of cigars. I wonder who else I 
 belong to! Yes, there's another one — 
 that's "Gamma." "It was Gamma's baby, 
 so it was." I declare, I do not know who 
 I belong to; but I'll holler, and maybe I'll 
 find out. There comes snuffy with catnip- 
 tea. I'm going to sleep. I wonder why 
 my hands won't go where I want them to ! 
 
 
 THE CHURCH CHOIR. 
 
 ATTENDING services not long ago in 
 an elegant church edifice, where they 
 worship God with taste in a highly aesthetic 
 manner, the choir began that scriptural 
 poem which compares Solomon with the 
 lilies of the field somewhat to the former's 
 disadvantage. Although not possessing a 
 great admiration for Solomon, nor consider- 
 ing him a suitable person to hold up as a 
 shining example before the Young Men's 
 Christian Association, still a pang of pity 
 for him was felt when the choir, after ex- 
 pressing unbounded admiration for the lilies 
 of the field, which it is doubtful if they ever 
 observed very closely, began to tell the con- 
 gregation, through the mouth of the 
 soprano, that "Solomon in all his glory was 
 not arrayed." Straightway the soprano was 
 re-inforced by the bass, who declared that 
 Solomon was most decidedly and emphatic- 
 ally not arrayed, — was not arrayed. Then 
 the alto ventured it as her opinion that Solo- 
 mon was not arrayed ; when the tenor, with- 
 out a moment's hesitation, sung, as if it 
 had been officially announced, that "he was 
 not arrayed." Then, when the feelings of 
 the congregation had been harrowed up suf- 
 ficiently, and our sympathies all aroused for 
 poor Solomon, whose numerous wives al- 
 lowed him to go about in such a fashion, 
 even in that climate, the choir altogether, in 
 
 a most cool and composed manner, in- 
 formed us that the idea they intended to 
 convey was that Solomon in all his glory 
 was not arrayed "like one of these." These 
 what? So long a time had elapsed since 
 they sung of the lilies that the thread was 
 entirely lost, and by "these" one naturally 
 concluded that the choir was designated. 
 Arrayed like one of these ? We should think 
 not, indeed! Solomon in a Prince Albert 
 or a cutaway coat? Solomon with an eye- 
 glass and a moustache, his hair cut pompa- 
 dour ? No, most decidedly, Solomon in the 
 very zenith of his glory was not arrayed like 
 one of these. 
 
 Despite the experience of the morning, 
 the hope still remained that in the evening 
 a sacred song might be sung in a manner 
 that might not excite our risibilities, or leave 
 the impression that we had been listening to 
 a case of blackmail. But again off started 
 the nimble soprano with the very laudable 
 though startling announcement, "I will 
 wash." Straightway the alto, not to be out- 
 done, declared she would wash; and the 
 tenor, finding it to be the thing, warbled 
 forth he would wash ; then the deep-chested 
 basso, as though calling up all his fortitude 
 for the plunge, bellowed forth the stern re- 
 solve that he also would wash ; next, a short 
 interlude on the organ, strongly suggestive 
 
124 
 
 CHOICE HUMOR. 
 
 of the escaping of steam or splash of the 
 waves, after which the choir, individually 
 and collectively, asserted the firm, unshaken 
 resolve that they would wash. At last they 
 
 solved the problem by stating that they pro- 
 posed to "wash their hands in innocency, 
 so will the altar of the Lord be compassed." 
 
 «&* t£* t5* 
 
 BILL SMITH'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 (A Georgia mountaineer's unique method 
 
 TALK erbout gittin' married, fellers," 
 said Bill Smith to some of the boys 
 grouped around the stove in the post- 
 office the other day, "ef ye hev as much 
 trouble with yer courtin' az I did, you'll 
 ricomember hit az long az ye live." 
 
 "What wuz yer 'sperience, Bill?" chimed 
 in several voices; "tell us erbout hit." 
 
 "Hit wuz erlong in the fall uv the veer, 
 erbout sorgum time, when my trouble 
 kummenced," said Bill. "Down at Jeems 
 Doster's the nabors thereabouts had been 
 a-grindin' uv ther cane an' terwards ther 
 tail end uv the week hit wuz giv out that 
 thar wuz to be er candy-pullin' an' shindig 
 at Jeems' home Saturday nite. The wim- 
 'men folks made big prep'rations fer er 
 monstrous quiltin' endurin' uv the day, an' 
 the whole thing wuz ter wind up with the 
 frolic at nite. 
 
 "Now thar wuz er gal in ther settlement 
 by the name uv Nancy Parker. She wuz 
 er darter uv ol' Coon Parker, who used ter 
 trap game an' sich like up on the Conny- 
 saugy River. I thought the sun riz an' 
 sat in Nancy's eyes, fer she wuz the purtiest 
 thing that ever wore caliker. I luved her 
 wusser than I luved possum an' tater, an' 
 you-uns knows possum an' taters iz too 
 good ter talk erbout. We hed a fallin' out, 
 howsumever, erbout er feller by the name 
 uv Gus Burke, who hed kum in ter the 
 naborhood ter teech skule, an' I hadn't 
 been ter see her in sum time, until one nite, 
 
 of disposing of a troublesome rival.) 
 
 jes' afore the frolic, I went over to her 
 house. Nancy wuz out at ther cow pen 
 a-milkin', an' az I walked up, I sed: 
 
 "'Hello, Nancy!' 
 
 " 'Why, hello, Bill, ye are nuff ter cure 
 ther sore eyes. Whar in the round world 
 hev ye bin keepin' yerself?' 
 
 " 'Oh, IVe bin workin' over at the sor- 
 gum-mill purty much all day, an' uv nites, 
 an' I jes' slipped off ter run over here an' 
 ax ye if I could take ye ter the shindig at 
 Jeems Doster's ter-morrow nite.' 
 
 " 'Well-er-er-Bill,' says she, 'Gus wuz 
 over here, I mean he wuz passin' by the 
 house las' nite, an' he sed az how he'd be 
 glad ter cum by an' take me over thar, an' 
 I tole him all rite.' 
 
 " 'Ye tole him all rite, did ye?' 
 
 " 'Yes, yer know, Bill, thet ther good 
 book says, first cum, first sarved.' 
 
 "'First cum! Hain't I lived hereabouts 
 all my nat'ral life?' 
 
 " 'Yaas.' 
 
 " 'Hain't I bin hawlin' wood over ter ther 
 settlement an' spendin' my hard-earned 
 money fer candy an' sich like fer ye?' 
 
 " 'Yaas.' 
 
 " 'Now. this is what I git fur hit. Long 
 cums a flopyeered, bow-legged, whample- 
 jawed feller, with his ha'r combed like a 
 las' yeer's jaybird's nest, an' ye are jes' az 
 sweet az pie ter him. I'd like ter know 
 what bizness he's got heer, anyhow.' 
 
 " 'Why, Bill, he's er-goin' ter teech skule 
 
CHOICE HUMOR. 
 
 125 
 
 over yon side uv ther crick, at Sam Bea- 
 son's place. I thort you knowed thet. An' 
 they do say he's a mity fine feller.' 
 
 " 'Who sez so? I'll bet er load uv the 
 bes' ches'nut wood on the mountain that 
 you're the only one.' 
 
 " 'Now, Bill, ye oughtn't ter git so jeal- 
 ous.' 
 
 '"Jealous, Nancy; who's jealous? Hit 
 only makes my dander rize ter see one uv 
 them city upstarts cum out here an' run 
 over folkes jes' 'cause he's got on store 
 clothes. They don't make him no better'n 
 we-uns, but a mity sight wusser, I'm think- 
 in'.' 
 
 " 'Well, Bill, we shouldn't judge peeple 
 by ther 'pearance.' 
 
 " 'No, I guess not, fer ef we did he'd er 
 bin in the chain-gang two minutes after I 
 set my eyes on him. Well, I mus' be 
 a-gwine. I've got ter git up soon in the 
 mornin' an' finish hawlin 'thet new groun' 
 cane ter the mill, so good-by, Miss Nancy.' 
 
 " 'Good-by, ef you call thet gone. I 
 never seed you in sich a hurry befo', Wil- 
 liam.' 
 
 " 'Oh, I kin stay here till daybreak ef hit 
 suits you.' 
 
 "T don't want ter keep ye,' she said; 
 'hit's gettin' bedtime, anyway,' an' she 
 whisked in ter the house without even so 
 much az a-lookin' at me. 
 
 "I tuk a nigh cut from thar thru the 
 woods ter Jim Land's store. Hit wuz ther 
 only store fur miles erround, an' uv nites 
 the boys uv ther naborhood would meet 
 thar, an' while they set erround on the 
 cracker boxes er whittlin' ud tell jokes an' 
 funny stories. I found er big crowd settin' 
 erround the leetle stove in the back eend 
 uv ther room havin' er jollification uv er 
 time. 
 
 " 'Whar in the world hev ye bin to-nite, 
 Bill?' said Jim Land. 
 
 " T kin tell ye,' said one uv ther fellers 
 over next ter the wall. 'He's bin off in ther 
 woods er grievin'.' 
 
 " 'A-grievin' fur what?' said I. 
 
 " 'A-grievin' case yer gal iz a-gwine ter 
 git hitched up ter the skule teecher.' 
 
 "Then the hull crowd riz sich er laff 
 thet they set the dogs ter barkin' at ole 
 man Warren's down the road; an' the 
 clerk, who wuz red-headed an' ugly az sin, 
 put his mouth in. He sed: 'Jes' afore sun- 
 down a man kim inter the store an' axed ef 
 thar wuz er parson ennywhere in the dees- 
 trict. I tole him that thar wuz one over 
 in the Baket Sittlement, an' showed him 
 the way ter git thar, but bein' kinder curi- 
 ous like ter kno' what the trouble wuz, I 
 axed him ef sumbody waz ded.' 
 
 ' 'No,' he sed, 'hit's not quite so bad az 
 thet. Ye see, we hev a new skule teecher 
 in the valley, an' him an' Coon Parker's gal 
 are awfully stuck on each other. Things 
 hev cum ter sich a pint thet nothin' will 
 satisfy 'em but ter git jined together, so 
 I'm after a parson.' 
 
 "Then the whole shootin'-match hooped 
 an' hollered like er set uv crazy lunatics. I 
 jined in, but I only laffed with my mouth, 
 an' kinder grinned a leetle tryin' ter look 
 pleasant. Bill King, who hed bin settin' on 
 a pile uv flour sacks in the corner uv the 
 room, got up an' slowly sauntered ter the 
 door. Az he passed me he winked hiz eye 
 an' I follered him. Whin we got outside 
 he led the way ter an ole gum log, an' we 
 both sot down. 
 
 " 'What yer a-gwine ter do erbout this 
 thing?' said Bill. 'Yer ain't a-gwine ter set 
 still an' let thet sneakin' dead-beat uv er 
 skule-teecher take yer gal rite out frum 
 under yer nose, air ye?' 
 
 T don't know what ter do, Bill,' said L 
 'I'm in er monstrous lot uv truble, an' 
 
126 
 
 CHOICE HUMOR. 
 
 would ruther be ded than erlive, but I sec 
 no way ter help hit.' 
 
 " 'I do; said Bill; 'an' ef ye will stick' ter 
 me ye'll git the gal yet.' 
 
 " 'I shore will do thet, pard,' said I. 
 
 " 'Well, ye know the path thet leads over 
 the hill frum Coon Parker's ter the big 
 road?' 
 
 " 'Yaas.' 
 
 " 'Now, thet is the path what thet feller 
 travels. You meet me ter-morrow nite at 
 the big ches'nut tree nigh the top uv the 
 hill, an' bring erlong two plow lines.' 
 
 " 'Gee whiz, Bill, ye air not a-gwine ter 
 hang him, air ye?' 
 
 " 'Naw, but he desarves hit, tho'. I'm 
 only a-gwine tu teech him a lesson thet he'll 
 ricomember az long az he lives.' 
 
 "I made a sneak fur hum' an' wint ter 
 bed, but hit wuz mitey leetle I slept. Ev'ry 
 time I dozed off I could see thet plague- 
 taked skule-teecher a-makin' luv ter 
 Nancy. I got up whin ther chickens com- 
 menced crowin' fer day, an' clim up on the 
 hill, whar I sot down an' watched Nancy 
 a-milkin' the cow in the lot down at Park- 
 er's house. I wanted ter go tu her so bad 
 thet I wuz ermost crazy, but remembered 
 what Bill hed sed the nite afore erbout me 
 a-stayin' ter hum all day an' not goin' no- 
 whar, not even to the sto'. Atter awhile I 
 clim back down the hill an' wint ter my 
 cabin, whar I passed one uv the most mis- 
 erable days er man iver seed. The sun 
 hadn't mor'n crawled down behind Laven- 
 der Mount'in in the wes' thet evenin' afore 
 I wuz on my way ter the ches'nut tree. 
 Whin I ariv thar I found Bill, an' with him 
 wuz Ben Sanders, a pertickler frien' uv 
 mine. They hed made a dummy ooman 
 by stuffin' a dress full uv hay an' tyin' moss 
 on fer er head. This they covered with an 
 old white bonnet. In the twilight she 
 looked 'zactly like er human bein'. 
 
 " 'Hush, boys,' said Bill, T hear voices 
 up ther path.' 
 
 " 'That's them now,' said I. 'That's 
 Nancy an' thet feller on ther way ter the 
 shindig now. Lay down an' keep quiet till 
 they git by.' 
 
 "When they got opposite ter whar we- 
 uns wuz a-hidin', Nancy said: T kno' we'll 
 hav' er jim dandy time uv hit ter-nite, an' 
 fun world without end.' 
 
 "Then that audacious scoundrel up an' 
 sed: 'We couldn't help but hev er glorious 
 time, Miss Nancy, whin sich a purty gal az 
 yu iz present' 
 
 "Thet made me desperate, an' ef hit 
 hadn't er bin fer Bill a-holdin' uv me, I 
 would er pounced on ter him quicker than 
 a chicken on tu a June-bug. When they 
 hed got out'n site erround the bend uv the 
 path, we-uns got up frum whar we wuz 
 a-hidin' an' went ter work on the dummy. 
 When we got hit fixed, 'cep'n puttin' up, 
 we sauntered over tu the Parker house 
 an' peeped in. Everything wuz lively in- 
 side. Mose Ely's fiddle wuz er talkin' rite 
 out in meetin' fer all hit wuz worth, an' 
 Ab Burne wuz on the flo' a-callin' the fig- 
 ures in a kinder sing-song way: 
 
 First four for'ard, han's all 'roun', 
 Big pigintoed Josephus Brown, 
 Balance ter yer partners, sashay all, 
 Sallie en the new groun', Sallie en the 
 hall. 
 
 "And away they went it, makin' the dust 
 fairly fly frum the ole board flore. Fer 
 fear thet we'd be diskivered, we sneaked 
 off up on the side uv the mount'in an' 
 waited fer the thing ter break up. 'Long 
 erbout two o'clock we seen 'em leavin' an' 
 'mong the crowd thet passed over the hill 
 wuz the teecher an' Nancy. As sune as 
 they wuz out uv site, we struck out over 
 
CHOICE HUMOR. 
 
 127 
 
 the hill an' got the dummy. 'Bill clim the 
 big ches'nut tree an' put one end of the 
 rope over er limb and cum down. He then 
 fastened one end erround Miss Becky 
 (that's what Bill named the dummy). He 
 then stood behind the tree a-holdin' Miss 
 Becky with one han', an' the loose end uv 
 the rope with the other han', while me an' 
 Ben lay down behin' an ole stump. We 
 didn't hev long tu wait. Presently I heerd 
 sum one a-whis'lin, an' erbout that time 
 the teecher cum in sight over the top uv 
 the hill, on his way back from Nancy's. 
 He wuz a-comin' on down the path a-whis'- 
 lin' like sin, when all uv a suddint Bill let 
 go Miss Becky, an' she glided out in the 
 path an' commenced cuttin' a few steps an' 
 didoes in the leaves. The whis'lin' stopped, 
 an' whin I peeped out frum behind the 
 stump the teecher wuz er standin' like er 
 black post up thar en the path. 
 " 'Hello, thar,' says he. 
 "But Miss Becky niver opened her 
 mouth. 
 
 "He sidled erround a leetle in the path, 
 an' said: 
 
 " 'You'd better speak ef yu don't want 
 tu git hurt, case I'll shoot ye, shore.' 
 
 "For an answer Bill giv the rope er ter- 
 rible yank, which nearly caused Miss 
 Becky ter stan' on her hed. She quickly 
 balanced herself rite end up, an' sich cuttin' 
 up ye niver seed afore. She waltzed out 
 in the bushes, then shuffled back in the 
 middle uv ther path, whar she wuz a-cut- 
 tin' the piginwing in grand style, when, 
 bang went the teecher's gun, an' down 
 went Miss Becky, Bill having let her fall 
 like she was kilt. The ball hit a root uv the 
 stump an' cum dumgasted near makin' me 
 swaller a chaw uv terbacky. When I got 
 the dirt out'n my eyes I looked up the path, 
 an' the teecher wuz lighting er shuck. The 
 last I seed uv him he war turning 'em over 
 
 the top uv the hill. The whole thing wuz 
 so blamed funny thet we*uns jes' lay down 
 an' wollered in the leaves. After we-uns 
 had our laff out we picked up the dummy 
 frum the groun' whar hit lay an' hid hit 
 in an ol' log. We then hurried down ter 
 whar Bill's team wuz hid out in the bushes, 
 an' all uv us got in ter his buggy an' 
 started fur Squire Lane's, whar the teecher 
 boarded at. When we cum in site uv the 
 house me an' Ben got out an' Bill went on 
 alone. He got out of his buggy at the 
 gate an' went in an' knocked. Presently 
 the teecher cum tu the dore. 
 
 " T want ter see ye a minute privately,' 
 said Bill. 
 
 " 'Certainly,' said the teecher, an' they 
 both walked out ter the gate. 
 
 " 'I'm er frien' uv yourn,' commenced 
 Bill, turnin' erround an' facin' the teecher, 
 'an' hev risked my neck by comin' over 
 here on this erran'. When I lef the store 
 er crowd wuz gatherin' ter hang ye fur 
 killin' uv Mike Beason's mother ter-night.' 
 " 'Good land!' said the teecher, 'wuz thet 
 er woman?' 
 
 " 'Hit shore wuz, an' ef ye want ter live 
 till mawnin' ye'd better be makin' tracks 
 erway frum here immejiately. I've got my 
 leetle black mule an' buggy out here, an' 
 will take ye over ter the railroad, which 
 is nigh on tu twenty mile, whar ye kin git 
 aboard the cars an' git erway afore they 
 kin overtake ye. I'll do this fer ye, case I 
 like ye powerful well, an' don't want ter 
 see ye with a rope necktie on.' 
 
 "" 'Thank ye, Mr. William, thank ye. 
 Hit's so refreshin' ter find er frien' like yu, 
 an' I'll always remember yu.' 
 
 "Then Bill struck er match, supposedly 
 ter lite his pipe, but really as er signal ter 
 me an' Ben ter commence hollerin' an' 
 runnin' up ther road. 
 
 " 'They're comin' now,' said Bill. 'Git 
 
128 
 
 CHOICE HUMOR. 
 
 yer things an' hop in ther buggy quick.' 
 "The teecher hustled in the house an' 
 soon appeared with a trunk, which he 
 throwed in the buggy, an', quickly jumpin' 
 in beside Bill, they wuz off. Ther dust an' 
 leaves fairly flew down the road behind 
 the leetle mule an' buggy. The sound uv 
 rattlin' wheels an' the mule's feet soon died 
 away in the distance, an' me an' Ben lit out 
 fur home. The chickens wuz a-crowin' 
 fur day when we crawled inter our beds, 
 an' sleep wuz impossible, case hit wuz time 
 ter git up. That afternoon Bill returned 
 frum his wild ride an' told az how he had 
 
 put the teecher on the cars, an' how scared 
 he wuz. But somehow or other hit got 
 norated erroun' the naborhood that an of- 
 ficer hed cum from Atlanty an' took the 
 teecher back with him, an' that he wuz er 
 train-robber. 
 
 "The nex' Saturday nite thar wuz er big 
 time at the Parker home. Me an' Nancy 
 wuz married, an' I wuz the happiest man in 
 seven counties. Hit wuz several years 
 afore I tole Nancy how we run the skule 
 teecher away, an' all she said wuz: 
 
 " 'I'm glad hit turned out the way hit 
 did. The Lord will provide.' " 
 
 ^5* *2nl *2& 
 
 FARMER BEN'S THEORY. 
 
 I TELL ye it's nonsense," said Farmer 
 Ben, "this farmin' by books and rules, 
 And sendin' the boys to learn that stuff at 
 
 the agricultural schools. 
 Rotation o' crops and analysis! Talk that 
 
 to a young baboon ! 
 But ye needn't be tellin' yer science to me, 
 for I believe in the moon. 
 
 "If ye plant yer corn on the growin' moon, 
 
 and put up the lines for crows, 
 You'll find it will bear, and yer wheat will, 
 
 too, if it's decent land where't grows. 
 But potatoes now are a different thing, they 
 
 want to grow down, that is plain : 
 And don't you see you must plant for that 
 
 when the moon is on the wane. 
 
 "So in plantin' and hoein' and hayin' time 
 
 it is well to have an eye 
 On the hang o' the moon — ye know ye can 
 
 tell a wet moon from a dry. 
 
 And as to hayin', you wise ones now are 
 
 cuttin' yer grass too soon ; 
 If ye want it to spend, just wait till it's ripe, 
 
 and mow on the full o' the moon. 
 
 "And when all the harvest work is done, and 
 
 the butcherin' times come round, 
 Though yer hogs may be lookin' the very 
 
 best, and as fat as hogs are found, 
 You will find yer pork all shriveled and 
 
 shrunk when it comes to the table at 
 
 noon — 
 All fried to rags — if it wasn't killed at the 
 
 right time o' the moon. 
 
 "With the farmers' meetin's and granges 
 
 now, folks can talk till all is blue ; 
 But don't ye be swallerin' all ye hear, for 
 
 there ain't mor'n half on't true. 
 They are trying to make me change my 
 
 ways, but I tell 'em I'm no such coon ; 
 I shall keep right on in the safe old plan and 
 
 work my farm by the moon." 
 

 Love and Sentiment 
 
 WWW 
 
 The gentlest thoughts of the mind and the tenderest sentiments of the heart as expressed 
 in words by the poets form the selections in this department. 
 
 t5* t^* ^* 
 
 PLAYING LOVERS. 
 
 PLAY that you are mother, dear, 
 And play that papa is your beau ; 
 Play that we sit in the corner here, 
 
 Just as we used to long ago ; 
 Play so, we lovers two, 
 
 Are just as happy as can be, 
 And I'll say : "I love you !" to you ! 
 
 And you say : "I love you !" to me ! 
 "I love you !" we both shall say, 
 
 All in earnest and all in play. 
 
 Or, play that you are the other one 
 That sometimes came and went away ; 
 
 And play that the light of years agone 
 Stole into my heart again to-day ! 
 
 Playing that you are the one I knew 
 In the days that never again may be, 
 
 I'll say : "I love you !" to you ! 
 
 And you say : "I love you !" to me ! 
 "I love you !" my heart will say 
 To the ghost of the past come back to-day. 
 
 Or, play that you sought this nestling place 
 
 For your own sweet self, with that dual 
 guise 
 Of your pretty mother in your face 
 
 And the look of that other in your eyes ! 
 So the dear old love shall live anew, 
 
 As I hold my darling on my knee. 
 And I'll say : "I love you !" to you ! 
 
 And you'll say : "I love you !" to me ! 
 Oh, many a strange, true thing we say 
 And do when we pretend to play ! 
 
 — Eugene Field. 
 
 <&& i2& {5* 
 
 OUR LOST TREASURE. 
 
 ISA W my wife pull out the bottom drawer 
 of the old bureau this morning, and I 
 went softly out and wandered up and 
 down until I knew she had shut it up and 
 gone to her sewing. We have something 
 laid away in that drawer which the gold of 
 kings could not buy, and yet they are relics 
 which grieve us until both our hearts are 
 sore. I haven't dared look at them for a 
 year, but I remember each article. There 
 are two worn shoes, a little chip hat with 
 part of the brim gone, some stockings, 
 pantaloons, a coat, two or three spools, bits 
 of broken crockery, a whip, and some toys. 
 Wife, poor thing, goes to that drawer 
 
 every day of her life and prays over it, and 
 lets her tears fall upon the precious keep- 
 sakes; but I dare not go. Sometimes we 
 speak of the little one, but not often. It 
 has been a long time since he left us, but 
 somehow we cannot get over grieving. 
 Sometimes when we sit alone of an even- 
 ing, I writing and she sewing, a child in 
 the street will call out as our boy used to, 
 and we will start up with beating hearts 
 and a wild yearning, only to find the dark- 
 ness more of a burden than ever. It is so 
 still now ! I look up to the window where 
 his blue eyes used to sparkle at my com- 
 ing, but he is not there. I listen for his 
 
 129 
 
130 
 
 LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 pattering feet, his merry shout, and his 
 ringing laugh; but there is no sound. 
 There is no one to search my pockets and 
 tease me for presents; I never find the 
 chairs turned over, the broom down, nor 
 ropes tied to the door knobs. I want some 
 one to ask me for my knife; to ride on my 
 shoulders; to lose my axe; to follow me 
 to the gate when I go, and to meet me at 
 the gate when I come home, and to call 
 
 "good-night" from the little bed now 
 empty. And my wife, she misses him still 
 more, his affectionate caresses, the many 
 little cares she gladly endured for his 
 sake; and she would give her own life, al- 
 most, to wake at midnight and see our boy 
 sweetly sleeping in his little crib the peace- 
 ful slumber of innocent childhood, as in 
 the past when our little family circle was 
 unbroken. 
 
 ^* ^* c5* 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN OF TEARS. 
 
 IF you travel o'er desert and mountain, 
 Far into the country of sorrow, 
 To-day, and to-night, and to-morrow, 
 And maybe for months and for years, 
 You shall come with a heart that is burst- 
 ing. 
 For trouble, and toiling, and thirsting, 
 You shall certainly come to the fountain, 
 At length — to the fountain of tears. 
 
 Very peaceful the place is, and solely 
 For piteous lamenting and sighing 
 And those who come, living or dying, 
 
 Alike from their hopes and their fears ; 
 
 Full of cypress-like shadows the place is, 
 And statues that cover their faces ; 
 
 But out of the gloom springs the holy 
 
 And beautiful fountain of tears. 
 
 And it flows, and it flows with a motion 
 So gentle, and lovely, and listless, 
 And murmurs a tune so resistless, 
 
 To him who hath suffered and hears, 
 
 You shall surely, without a word spoken, 
 Kneel down there and know you're heart- 
 broken, 
 
 And yield to the long-curbed emotion, 
 
 That day by the fountain of tears. 
 
 t?w cJ* *5* 
 
 BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. 
 
 STILL sits the schoolhouse by the road, 
 An idle beggar sunning; 
 Around it still the sumachs grow 
 
 And the blackberry vines are running. 
 
 Within, the master's desk is seen, 
 
 Deep scarred by raps official ; 
 The warping floor, the battered seats, 
 
 The jackknives' carved initial. 
 
 The charcoal frescoes on the wall, 
 
 Its door's worn sill betraying 
 The feet that, creeping slow to school, 
 
 Went storming out to playing; 
 
 Long years ago a winter sun 
 
 Shone over it at setting; 
 Lit up its western window panes, 
 
 And low eaves' icy fretting. 
 
 It touched the tangled, golden curls, 
 And brown eyes full of grieving, 
 
 Of one who still her steps delayed, 
 When all the rest were leaving. 
 
 For near her stood the little boy 
 Her childish favor singled — 
 
 His cap pulled low upon his face 
 Where pride and shame were mingled. 
 
LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 131 
 
 Pushing with restless feet the snow 
 To right and left, she lingered, 
 
 As restlessly her tiny hands 
 
 The blue-checked apron fingered. 
 
 He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt 
 The soft hand's light caressing, 
 
 And heard the tremble of her voice, 
 As if a fault confessing: 
 
 "I'm sorry that I spelt the word ; 
 I hate to go above you, 
 
 Because" — the brown eyes lower fell — 
 "Because, you see, I love you !" 
 
 Still memory to a gray-haired man 
 That sweet child-face is showing; 
 
 Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 
 Have forty years been growing. 
 
 He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 
 How few who pass above him 
 
 Lament his triumph and his loss, 
 Like her — because they love him. 
 
 — John G. Whittier. 
 
 t5* <£• ti5* 
 
 A LOVE SONG. 
 
 I WAS as poor as the poorest, dear, and 
 the world — it passed me by; 
 But not that day when you came my way, 
 
 with the love-light in your eye ; 
 Ah! not that day when the fragrant May 
 bent over the world her sky ! 
 
 I was as lone as the loneliest, love, with 
 
 never a dream of bliss ; 
 But not that day when you passed my way 
 
 and leaned to my thankful kiss ! 
 
 Nay ! not that day, while my lips can say : 
 "There was never a joy like this !" 
 
 Dear, it is something to know this love — let 
 
 the skies be black or blue ; 
 It is something to know that you love me 
 
 so — the tender, the sweet, the true ! 
 And my heart will beat for that love, my 
 
 sweet, till I dream in the dust with you ! 
 — Frank L. Stanton. 
 
 t5* t5* «5* 
 
 A FARMER FATHER'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 DEAR SON— Your letter of the ioth 
 came in the mail to-day. 
 
 And so you want to marry, and you won- 
 der what we'll say ! 
 
 Well, Joe, your mother here and I have read 
 your letter through, 
 
 And she seems to think that I'm the one 
 who'd better lecture you ; 
 
 For, though in most affairs, of course, 
 there's nothing quite so nice 
 
 As a mother's letter, still it takes a man to 
 give advice. 
 
 Your letter says, "She's beautiful and hand- 
 some as a queen." 
 
 I hope so, Joe, and hope you know just 
 
 what those two words mean. 
 A beautiful form is one which tells of a 
 
 beautiful soul within ; 
 A handsome face is one which wears no 
 
 damning brain of sin ; 
 Beautiful eyes are those that with the fire 
 
 of pure thoughts glow; 
 Beautiful lips are those which speak for a 
 
 truthful heart below; 
 The handsome hands are those not ashamed 
 
 the Master's work to do — 
 Hands that are patient and brave and kind, 
 
 gentle and strong and true; 
 
132 
 
 LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 Beautiful feet are those which go in answer 
 to duty's call, 
 
 And beautiful shoulders are those which 
 bear their daily burdens all. 
 
 Remember this maxim true, my boy, wher- 
 ever you choose a wife, 
 
 "The handsomest woman of earth is she 
 who leads the handsomest life." 
 
 I therefore trust that the woman you wed 
 (if you really love each other) 
 
 May be the handsomest one in the world — 
 excepting one — your mother. 
 
 — Frank S. Pixley. 
 
 1£& (5* ^* 
 
 LOVE'S YEAR. 
 
 O 
 
 N a January morning, 
 Bright and frosty, Love was born ; 
 
 Softened by the gentler breezes 
 Of a February morn ; 
 
 With the March winds, wild and gusty, 
 Raved and blustered all the day, 
 
 But was moved to tears and laughter 
 As sweet April had her way, 
 
 And to fairer expectation 
 With the promise of May; 
 
 Under June skies, blue and hopeful, 
 Felt anticipation near; 
 
 Reveled in the July glory 
 
 Of the sun's rays, hot and clear, 
 
 And with golden sheaves of August 
 Knew that harvest time is dear; 
 
 Yet amid a chill September 
 
 Felt a change that checked his pride ; 
 
 In the dimness of October 
 
 Watched the falling leaves and sighed ; 
 
 Through November's fogs and vapors 
 Wandered out alone and cried. 
 
 Till at last, in bleak December, 
 On a winter night he died. 
 
 — M. A. Curtois. 
 
 t&fr £& (£* 
 
 ONLY A LOCK OF SOFT GOLD HAIR. 
 
 ONLY a lock of softest gold, secured 
 with tender care, 
 
 And hid beneath the Bible lids — a sweet 
 dead baby's hair. 
 
 And lonely years have come and gone since 
 she was laid away, 
 
 And yet the childish form comes back be- 
 fore my eyes to-day. 
 
 While pressing kisses on the curl, as I 
 was wont to do, 
 
 I see her little face once more, and little 
 eyes of blue. 
 
 Only a lock of silken hair, with faded ribbon 
 
 tied— 
 The only thing save mem'ry left of her who 
 
 early died; 
 And yet it has a potent force to turn my 
 
 yearning gaze 
 From sordid pleasures of the world to 
 
 where my darling stays, 
 And keep alive the hope that when my soul 
 
 from clay is free, 
 I'll see her where she holds the gates of 
 
 Heaven ajar for me. 
 
 —Will T. Hale. 
 
LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 13C 
 
 THE USUAL WAY. 
 
 THERE was once a little man, and his 
 rod and line he took, 
 For he said "I'll go a-fishing in the neigh- 
 boring brook," 
 And it chanced a little maiden was walk- 
 ing out that day, 
 
 And they met — in the usual way. 
 
 Then he sat him down beside her, and an 
 
 hour or two went by, 
 But still upon the grassy brink his rod and 
 
 line did lie; 
 "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd 
 
 be fishing all the day !" 
 
 And he was — in the usual way. 
 
 So he gravely took his rod in hand, and 
 
 threw the line about, 
 But the fish perceived distinctly he was not 
 
 looking out : 
 And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you," but 
 
 she said she could not stay, 
 
 But she did — in the usual way. 
 
 Then the stars came out above them, and 
 
 she gave a little sigh 
 As they watched the silver ripples, like the 
 
 moments running by ; 
 "We must say good-bye," she whispered, 
 
 by the alders old and gray, 
 
 And they did — in the usual way. 
 
 And day by day beside the stream they 
 
 wandered to and fro, 
 And day by day the fishes swam securely 
 
 down below ; 
 Till this little story ended, as such little 
 
 stories may, 
 
 Very much — in the usual way. 
 
 And now that they are married, do they 
 
 always bill and coo? 
 Do they never fret and quarrel like other 
 
 couples do? 
 Does he cherish her and love her? Does 
 
 she honor and obey? 
 
 Well — they — do — in the usual way. 
 
 t5* t5* *5* 
 
 EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL was the night. Behind 
 the black wall of the forest, 
 Tipping its summit with silver, arose the 
 
 moon. On the river 
 Fell here and there through the branches 
 
 a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, 
 Like the sweet thoughts of love on a dark- 
 ened and devious spirit. 
 Nearer and round about her, the manifold 
 
 flowers of the garden 
 Poured out their souls in odors, that were 
 
 their prayers and confessions. 
 Unto the night, as it went on its way, like 
 
 a silent Carthusian. 
 Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy 
 
 with shadows and night dews, 
 
 Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm 
 
 and the magical moonlight 
 Seemed to inundate her soul with inde- 
 finable longings, 
 As, through the garden gate, and beneath 
 
 the shade of the oak trees, 
 Passed she along the path to the edge of 
 
 the measureless prairie. 
 Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, 
 
 and fire-flies. 
 Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot 
 
 behold thee? 
 Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice 
 
 does not reach me? 
 Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path 
 
 to the prairie ! 
 
134 
 
 LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on 
 
 the woodlands around me ! 
 Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning 
 
 from labor, 
 Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream 
 
 of me in thy slumbers. 
 Gleaming and floating away in mingled and 
 
 infinite numbers, 
 Over her head the stars, the thoughts of 
 
 God in the heavens, 
 Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased 
 
 to marvel and worship, 
 Save when a blazing comet was seen on 
 
 the walls of that temple, 
 As if a hand had appeared and written upon 
 
 them, "Upharsin." 
 
 And the soul of the maiden, between the 
 stars and the fire-flies, 
 
 Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel ! 
 O my beloved ! 
 
 When shall these eyes behold, these arms 
 be folded about thee?" 
 
 Loud and sudden and near the note 01 a 
 whippoorwill sounded 
 
 Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through 
 the neighboring thickets, 
 
 Farther and farther away it floated and 
 dropped into silence. 
 
 "Patience !" whispered the oaks from oracu- 
 lar caverns of darkness; 
 
 And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh re- 
 sponded, "To-morrow !" 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 c5* t5* t?* 
 
 PLATONIC. 
 
 1HAD sworn to be a bachelor, she had 
 sworn to be a maid, 
 For we quite agreed in doubting whether 
 
 matrimony paid; 
 Besides, we had our higher loves, fair sci- 
 ence ruled my heart, 
 And she said her young affections were all 
 wound up in .art- 
 
 So we laughed at those wise men, who 
 say that friendship cannot live 
 
 'Twixt man and woman, unless each has 
 something more to give ; 
 
 We would be friends, and friends as true 
 as e'er were man and man — 
 
 I'd be a second David, and she Miss Jona- 
 than. 
 
 We scorned all sentimental trash — vows, 
 
 kisses, tears and sighs; 
 High friendship, such as ours, might well 
 
 such childish arts despise. 
 We liked each other, that was all, quite all 
 
 there was to say, 
 
 So we just shook hands upon it, in a busi- 
 ness sort of way. 
 
 We shared our secrets and our joys, to- 
 gether hoped and feared, 
 
 With common purpose sought the goal that 
 young ambition reared; 
 
 We dreamed together of the days, the 
 dream-bright days to come; 
 
 We were strictly confidential, and we call 
 each other "chum." 
 
 And many a day we wandered together o'er 
 the hills, 
 
 I seeking bugs and butterflies, and she the 
 ruined mills 
 
 And rustic bridges and the like, that picture 
 makers prize 
 
 To run in with their waterfalls, and groves, 
 and summer skies. 
 
 And many a quiet evening, in hours of 
 silent ease, 
 
 We floated down the river, or strolled be- 
 neath the trees, 
 
LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 135 
 
 And talked in long gradation, from the 
 
 poets to the weather, 
 While the western skies and my cigar 
 
 burned slowly out together. 
 
 Yet through it all no whispered word, no 
 
 tell-tale glance or sigh, 
 Told aught of warmer sentiment than 
 
 friendly sympathy — 
 We talked of love as coolly as we talked 
 
 of nebulae, 
 
 And thought no more of being one than we 
 
 did of being three. 
 ******** 
 
 "Well, good-bye, chum!" I took her hand, 
 for the time had come to go, 
 
 My going meant our parting, when to meet 
 we did not know; 
 
 I had lingered long, and said farewell with 
 a very heavy heart ; 
 
 For although we were but friends, 'tis hard 
 for honest friends to part. 
 
 "Good-bye, old fellow ! don't forget your 
 friends beyond the sea, 
 
 And some day, when you've lots of time, 
 drop a line or two to me." 
 
 The words came lightly, gaily, but a great 
 sob, just behind, 
 
 Welled upward with a story of quite a dif- 
 ferent kind. 
 
 And then she raised her eyes to mine — 
 
 great liquid eyes of blue, 
 Filled to the brim, and running o'er, like 
 
 violet cups of dew; 
 One long, long glance, and then I did, what 
 
 I never did before — 
 Perhaps the tears meant friendship, butT'm 
 
 sure the kiss meant more. 
 
 d?* t5* t5* 
 
 THE WORN WEDDING RING 
 
 YOUR wedding-ring wears thin, dear 
 wife ; ah, summers not a few, 
 Since I put it on your finger first, have 
 
 passed o'er me and you; 
 And love, what changes we have seen — 
 
 what cares and pleasures too, — 
 Since you became my own dear wife, when 
 this old ring was new ! 
 
 O, blessings on that happy day, the happiest 
 
 of my life, 
 When, thanks to God, your low, sweet 
 
 "Yes" made you my loving wife! 
 Your heart will say the same, I know, that 
 
 day's as dear to you, — 
 That day made me yours, dear wife, when 
 
 this old ring was new. 
 
 How well do I remember now your young, 
 
 sweet face that day ! 
 How fair you were, how dear you were, my 
 
 tongue could hardly say ; 
 
 Nor how I doted on you. O, how proud I 
 
 was of you! 
 But did I love you more than now, when 
 
 this old ring: was new ? 
 
 No — no ! no fairer were you then than at 
 
 this hour to me ; 
 And, dear as life to me this day, how could 
 
 you dearer be? 
 As sweet your face might be that day as 
 
 now it is, 'tis true ; 
 But did I know your heart as well when 
 
 this old ring was new? 
 
 O, partner of my gladness, wife, what care, 
 
 what grief is there 
 For me you would not bravely face, with 
 
 me you would not share? 
 O, what a weary want had every day, if 
 
 wanting you, 
 Wanting the love that God made mine, 
 
 when this old ring was new ? 
 
136 
 
 LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife — 
 
 young voices that are here; 
 Young faces round our fire that make their 
 
 mother's yet more dear; 
 Young loving hearts your care each day 
 
 makes yet more like to you, 
 More like the loving heart made mine, when 
 
 this old ring was new. 
 
 And, blessed be God ! all he has given are 
 
 with us yet; around 
 Our table every precious life lent to us still 
 
 is found. 
 Though cares we've known, with hopeful 
 
 hearts the worst we've struggled 
 
 through ; 
 Blessed be his name for all his love since 
 
 this old ring was new! 
 
 £*f t£r* c5* 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 THE farmer sat in his easy chair, 
 Smoking his pipe of clay, 
 While his hale old wife, with busy care, 
 
 Was clearing the dinner away ; 
 A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, 
 On" her grandfather's knee, was catching 
 flies. 
 
 The old man laid his hand on her head, 
 
 With a tear on his wrinkled face; 
 He thought how often her mother, dead, 
 
 Had sat in the self-same place. 
 As the tear stole down from his half-shut 
 
 eye, 
 "Don't smoke," said the child, "how it 
 makes you cry!" 
 
 The house-dog lay stretched out on the 
 floor, 
 
 Where the shade after noon used to steal ; 
 The busy old wife, by the kitchen door, 
 
 Was turning the spinning wheel ; 
 And the old brass clock on the mantle-tree, 
 Had plodded along to almost three. 
 
 Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, 
 While close to his heaving breast 
 The moistened brow and the cheek so fair 
 
 Of his sweet grandchild was pressed; 
 His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay; 
 Fast asleep were they both, on that summer 
 day! 
 
 — Charles Gamag-e Eastman. 
 
 u!fr (5* <5* 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 THERE are times when a dream de- 
 licious 
 Steals into a musing hour, 
 Like a face with love capricious 
 
 That peeps from a woodland bower, 
 And one dear scene comes changeless, 
 
 A wooded hill and a river, 
 A deep cool bend where the lilies end 
 And the elm tree shadows quiver. 
 
 And I lie on the brink there dreaming 
 That the life I live is a dream, 
 
 That the real is but the seeming, 
 
 And the true is the sun flecked stream. 
 
 Beneath me the perch and the beaver sail by 
 In the dim cool depths of the river. 
 
 The struggling fly breaks the mirrored sky, 
 And the elm tree shadows quiver. 
 
 There are voices of children away on the 
 hill, 
 There are bees through the flag flowers 
 humming. 
 
THE PROPOSAL. 
 
'MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED, BED ROSE! 
 
LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 130 
 
 The lighterman calls to the clock, and the 
 mill 
 
 On the further side is drumming, 
 And I sink to sleep in my dream of a dream 
 
 In the grass by the brink of the river, 
 Where the voices blend, and the lilies end, 
 
 And the elm tree shadows quiver. 
 
 Like a gift from the past is the kindly 
 dream 
 
 For the sorrow and passion and pain 
 Are adrift like the leaves on the breast of 
 the stream, 
 And the child life comes again. 
 Oh, the sweet, sweet pain of joy that died ! 
 
 Of a pain that is joy forever! 
 Oh, the life that died in the stormy tide 
 That was once my sun flecked river! 
 — John Boyle O'Reilly. 
 
 tefc &5* t5* 
 
 THE HUSKIN'. 
 
 OLE "Cross-roads Brown," he give a 
 bee, 
 An' 'vited all the neighbors, 
 Until a rig'ment fought his corn, 
 With huskin'-pegs fur sabers. 
 
 The night was clear as Em Steele's eyes, 
 The moon as mild as Nancy's, 
 
 The stars was winkin's if they knowed 
 All 'bout our loves and fancies. 
 
 The breeze was sharp an' braced a chap, 
 Like Minnie Silvers' laughin'; 
 
 The cider in the gallon jug 
 Was jes tip-top fur quaffin'. 
 
 The gals sung many a ole-time song, 
 
 Us boys a-jinin' chorus — 
 We'd no past shames to make us sad, 
 
 Nor dreaded ones afore us. 
 
 The shock was tumbled on the ground, 
 
 Each in its own direction, 
 An' ears was drappin' all around, 
 
 Like pennies at collection. 
 
 On one side o' the shock a boy, 
 
 His sweetheart on the other, 
 A kind o' timid like an' coy, 
 
 But not so very, nuther. 
 
 The fodder rustles dry and clean, 
 The husks like silver glisten, 
 
 The ears o' gold shine in between, 
 As if they try to listen. 
 
 An' when a red ear comes to light, 
 Like some strange boy a-blushin', 
 
 The gal she gives a scream o' fright, 
 An' jukes her pardner, rushin' 
 
 To git a kiss, the red ear's prize, 
 Till, conquered most completely, 
 
 She lifts her lips an' brightened eyes 
 An' gives him one so sweetly. 
 
 They hed a shock off from the rest, — 
 
 Tom Fell an' Lizzie Beyer, 
 An' Tom he wouldn't say a word, 
 
 Got mute in getting nigh her. 
 
 But Liz, she knowed jes' by his move, 
 Tom loved her like tarnation, 
 
 An' every time she said a word 
 She seen him blush carnation. 
 
 She seen him husk the red ears out, 
 The bashful, foolish fellow, 
 
 As if each red one wasn't worth 
 A dozen piles o' yellow. 
 
 Their shock was jes' 'bout finished up, 
 
 An' Liz was busy twistin' 
 A great big ear, to get it off, 
 
 An' it was still resistin', 
 
140 
 
 LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 Until she said, "Do break it, Tom," 
 She didn't know she hed one, 
 
 Till lookin' down she blushed an' cried, 
 "Oh ! gracious, Tom, 't's a red one !" 
 
 An' Tom he gave her such a kiss — 
 
 Stretched out 'twould make me twenty, 
 
 An' all that night, in all their shocks, 
 Red ears seemed mighty plenty. 
 
 — Will F. McSparran. 
 
 t5* <£* i5* 
 
 THE GIRL BEHIND THE MAN BEHIND THE GUN. 
 
 THE world to-day is ringing with our 
 fame, 
 Old Glory floats supreme over land and 
 sea, 
 Our chiefs receive great honor and acclaim, 
 And everything is right as right can be. 
 But let us not forget the stanch ally 
 
 Who helped us in the fight so nobly won, 
 A sweet and modest actor, but a most im- 
 portant factor, 
 The girl 1 :ehind the man behind the gun. 
 
 God bless her blooming image ! 'tis our star 
 
 and guiding light, 
 In the rush and roar of battle and the 
 
 bivouac at night, 
 She's a voice to help and cheer us like a 
 
 stirring bugle call, 
 Sure, we never won a battle — it was she 
 
 who won them all. 
 
 The hand that rocks the cradle rocks the 
 
 world. 
 Ah, what is it that little hand can't do ? 
 On bloody fields when shot and shell are 
 
 hurled 
 It bears the flag and pulls the lanyard, 
 
 too. « 
 
 'Tis pointed forward in the press of war, 
 'Tis clasped in mercy when the fight is 
 done; 
 And by her truth and beauty she incites us 
 to our duty — 
 The girl behind the man behind the gun. 
 
 And whether we are camped on Cuba's 
 shore, 
 Or in King Philip's Islands, far away, 
 In steadfast splendor o'er the clouds of 
 war 
 The love of woman shines upon our way ; 
 With every crowded trooper sent abroad 
 A thousand loving hearts are sailing on, 
 So stands around the world, where our ban- 
 ner is unfurled, 
 The girl behind the man behind the gun. 
 
 God bless her blooming image ! 'tis our star 
 
 and guiding light, 
 In the rush and roar of battle and the 
 
 bivouac at night, 
 She's a voice to help and cheer us like a 
 
 stirring bugle call, 
 Sure, we never won a battle — it was she 
 
 who won them all. 
 
 — Will Stokes. 
 
rc 
 
 Told in Dialect 
 
 W 
 
 In this department are included the most humorous and comic selections in German, Irish, 
 
 Yankee, Western and Southern dialects, all by famous authors, including John Hay, 
 
 Secretary of State, Charles Follen Adams, M. Quad and Irwin Russell. 
 
 t5* c5* ^* 
 
 HOW DID DIS YERE WORLD GIT YERE? 
 
 An address by the Hon. Scalpilusas Johnson the "Black Magnet of Tennessee." 
 
 MY frens, is dar' one among you who 
 ever stopped to think dat dis world 
 was not alius yere? Probably not. You 
 hev gone fussin' around without thought or 
 care whether dis globe on which we hev 
 the honor to reside is one thousand or one 
 millyun y'ars old. Did you eber sot down 
 on de back steps in de twilight an' ax yer- 
 self how dis world cum to be yere any- 
 how? How was it made? How long did 
 it take ? How did de makin' begin ? No ; 
 none of ye hev. Ye hev put in yer time 
 shootin' craps, playin' policy, spottin' off 
 hen houses an' sleepin' in de shade, an' ye 
 ar' a pack of pore, ignorant critters in con- 
 sekence. 
 
 "My frens," continued the speaker, "what 
 occupied dis yere space befo' de world took 
 its place ? Some of you no doubt believe it 
 was a vast body of water — a great ocean 
 full of whales. Others hev argued dat it 
 was one vast plain, whar' persimmons an' 
 watermelons grew de hull y'ar round. 
 [Yum! yum!] You is all mistaken. ' It 
 was simply goneness — emptiness — nuffin- 
 ness — space. It was de same emptiness 
 dat you see when you look skyward. De 
 space at present occupied by dis world could 
 hev once bin bought fur an old dun-cull'd 
 mewl wid his teef gone, an' it would hev 
 bin a dear bargin at dat. De reason it 
 
 wasn't sold was bekase dar' was nobody yere 
 to buy it — nobody to git up a boom. 
 
 "How did dis world git a start ? Some of 
 you may hev wondered about it, but it is 
 mo' likely dat you has dun let it go, an' paid 
 no 'tenshun to de matter. In de fust place 
 de Lawd had to find de space. You can't 
 build a cabin till you git de space to build 
 on. Dar had to be a space to put de world 
 in. De atmosphere had to be shoved aside 
 to make a big hole, an' when de hole was 
 dar de world commenced to make. You 
 hev red dat eberything was created in six 
 days. Mighty long days dose were. I has 
 figgered on it a good many times, an' I'ze 
 tellin' ye dat it took thousands of y'ars. 
 Dar was a powerful lot o' periods to go 
 frew wid befo' things come out ship-shape. 
 
 "Dar was de chaotic period — a time when 
 eberything was wrong side up an' inside 
 out. Flames was a-rollin', de oceans a- 
 heavin', mountains risin' up to sink away 
 agin, an' dar was no tellin' who would cum 
 out on top. Dat period lasted fur 10,000 
 y'ars, an' it was a good thing dat we wasn't 
 around. 
 
 "De nex' period was de passle period — 
 a time when eberything was passled out 
 accordin' to common sense. De oceans war 
 giben boundaries — de ribers war giben beds 
 — de mountains war distributed around to 
 
 141 
 
142 
 
 TOLD IN DIALECT. 
 
 give moas' eberybody some side hill, an' dar 
 was a gineral pickin' ober and sortin' out 
 to make a good appearance. Dis period 
 lasted about 10,000 y'ars, an' you didn't lose 
 nuffin' by bein' out of town. De nex' pe- 
 riod is known as de coolin' off period. Eb- 
 erything had bin red hot fur 20,000 y'ars, 
 an' it took a heap o' time before dey got 
 cool 'nuff to handle. When dey did we had 
 a surface composed of water an' sich. Fur 
 thousands of y'ars dar wasn't nuff sile fur 
 a grasshopper to scratch in, nor 'nuff grass 
 fur to make a green streak on a pair o' 
 white pants. 
 
 "My frens, dar war odder periods — de 
 ice period, de drift period, de dirt period, 
 de grass period — and finally all was ready 
 an' waitin' fur de man period. De world 
 had bin created an' was all right. Birds 
 were flyin' around, chickens roosted so low 
 dat you could reach up an' pick 'em, an' de 
 hoss an' ox an' cow stood waitin' to be 
 milked. It was a beautiful scene. I kin 
 shut my eyes an' see it. If you could hev 
 bin right dar at dat time you would hev 
 busted yourselves on 'possum an' yams, de 
 fattest kind o' pullets — de biggest sart o' 
 'possums — de heaviest yams an' de moas' 
 
 gigantic watermelons — all right dar beggin' 
 of you to eat 'em up widout costin' a cent. 
 
 "Den man an' woman war created, an' 
 things has gone along bang-up eber since. 
 I has bin pained an' grieved to h'ar dat 
 sartin' cull'd men hev contended dat de 
 black man was bo'n fust. In fact dat Adam 
 was jist about my size an' complexun. 
 Gem'ln, doan' you believe it. It hain't so. 
 If it was so we'd be walkin' into barber 
 shops kept by white men an' layin' ourselves 
 back fur a shave. We wouldn't hev dis 
 fuzzy h'ar. We wouldn't be so liberal in de 
 size of de fut an' de length of de heel. We 
 could pass a smoked ham hangin' in front of 
 a grocery in de night widout stoppin' to 
 look if de grocer war in. 
 
 "My frens, wid dese few homogenous dis- 
 qualifications I bid you good-night, as de 
 hour has grown late, an' I believe I has sat- 
 isfied you on de soundness of my theory. 
 Think of these things fur yourselves. 
 Animadvert on de diaphragm doorin' your 
 hours of leisure. Doan' accept things as 
 you find them, but inquar' of yourselves 
 why de thusness of de thisness emulates de 
 consanguinity of de concordance." 
 
 t,?* t£* cv* 
 
 SHAKE UND DER VIDDER. 
 
 OXCOOSE me if I shed some tears, 
 Und wipe my nose avay ; 
 Und if a lump vos in my troat, 
 It comes up dere to shtay. 
 
 My sadness I shall now unfoldt, 
 
 Und if dot tale of woe 
 Don'd do some Dutchmans any good, 
 
 Den I don't pelief I know. 
 
 You see, I fall myself in love, 
 
 Und effery night I goes 
 Across to Brooklyn by dot pridge, 
 
 All dressed in Sunday clothes. 
 
 A vidder vomans vos der brize, 
 Her husband he vos dead; 
 
 Und all alone in this colt vorldt, 
 Dot vidder vas, she said. 
 
 Her heart for love vos on der pine, 
 
 Und dot I like to see ; 
 Und all der time I hoped dot heart 
 
 Vos on der pine for me. 
 
 I keeps a butcher shop, you know, 
 Und in a stocking stout, 
 
 I put avay my gold and bills, 
 Und no one gets him oudt. 
 
TOLD IN DIALECT. 
 
 113 
 
 If in der night some bank cashier 
 Goes skipping off mit cash, 
 
 I shleep so sound as nefer vos, 
 Vhile rich folks go to shmash. 
 
 I court dot vidder sixteen months, 
 Dot vidder she courts me, 
 
 Und vhen I says : " Vill you be mine ?' 
 She says : "You bet I'll be !" 
 
 Ve vos engaged — oh ! blessed fact ! 
 
 I squeeze dot dimpled hand ; 
 Her head upon my shoulder lays, 
 
 Shust like a bag of sand. 
 
 "Before der vedding day vos set," 
 
 She vispers in mine ear, 
 "I like to say I haf to use 
 
 Some cash, my Jacob, dear. 
 
 "I owns dis house and two big farms, 
 Und ponds und railroad shtock; 
 
 Und up in Yonkers I bossess 
 A grand big peesness block. 
 
 "Der times vos dull, my butcher boy, 
 
 Der market vos no good, 
 Und if I sell" — I squeezed her handt 
 
 To show I understood. 
 
 Next day — oxcoose my briny tears — 
 Dot shtocking took a shrink ; 
 
 I counted out twelf hundred in 
 Der cleanest kind o' chink. 
 
 Und later, by two days or more, 
 
 Dot vidder shlopes avay ; 
 Und leaves a note behindt for me 
 
 In vhich dot vidder say : 
 
 'Dear Shake: 
 
 Der rose vos red.:, 
 Der violet blue — 
 You see I've left, 
 Und you're left, too !" 
 
 «5* &5* '(5* 
 
 MISLED BY THE MOON. 
 
 WHEN de sun puts on his golden 
 gown 
 Wif de shiny purple seams, 
 An' lays him down in Twilight Town 
 Foh er res' in de House ob Dreams, 
 I takes de fiddle an' I takes de bow 
 An' I sets whah de shadows creep, 
 An' I plays 'im fas' an' I plays 'im slow 
 Till I plays me mos' ter sleep. 
 
 Miss Moon comes ober de sky right soon, 
 
 Wif a smile dat am fine ter see, 
 An' I stops de tune an' I says, "Miss Moon, 
 
 Will yoh promanade wif me?" 
 It's fie, Miss Moon — it's fie, foh shame, 
 
 I didn't think you'd stoop 
 Fer ter lead me on till I's clean done gone 
 
 Run inter a chicken-coop ! 
 
 — Philandcj lohnson. 
 
 ^* t^* t2& 
 
 KATHRINA'S VISIT TO NEW YORK. 
 
 VELL, von morning I says to Hans 
 (Hans vos mein husband) : "Hans, 
 I tinks I goes down to New York, und see 
 some sights in dot village." 
 
 Und Hans he say: "Veil, Katrina, you 
 vork hard pooty mooch, I tinks it vould 
 petter be dot you goes und rest yourself 
 
 some." So I gets meinself ready righd 
 avay quick, und in two days I vos de shteam 
 cars on vistling avay for New York. Ve 
 vent so fast I tinks mein head vould shplit 
 somedimes. De poles for dot delegraph 
 vires goes by like dey vos mad und run- 
 ning a races demselves mit to see vich could 
 
1U 
 
 TOLD IN DIALECT. 
 
 go de fastest mit de oder. De engine vistled 
 like somedimes it vos hurt bad, und 
 screeched mid de pain, und de horses by 
 dem fields vould run as dey vas scared. 
 
 It vas pooty mooch as ten hours ven ve 
 rushed into some houses so big enough as 
 all our village, und de cars begin to shtop 
 vith so many leetle jerks I dinks me I shall 
 lose all de dinner vot I eat vile I vas coming 
 all de vay apoudt. 
 
 Veil, ven dem cars got shtopped, de peo- 
 ples all got oudt und I picked mein traps 
 oup und got oudt too. I had shust shtepped 
 de blatform on, ven so mooch as ein hundert 
 men, mit vips in der hands, und der fingers 
 all in de air oup, asked me all at vounce, 
 "Vere I go ?" Und every one of dem fellers 
 vanted me to go mit him to his hotel. But 
 I tells 'em I guess not ; I vas going mit my 
 brudder-mit-law, vot keeps ein pakeshop 
 on de Powery, vere it didn't cost me notings. 
 So I got me in dot shtreet-cars, und pays de 
 man mit brass buttons on his coat to let me 
 oudt mit de shtreet vere dot Yawcup 
 Schneider leeves. Oh, my ! vot lots of 
 houses ! De shtreets vos all ofer filled mit 
 dem. Und so many beobles I tinks me dere 
 must be a fire, or a barade, or some oxcite- 
 ment vot gets de whole city in von blaces. 
 It dakes me so mooch time to look at every- 
 tings I forgot me ven to got oudt und rides 
 apast de blaces I vants to shtop to, und has 
 to valk again pack mid dree or four 
 shquares. But I vind me dot brudder-mit- 
 law who vos make me so velcome as nefer 
 vos. 
 
 Veil, dot vas Saturday mit de afternoon. 
 I was tired mit dot day's travel, und I goes 
 me pooty quick to bed, und ven I vakes in 
 de morning de sun vas high oup in de shky. 
 But I gets me oup und puts on mein new 
 silk vrock und tinks me I shall go to some 
 fine churches und hear ein grosse breacher. 
 Der pells vas ringing so schveet I dinks I 
 
 nefer pefore hear such music. Ven I got de 
 shtreet on de beobles vos all going quiet und 
 nice to dere blaces mit worship, und I makes 
 oup my mind to go in von of dem churches 
 so soon as von comes along. Pooty soon I 
 comes to de von. mit ein shteeple high oup 
 in de shky, und I goes in mit de beobles und 
 sits me down on ein seat all covered mit a 
 leetle mattress. De big organ vas blaying 
 so soft it seemed likes as if some angels 
 must be dere to make dot music. 
 
 Pooty soon de breacher man shtood in de 
 bulbit oup und read de hymn oudt, und all 
 de beobles sing until de churches vos filled 
 mit de shweetness. Den de breacher man 
 pray, und read de Pible, und den he say dot 
 de bulbit would be occupied by the Rev. 
 Villiam R. Shtover, mit Leavenworth, 
 Kansas. 
 
 Den dot man gommence to breach, und he 
 read mit his dext, "Und Simon's vife's 
 mudder lay sick mit a fever." He talks for 
 so mooch as ein half hour already ven de 
 beobles sings again und goes home. I tells 
 mein brudder-mit-law it vos so nice I tinks 
 me I goes again mit some oder churches. 
 So vot you tinks? I goes mit anoder 
 churches dot afternoon, und dot same Vil- 
 liam R. Shtover vos dere und breach dot 
 same sermon ofer again mit dot same dext, 
 "Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a 
 fever." I tinks to myself — dot vos too bad, 
 und I goes home und dells Yawcup, und he 
 says: "Nefer mind, Katrina, to-night ve 
 goes somevhere else to churches." So ven 
 de night vas come und de lamps vos all 
 lighted mit de shtreets, me und mein brud- 
 der-mit-law, ve goes over to dot Brooklyn 
 town to hear dot Heinrich Vard Peecher. 
 
 My, but dot vas ein grosse church, und 
 so many beobles vas dere, ve vas crowded 
 mit de vail back. Ven de singing vas all 
 done, a man vot vos sitting mit a leetle chair 
 got oup und say dot de Rev. Heinrich Vard 
 
TOLD IN DIALECT. 
 
 145 
 
 Peecher vas to der Vhite Mountains gone 
 mit dot hay fever, but dot der bulbit vould 
 be occupied on this occasion by der Rev. 
 Villiam R. Shtover, mit Leavenworth, 
 Kansas. Und dot Villiam R. Shtover he 
 gots mit dot bulbit oup und breaches dot 
 same sermon mit dot same dext, "Und Si- 
 mon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." 
 
 Dot vas too bad again, und I gets mad. 
 I vas so mad I vish dot he got dot fever 
 himself. 
 
 Veil, ven dot man vas troo, Yawcup says 
 to me, "Come, Katrina, ve'll go down to 
 dot ferry und take der boat vot goes to New 
 
 York!" Ven ve vos on dot boat der fog 
 vas so tick dot you couldn't see your hands 
 pehind your pack. De vistles vas plowing, 
 und dem pells vas ringing, und von man 
 shtepped up mit Yawcup und say "Vot vor 
 dem pells pe ringing so mooch?" 
 
 Und ven I looked around dere shtood 
 dot Villiam R. Shtover, mit Leavenworth, 
 Kansas — und I said pooty quick : "Vot vor 
 dem pells vas ringing? Vy for Simon's 
 vife's mudder, vot must be died, for I hear 
 dree times to-day already dot she vas sick 
 mit ein fever." 
 
 
 COURTSHIP AT THE HUSKIN' BEE. 
 
 THE Huskin' bee wuz over, ez the sun 
 wuz goin' down 
 In a yeller blaze o' glory jist behind the 
 
 maples brown, 
 The gals wuz gittin' ready 'n the boys wuz 
 
 standin' by, 
 To hitch on whar they wanted to, or know 
 the reason why. 
 
 Of all the gals what set aroun' the pile of 
 
 corn thet clay, 
 A'twistin' off the rustlin' husks, ez ef 'twas 
 
 only play, 
 The pertyest one of all the lot — 'n they wuz 
 
 putty, too — 
 Wuz Zury Hess, whose laffin' eyes cud look 
 
 ye through an' through. 
 
 Now it happened little Zury found a red ear 
 
 in the pile, 
 Afore we finished huskin', 'n ye orter seen 
 
 her smile; 
 For, o' coorse, she held the privilege, if she 
 
 would only dare, 
 To choose the feller she liked best 'n kiss 
 
 him then 'n there. 
 
 My! how we puckered up our lips 'n tried 
 
 to look our best, 
 Each feller wished he'd be the one picked 
 
 out from all the rest ; 
 'Til Zury, arter hangin' back a leetle spell 
 
 or so, 
 Got up 'n walked right over to the last one 
 
 in the row. 
 
 She jist reached down 'n touched her lips 
 
 onto the ol' white head 
 O' Peter Sims, who's eighty year ef he's a 
 
 day, 'tis said ; 
 She looked so sweet ol' Peter tho't an angel 
 
 cum to say 
 As how his harp. wuz ready in the land o' 
 
 tarnal day. 
 
 Mad? Well I should say I was, 'n I tol' 
 
 her goin' hum 
 As how the way she slighted me had made 
 
 me sorter glum, 
 'N that I didn't think she'd shake me right 
 
 afore the crowd — 
 I wuzn't gointer stand it — 'n I said so pooty 
 
 loud. 
 
146 
 
 TOLD IN DIALECT. 
 
 Then Zury drapped her laffin' eyes 'n whis- 
 pered to me low, 
 
 "I didn't kiss ye 'fore the crowd — 'cause — 
 'cause — I love ye so, 
 
 'N I thought ye wudn't mind it if I kissed 
 ol' Pete instead, 
 
 Because the grave is closin' jist above his 
 pore ol' head. 
 
 Well — wimmin's ways is queer, sometimes, 
 
 and we don't alius know 
 Jist what's a-throbbin' in their hearts when 
 
 they act thus 'n so — 
 All I know is, that when I bid good night 
 
 to Zury Hess, 
 I loved her more'n ever, 'n I'll never love 
 
 her less. 
 
 t5* t?* *5* 
 
 THE LITTLE RID HIN. 
 
 WELL, thin, there was once't upon a 
 time, away off in the ould country, 
 livin' all er lone in the woods, in a 
 wee bit iv a house be herself, a little rid 
 hin. Nice an' quiet she was, and niver did 
 no kind o' harrum in her life. An' there 
 lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, 
 a crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same 
 ould villain iv a fox, he laid awake o' nights, 
 and he prowled round shly iv a daytime, 
 thinkin' always so busy how he'd git the 
 little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile 
 her up for his shupper. 
 
 But the wise little rid hin niver went intil 
 her bit iv a house, but she locked the door 
 afther her, and pit the kay in her pocket. 
 So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, 
 an' he prowled, an' he laid awake nights, 
 till he came all to skin an' bone, an' sorra 
 a ha'porth o' the little rid hin could he get 
 at. But at lasht there came a shcame intil 
 his wicked ould head, an' he tuk a big bag 
 one mornin', over his shoulder, an' he says 
 till his mother, says he, "Mother, have the 
 pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll 
 bring the little rid hin to-night for our shup- 
 per." 
 
 An' away he wint, over the hills, an' came 
 crapin' shly and soft through the woods to 
 where the little rid hin lived in her shnug 
 bit iv a house. An' shure, jist at the very 
 minute that he got along, out comes the 
 
 little rid hin out iv the door, to pick up 
 shticks to bile her tay-kettle. "Begorra, 
 now, but I'll have yees," says the shly ould 
 fox, an' in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the 
 house, an' hides behind the door. An' in 
 comes the little rid hin, a minute afther, 
 with her apron full iv shticks, an' shuts to 
 the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in her 
 pocket. An' thin she turns round — an' 
 there shtands the baste iv a fox in the cor- 
 ner. Well, thin, what did she do, but jist 
 dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a 
 great fright and flutter to the big bame 
 across inside o' the roof, where the fox 
 couldn't git at her ! 
 
 "Ah, ha!" says the ould fox, "I'll soon 
 bring yees down out o' that !" An' he be- 
 gan to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, 
 fashter, an' fashter, an' fashter, on the floor, 
 afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid 
 hin got so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist 
 tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox 
 whipped her up and popped her intil his 
 bag, and stharted off home in a minute. 
 An' he wint up the wood, an' down the 
 wood half the day long wid his little rid hin 
 shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a 
 know she knowed where she was at all, at 
 all. She thought she was all biled an' ate 
 up, an' finished shure ! But, by an' by, she 
 remimbered herself, an' pit her hand in her 
 pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, 
 
TOLD IN DIALECT. 
 
 147 
 
 and shnipped a big hole in the bag behind, 
 an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone 
 an' popped it intil the bag, an' rin aff home 
 an' locked the door. 
 
 An' the fox he tugged away, up over the 
 hill, with the big shtone at his back thumpin' 
 his shoulders, thinkin' to himself how 
 heavy the little rid hin was, an' what a fine 
 shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in 
 sight iv his din in the rocks, and shpied his 
 ould mother a watchin' for him at the door, 
 he says, "Mother! have ye the pot bilin'?" 
 
 An' the ould mother says, "Sure an' it is; 
 an' have yet the little rid hin?" "Yes, jist 
 here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot 
 till I pit her in," says he. 
 
 An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid 
 o' the pot, an' the rashkill untied the bag, 
 and hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' 
 shuk in the big, heavy shtone. An' the 
 bilin' wahter shplashed up all over the rogue 
 iv a fox, an' his mother, an' schalded them 
 both to death. An' the little rid hin lived 
 safe in her house foriver afther. 
 
 
 THE RULER IV THE TOWN. 
 
 JIM COOGAN was a wurrukin' man 
 Who wurruked the livelong day, 
 An' ivery week he used to sneak 
 
 Two dollars from his pay, 
 An' put it in a stockin', 
 
 Where 'twas safely salted down — 
 Now look at him ; this silfsame Jim 
 Is ruler iv the town. 
 
 He wasn't like the most iv them, 
 
 That think they're doin' proud 
 To draw their pay aich Sathurday 
 
 And spind it on the crowd. 
 He saved a voter's price aich week, 
 
 An' now he's got raynown, 
 For look at him, this silfsame Jim 
 
 Is ruler iv the town. 
 
 He's prisident — jist think iv that! 
 
 An' has a sicretary 
 Who has a clurruk to do the wurruk 
 
 Phwile he drinks Tom-an'-Jerry. 
 An' phwin he's prisidintin' 
 
 He wears a goolden crown 
 A-top iv him — that same does Jim 
 
 Phwin rulin' iv the town. 
 
 Now all I've got to say is this : 
 
 Lave off yer blowin' in ; 
 Save up yer stuff till ye've enough 
 
 To wurruk the wurrukin' min. 
 Then reach for office ivery year ; 
 
 An' phwin ye pull wan down, 
 The same as him, ye'll be, like Jim, 
 
 The ruler iv the town. 
 
 ^5 £m t5* 
 
 "DE COTE-HOUSE IN DE SKY." 
 
 NOW I's got a notion in my head dat 
 when you come to die, 
 An' stand de 'zamination in de Cote-house in 
 
 de sky, 
 You'll be 'stonished at de questions dat de 
 
 angel's gwine to ax 
 When he gits you on de witness-stan' an' 
 pins you to de fac's; 
 
 Cause he'll ax you mighty closely 'bout 
 
 your doins in de night, 
 An' de water-million question's gwine to 
 
 bodder you a sight ! 
 Den your eyes'll open wider dan dey eber 
 
 done befo', 
 When he chats you 'bout a chicken-scrape 
 
 dat happened long ago ! 
 
148 
 
 TOLD IN DIALECT. 
 
 De angels on de picket-line erlong de Milky 
 
 Way 
 Keeps a-watchin' what yer dribin' at an' 
 
 hearin' what you say : 
 No matter what you want to do, no matter 
 
 whar you's gwine, 
 Dey's mighty apt to find it out an' pass it 
 
 long de line ; 
 An' of'en at de meetin' when you make a 
 
 fuss an laff — 
 Why, dey send de news a kitin' by de golden 
 
 telegraph ; 
 Den, de angel in de orfis, what's a-settin' by 
 
 de gate, 
 
 Jes' read's de message wid a look an' claps it 
 on de slate ! 
 
 Den you better do your juty well an' keep 
 your conscience clear, 
 
 An' keep a-lookin' straight ahead an' watch- 
 in' whar you steer; 
 
 'Cause arter while de time'll come to jour- 
 ney fum de Ian', 
 
 An' dey'll take you way up in de a'r an' put 
 you on de stan' ; 
 
 Den you'll hab to listen to de clerk an' ans- 
 wer mighty straight. 
 
 Ef you ebber 'spec' to trabble froo de ala- 
 baster gate! 
 
 gJv (£5 <&& 
 
 HAN'S REGISTERED LETTER. 
 
 HANS BLUKMAN got mad the other 
 day. It was in London. There were 
 a number of new letter-carriers wanted in 
 the post-office department, and five or six 
 score applicants were on hand to be ex- 
 amined by the shrewd medical gentlemen 
 who were appointed to conduct this rigid 
 scrutiny. Among these, was fat Hans 
 Blukman, a well-to-do tradesman. He 
 stood about the middle of the long line, be- 
 fore the closed doors of a room at the post- 
 office building. He waited his turn with 
 perspiring impatience. Every now and 
 then, the door would open, a head would 
 be thrust through the crack of the door and 
 cry "Next!" Then somebody — not Hans 
 Blukman — would enter. 
 
 At last it came Han's turn. He entered 
 and found himself .alone with a man of pro- 
 fessional aspect. Hans held out a slip of 
 paper. The official said : 
 
 "Take off your coat." 
 
 "Take off mine goat? Vot you dink I 
 come for? To get shafed? I vant " 
 
 "All right. Take off your coat, or I can't 
 examine you." 
 
 "Den I vos got to be examined? So? 
 Dot's all right, I s'pose," and off came the 
 coat. 
 
 "Off waistcoat, too!" 
 
 "Look here, my friend, you dink I was a 
 tief? You vants to zearch me? Well, dot's 
 all right. I peen an honest man, py dunder, 
 and you don't vind no schtolen broperty 
 my clothes insite! I vas never zearch pe- 
 fore already " 
 
 "I don't want to search you: I want to 
 examine you. Don't you understand?" 
 
 "No, I ton'd understand. But dot's all 
 right; dere's mine clothes off, und if I cold 
 catch, dot vill your fault peen entirely." 
 
 The professional man placed his hand on 
 the visitor's shoulder blade, applied an ear 
 to his chest, tapped him on the breast-bone 
 and punched him in the small of the back, 
 inquiring if it hurt. 
 
 "Hurt? No, dot ton'd hurt; but maype, 
 if dose foolishness ton'd stop, somepody 
 ellus gits bretty soon hurt." 
 
 "Does that hurt?" was the next ques- 
 tion, accompanied by a gentle thrust 
 among the ribs. 
 
TOLD IN DIALECT. 
 
 U9 
 
 "No, dot ton'd hurt; but, by dunder, 
 
 it- 
 
 "Be quiet! I'm in a hurry — I've a dozen 
 more to attend to. Now, can you read this 
 card when I hold it out so?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Can you read it now?" bringing it a few 
 inches nearer. 
 
 "No; but you choost pring me out my 
 spegtagles by my goat pocket and I read 
 him." 
 
 "Oh! that won't do. Your sight is defect- 
 ive, I am sorry to say, and you are re- 
 jected. Put on your clothes — quick, 
 please." 
 
 "Dot's all right. So I vos rechected, eh? 
 Well, dot vas nezzary, I subbose; but it's 
 very vunny, choost the same. And now 
 I've peen rechected und eggsamined, may- 
 
 pe, you don'd some objections got to git 
 me dot rechistered letter?" 
 
 "What registered letter?" 
 
 "Dot rechistered letter vot vas spoken 
 about on dis piece baber." 
 
 "The dickens! Who sent you to me 
 with that? I thought you had come to be 
 examined. Didn't you apply to be a letter- 
 carrier?" 
 
 "A letter-garrier? No I don't vant to be 
 a letter-garrier. I half bizziness got py 
 mineself, but I vants my rechistered letter." 
 
 "Here," said the doctor to a messenger 
 in the lobby, "show this man the regis- 
 tered-letter clerk," and the bewildered 
 foreigner was conducted to the proper win- 
 dow where after passing through such a 
 trying ordeal he finally received his letter 
 from "Sharmeny" all right. 
 
 «5* o5* t5* 
 
 LITTLE BREECHES. 
 
 (A Pike County, Missouri, view of Special Providence.) 
 
 I DON'T go much on religion. 
 I never ain't had no show ; 
 But I've got a middlin' tight grip, Sir, 
 
 On the handful o' things I know. 
 I don't pan out on the prophets 
 
 And free-will, and that sort of thing — 
 But I b'lieve in God and the angels, 
 Ever since one night last spring. 
 
 I come into town with some turnips, 
 
 And my little Gabe came along — 
 No four-year-old in the country , 
 
 Could beat him for pretty and strong. 
 Pert and chipper and sassy, 
 
 Always ready to swear and fight — 
 And I'd larnt him to chaw tobacker, 
 
 Jest to keep his milk teeth white. 
 
 The snow came down like a blanket 
 As I passed by Taggart's store ; 
 
 I went in for a jug of molasses 
 And left the team at the door. 
 
 They scared at something and started — 
 I heard one little squall, 
 
 And hell-to-split over the prairie 
 Went team, Little Breeches and all. 
 
 Hell-to-split over the prairie ! 
 
 I was almost froze with skeer ; 
 But we roused up some torches, 
 
 And sarched for 'em far and near. 
 At last we struck horses and wagon, 
 
 Snowed under a soft white mound, 
 Upsot, dead beat — but of little Gabe 
 
 No hide nor hair was found. 
 
 And here all hope soured on me 
 
 Of my fellow-critters' aid — 
 I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, 
 
 Crotch-deep in the snow and prayed. 
 
150 
 
 TOLD IN DIALECT. 
 
 By this the torches was played out, 
 
 And me and Isrul Parr 
 Went off for some wood to a sheepfold 
 
 That he said was somewhar thar. 
 
 We found it at last, and a little shed 
 Where they shut up the lambs at night. 
 
 We looked in and seen them huddled thar, 
 So warm and sleepy and white. 
 
 And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, 
 As peart as ever you see, 
 
 " I want a chaw of tobacker, 
 
 And that's wat's the matter of me." 
 
 How did he git thar ? Angels ! 
 
 He could never have walked in that 
 storm ; 
 They jest scooped down and toted him 
 
 To whar it was safe and warm. 
 And I think that savin' a little child 
 
 And bringin' him to his own, 
 Is a derned sight better business 
 
 Than loafin' around the Throne. 
 
 t5* t?w g9* 
 
 MAMMY'S HUSHABY. 
 
 HUSHABY, hushaby, HI' baby boy, 
 Shet yo' eyes tight an' drap off ter 
 sleep ; 
 Mistah Coon was a-pacin' at a mighty jog 
 When he seed a 'possum curled up on a 
 lawg: 
 "Howdy, Brer 'Possum, Fse glad you a'n't 
 a dawg" — 
 
 Hushaby, lil' baby boy. 
 All de lil' mawkin' birds a sleepin' in dar 
 nes', 
 When night comes den sleepin' is de bes', 
 Tek up m' honey boy an' hug him ter m' 
 bres', 
 
 Hushaby, lil' baby boy. 
 
 Hushaby, hushaby, lil' baby boy, 
 
 Watch dawg bark an' booger man run ; 
 Down in the medder lil' bunnies race, 
 Frolickin' an' jumpin' all about de 
 place — 
 Jess yo' quit dat laffin' right in yo' mam- 
 my's face — 
 
 Hushaby, lil' baby boy. 
 
 Oi' brindle cow's a-callin', "goo' night, goo' 
 
 night," she said, 
 
 Time all lil' chilluns fer ter be in bed ; 
 
 Tight shet go dem bright eyes, down drap 
 
 dat curly head — 
 
 Hushaby, lil' baby boy. 
 
 — Richard Linthicum. 
 
 »2* ^* ^* 
 
 DER DRUMMER. 
 
 WHO puts oup at der pest hotel, 
 Und dakes his oysders on der 
 shell, 
 Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore, 
 Drows down his pundles of der vloor, 
 Und nefer schtops to shut der door? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who dakes me py der handt und say, 
 "Hans - Pfeiff er, how you vas to-day ?" 
 Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, 
 Und dells me, "Look, und see how nice?" 
 Und says I gets "der bottom price?" 
 Der drummer. 
 
TOLD IN DIALECT. 
 
 151 
 
 Who dells how sheap der goods vas bought, 
 Mooch less as vot I gould imbort, 
 But let's them go as he vas "short" ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who says der tings vas eggstra vine — 
 "Vrom Sharmany, upon der Rhine!" 
 Und sheats me den dimes oudt off nine? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who varrants all der goods to suit 
 Der gustomers ubon his route, 
 
 Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt, 
 Drinks oup mine bier, und eats mine kraut, 
 Und kiss Katrina in der mout? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who, ven he gomes again dis way, 
 Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say, 
 Und mit a plack eye goes avay ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 t5* t5* ^* 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 J '"P AIN' no matter what yoh does, 
 1 Ner to whah yoh strays, 
 T'ings'll make yer wish dey wuz 
 
 Dif'unt, lots o' ways. 
 When I's done de bes' I can, 
 
 Weary ez kin be, 
 Wisht I was some yuther man, 
 
 'Stid o' being me. 
 
 But, when mawnin' fin's me strong, 
 
 Ready foh de day, 
 Strikes me dat I may be wrong, 
 
 Pinin' dat-a-way. 
 Ef folks changed aroun' so free, 
 
 Comfort might be slim; 
 P'raps I'd wish dat I wuz me, 
 
 'Stid o' bein' him. 
 
 t5* <5* <5* 
 
 JIM BLUDSO OF "THE PRAIRIE BELLE." 
 
 WALL, no ; I can't tell where he lives, 
 Becase he don't live, you see ; 
 Leastways, he's got out of the habit 
 
 Of livin' like'you and me. 
 Whar have you been for the last three year 
 
 That you haven't heard folks tell 
 How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks 
 The night of the Prairie Belle? 
 
 He weren't no saint — them engineers 
 
 Is all pretty much alike — 
 One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, 
 
 And another one here, in Pike. 
 A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 
 
 And an awkward Tiand in a row, 
 But he never flunked, and he never lied — 
 
 I reckon he never knowed how. 
 
 And this was all the religion he had — 
 
 To treat his engine well ; 
 Never be passed on the river ; 
 
 To mind the pilot's bell ; 
 And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire — 
 
 A thousand times he swore 
 He'd hold her nozzle ag'in' the bank 
 
 Till the last soul got ashore. 
 
 All boats has their day on the Mississip, 
 
 And her day come at last — 
 The Movastar was a better boat, 
 
 But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. 
 And so she come tearin' along that night — 
 
 The oldest craft on the line — 
 With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, 
 
 And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine 
 
153 
 
 TOLD IN DIALECT. 
 
 The fire burst out as she cleared the bar, 
 
 And burnt a hole in the night, 
 And quick as a flash she turned, and made 
 
 For that wilier-bank on the right. 
 There was runnin' and cursin,' but Jim 
 yelled out 
 
 Over all the infernal roar : 
 "I'll hold her nozzle ag'in' the bank 
 
 Till the last galoot's ashore." 
 
 Through the hot, black breath of the burnin 
 boat 
 
 Jim Bludso's voice was heard, 
 And they all had trust in his cussedness, 
 
 And knowed he would keep his word. 
 
 And, sure's you're born, they all got off 
 Afore the smokestacks fell — 
 
 And Bludso's ghost went up alone 
 In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 
 
 He weren't no saint — but at jedgment 
 
 I'd run my chance with Jim, 
 'Longside o' some pious gentlemen 
 
 That wouldn't shook hands with him. 
 He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing — 
 
 And went for it thar and then ; 
 And Christ ain't a goin' to be too hard 
 
 On a man that died for men. 
 
 — John Hay. 
 
 YAWCOB STRAUSS. 
 
 IHAF von funny leedle poy, 
 Vot gomes shust to mine knee ; 
 Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, 
 As efer you dit see. 
 
 He runs, und schumps, und schmashes 
 dings 
 
 In all barts off der house: 
 But vot off dot? he vas mine son, 
 
 Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, 
 
 Und cuts mine cane in dwo, 
 To make der shticks to beat it mit, — 
 
 Mine cracious dot vas drue ! 
 
 I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart 
 
 He kicks oop sooch a touse: 
 But nefer mind; der poys vas few 
 
 Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He asks me questions sooch as dese: 
 Who baints mine nose so red? 
 
 Who vas it cut dot schmooth blace oudt 
 From der hair upon mine hed? 
 
 Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 
 
 Vene'er der glim I douse? 
 How gan I all dose dings eggsblain 
 
 To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss? 
 
 He get der measles und der mumbs, 
 
 Und eferyding dot's oudt; 
 He sbills mine glass off lager bier, 
 
 Poots schnuff indo mine kraut. 
 
 He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese, — 
 Dot vas der roughest chouse ; 
 
 I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy 
 But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 I somedimes dink I schall go vild 
 
 Mit sooch a grazy poy, 
 Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, 
 
 Und beaceful dimes enshoy ; 
 
 But vhen he vas ashleep in ped, 
 
 So guiet as a mouse, 
 I prays der Lord, "Dake anyding, 
 
 But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 
 
 — Charles F. Adams. 
 
(^ 
 
 &9 
 
 ^) 
 
 Modem Dialogues and Plays \ 
 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Gentlemen — 
 
 Ladies — 
 
 January. 
 
 February. 
 
 March. 
 
 April. 
 
 July. 
 
 May. 
 
 August. 
 
 June. 
 
 October. 
 
 September 
 
 December 
 
 November. 
 
 Robin Redbreasts; Lambs and Sheep; 
 Nightingale and Nestlings. 
 
 Various Flowers, Fruits, etc. 
 Scene: — A Cottage with its Grounds. 
 
 (A room in a large, comfortable cot- 
 tage; a fire burning on the hearth; a table 
 on which the breakfast things have been 
 left standing. January discovered seated 
 at the fire.) 
 
 Any dialogue or play in this department can be presented upon any platform or stage erected 
 
 in the school-room, church or home with little trouble and cost. All of the 
 
 costumes are easily and inexpensively made. They embrace a wide 
 
 variety suitable for every occasion both for adults and children. 
 
 c£* tCf^ &™ 
 
 A PAGEANT OF THE MONTHS. 
 
 Robin, why don't you come and fetch your 
 crumb ? 
 
 Here's butter for my bunch of bread, 
 And sugar for your crumb; 
 
 Here's room upon the hearth-rug, 
 If you'll only come. 
 
 In your scarlet waistcoat, 
 With your keen bright eye, 
 
 Where are you loitering? 
 Wings were made to fly! 
 
 Make haste to breakfast, 
 Come and fetch your crumb, 
 
 For I'm as glad to see you 
 As you are glad to come. 
 
 (Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tap- 
 ping with their beaks at the lattice, which 
 January opens and throws out crumbs to 
 birds. A knock is heard at the door. Jan- 
 uary hangs a guard in front of the fire, 
 and opens to February, who appears zvith 
 a bunch of snowdrops in her hand.) 
 January. 
 Good-morrow, sister. 
 
 February. 
 
 Brother, joy to you ! 
 I've brought some snowdrops; only just a 
 
 few, 
 But quite enough to prove the world 
 awake, 
 
 January. 
 Cold the day and cold the drifted snow, 
 Dim the day until the cold dark night. 
 
 [Stirs the fire.] 
 Crackle, sparkle, fagot; embers, glow; 
 Some one may be plodding through the 
 
 snow, 
 Longing for a light, 
 For the light that you and I can show. 
 If no one else should come, 
 Here Robin Redbreast's welcome to a 
 
 crumb, 
 And never troublesome: 
 
 iS3 
 
151 
 
 MODEIIN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew, 
 And for the pale sun's sake. 
 
 (She hands a few of her snowdrops to 
 January, who retires into the background. 
 While February stands arranging the re- 
 maining snowdrops in a glass of water on 
 the window-sill, a soft butting and bleat- 
 ing are heard outside. She opens the door, 
 and sees one foremost lamb, with other 
 sheep and lambs bleating and crowding 
 towards her.) 
 
 February. 
 O you, you little wonder, come — come in, 
 You wonderful, you woolly, soft, white 
 
 lamb: 
 You panting mother ewe, come too, 
 And lead that tottering twin 
 Safe in: 
 
 Bring all your bleating kith and kin, 
 Except the horny ram. 
 
 (February opens a second door in the 
 background, and the little Hock files 
 through into a warm and sheltered com- 
 partment out of sight.) 
 
 The lambkin tottering in its walk, 
 
 With just a fleece to wear; 
 The snowdrop drooping on its stalk 
 
 So slender, — 
 
 Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair, 
 
 Braving the cold for our delight, 
 
 Both white, 
 
 Both tender. 
 
 (A rattling of door and windows; 
 branches seen without, tossing violently to 
 and fro.) 
 How the doors rattle, and the branches 
 
 sway! 
 Here's brother March comes whirling on 
 
 his way, 
 With winds that eddy and sing. 
 
 (She turns the handle of the door, which 
 bursts open, and discloses March hasten- 
 
 ing up, both hands full of violets and 
 anemones.) 
 
 February. 
 Come, show me what you bring; 
 For I have said my say, fulfilled my day, 
 And must away. 
 
 March. 
 (Stopping short on the threshold.) 
 I blow and arouse, 
 Through the world's wide house, 
 To quicken the torpid earth: 
 Grappling I fling 
 Each feeble thing, 
 But bring strong life to the birth. 
 I wrestle and frown, 
 And topple down; 
 I wrench, I rend, I uproot; 
 Yet the violet 
 Is born where I set 
 The sole of my flying foot. 
 
 (Hands violets and anemones to Febru- 
 ary, who retires into the background.) 
 
 And in my wake 
 
 Frail wind-flowers quake, 
 And the catkins promise fruit. 
 
 I drive ocean ashore 
 
 With rush and roar, 
 And he cannot say me nay: 
 
 My harpstrings all 
 
 Are the forests tall, 
 Making music when I play. 
 
 And as others perforce, 
 
 So I on my course 
 Run and needs must run, 
 
 With sap on the mount, 
 
 And buds past count, 
 And rivers and clouds and sun, 
 
 With seasons and breath 
 
 And time and death 
 And all that has yet begun. 
 
 (Before March has done speaking, a 
 voice is heard approaching accompanied by 
 a twittering of birds. April comes along 
 
p 
 
 Hi 
 H 
 
 « 
 P 
 
 p 
 rt 
 p 
 p 
 
 M 
 
 w 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 157 
 
 singing, amd stands outside and out of sight 
 to finish her song.) 
 
 April. 
 (Outside.) 
 Pretty little three 
 Sparrows in a tree, 
 Light upon the wing; 
 Though you cannot sing, 
 You can chirp of Spring: 
 Chirp of Spring to me, 
 Sparrows, from your tree. 
 
 Never mind the showers, 
 
 Chirp about the flowers, 
 While you build a nest: 
 Straws from east and west, 
 Feathers from your breast, 
 
 Make the snuggest bowers 
 
 In a world of flowers. 
 
 You must dart away 
 From the chosen spray, 
 
 You intrusive third 
 Extra little bird ; 
 Join the unwedded herd! 
 These have done with play, 
 And must work to-day. 
 
 April. 
 
 (Appearing at the open door.) 
 
 Good-morrow and good-bye : if others fly, 
 
 Of all the flying months you're the most 
 
 flying. 
 
 March. 
 You're hope and sweetness, April. 
 April. 
 
 Birth means dying, 
 As wings and wind mean flying; 
 So you and I and all things fly or die ; 
 And sometimes I sit sighing to think of 
 
 dying. 
 But meanwhile I've a rainbow in my show- 
 ers, 
 And a lapful of flowers, 
 
 And these dear nestlings, aged three hours ; 
 And here's their mother sitting, 
 Their father merely flitting 
 To find their breakfast somewhere in my 
 bowers. 
 (As she speaks April shows March her 
 apron full of dowers and nest full of birds. 
 March zvanders away into the grounds. 
 April, without entering the cottage, hangs 
 over the hungry nestlings watching them.) 
 
 April. 
 What beaks you have, you funny things, 
 
 What voices, shrill and weak; 
 Who'd think anything that sings 
 Could sing with such a beak? 
 Yet you'll be nightingales some day 
 
 And charm the country-side, 
 When I'm away and far away, 
 And May is queen and bride. 
 (May arrives unperceived by April, and 
 gives her a kiss. April starts and looks 
 round.) 
 
 April. 
 Ah, May, good-morrow, May, and so good- 
 bye. 
 
 May. 
 That's just your way, sweet April, smile 
 
 and sigh; 
 Your sorrows half in fun, 
 Begun and done 
 And turned to joy while twenty seconds 
 
 run. 
 At every step a flower 
 Fed by your last bright shower, — 
 
 (She divides an armful of all sorts of 
 dowers zvith April, who strolls away 
 through the garden.) 
 
 May. 
 And gathering flowers I listened to the 
 
 song 
 Of every bird in bower. 
 
 The world and I are far too full of bliss, 
 To think or plan or toil or care; 
 
158 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 The sun is waxing strong, 
 The days are waning long, 
 And all that is, 
 Is fair. 
 
 Here are May buds of lily and of rose, 
 And here's my namesake-blossom, 
 May; 
 And from a watery spot 
 See here, forget-me-not, 
 With all that blows 
 To-day. 
 
 Hark to my linnets from the hedges green, 
 Blackbird and lark and thrush and 
 dove, 
 And every nightingale 
 And cuckoo tells its tale, 
 And all they mean 
 Is love. 
 
 (June appears at the further end of the 
 garden, coming slowly towards May, who 
 seeing her, exclaims:) 
 
 May. 
 Surely you're come too early, sister June. 
 
 June. 
 Indeed I feel as if I came too soon 
 To round your young May moon. 
 And set the world a-gasping at my noon, 
 Yet must I come. So here are strawberries, 
 Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you 
 
 please ; 
 And there are full-blown roses by the score, 
 More roses and yet more. 
 
 {May, eating strawberries, withdraws 
 among the flower beds.) 
 June. 
 The sun does all my long day's work for 
 me, 
 Raises and ripens everything; 
 I need but sit beneath a leafy tree 
 And watch and sing. 
 (Seats herself in the shadow of a labur- 
 num. ) 
 
 Or if I'm lulled by note of bird and bee, 
 
 Or lulled by noontide's silence deep, 
 I need but nestle down beneath my tree 
 And drop asleep. 
 
 (June falls asleep; and is not awakened 
 by the voice of July, who behind the scenes 
 is heard half singing, half calling.) 
 July. 
 (Behind the scenes.) 
 Blue flags, yellow flags, all freckled, 
 Which will you take? Yellow, blue, 
 
 speckled ! 
 Take which you will, speckled, blue, yel- 
 low, 
 Each in its way has not a fellow. 
 
 (Enter Jidy, a basket of many-colored 
 irises swung upon his shoulders, a bunch 
 of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate piled 
 full of peaches balanced upon the other. 
 He steals up to June, and tickles her with 
 the grass. She wakes.) 
 June. 
 What, here already? 
 July. 
 
 Nay, my tryst is kept ; 
 The longest day slipped by you while you 
 
 slept. 
 I've brought you one curved pyramid of 
 bloom, 
 
 (Hands her the plate.) 
 Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where 
 the bees, 
 As downy, bask and boom 
 In sunshine and in gloom of trees. 
 But get you in, a storm is at my heels ; 
 The whirlwind whistles and wheels, 
 Lightning flashes and thunder peals, 
 Flying and following hard upon my 
 
 heels. 
 (June takes shelter in a thickly-woven 
 arbor.) 
 
 July. 
 The roar of a storm sweeps up 
 From the east to the lurid west, 
 
MODEBN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 159 
 
 The darkening sky, like a cup, 
 Is rilled with rain to the brink; 
 
 The sky is purple and fire, 
 
 Blackness and noise and unrest; 
 
 The earth, parched with desire, 
 Opens her mouth to drink. 
 
 Send forth thy thunder and fire, 
 
 Turn over thy brimming cup, 
 O sky, appease the desire 
 
 Of earth in her parched unrest; 
 Pour out drink to her thirst, 
 
 Her famishing life lift up; 
 Make thyself fair as at first, 
 
 With a rainbow for thy crest. 
 
 Have done with thunder and fire, 
 O sky with the rainbow crest; 
 
 O earth, have done with desire, 
 Drink, and drink deep, and rest. 
 
 (Enter August, carrying a sheaf made 
 up of different kinds of grain.) 
 
 July. 
 Hail, brother August, flushed and warm, 
 And scathless from my storm. 
 Your hands are full of corn, I see, 
 As full as hands can be: 
 And earth and air both smell as sweet as 
 
 balm 
 In their recovered calm, 
 And that they owe to me. 
 
 (July retires into the shrubbery.) 
 August. 
 Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy, 
 
 Barley bows a graceful head, 
 Short and small shoots up canary, 
 
 Each of these is some one's bread; 
 Bread for man or bread for beast, 
 Or at very least 
 A bird's savory feast. 
 
 Men are brethren of each other, 
 One in flesh and one in food ; 
 
 And a sort of foster brother, 
 Is the litter, or the brood 
 
 Of that folk in fur and feather, 
 Who, with men together, 
 Breast the wind and weather. 
 
 (August descries September toiling 
 across the lawn.) 
 
 August. 
 My harvest home is ended ; and I spy 
 September drawing nigh 
 With the first thought of Autumn in her 
 
 eye, 
 And the first sigh 
 
 Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly. 
 (September arrives, carrying upon her 
 head a basket heaped high with fruit.) 
 
 September. 
 Unload me, brother. I have brought a few 
 Plums and these pears for you, 
 A dozen kinds of apples, one or two 
 Melons, some figs all bursting through 
 Their skins; and pearled with dew 
 These damsons, violet-blue. 
 
 (While September is speaking, August 
 lifts the basket to the ground, selects vari- 
 ous fruits, and withdraivs slowly along the 
 gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes.) 
 September. 
 My song is half a sigh 
 Because my green leaves die; 
 Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are 
 dying; 
 And well may Autumn sigh, 
 And well may I 
 Who watch the sere leaves flying. 
 
 My leaves that fade and fall, 
 
 I note you one and all ; 
 I call you, and the Autumn wind is calling, 
 
 Lamenting for your fall, 
 And for the pall 
 You spread on earth in falling. 
 
1G0 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 And here's a song of flowers to suit such 
 
 hours : 
 A song of the last lilies, the last flowers, 
 Amid my withering bowers. 
 
 In the sunny garden bed 
 
 Lilies look so pale, 
 Lilies droop the head 
 
 In the shady, grassy vale; 
 If all alike they pine 
 In shade and in shine, 
 If everywhere they grieve, 
 Where will lilies live? 
 
 (October enters briskly, some leafy 
 twigs bearing different sorts of nuts in one 
 hand, and a long, ripe hop-vine trailing 
 after him from the other. A dahlia is stuck 
 in his button-hole.) 
 
 October. 
 
 Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite 
 
 over, 
 Even if the year has done with corn and 
 
 clover, 
 With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact, 
 
 it's true, 
 Some leaves remain, and some flowers too, 
 For me and you. 
 Now see my crops. 
 
 [Offering his produce to September.] 
 I've brought you nuts and hops; 
 And when the leaf drops, why the walnut 
 drops. 
 (October wreathes the hop-vines about 
 September's neck, and gives her the nut 
 twigs. They enter the cottage together, 
 but without shutting the door. She steps 
 into the background; he advances to the 
 hearth, removes the guard, stirs up the 
 smouldering fire, and arranges several 
 chestnuts ready to roast.) 
 October. 
 Crack your first nut, light your first fire, 
 Roast your chestnuts, crisp on the bar, 
 
 Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze 
 higher ; 
 Logs are as cheery as sun or as star, 
 Logs we can find wherever we are. 
 
 Spring, one soft day, will open the leaves, 
 Spring, one bright day, will lure back the 
 flowers ; 
 Never fancy my whistling wind grieves, 
 Never fancy I've tears in my showers ; 
 Dance, nights and days ! and dance on, 
 my hours. 
 
 [Sees November approaching.] 
 October. 
 Here comes my youngest sister, looking 
 
 dim 
 And grim, 
 With dismal ways. 
 What cheer, November? 
 November. 
 (Entering and shutting the door.) 
 Nought have I to bring, 
 Tramping a-chill and shivering, 
 Except these pine cones for a blaze, — 
 Except a fog which follows, 
 And stuffs up all the hollows, — 
 Except a hoar frost here and there, — 
 Except some shooting stars, 
 Which dart their luminous cars, 
 Trackless and noiseless through the keen 
 night air. 
 (October, shrugging his shoulders, with- 
 draws into the background, while Novem- 
 ber throws her pine cones on the fire and 
 sits down listlessly.) 
 
 November. 
 The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired 
 
 Of all that's high or deep ; 
 There's naught desired and naught re- 
 quired 
 Save a sleep. 
 
 I rock the cradle of the earth, 
 I lull her with a sigh; 
 
Modern Dialogues And plays. 
 
 161 
 
 And know that she will wake to mirth 
 By and bye. 
 
 (Through the window December is seen 
 running and leaping in the direction of the 
 door. He knocks.) 
 
 November. 
 
 (Calls out without rising.) 
 
 Ah, here's my youngest brother come at 
 
 last: 
 Come in, December. 
 
 (He opens the door and enters, loaded 
 tvith evergreens in berry, etc.) 
 
 Come in and shut the door, 
 For now it's snowing fast; 
 It snows, and will snow more and more ; 
 Don't let it drift in on the floor. 
 But you, you're all aglow ; how can you be 
 Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold. 
 
 December. 
 Nay, no closed doors for me, 
 But open doors and open hearts and glee 
 To welcome young and old. 
 
 Dimmest and brightest month am I ; 
 My short days end, my lengthening days 
 
 begin ; 
 What matters more or less sun in the sky, 
 When all is sun within? 
 
 (He begins making a zvreath as he 
 sings. ) 
 Ivy and privet dark as night 
 
 I weave with hips and haws a cheerful 
 show, 
 And holly for a beauty and delight, 
 
 And milky mistletoe. 
 
 While high above them all is set 
 Yew twigs and Christmas roses, pure 
 and pale; 
 
 Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet 
 May keep, so sweet and frail; 
 
 May keep each merry singing bird, 
 
 Of all her happy birds that singing 
 build: 
 For I've a carol which some shepherds 
 heard 
 Once in a wintry field. 
 
 (While December concludes his song, all 
 the other months troop in from the garden, 
 or advance out of the background. The 
 twelve join hands in a circle, and begin 
 dancing round to a stately measure as the 
 Curtain falls.) 
 
 — Christina G. Rossetti. 
 
 «£ a* <£ 
 
 PAT DOLAN'S WEDDING. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Nicholas Neverslip, a modern hus- 
 band. 
 
 Patrick Dolan, an Irish lad. 
 
 Matilda, Neverslip's wife. 
 
 Miss Spyall, a gossip. 
 
 Biddy Crogan, a domestic. 
 
 Scene : — A drawing room. Time, even- 
 ing. Table and tzvo chairs, C. Nicholas 
 discovered standing near L. E. zvith cane 
 and gloves in hands: he calls to his wife, 
 zvho is supposed to be up stairs dressing 
 for the opera. 
 
 Nicholas. — My dear, it is half-past sev- 
 en ; do hurry ; I am sure we will be late. 
 
 Matilda. — I am coming — be with you 
 in one minute. Has Biddy fastened the 
 back gate? 
 
 Nicholas (aside). — I know we'll be late 
 (calls), Biddy! (crosses to R. E.) 
 
 Biddy. — I'm here, sur. [Enter Biddy 
 R. E.] What do you want wid me, sur? 
 
 Nicholas. — Biddy is the back gate fast- 
 ened? 
 
 Biddy. — I'll see, sur, (turns to go.) 
 
 Nicholas. — Biddy ! 
 
162 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Biddy. — Sur ! 
 
 Nicholas. — Biddy, I am going to the 
 opera ; that is, we are, Mrs. Neverslip and 
 myself. 
 
 Matilda ( calls ) . — Nicholas ! 
 
 Nicholas. — Well, what's the matter? 
 
 Matilda. — Where did you lay my fan? 
 
 Nicholas. — I never touched your fan. 
 (looks at his watch.) It is twenty minutes 
 to eight ; I declare we will be late. 
 
 Biddy (aside). — I wonder if he means 
 to keep me shtandin' here all night? 
 
 Nicholas (to Matilda). — I am going! 
 
 Matilda. — Here I come. 
 
 Nicholas. — It is time you were coming. 
 
 Matilda. — Oh, dear! 
 
 Nicholas. — What's the matter? 
 
 Matilda. — Oh, you've hurried me so 
 I've gone and dressed without my fichu; I 
 can never go without it. 
 
 Nicholas (aside). — Confound her fish- 
 hook, (aloud) Snails and turtles! are you 
 never coming? 
 
 Biddy (aside). — I'm nather a gate post 
 nur a clothes prop, (aloud) Mr. Never- 
 slip, I'll be goin' to the kitchen ; I lift the 
 banes on the sthove ; I think they're burn- 
 in'. [Exit Biddy R. E.] 
 
 Nicholas. — For mercy sake do come. 
 
 Matilda (singing). — I am coming, 
 darling, coming 
 
 Nicholas. — How provokingly cool you 
 are. 
 
 [Enter Matilda L. E.] 
 
 Matilda. — Now, my dear, we'll be off. 
 [Both start toward L. E.] Why, where's 
 your hat? 
 
 Nicholas (feels his head). — Good gra- 
 cious ! It is up stairs — Matilda, dear, will 
 you get it for me? 
 
 Matilda. — You cruel man (knock 
 
 heard from without.) 
 
 Both. — Horrors ! Some one at the door ! 
 
 Nicholas. — Biddy ! 
 
 [Enter Biddy R. E.] 
 
 Biddy. — Ay, sur! 
 
 Nicholas. — Biddy, we're out. 
 
 Biddy. — Yer what? 
 
 Nicholas. — We're out; that is, we soon 
 will be. We do not wish to see anyone — 
 you comprehend? 
 
 Biddy (angrily). — Don't want to see 
 anyone. I comprehend ! Sur, I'm an hon- 
 est Irish girl, and I niver comprehend any- 
 body, (arms akimbo) Niver! 
 
 [Prolonged knock at the door.] 
 Nicholas. — Go to the door and say 
 
 we're out ! 
 
 Biddy (aside). — The man is surely out 
 
 of his head. 
 
 [Exit Biddy L. E.] 
 
 Matilda. — Oh my! we'll never get off. 
 
 Nicholas. — My dear, it's all your own 
 fault. 
 
 Matilda (puts handkerchief to eyes). — 
 Dear, dear! Nicholas. Hark! 
 
 Miss Spyall (from without). — Take 
 this card to 
 
 Biddy (from zvithout). — They're out, 
 mum. 
 
 Miss Spyall. — Then I'll just step in a 
 moment and write a line or two. 
 
 Biddy. — But they're out. 
 
 Matilda. — Oh grief! It is that awful 
 Spyall; good-bye opera to-night. 
 
 Nicholas. — We might as well give up 
 now. 
 
 [Enter Biddy L. E. walking backzvard 
 follozved by Miss Spyall.] 
 
 Miss Spyall (aside). — Out of the 
 street ; ah ! I understand! (Extends hands 
 to Nicholas and Matilda) — (aloud) How 
 delighted I am to see you ! What ! going 
 out? 
 
 Biddy. — Yis, out ; they're out — outward 
 bound, I forgot part of the wurruds. 
 
 Nicholas. — Silence, Bridget ! 
 
MODEBN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 163 
 
 Matilda. — We need you no longer, 
 Biddy. 
 
 Biddy. — Indade, ye'll give me two 
 wakes' notice. I'll not lave now. 
 
 Matilda. — I mean we do not need you 
 here. You may go to the kitchen. Oh, 
 bother! My hair is coming down. Biddy 
 get me a hair-pin, quick ! 
 
 [Exit Biddy R. E.] 
 
 Miss Spyall. — What a beautiful dress; 
 is it all silk? 
 
 Nicholas. — Part muslin, Miss. 
 
 Matilda. — Nicholas, you shock me. 
 
 Nicholas (Pulls out watch and starts 
 to go). — Oh, oh, oh! 
 
 Miss Spyall. — Going to church? 
 
 Nicholas. — No, not to church. 
 
 Miss Spyall. — Oh, I see; the museum. 
 
 Nicholas. — We have an engagement. 
 
 Miss Spyall. — A wedding? That's it! 
 I know. Who is it? Do tell me if it is 
 Nancy Beadle? I thought she and John — 
 
 Matilda. — My husband and I are about 
 going down town on important business, 
 it is time we were there now. 
 
 Miss Spyall. — Anything important ? 
 You know I can be trusted. 
 
 Nicholas. — Gone! gone! gone! 
 
 Miss Spyall. — Hey? 
 
 Matilda. — Miss Spyall, you will please 
 excuse me this evening, we must go at 
 once. 
 
 [Enter Biddy R. E. with clothes-pins in 
 each hand.] 
 
 Nicholas (pointing to zvatch). — We've 
 lost our seats. (Matilda and Miss Spyall 
 take seats.) 
 
 Biddy (to Nicholas). — Niver moind me; 
 still, I'll bring two chairs from the dining- 
 room if ye insist. (To Matilda) Here's 
 the puns, mum. 
 
 Matilda. — Stupid girl, these are clothes- 
 pins. 
 
 Miss Spyall. — What a silly creature. 
 
 Biddy (aside). — The spalpeen! 
 
 Nicholas. — Excuse me. I must get my 
 hat. [Exit L. E.] 
 
 Matilda. — Oh, he's a darling man ! 
 
 Miss Spyall. — Spe-len-did ! 
 
 (A crash is heard.) 
 
 Matilda. — What have you done? 
 
 Nicholas (groans). — Broken my shins, 
 smashed my hat and upset your toilet 
 stand ! 
 
 Matilda. — You wretch — edly unfortu- 
 nate man. 
 
 [Enter Nicholas L. E. limping with 
 smashed hat in hand.] 
 
 Miss Spyall. — I must be going. 
 
 Matilda. — We are going to the opera. 
 
 Nicholas.— To hear the final chorus. 
 
 Miss Spyall. — How delightful! 
 
 Matilda. — Biddy, keep a sharp look out. 
 [Exit all except Biddy L. E.] 
 
 Biddy. — Yis, I'll kape a sharp look out. 
 I'll first take a look at the back gate. Poor 
 Pat's been waitin' at that same gate for a 
 - whole hour; faith he's stharved wid the 
 cold (starts and listens) Arrah, what's 
 that? Sure some one's in the kitchen. I 
 hear a brogan on the stairs — the saints pro- 
 tect me. [Enter Pat R. E., looking around 
 cautiously.] Oh, Pat Dolan ! How dare ye 
 frighten me loike that? How did ye enter 
 the house ? — What if the folks had been in ? 
 
 Pat. — Whist, me darlin'; I saw them 
 lave by the front door, and in the wink of 
 an eye, it's meself that lepped over the 
 fence; I thried the back door, it was un- 
 latched, and here I am, Biddy dear! 
 
 Biddy. — Niver do the loikes of that 
 again. You might be shot for a burglar 
 or a dynamiter. 
 
 Pat. (sitting at table). — Niver fear, 
 Biddy dear; go ye and bring a crust of 
 bread and sup of — of something stronger 
 than tay, if yer have it ; sure I've room here 
 
164 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 for a loaf, and I'm thrimblin' wid wake- 
 ness 
 
 Biddy. — I'll see what's lift in the pantry. 
 Be aisy till I come back. (Starts to go.) 
 
 Pat.— Biddy ! 
 
 Biddy. — What, darlint? (Pauses.) 
 
 Pat. — Do ye hear anything? 
 
 Biddy. — It's the Niverslips! Run for 
 your life! 
 
 Pat. — Be aisy; it's me poor heart beat- 
 in' ; and nothin' more. It always bates 
 whin I see that face. 
 
 Biddy (Looks over her shoulder). — 
 What face ? I see no face !' 
 
 Pat. — Don't be a greenhorn. I mane 
 your own lovely countenance. 
 
 Biddy. — Oh, ye blarney! 
 
 [Exit R. E.] 
 
 Pat. (Rises from chair and walks up 
 and dozvn the stage). — Humph! this is a 
 very foine house. It lacks the comforts of 
 a home, howiver, for there's not the sign 
 of a pipe or a 'bacca bowl about the room. 
 They're evidently mane people. 
 
 [Enter Biddy R. E. carrying tray, on 
 which are loaf of bread, a knife, a black 
 bottle and two glasses.] 
 
 Look at that now! If that isn't the tip 
 of hospitality my name's not Patrick 
 Dolan. 
 
 Biddy (places tray on table). — Now, 
 Pat, ye must not trifle over the sup, (fills 
 glass from bottle) but drink it at once. It 
 would niver do to have the folks foind ye 
 here. 
 
 Pat (takes glass). — Here's to our wed- 
 ding day (drinks), Oh! ah! (jumps to his 
 feet and runs about stage holding his 
 throat) I'm pizened, I'm kilt. 
 
 Biddy (following him about). — Shpeak, 
 shpeak, me darlint Pat. 
 
 Pat (gasping and pointing to bottle). — 
 Look — look — look at that! What's in the 
 bottle? 
 
 Biddy. — Sure I can't read. (Hands bot- 
 tle to Pat.) 
 
 Pat. — Saint Patrick defind me! (reads) 
 "Pure Jamaica Ginger," Oh! it's atin me 
 up! (Noise heard without.) 
 
 Biddy. — Hark! (Both listen.) 
 
 Nicholas (from tvithout). — We should 
 have taken an umbrella; hurry in or we 
 shall be drowned with the rain. 
 
 Pat (agitated). — Put me away! hide 
 me ! cover me up ! 
 
 Biddy. — Run! No — shtop — they're here! 
 get under the table. 
 
 Pat (crawls under table). — Bad luck to 
 the rain ! 
 
 Biddy.— Arrah ! What shall I do ? He's 
 opening the door wid the noight key. Kape 
 shtill, Pat. 
 
 Nicholas. — Walk in Miss Spyall; it is 
 only a shower. 
 
 [Enter Neverslip, Matilda and Miss Spy- 
 all L. E.] 
 
 Miss Spyall (aside). — Refreshments, 
 as I live! (Aloud) I feel real chilly! If 
 I were home I'd have a bowl of hot tea, or 
 something warm. 
 
 Biddy. — I was thinkm' mum, that ye 
 might be cold. 
 
 Matilda. — What's that, Biddy? 
 
 Biddy. — I thought ye'd need a warrum 
 drink and a bite, so I've the bottle and 
 bread handy for y&z. (Points to bottle.) 
 
 Nicholas (takes bottle). — Jamaica Gin- 
 ger. 
 
 Matilda. — The idea ! Bread and gin- 
 ger. Why, Biddy, you are certainly be- 
 coming insane. 
 
 Miss Spyall (aside). — I thought they 
 were too mean to have cake and wine, I 
 thought it was a pound cake. How disap- 
 pointed and hungry I feel. (Aloud) I won- 
 der if it still rains ? 
 
 Nicholas. — Be seated, ladies. Biddy, 
 go to the door, and see if it has stopped 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 1G5 
 
 raining. — {Matilda ttnd Miss Spy all take 
 scats at table). 
 
 I will see if I can find an umbrella for 
 Miss Spyall. [Exit L. E.] 
 
 Pat. — (Pat's head rises slowly from be- 
 hind table). 
 
 Miss Spyall. — Does Mr. Neverslip 
 smoke much? 
 
 Matilda. — Never at all. Why do you 
 ask? 
 
 Miss Spyall. — I thought I detected a 
 strong odor of an old pipe. 
 
 Pat (aside). — Ye spalpeen! (Pulls her 
 ear and stoops behind table.) 
 
 Miss Spyall. — Oh! (indignantly). 
 Don't do that again. I dislike such famil- 
 iarity. 
 
 Matilda (astonished). — Why, what's 
 the matter with you? 
 
 Miss Spyall. — I guess if I were to pull 
 your ear you would know how it feels. 
 There! (They turn their backs to each 
 other angrily). 
 
 (Pat peeps from under table and pulls 
 Matilda's ear). 
 
 Matilda (springing to her feet). — You 
 impudent gossip! How dare you? (Rubs 
 her ear.) If you want exercise, try pedes- 
 trianism ; I will excuse your presence. 
 (Points to door). 
 
 Miss Spyall (rising and backing off). 
 
 — I am shocked beyond expression, (aside) 
 
 If I only get out — the woman's surely mad. 
 
 [Enter Nicholas L. E. with umbrella] 
 
 Matilda. — My dear, give Miss Spyall 
 the umbrella; she is surely ill and should 
 get home with all possible speed. 
 
 Miss Spyall. — Not at all, not at all, sir ; 
 it is your insolent wife who needs your at- 
 tention. 
 
 Nicholas. — What is the meaning of 
 such singular language? (Picks up bot- 
 tle.) You have not been tampering with 
 this? 
 
 [Enter Biddy R. E. holding shawl in 
 her hands.] 
 
 Biddy. — Look at me shplendid shawl! 
 An illigant present that oi've just received. 
 (unfolds shawl and advances towards rear 
 of table). 
 
 Nicholas. — Some other time, Biddy; 
 we are engaged at present. 
 
 Miss Spyall (aside). — The whole fam- 
 ily are certainly crazy. 
 
 Matilda. — I'm in no humor to look at 
 shawls ; I prefer taking a dissolving view 
 of somebody's back. (Looks at Miss Spy- 
 all.) 
 
 Biddy (holds up shawl with both hands). 
 — Pat, get behind the shawl. 
 
 Pat. — (crawls behind the shawl, screens 
 himself from view, and moves off with 
 Biddy). 
 
 Biddy (backing totvards the door). — It 
 shows better at a distance, mum. 
 
 Nicholas (advancing to Biddy). — This 
 must cease. 
 
 Biddy. — Don't come too close; ye'll 
 shpoil the effect. 
 
 Matilda. — Take the shawl from her. 
 
 Nicholas. — Let me have it. (Pulls 
 shawl from Biddy, exposing Pat to viezv). 
 
 Pat (bowing). — Yez'll pa r don me, but I 
 was always bashful. 
 
 Nicholas. — Explain yourself, at once ! 
 
 Matilda. — Look after the teaspoons ! 
 
 Miss Spyall (aside). — Here's a nut to 
 crack ! Here's a scandal. 
 
 Biddy (crying and holding apron to 
 eyes). — I'll tell yez the truth. Patsy and 
 meself are engaged to be married, and 
 seein' as I was to be lift alone in this big 
 barn of a house, an' bein' timid, the poor 
 man jist happened in to kape me company 
 for a few minutes. 
 
 Pat. — What she says is intirely true, 
 your honors ; it's meself that can bring a 
 reference the lingth of me arrum. 
 
1GG 
 
 MODE UN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Nicholas. — Enough. Biddy is too good 
 a girl to be guilty of even a wrong thought. 
 Our spoons are safe, and I (all advancing 
 to front) have but one suggestion to make, 
 that in future you entertain him in the 
 kitchen, where you will not be likely to be 
 disturbed by unwelcome visitors. 
 
 Matilda. — If I thought I would be free 
 from unwelcome visitors (looking at Miss 
 Spyall) I'd go to the kitchen too. 
 
 Pat. — The nixt kitchen we mate in will 
 
 be the kitchen of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick 
 Dolan ; how do you loike that ? 
 
 Miss Spyall (aside). — Well I'm sup- 
 plied with a lot of fresh nev/s anyhow. 
 (All take positions.) 
 
 Nicholas. — And as there appears to be 
 a wedding near at hand, we must prepare 
 for it; so we'll say good night — and dream 
 of getting ready. 
 
 [curtain.] 
 
 — Geo. M. Vickers. 
 
 •jt & Si 
 
 THE UNHAPPY HOME. 
 
 A TEMPERANCE PLAY. 
 
 (Characters — Man and his wife; Nellie, a daughter, ten years old; Friend, dressed in a man- 
 of-the-world style; A. and B., two young men, dressed in business suits.) 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 MR. L. and his zuife on Jie stage; Mr. 
 L. dressed for his work, and about 
 to go.) 
 
 Mrs. L. — Albert, I wish you would give 
 me seventy-five cents. 
 
 Mr. L. — What do you want seventy-five 
 cents for? 
 
 Mrs. L. — I want to get some braid for 
 my new dress. 
 
 Mr. L. — Haven't you something else that 
 will do? 
 
 Mrs. L. — No. But, then, braid is cheap ; 
 and I can make it look quite pretty with 
 seventy-five cents. 
 
 Mr. L. — Plague take these women's 
 fashions. Your endless trimmings and 
 thing-a-ma-jigs cost more than the dress 
 is worth. It is nothing but shell out money 
 when a woman thinks of a new dress. 
 
 Mrs. L. — I don't have many new 
 dresses. I do certainly try to be as econom- 
 ical as I can. 
 
 Mr. L. — It is funny kind of economy, at 
 all events. But if you must have it, I sup- 
 pose you must. 
 
 (Takes out his purse, and counts out 
 carefully seventy-five cents, and puts his 
 purse away angrily. He starts to go; but 
 when at the door, he thinks he zvill take his 
 umbrella, and goes back for it. Finds his 
 wife in tears, which she tries hastily to 
 conceal.) 
 
 Mr. L. — Good gracious ! Kate, I should 
 like to know if you are crying at what I 
 said about the dress. 
 
 Mrs. L. — I was not crying at what you 
 said. I was thinking of how hard I have 
 to work. I am tied to the house. I have 
 many little things to perplex me. Then 
 to think — 
 
 Mr. L. — Pshaw ! What do you want to 
 be foolish for? (Exit.) 
 
 (In the hall he was met by his little girl, 
 Lizde.) 
 
 Lizzie — (holding both his hands.) Oh, 
 papa, give me fifteen cents. 
 
 Mr. L. — What in the world ao you want 
 it for? Are they changing books again? 
 
 Lizzie — No. I want a hoop. It's splen- 
 did rolling; and all the girls have one. 
 Please, can't I have one? 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 167 
 
 Mr. L. — Nonsense ! If you want a hoop, 
 go and get one off some old barrel. 
 (Throws her off.) 
 
 Lizzie — (in a pleading tone.) Please, 
 Papa? 
 
 Mr. L. — No, I told you ! 
 
 (She bursts into tears, and he goes off 
 muttering, "Cry, then, and cry it out.") 
 Scene II. 
 
 (Albert and Wife enter.) 
 
 Mrs. L. — I am glad you are home thus 
 early. How has business gone to-day? 
 
 Mr. L. — Well, I am happy to say. 
 
 Mrs. L. — Are you very tired? 
 
 Mr. L. — No; why? 
 
 Mrs. L. — I want you to go to the sew- 
 ing circle to-night. 
 
 Mr. L. — I can't go; I have an engage- 
 ment. 
 
 Mrs. L. — I am sorry. You never go with 
 me now. You used to go a great deal. 
 
 (Just then Lizzie comes in crying, drag- 
 ging an old hoop, and rubbing her eyes.) 
 
 Mr. L. — What is the matter with you, 
 darling ? 
 
 Lizzie — The girls have been laughing at 
 me, and making fun of my hoop. They 
 say mine is ugly and homely. Mayn't I 
 have one now? 
 
 Mr. L. — Not now, Lizzie ; not now. I'll 
 think of it. 
 
 (Lizzie goes out crying, followed by her 
 mother. A friend of Mr. L. enters.) 
 
 Friend — Hello, Albert! What's up? 
 
 Mr. L. — Nothing in particular. Take a 
 chair. 
 
 Friend — How's business? 
 
 Mr. L— Good. 
 
 Friend — Did you go to the club last 
 night ? 
 
 Mr. L. — Don't speak so loud! 
 
 Friend — Ha, wife don't know — does 
 she? Where does she think you go? 
 
 Mr. L. — I don't know. She never asks 
 
 me, and I am glad of it. She asked me 
 to go with her to-night, and I told her I 
 was engaged. 
 
 Friend — Good ! I shan't ask you where, 
 but take it for granted that it was with me. 
 What do you say foi a game of billiards ? 
 
 Mr. L— Good! I'm for that. (They 
 rise to go.) Have a cigar, Tom? 
 
 Friend — Yes. (They go out.) 
 Scene III. 
 
 (Tzvo men in conversation.) 
 
 B. — Billiards ? No, I never play billiards. 
 
 A.— Why not? 
 
 B. — I don't like its tendency. I cannot 
 assert that the game is, of itself, an evil, 
 to be sure. But, although it has the ad- 
 vantage of calling forth skill and judgment, 
 yet it is evil when it stimulates beyond 
 the bounds of healthy recreation. 
 
 A. — That result can scarcely follow such 
 a game. 
 
 B. — You are wrong there. The result 
 can follow in two ways. First, it can lead 
 men away from their business. Secondly, 
 it leads those to spend their money who 
 have none to spend. Look at that young 
 man just passing. He looks like a me- 
 chanic; and I should judge from his ap- 
 pearance that he has a family. I see by 
 his face that he is kind and generous, and 
 wants to do as near right as he can. I 
 have watched him in the billiard saloon 
 time after time, and only last night I saw 
 him pay one dollar and forty cents for two 
 hours' recreation. He did it cheerfully, 
 too, and smiled at his loss. But how do 
 you suppose it is at home? 
 
 A. — Upon my word, B., you speak to 
 the point ; for I know that young man, and 
 what you have said is true. I can furnish 
 you with facts. We have a club for a lit- 
 erary paper in our village. His wife was 
 very anxious to take it ; but he said he 
 could not afford the $1.25 for it. And his- 
 
168 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 little Lizzie, ten years old, has coaxed her 
 father for fifteen cents, for a hoop, in vain. 
 My Nellie told me that. 
 B. — Yes; and that two hours' recreation 
 
 last night, would have paid for both. It is 
 well for wives and children that they do 
 not know where all the money goes. 
 
 d5* ^?* *5* 
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD, or THE WICKED WOLF 
 AND THE VIRTUOUS WOOD-CUTTER. 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Jack, the woodcutter, who rescues Red 
 Riding-Hood from the Wolf, quite by ac- 
 cident. 
 
 The Wolf, a wicked wretch, who pays 
 his devours to Little Red Riding-Hood, 
 but is defeated by his rival. 
 
 Dame Margery, mother of Little Red 
 
 Riding-Hood, a crusty role, and very ill- 
 bred. 
 
 Little Red Riding-Hood, a fascinating 
 little pet, so lovely that you are not likely 
 to see two such faces under a hood. 
 
 The Fairy Felicia, a beneficent genius, 
 versed in spells, and quite au fait in magic. 
 
 Granny, an invisible old girl, by kind 
 permission of the Prompter. 
 
 [The dresses are easily enough made, with the exception of the Wolf's. A rough shawl 
 or a fur jacket will answer the purpose, and the head can be made of pasteboard. There is 
 always someone in a community, however small, with ingenuity for such work. 
 
 The Butterfly in Scene II is affixed to wire held at the wings. The Prompter reads the 
 part of Granny, standing close to the bed, in order to assist in getting rid of the Dummy 
 when Wolf is supposed to eat it.] 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 The outside of Little Red Riding-Hood's 
 Cottage. Enter Red Riding-Hood's 
 Mother. She runs about the stage look- 
 ing for her child. 
 
 M 
 
 OTHER. Red Riding-Hood! Red 
 Riding-Hood, I say ! 
 Where can the little monkey hide 
 away? 
 
 Red Riding-Hood! O dreary, 
 dreary me ! 
 
 Provoking child, where ever 
 can she be ! [Looks off on 
 both sides.] 
 
 She is a shocking disobedient 
 child, 
 
 Enough to drive a loving moth- 
 er wild ; 
 
 But stay ! where are the butter 
 and the cake 
 
 That to her grandmother she 
 has to take? 
 Fetches basket from cottage and shows 
 cake and butter. 
 
 Here is the cake, and here's the 
 
 butter, see! 
 The nicest cake and butter that 
 
 could be. 
 These in the basket I will neatly 
 
 lay, 
 A present to poor Granny to 
 
 convey. 
 They are not tithes, though 
 
 given to the wicker; 
 Puts them in basket. 
 Bless me, I wish the child were 
 
 only quicker ! 
 Red Riding-Hood, Red Riding- 
 Hood ! Dear, dear ! 
 Enter Little Red Riding-Hood. 
 R. R.-H. Here I am, ma. 
 
MODEBN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 169 
 
 Mother. You wicked puss, come here ! 
 Take this to Granny ! Poor 
 
 old soul, she's ill ; 
 Give her my love and these tid- 
 bits. 
 R. R.-H I will. 
 
 Won't it be nice? Through 
 
 wood and field I'll walk, 
 And have with Jack, perhaps, 
 
 a little talk. 
 Dear Jack ! At thought of him 
 
 why quickly beat, heart? 
 Dear Jack! he's no Jack-pud- 
 ding, but a sweet-tart! 
 Won't I catch butterflies and 
 gather flowers ! 
 Mother. Mind you don't dawdle and be 
 gone for hours, 
 But go straight there and back 
 
 again with speed, 
 And do not loiter in lane, wood, 
 
 or mead, 
 Or else a great big wolf shall 
 
 come to eat you; 
 At any rate your loving moth- 
 er'll beat you! 
 Threatens R. R.-H. with stick. Enter 
 Jack, at back. 
 
 Jack. Where is Red Riding-Hood, 
 
 my heart's delight? 
 La, there's her mother ! What 
 a horrid fright! 
 Mother. What are you doing here, you 
 rascal Jack? 
 Be off, or I will hit your head a 
 crack. [Strikes at him, 
 but misses.] 
 Jack. Before your hits, ma'am, I pre- 
 
 fer a miss ; 
 Bows to R. R.-H. 
 So blow for blow, I mean to 
 blow a kiss. [Kisses hand 
 to R. R.-H.] 
 Mother. Kisses to blc 
 
 Jack. Hush ! don't be coarse and low : 
 
 If you don't like my company, 
 
 I'll go; 
 Your words are violent, your 
 
 temper quick, 
 So this young woodcutter will 
 cut his stick. 
 He and R. R.-H. exchange signs, blow 
 kisses, etc. Exit Jack. 
 Mother (to R. R.-H.). That spark is not 
 your match, and you're to 
 blame. 
 To take delight in such a paltry 
 
 flame. 
 Now go ; and lose no time upon 
 
 the road, 
 But hasten straight to Grand- 
 mother's abode. 
 R. R.-H. I will not loiter, mother, by the 
 way, 
 Nor go in search of butterflies 
 
 astray. 
 Instead of picking flowers, my 
 
 steps I'll pick, 
 And take the things to Granny, 
 
 who is sick. 
 Good-by, dear mother. 
 Mother (kisses her.) There, my dear, 
 
 good-by. 
 R. R.-H. See how obedient to your word 
 
 I fly! 
 Mother. A one-horse fly! What non- 
 sense you do talk ! 
 You have no wings, and so of 
 
 course must walk. 
 You go afoot. How now, miss? 
 Wherefore smile? 
 R. R.-H. Why go afoot? I've not to go 
 a mile ; 
 That was the reason, mother, 
 why I smiled. 
 Mother. That joke's so far-fetched, that 
 it's very miled. [Exeunt. 
 
170 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 A Forest Glade. Enter Red Riding-Hood. 
 R. R.-H. How nice the wood is, with its 
 cool green shade ! 
 I must sit down and rest here, 
 
 I'm afraid ; 
 Though mother would declare 
 
 I'm only lazy. 
 I'm very tired and weary. 
 [Yawns, then sees flower 
 and starts. ] Lawk ! a 
 daisy! [Picks flowers.] 
 It can't be wrong some pretty 
 
 flowers to pull; 
 With them I'll fill my little 
 
 apron full, 
 And take to please my poor old 
 granny's eye. 
 Butterfly flies across the stage. ■ 
 
 O, isn't that a lovely butterfly? 
 
 [Runs after it.] 
 Stop, little butterfly, a moment, 
 do. 
 Tries to catch it, and runs into the arms of 
 Jack, who enters. 
 I've caught it. 
 Jack. Beg your pardon, I've caught 
 
 you. [Kisses her.] 
 R. R.-H. Don't you be rude, sir ! Fie, 
 
 why treat me thus ! 
 Jack. You thought to take a fly, I 
 
 took a bus. 
 I love you, pretty maid ! Sup- 
 pose we say 
 That we'll be married? Just 
 you fix the day. [Em- 
 braces her.] 
 R. R.-H. You're very pressing, sir ! Well, 
 let me see: 
 Next Wednesday a wedding's 
 day shall be. 
 Jack. An earlier date far better, dear, 
 
 will do; 
 
 Jack. 
 R. R.-H. 
 
 Jack. 
 
 R. R.-H. 
 
 Say, why not Tuesday as the 
 
 day for two? 
 Another kiss! 
 R. R.-H. A kiss? O dear me, no! 
 
 Farewell. To poor old Granny's 
 
 I must go, 
 For mother has commanded me 
 
 to take 
 The poor old soul some butter 
 
 and a cake. 
 I'm off to work, then. 
 Whither you go pray? 
 I'm not quite sure, but mean to 
 
 axe my way. [Exit. 
 
 Now I must hurry off to 
 
 Granny. 
 Fairy appears. 
 
 Law! 
 How lovely! such a sight I 
 
 never saw. 
 Fairy. I am a fairy, and your friend, 
 
 my dear; 
 You'll need my aid, for there is 
 
 danger near. 
 Your disobedience to your 
 
 mother's will 
 Has given bad fairies power to 
 
 work you ill. 
 Thanks, beauteous fairy. But 
 
 no harm I meant, . 
 And of my disobedience much 
 
 repent. 
 I know it, and will therefore 
 
 prove your friend ; 
 You shall o'ercome your 
 
 troubles in the end. 
 Remember when your case my 
 
 help demands, 
 You've naught to do save 
 
 simply clap your hands. 
 
 Exit Fairy. 
 R. R.-H. How very sorry I am now 
 
 that I 
 
 R. R.-H. 
 
 Fairy. 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 171 
 
 Was disobedient: let the time 
 
 slip by, 
 Neglected Granny and my 
 
 mother's words, 
 To gather flowers and list to 
 
 singing birds, 
 To hunt the butterflies. 'Twas 
 
 wrong, I fear — 
 But, goodness gracious me, 
 what have we here? 
 Enter Wolf. 
 Wolf. O, what a very pretty little girl ! 
 
 Such rosy cheeks, such hair, so 
 nice in curl! 
 (Aside.) As tender as a chicken, too, 
 I'll lay; 
 One doesn't get such tidbits ev- 
 ery day. 
 (To R. R.-H.) What brings you wander- 
 ing in the wood like this, 
 And whither are you going, 
 pretty miss? 
 R. R.-H. I'm bound for Granny's cot- 
 tage, but I fear 
 I've strayed from the right path 
 
 in coming here. 
 I'm taking her a currant-cake 
 
 and butter; 
 So nice, their excellence no 
 tongue can utter. 
 Wolf (aside). However excellent, I'll bet 
 I lick it ; 
 As to the cake, I'll gobble 
 pretty quick it. 
 (To R. R.-H.) And where does Granny 
 
 live? 
 R. R.-H. Not far from this; 
 
 It's near the river. 
 Wolf (pointing off). Then, my little miss, 
 Along that path you have but 
 
 to repair, 
 And very shortly you will find 
 you're there. 
 
 R. R.-H. O, thank you; now I'll go. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Wolf. And I'll be bound 
 
 You'll find that same short cut 
 
 a long way round. 
 The nearest road to the cottage 
 
 take, 
 And of old Granny I short 
 
 work will make, 
 And then I'll gobble you up, 
 
 little dear. 
 I didn't like to try and eat you 
 
 here; 
 You might object to it — some 
 
 people do — 
 And scream and cry, and make 
 
 a hubbuboo; 
 And there's a woodcutter, I 
 
 know, hard by, 
 From whose quick hatchet 
 
 quick-catch-it should I ! 
 Here goes to bolt old Granny 
 
 without flummery, 
 A spring — and then one swal- 
 low shall be summery ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Interior of Grandmother's cottage. On 
 the right hand, close to the wing, a bed 
 With a dummy in it with a large night- 
 cap. Wolf is heard knocking. 
 
 Granny (spoken from the wing close by 
 
 the bed). Who's there? 
 
 Wolf (imitating R. R.-H.) Your little 
 
 grandchild, Granny dear. 
 
 Granny. That child has got a shocking 
 
 cold, that's clear. 
 
 Some carelessness — she's got 
 
 her feet wet through 
 With running in the rain of 
 
 heavy dew, 
 Perhaps without her bonnet; 
 and, of course, 
 
172 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 The little donkey is a littie 
 
 hoarse. 
 Her words she used not croak- 
 
 ingly to utter — 
 What do you want? 
 Wolf. I've brought you cake and but- 
 ter, 
 But can't come in, the door my 
 strength defies. 
 Granny. Pull at the bobbin, and the latch 
 will rise. 
 Enter Wolf. 
 Granny. How are you, little darling? 
 Wolf. Darling ! Pooh ! 
 
 You didn't bolt your door, so 
 I'll bolt you ! 
 Granny. O, mercy! murder! what is this 
 I see? 
 Some frightful spectre must the 
 monster be ! 
 Wolf. Don't make a noise, for you're 
 
 a hopeless hobble in; 
 I'm not a ghost, but soon shall 
 be a gobble-in'! 
 Wolf flings himself on the bed; shrieks 
 and growls are heard. The dummy is 
 removed zvithout the audience being able 
 to see it, as Wolf is in front of it. 
 Wolf (coming down). Yahen! yahen! 
 yahen ! yahen ! yahen ! 
 I've finished her ere she could 
 
 angry be with me. 
 I didn't give her time to dis- 
 agree with me. 
 Now for a night-gown (takes 
 one) and a night-cap (takes 
 one). Good! [Puts them 
 on.] 
 How do I look as Grandma 
 Riding-Hood ? 
 Gets into bed and covers himself up. A 
 
 knock is heard at the door. 
 Wolf (imitating Granny's voice). Who's 
 there? 
 
 R. R.-H. Your little grandchild, Granny 
 dear; 
 I have a cake and butter for 
 you here. 
 Wolf Pull at the bobbin and the latch 
 
 will rise. 
 Enter R. R.-H. 
 R. R.-H. Good morning, Granny! here 
 are the supplies. 
 Sets down basket. 
 Wolf. Good morning, dear, come sit 
 
 beside my bed. 
 I'm very bad indeed, child, in 
 my head. 
 R. R.-H. sits on the side of bed. 
 R. R.-H. Why, Granny, what big ears 
 
 you've got? 
 Wolf. My dear, 
 
 That is that Granny may the 
 better hear. 
 R. R.-H. And, Granny, what big eyes 
 
 you've got! 
 Wolf. Dear me! 
 
 That is that Granny may the 
 better see. 
 R. R.-H. Then, Granny, what big teeth 
 
 you've got? O, la! 
 Wolf. To eat you up with all the better. 
 [Springs out- of bed and 
 strikes an attitude.} Ha! 
 R. R.-H. screams, and runs away; Wolf 
 pursues her round the table. 
 Enter Jack. 
 Jack. As I was passing by, I just 
 
 dropt in. [To Wolf.] 
 Shall I drop into you? 
 Wolf. O, pray begin! 
 
 Jack. You hideous brute, your wicked 
 
 game I'll stop. 
 Hits Wolf with axe. 
 How do you like that, monster? 
 Wolf. That's first chop! 
 
 Jack. That isn't all — another chop to 
 
 follow ! 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 173 
 
 Strikes him again. They struggle. Wolf 
 falls with a loud cry. 
 
 Don't halloa, sir! 
 Wolf. I must — I'm beaten hollow; 
 
 You've felled me to the earth. 
 Jack. Yes, I'm the feller! 
 
 I'll beat you black and blue. 
 Wolf (aside). Then I'll turn yeller! 
 Goes into convulsions, shrieks, and feigns 
 to be dead. Jack flings down axe, and 
 embraces R. R.-H. 
 R. R.-H. You've saved my life, dear 
 Jack! What can I do 
 To show my love and gratitude 
 to you? 
 Jack. Sweetest Red Riding-Hood, 
 
 say you'll be mine, 
 To jine our hands the parson 
 I'll enjine. 
 Wolf creeps behind them, and secures the 
 
 axe. 
 Wolf (leaping up). That en-gine won't 
 
 assist you, tender pair ; 
 Snatches up R. R.-H. with one arm, brand- 
 ishing axe. 
 If that's your line, why I shall 
 raise the fare. 
 Jack. He's got the axe — O, here's a 
 
 nice quandary! 
 R. R.-H. (claps hands). You'll raise the 
 fare? Then I will raise 
 the fairy ! 
 Fairy appears at the back. Enter R. R.- 
 
 H.'s Mother. 
 Mother. You wicked child, where have 
 you been? Oho! 
 You're listening to the shoot of 
 
 that young beau ! 
 But I'll forbid it, and I'll have 
 my way. 
 
 Fairy comes forward. 
 Fairy. Excuse me, but your orders I 
 
 gainsay. 
 Mother. Who are you, madam, I should 
 
 like to ask? 
 Fairy. I am the Fairy of the Wood, 
 whose task 
 It is to aid the weak against 
 
 the strong, 
 And set things right when they 
 
 are going wrong. 
 You, Master Wolf, please keep 
 
 that hatchet ready; 
 For that sad jest of eating the 
 
 old lady, 
 You shall die, jester, by that 
 
 very tool! 
 Dame Margery, you have acted 
 like a fool. 
 Mother. Good Mistress Fairy, why, 
 
 what have I done? 
 Fairy. Jack is no peasant, but a 
 prince's son, 
 Stolen from the crib by an old 
 
 cribbing gypsy, 
 When he was little and his 
 nurse was tipsy. 
 Mother. You don't say! 
 Jack. I a prince! 
 
 R. R.-H. Good gracious, mother! 
 
 Is he that 'ere? 
 Fairy. He's that heir, and no other. 
 
 Your mother won't reject his 
 
 house and lands, 
 Though she did him ; so here I 
 
 join your hands, 
 With blessings, from the Fairy 
 
 of the Wood, 
 On brave Prince Jack and fair 
 Red Riding-Hood. 
 
174 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 TAKING THE CENSUS. 
 
 Scene — A farm house. 
 
 Characters — Mrs. Touchzvood at the 
 washtub being quizzed by the census taker. 
 
 CENSUS TAKER— Good morning, 
 madam. Is the head of the house at 
 home ? 
 
 Mrs. Touchwood — Yes, sir, I'm at 
 home. 
 
 C. T. — Haven't you a husband? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Yes, sir, but he ain't the head 
 of the family, I'd have you to know. 
 
 C. T. — How many "persons have you in 
 your family? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Why bless me, sir, what's that 
 to you? You're mighty inquisitive, I 
 think. 
 
 C. T. — I'm the man that takes the census. 
 
 Mrs. T. — If you was a man in your 
 senses you wouldn't ask such impertinent 
 questions. 
 
 C. T. — Don't be offended, old lady, but 
 answer my questions as I ask them. 
 
 Mrs. T. — "Answer a fool according to 
 his folly!" — you know what the Scripture 
 says. Old lady, indeed ! 
 
 C. T. — Beg your pardon, madam; but I 
 don't care about hearing Scripture just at 
 this moment. I'm bound to go according 
 to law and not according to gospel. 
 
 Mrs. T. — I should think you went neither 
 according to law nor gospel. What busi- 
 ness is it to you to inquire into folks' 
 affairs, Mr. Thingumbob? 
 
 C. T. — The law makes it my business, 
 good woman, and if you don't want to ex- 
 pose yourself to its penalties, you must 
 answer my questions. 
 
 Mrs. T.— Oh, it's the law is it? That 
 alters the case. But I should like to know 
 what the law has to do with other people's 
 household affairs? 
 
 C. T. — Why, Congress made the law, and 
 
 if it don't please you, you must talk to them 
 about it. 
 
 Mrs. T.— Talk to a fiddle-stick! Why, 
 Congress is a fool, and you're another. 
 
 C. T. — Now, good lady, you're a fine, 
 good-looking woman ; if you'll give me a 
 few civil answers I'll thank you. What I 
 wish to know first is, how many are there 
 in your family? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Let me see [counting on her 
 angers} ; there's I and my husband is one — 
 
 C. T. — Two, you mean. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Don't put me out, now, Mr. 
 Thinkummy. There's I and my husband 
 is one 
 
 C. T. — Are you always one? 
 
 Mrs. T— What's that to you, I should 
 like to know. But I tell you, if you don't 
 leave off interrupting me I won't say an- 
 other word. 
 
 C. T. — Well, take your own way, and be 
 hanged to you. 
 
 Mrs. T. — I will take my own way, and 
 no thanks to you. [Again counting her 
 ■fingers.'] There's I and my husband is 
 one ; there's John, he's two ;. Peter is three, 
 Sue and Moll are four, and Thomas is five. 
 And then there's Mr. Jenkins and his wife 
 and the two children is six; and there's 
 Jowler, he's seven. 
 
 C. T.— Jowler! Who's he? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Who's Jowler! Why, who 
 should he be but the old house clog? 
 
 C. T. — It's the number of persons I want 
 to know. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Very well, Mr. Flippergin, 
 ain't Jowler a person? Come here, Jowler, 
 and speak for yourself. I'm sure he's as 
 personable a dog as there is in the whole 
 State. 
 
 C. T. — He's a very clever dog, no doubt. 
 But it's the number of human beings I want 
 to know. 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 175 
 
 Mrs. T. — Human! There ain't a more 
 human .dog that ever breathed. 
 
 C. T. — Well, but I mean the two-legged 
 kind of beings. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Oh, the two-legged, is it? 
 Well, then, there's the old rooster, he's 
 seven; the fighting-cock is eight, and the 
 bantam is nine 
 
 C. T. — Stop, stop, good woman, I don't 
 want to know the number of your fowls. 
 
 Mrs. T. — I'm very sorry indeed, I can't 
 please you, such a sweet gentleman as you 
 are. But didn't you tell me — 'twas the two- 
 legged beings 
 
 C. T— True, but I didn't mean the hens. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Oh, now I understand you. 
 The old gobbler, he's seven, the hen turkey 
 is eight ; and if you'll wait a week there'll 
 be a parcel of young ones, for the old hen 
 turkey is setting on a whole snarl of eggs. 
 
 C. T. — Blast your turkeys ! 
 
 Mrs. T. — Oh, don't now, good Mr. Hip- 
 perstitcher, I pray you don't. They're as 
 honest turkeys as any in the country. 
 
 C. T. — Don't vex me any more. I'm get- 
 ting to be angry. 
 
 Mrs. T.— Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 C. T. [striding about the room in a rage.] 
 — Have a care, madam, or I shall fly out of 
 my skin. 
 
 Mrs. T. — If you do, I don't know who 
 will fly in. 
 
 C. T. — You do all you can to anger me. 
 It's the two-legged creatures who talk I 
 have reference to. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Oh, now I understand you. 
 Well, then, our Poll Parrot makes seven 
 and the black gal eight. 
 
 C. T. — I see you will have your own way. 
 
 Mrs. T. — You have just found out, have 
 you ! You are a smart little man ! 
 
 C. T. — Have you mentioned the whole of 
 your family? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Yes, that's the whole — except 
 the wooden-headed man in front. 
 
 C. T. — Wooden-headed? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Yes, the schoolmaster what's 
 boarding here. 
 
 C. T. — I suppose if he has a wooden head 
 he lives without eating, and therefore must 
 be a profitable boarder. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Oh, no, sir, you are mistaken 
 there. He eats like a leather judgment. 
 
 C. T. — How many servants are there in 
 the family? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Servants! Why, there's no 
 servants but me and my husband. 
 
 C. T. — What makes you and your hus- 
 band servants? 
 
 Mrs. T. — I'm a servant to hard work, 
 and he is a servant to rum. He does noth- 
 ing all day but guzzle, guzzle, guzzle ; while 
 I'm working, and stewing, and sweating 
 from morning till night, and from night till 
 morning. 
 
 C. T. — How many colored persons have 
 you? 
 
 Mrs. T. — There's nobody but Dinah, the 
 black girl, Poll Parrot and my daughter 
 Sue. 
 
 C. T. — Is your daughter a colored girl? 
 
 Mrs. T. — I guess you'd think so if you 
 was to see her. She's always out in the 
 sun — and she's tanned up as black as an 
 Indian. 
 
 C. T. — How many white males are there 
 in your family under ten years of age? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Why, there ain't none now; 
 my husband don't carry the mail since he's 
 taken to drink so bad. He used to carry 
 two, but they wasn't white. 
 
 C. T. — You mistake, good woman; I 
 meant male folks, not leather mails. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Let me see; there's none ex- 
 cept little Thomas, and Mr. Jenkins' two 
 little girls. 
 
176 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 C. T. — Males, I said, madam, not fe- 
 males. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Well, if you don't like them, 
 you may leave them off. 
 
 C. T. — How many white males are there 
 between ten and twenty? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Why, there's nobody but John 
 and Peter, and John ran away last week. 
 
 C. T. — How many white males are there 
 between twenty and thirty? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Let me see — there's the wood- 
 en-headed man is one, Mr. Jenkins and his 
 wife is two, and the black girl is three. 
 
 C. T. — No more of your nonsense, old 
 lady ; I'm heartily tired of it. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Hoity toity ! Haven't I a right 
 to talk as I please in my own house? 
 
 C. T. — You must answer the questions 
 as I put them. 
 
 Mrs. T. — "Answer a fool according to 
 his folly" — you're right, Mr. Hippogriff. 
 
 C. T. — How many white males are there 
 between thirty and forty? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Why, there's nobody but I and 
 my husband — and he was forty-one last 
 March. 
 
 C. T. — As you count yourself among the 
 males, I dare say you wear the breeches. 
 
 Mrs. T.— Well, what if I do, Mr. Im- 
 pertinence ? Is that anything to you ? Mind 
 your own business, if you please. 
 
 C. T. — Certainly — I did but speak. How 
 many white males are there between forty 
 and fifty? 
 
 Mrs. T.— None. 
 
 C. T. — How many between fifty and 
 sixty ? 
 
 Mrs. T.— None. 
 
 C. T. — Are there any between this and a 
 hundred ? 
 
 Mrs. T. — None except the old gentle- 
 man. 
 
 C. T. — What old gentleman? You have 
 not mentioned any before. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Why, grandfather Grayling — I 
 thought everybody knew grandfather Gray- 
 ling — he's a hundred and two years old 
 next August, if he lives so long — and I dare 
 say he will, for he's got the dry wilt, and 
 they say such folks never dies. 
 
 C. T. — Now give the number of deaf and 
 dumb persons. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Why, there is no deaf persons, 
 excepting husband, and he ain't so deaf as 
 he pretends to be. When anybody axes 
 him to take a drink of rum, if it's only in a 
 whisper, he can hear quick enough. But if 
 I tell him to fetch an armful of wood or 
 feed the pigs or tend the griddle, he's as 
 deaf as a horse-block. 
 
 C. T. — How many dumb persons? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Dumb ! Why, there's no dumb 
 body in the house, except the wooden- 
 headed man, and he never speaks unless 
 he's spoken to. To be sure, my husband 
 wishes I was dumb, but he can't make it 
 out. 
 
 C. T. — Are there any manufactures car- 
 ried on here? 
 
 Mrs. T. — None to speak on, except tur- 
 nip-sausages and tow cloth. 
 
 C. T. — Turnip-sausages ? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Yes, turnip-sausages. Is there 
 anything so wonderful in that? 
 
 C. T. — I never heard of them before. 
 What kind of machinery is used in making 
 them? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Nothing but a bread-trough, a 
 chopping-knife and a sausage filler. 
 
 C. T. — Are they made of clear turnips? 
 
 Mrs. T. — Now you're terrible inquisitive. 
 What would you give to know? 
 
 C. T. — I'll give you the name of being 
 the most communicative and pleasant 
 woman I've met with for the last half-hour. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Well, now, you're a sweet gen- 
 tleman, and I must gratify you. You must 
 know we mix with the turnip a little red 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 177 
 
 cloth, just enough to give them a color, so 
 they needn't look as if they were made of 
 clear fat meat ; then we chop them up well 
 together, put in a little sage, summer 
 savory, and black pepper; and they make 
 as pretty little delicate links as ever was set 
 on a gentleman's table ; they fetch the high- 
 est price in the market. 
 
 C. T. — Indeed ! Have you a piano in the 
 house ? 
 
 Mrs. T.— A piany! What's that? 
 
 C. T. — A musical instrument. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Lor, no. But Sary Jane, down 
 at the Corners, has one. You see, Sary 
 got all highfalutin about the great Colu- 
 shun down to Bosting, and down she went ; 
 an' when she came back the old man got 
 no rest until she had one of the big square 
 music boxes with white teeth — 'spose that's 
 what you call a piany. 
 
 C. T. — You seem to know what it is, 
 then. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Yes, sir. Have you anything 
 more to ax? 
 
 C. T. — Nothing more. Good morning, 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs. T. — Stop a moment; can't you 
 think of something else? Do now, that's a 
 good man. Wouldn't you like to know 
 what we're going to have for dinner; or 
 how many chickens our old white hen 
 hatched at her last brood ; or how many — 
 
 C. T. — Nothing more — nothing more. 
 
 Mrs. T.— Here, just look in the cup- 
 board, and see how many red ants there 
 are in the sugar-bowl; I haven't time to 
 count them myself. 
 
 C. T. — Confound your ants and all your 
 relations. 
 
 [Exit in bad humor.] 
 
 d5* ^* to* 
 
 MR. PINCHEM'S CLERK. 
 
 Scene. — An office with a desk or table on 
 which are an inkstand, a pile of ledgers 
 and some extra sheets of paper. Mr. 
 Pine hem, with gray wig and zvhiskers 
 and spectacles, sits in his office busily en- 
 gaged in figuring up his accounts. He 
 does not look up from his paper, but 
 keeps on figuring while his clerk enters 
 and takes a seat near the table in such a 
 position as to both face the audience. 
 
 Clerk. Mr. Pinchem, I — I — 
 
 Mr. Pinchem. Have you got those 
 goods off for Kalamazoo? 
 
 Clerk. Yes, sir, they are off. Mr. 
 Pinchem, I — 
 
 Mr. P. And about that order for starch ? 
 
 Clerk. That has been attended to, sir. 
 Mr. Pinchem — 
 
 Mr. P. And that invoice of tea ? 
 
 Clerk. That's all right, sir. Mr. 
 Pinchem, I have — 
 
 Mr. P. And that cargo of sugar? 
 
 Clerk. Taken care of as you directed, 
 sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long — 
 
 Mr. P. What about Bush and Bell's con- 
 signment ? 
 
 Clerk. Received in good order, sir. 
 Mr. Pinchem, I have long wanted — 
 
 Mr. P. And that shipment to Buffalo? 
 
 Clerk. All right, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I 
 have long wanted to speak to you— 
 
 Mr. P. Ah! speak to me? Why, I 
 thought you spoke to me fifty times a day. 
 
 Clerk. Yes, sir, I know, but this is a 
 private matter. 
 
 Mr. P. Private? Oh! Ah! Wait till I 
 see how much we made on that last ten 
 thousand pounds of soap — six times four 
 are twenty- four; six times two are twelve 
 
178 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 and two to carry make fourteen ; six times 
 nought are nothing and one to carry makes 
 one; six times five are thirty, seven times 
 four — ah ! well go ahead, I'll finish this 
 afterwards. 
 
 Clerk. Mr. Pinchem, I have been with 
 you ten long years, — 
 
 Mr. P. Ten, eh ! Long years, eh ! any 
 longer than any other years? Go ahead. 
 
 Clerk. And I have always tried to do 
 my duty. 
 
 Mr. P. Have, eh ? Go on. 
 
 Clerk. And now I make bold — 
 
 Mr. P. Hold on! What is there bold 
 about it? But, never mind, I'll hear you 
 out. 
 
 Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask — 
 ask — I want to ask — 
 
 Mr. P. Well, why don't you ask then? 
 I don't see why you don't ask if you want 
 to. 
 
 Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask you 
 for — for — 
 
 Mr. P. You want to ask me for the hand 
 of my daughter. Ah ! why didn't you speak 
 
 right out? She's yours, my boy, take her 
 and be happy. You might have had her 
 two years ago if you had mentioned it. Go 
 long, now, I'm busy. Seven times six are 
 forty-two, seven times five are thirty-five 
 and four are thirty-nine, seven times 
 eight — 
 
 Clerk. Mr. Pinchem — 
 
 Mr. P. What! You here yet? Well, 
 what is it? 
 
 Clerk. I wanted to ask you for — 
 
 Mr. P. Didn't I give her to you, you 
 rascal ! 
 
 Clerk. Yes, but what I wanted to ask 
 you for was not the hand of your daughter, 
 but a raise of salary. 
 
 Mr. P. Oh ! that was it, eh ? Well, sir, 
 that is an entirely different matter; and it 
 requires time for serious thought and 
 earnest deliberation. Return to your work. 
 I'll think about it, and some time next fall, 
 I'll see about giving you a raise of a dollar 
 or so a week. Seven times eight are fifty- 
 six and three are fifty-nine — 
 (Curtain Falls.) 
 
 t5* »5* fc5* 
 
 KINDNESS AND CRUELTY. 
 
 (For a big boy of twelve 
 
 PAUL — Are you the boy who called 
 me names the other day? 
 
 Charles — If you are the boy who threw 
 stones at a toad, I am the boy who called 
 you cruel. 
 
 P. — Then I shall give you a beating. 
 
 C. — I do not see how that would change 
 the fact. You would still be cruel. 
 
 P. — Are you not afraid of me? 
 
 C. — I am just about as afraid of you as 
 I am of our big rooster when he jumps 
 on a fence and crows. 
 
 P. — I am larger and stouter than you 
 are. 
 
 and a little boy of eight.) 
 
 C. — So a hawk is larger than a king- 
 bird; but the king-bird is not afraid of 
 him. 
 
 P. — Why did you call me cruel for ston- 
 ing an ugly toad? 
 
 C. — Because it is a cruel act to give need- 
 less pain to any living thing. 
 
 P. — Would you not like to have all the 
 toads put out of the way? 
 
 C. — By no means. The toad is of use, 
 and does us no harm. Four or five toads 
 will keep a garden free from bugs, worms 
 and flies that would spoil the leaves. A 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 179 
 
 good gardener would rather have 
 
 you 
 
 strike him than kill a toad. 
 
 P. — I never heard before that a toad 
 was of any use. 
 
 C. — Probably all the creatures in the 
 world are of use, in some way, though we 
 may not yet have found it out. But what 
 harm did you ever know a toad to do? 
 See how he tries to hop out of your way as 
 soon as he hears your step. 
 
 P. — It is true; I never heard of a toad's 
 doing any harm. What is your name? 
 
 C. — My name is Charles Larcom. 
 
 P. — Charles Larcom, I have been in the 
 wrong, and you have been in the right. 
 Will you shake hands with me? 
 
 C. — Gladly; I'd much rather shake 
 hands than fight. 
 
 P. — I was cruel in stoning the toad, and 
 you said no more than the truth about me. 
 
 C. — I think we shall be good friends. 
 Come and see me; I live in the white 
 .house by the brook, near the old willow 
 tree. 
 
 P. — I know the house. Will you go and 
 picK berries with me next Saturday after- 
 noon ? 
 
 C. — That I will ; and my brother would 
 like to go, too. 
 
 P. — I'll call for you at three o'clock; 
 till then, good-bye. 
 
 C. — Good-bye, Paul Curtis ; I'm glad to 
 have met you. 
 
 v* t5* &?• 
 
 A PEACH PIE. 
 
 Characters — The Baker, 
 
 A Little Girl. 
 (As the Curtain Rises the Baker is Seen 
 Arranging His Goods.) 
 (Enter Little Girl.) 
 
 GIRL — Do you sell pies? 
 Baker — Yes, my little girl. 
 
 Girl — My mamma said you sold pies. 
 How much are they? 
 
 Baker — Ten cents apiece. 
 
 Girl — Give me a peach pie. 
 
 Baker — (looking over wares). I am all 
 out of peach pies. However, I have some 
 nice mince pies. 
 
 Girl — But I want a peach pie. 
 
 Baker— Well, I am all out. 
 
 Girl — My mamma said you kept peach 
 pies. 
 
 Baker — Well, so I do, but just now I 
 am out of them. 
 
 Girl — I am willing to pay you for one. 
 
 Baker — Yes, I know, but I haven't any. 
 
 Girl — My mamma said if I gave you ten 
 cents vou would give me a peach pie. 
 
 Baker — So I would if I had any. 
 
 Girl — Any what? 
 
 Baker — Peach pies. 
 
 Girl — That's what I want. 
 
 Baker — Yes, but I haven't any. I have 
 nothing but mince pies left. 
 
 Girl — But I don't want a mince pie. I 
 want a peach pie. 
 
 Baker — Well, I haven't any. 
 
 Girl — You sold mamma a peach pie 
 yesterday for ten cents. 
 
 Baker — Yes, I had peach pies yesterday. 
 
 Girl — How much do you want for peach 
 pies? 
 
 Baker — If I had any to sell, I would let 
 you have one for ten cents. 
 
 Girl — I have got ten cents in my hand. 
 
 Baker — I don't doubt it, my little girl. 
 
 Girl — And I want a peach pie. 
 
 Baker — I haven't any peach pies; I'm 
 all sold out. Don't you understand? 
 
 Girl — You sold my mamma a peach pie 
 yesterday for ten cents. 
 
180 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Baker — Of course I did. I had some to 
 sell yesterday, and if I had any to sell to- 
 day, I would let you have it. 
 
 Girl — This is a baker shop, isn't it ? 
 
 Baker — Of course it is. 
 
 Girl — And you sell pies and cakes ? 
 
 Baker — Of course I do. 
 
 Girl — Then I want a peach pie. 
 
 Baker — Little girl, go home. I shall 
 never have any more peach pies to sell. 
 Do you hear ? Never any more peach pies ! 
 (Curtain.) 
 
 (5* ^* t5* 
 
 A GROVE OF HISTORIC TREES. 
 
 (Arbor 
 
 TREE planting on Arbor Day, for 
 economic purposes in the great West, 
 has given to the prairie States many thou- 
 sand acres of new forests, and inspired the 
 people with a sense of their great value, 
 not only for practical purposes, but for 
 climatic and meteorological results as well. 
 The celebration of Arbor Day by the public 
 schools in several of the older States by 
 the planting of memorial trees, as origi- 
 nated at Cincinnati, in the spring of 1882, 
 and generally known as the "Cincinnati 
 plan," has done much also to awaken a 
 widespread interest in the study of trees; 
 and this annual celebration promises to be- 
 come as general in the public schools and 
 among the people as the observance of May 
 Day in England. "Whatever you would 
 have appear in the nation's life you must 
 introduce in the public schools." Train the 
 youth into a love for trees, instruct them in 
 the elements of forestry, and the wisdom of 
 this old German proverb will be realized. 
 
 First Pupil. 
 
 Scattered here and there over this beau- 
 tiful land of ours are many prominent trees 
 that have been consecrated by the presence 
 of eminent personages, or by some con- 
 spicuous event in the history of our coun- 
 try. 
 
 Second Pupil. 
 
 Perhaps the best-known tree in American 
 history is the "Charter Oak" in Hartford, 
 
 Day.) 
 
 Conn., which was prostrated by a Septem- 
 ber gale in 1848, when it measured twenty- 
 five feet in circumference. It was estimated 
 to be six hundred years old, when the first 
 emigrants looked upon it with wonder. 
 
 Sir Edmund Andross was appointed the 
 first governor-general of the colony of Con- 
 necticut, and arrived at Boston in Decem- 
 ber, 1686. He immediately demanded the 
 surrender of the charter of Connecticut, and 
 it was refused. 
 
 In October, 1687, he went to Hartford 
 with a company of soldiers while the as- 
 sembly was in session, and demanded an 
 immediate surrender of their charter. Sir 
 Edmund was received with apparent re- 
 spect by the members, and in his presence 
 the subject of his demand was calmly de- 
 bated until evening. The charter was then 
 brought forth and placed upon the table 
 around which the members were sitting. 
 Andross was about to seize it, when the 
 lights were suddenly extinguished. A 
 large concourse of people had assembled 
 without, and the moment the lights dis- 
 appeared they raised a loud huzza, and 
 several entered the chamber. Captain 
 Wadsworth, of Hartford, seized the 
 charter, and, unobserved, carried it off and 
 deposited it in the hollow trunk of a large 
 oak tree fronting the house of Hon. Samuel 
 Wyllys, then one of the magistrates of that 
 colony. The candles were relighted, quiet 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 181 
 
 was restored, and Andross eagerly sought 
 the coveted parchment. It was gone, and 
 none could, or would, reveal its hiding- 
 place. Ever after that tree was called the 
 "Charter Oak." 
 
 Third Pupil. 
 
 The "Washington Elm" still stands at 
 Cambridge, Mass. It is on Garden Street, 
 a short distance from the colleges, and is 
 a large, well-preserved tree. It was this 
 elm that shaded Washington on that July 
 3d, 1775, when he took command of the 
 American army at Cambridge, and began 
 that long public life in which he exhibited 
 such brilliant talents, and won for himself 
 the deserved title of "Father of his Coun- 
 try." 
 
 We have been an independent nation for 
 more than a century, but this tree still 
 stands, and its massive trunk and wide- 
 spreading branches form a fitting emblem 
 of the prosperous nation that started out, 
 as it were, from beneath its shade; and 
 in it are centered fond remembrances of 
 our Revolutionary fathers. 
 
 Fourth Pupil. 
 
 In the middle of Eighteenth Street, Chi- 
 cago, between Prairie Avenue and the lake, 
 there stood until recently a large cotton- 
 wood tree ; it was the last of a group which 
 marked the spot where the Indian massacre 
 of 1812 took place. Fort Dearborn stood 
 at the mouth of the Chicago River, about 
 one and one-half miles from the clump of 
 trees. In August an army of Indians at- 
 tacked the fort, and the garrison being 
 weak, the commandant offered to surrender 
 on condition that the force might withdraw 
 without molestation. At nine o'clock on 
 August 15th, the party, composed of about 
 seventy-five persons, advanced from the 
 fort along the Indian trail, which follows 
 the lake shore. When the little band had 
 reached the cotton-wood tree, a volley was 
 
 showered by the Indians. All were killed 
 except twenty-two, who surrendered and 
 were spared. To-day an imposing monu- 
 ment marks the spot, that takes the place 
 of the tree that was blown down. 
 Fifth Pupil. 
 
 Who has not heard of the elm at Shak- 
 amaxon, under the spreading branches of 
 which William Penn made his famous 
 treaty with the Indians, which was never 
 sworn to, and which stands alone as the 
 only treaty made by the whites with the 
 Indians which was never broken? For 
 more than a century and a quarter this tree 
 stood, a grand monument of this most sin- 
 cere treaty ever .made, and then it was 
 blown down, and a monument of marble 
 now but poorly marks the spot where it 
 stood. 
 
 Sixth Pupil. 
 
 "The Cary Tree," planted by the road- 
 side in 1832 by Alice and Phcebe Cary, is 
 a large and beautiful sycamore standing on 
 the turnpike from College Hill to Mount 
 Pleasant, Hamilton County, Ohio. As these 
 two sisters were returning from school one 
 day they found a small tree in the road, 
 and carrying it to the opposite side they 
 dug out the earth with sticks, and planted 
 it. 
 
 Seventh Pupil. 
 
 It was the custom of our ancestors to 
 plant trees in the early settlement of our 
 country, and dedicate them to Liberty. 
 Many of these "Liberty Trees," con- 
 secrated by our forefathers, are still stand- 
 ing. "Old Liberty Elm" in Boston was 
 planted by a schoolmaster long before the 
 Revolutionary War, and dedicated by him 
 to the independence of the colonies. 
 Around that tree, before the Revolution, 
 the citizens of Boston and vicinity used to 
 gather and listen to the advocates of our 
 country's freedom. Around it, during the 
 
183 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 war, they met to offer up thanks and sup- 
 plications to Almighty God for the success 
 of the patriot armies, and after the terrible 
 struggle had ended, the people were accus- 
 tomed to assemble there year after year, in 
 the shadow of that old tree, to celebrate the 
 liberty and independence of our country. 
 It stood till within a few years, a living 
 monument of the patriotism of the people 
 of Boston, and when at last it fell, the bells 
 in all the churches of the city were tolled, 
 and a feeling of sadness spread over the 
 entire State. 
 
 Eighth Pupil. 
 At the southern line of Fort Mercer, on 
 the Delaware River, close by the bank, are 
 the remains of the hickory tree which was 
 used as a flagstaff during the battle which 
 occurred there in autumn of 1777. There 
 stood, until 1840, near Charleston, S. C, a 
 magnificent magnolia tree, under which 
 General Lincoln signed the capitulation of 
 that city in 1789. Incredible as it may ap- 
 pear, the owner of the land and of the house 
 shaded by the tree, wherein he and his 
 mother were born, subsequently felled it for 
 firewood. At Rhinebeck may still be seen 
 an interesting memento of the lamented 
 General Montgomery. A day or two before 
 he left home to join the army under Schuy- 
 ler he was walking on the lawn in the rear 
 of his brother-in-law's mansion with the 
 owner, and as he came near the house Mont- 
 gomery stuck a willow twig in the ground, 
 and said, -"Let that grow to remember me 
 by." It did grow, and is now a willow with 
 a trunk at least ten feet in circumference. 
 On the banks of the Genesee River stood 
 an oak believed to have been a thousand 
 years old, called "The Big Tree." Under 
 it the Seneca nation of Indians held coun- 
 cils ; and it gave the title "Big Tree" to 
 one of the eminent chiefs of that nation, at 
 the period of our Revolution. It was 
 
 twenty-six feet in circumference. It was 
 swept away by a flood in the autumn of 
 1857. A pear tree that stood on the corner 
 of Thirteenth Street and Third Avenue, in 
 New York City, bore fruit until i860, when 
 it perished. It was planted in his' garden 
 by Peter Stuyvesant, the last Dutch gover- 
 nor of New Netherlands (now New York) 5 
 in 1667. 
 
 Ninth Pupil. 
 Other trees of historic interest are the 
 ash trees planted by General Washington 
 at Mount Vernon. These trees form a 
 beautiful row, which is the admiration of 
 all who visit the home of the "Father of 
 his Country." 
 
 The weeping willow over the grave of 
 Cotton Mather, in Copp's burying-ground, 
 was taken from a tree that shaded the grave 
 of Napoleon at St. Helena. Copp's bury- 
 ing-ground is so near Bunker Hill battle- 
 field that a number of gravestones can be 
 seen to-day which were pierced through by 
 bullets fired by British soldiers in that 
 battle. 
 
 Tenth Pupil. 
 But besides historical trees there are 
 many others that attract our attention from, 
 their great size. Among these are the won- 
 derful trees of California. They are about 
 five hundred in number, ninety-five being 
 of enormous size. There is one fallen mon- 
 ster, which must have stood four hundred 
 and fifty feet in the air, and had a diameter 
 of forty feet. Another engaged the efforts 
 of five men for twenty-five days in cutting, 
 and on the level surface of the stump thirty- 
 two dancers find ample room. "Old Go- 
 liath" shows the marks of a fire, that, ac- 
 cording to surrounding trees untouched, 
 must have raged a thousand years ago. 
 The diameter of the largest is thirty-three 
 feet ; the circumference of the largest, five 
 feet above the ground, sixty-one feet. This 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 183 
 
 is tne only one more than sixty feet in cir- 
 cumference. 
 
 So much larger are those immense trees 
 than those we ordinarily see, that a com- 
 parison is about the only way in which we 
 can correctly measure them. Shortly after 
 they were discovered, the hollow trunk 
 of one of them was . forwarded to New 
 \ ork, where it was converted into a grocery 
 store. 
 
 In one of these groups of trees a stage- 
 road has been cut under the trunk through 
 the roots, and immense coaches, drawn by 
 six horses, pass directly under the old giant. 
 Eleventh Pupil. 
 
 I will tell you how George P. Morris 
 came to write the poem, "Woodman, Spare 
 That Tree." Mr. Morris, in a letter to a 
 friend, dated New York, February i, 1837, 
 gave in substance the following account : 
 
 "Riding out of town a few days after, 
 in company with a friend, an old gentle- 
 man, he invited me to turn down a little 
 romantic woodland pass, not far from 
 Bloomingdale. 
 
 "'Your object?' inquired I. 'Merely to 
 look once more at an old tree planted by 
 my grandfather long before I was born, 
 under which I used to play when a boy, 
 and where my sisters played with me. 
 There I often listened to the good advice of 
 my parents. Father, mother, sisters — all 
 are gone ; nothing but the old tree remains.' 
 And a paleness overspread his fine counte- 
 
 nance and tears came to his eyes. After 
 a moment's pause, he added : 'Don't think 
 me foolish. I don't know how it is ; I 
 never ride out but I turn down this lane 
 to look at that old tree. I have a thousand 
 recollections about it, and I always greet 
 it as a familiar and well-remembered 
 friend.' These words were scarcely uttered 
 when the old gentleman cried out 'There it 
 is !' Near the tree stood a man with his 
 coat off, sharpening an axe. 'You're not 
 going to cut that tree down, surely?' 'Yes, 
 but I am though,' said the woodman. 
 'What for?' inquired the old gentleman, 
 with choked emotion. 'What for? I like 
 that ! Well, I will tell you. I want the tree 
 for fire- wood.' 'What is the tree worth to 
 you for firewood?' 'Why, when down, 
 about ten dollars.' 'Suppose I should give 
 you that sum,' said the old gentleman, 
 'would you let it stand?' 'Yes.' 'You are 
 sure of that?' 'Positive!' 'Then give me a 
 bond to that effect.' We went into the little 
 cottage in which my companion was born, 
 but which is now occupied by the wood- 
 man. I drew up the bond. It was signed 
 and the money paid over. As we left, the 
 young girl, the daughter of the woodman, 
 assured us that while she lived the tree 
 should not be cut. These circumstances 
 made a strong impression on my mind, and 
 furnished me with the materials for the 
 song." 
 
 t5* «5* o?* 
 
 BACKBITERS BITTEN. 
 
 A Dialogue for Four Girls. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Miss Marvel, Miss Gad, Miss Slander, 
 
 Miss Upham. 
 
 MISS MARVEL. Who would have 
 thought it, Miss Slander? 
 
 Miss Gad. You don't say so, Miss Slan- 
 der! 
 
 Miss Slander. Oh, but it is quite true. 
 It must be. Besides, my brother William 
 heard it at the barber-shop. 
 
184 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Miss M. Well, now, I always had my 
 suspicions; there was always a something 
 — a what-do-you-call-it sort of a look about 
 the Uphams that I never liked. 
 
 Miss S. They say it is all over town — 
 at least brother William says it must be. 
 But, whether or no, that's the fact. John 
 Upham's store was shut up this morning. 
 
 Miss G. Well, well, it is no more than 
 I always said it would come to. 
 
 Miss S. They certainly always lived 
 above their station. As my brother William 
 often said to me, "Nancy," says he, "mark 
 my words ; for all that them Uphams hold 
 up their noses like conceited peacocks, as 
 they are, pride will have a fall," says he, 
 "pride will have a fall !" 
 
 Miss M. And such goings-on, Miss Slan- 
 der, to be sure — such goings-on ! Parties, 
 parties, parties, from Monday till Saturday 
 — the best joint at the butcher's, the nicest 
 loaf at the baker's, always bespoke for the 
 Uphams. Well, they must be content now 
 with poor people's fare ! 
 
 Miss S. If they can get even that! for 
 my brother William says they will be sold 
 out and out, — down to the baby's go-cart. 
 Dear me, dear me ! 
 
 Miss G. Only think of it. How different 
 it was this time last year, Miss Slander, — 
 Miss Upham with her new velvet dress, the 
 finest Genoa, Mr. Upham with his new 
 phaeton, Master Upham with his new 
 watch, and little Emma Upham with her 
 new fancy hat ! 
 
 Miss M. But everybody could see what 
 was coming. It could not go on so forever. 
 That's what I said. But Upham was always 
 such a proud man. 
 
 Miss S. Never would take anybody's 
 advice but his own — there! it was no later 
 than Wednesday week, when my brother 
 William civilly asked him, in the most 
 neighborly way in the world, if he wanted a 
 
 little conversation with a friend about his 
 affairs, as they appeared to be going back- 
 ward; and what do you think he said? 
 "William," said he, "you and your sister 
 Nancy go chattering about like a couple of 
 human magpies, only the bird's instinct is 
 better than your reason." That's just what 
 he said, the vile brute ! 
 
 Miss M. Brute, indeed, Miss Slander; 
 you may well say that. Bird's instinct, for- 
 sooth ! 
 
 Miss G. Set him up to talk reason ! Had 
 he reason enough to keep himself out of the 
 constable's hands? 
 
 Miss M. I should not be surprised, Miss 
 Slander, if he were to take to drinking. 
 
 Miss S. And, for that matter, my dear, 
 Thompson told Green, who told Lilly, who 
 told our Becky, who told William, that 
 Upham was seen coming out of Tim 
 Smith's saloon this very morning. 
 
 Miss G. Drunk, of course. 
 
 Miss S. Well, I don't know, exactly ; but 
 I think it is much more likely that he was 
 drunk than that he was sober. 
 
 Miss M. Well, well, 'tis poor Miss Up- 
 ham that I pity; I'm sure I sha'n't have a 
 wink of sleep all this blessed night for 
 thinking of her. 
 
 Miss G Poor girl ! I'm sure I feel for 
 her. Not that she was ever much better 
 than he. They do say — but I don't know of 
 my own knowledge, and I'm the last person 
 in the world to slander anybody behind their 
 back — but they do say that, before they 
 came here, there were reports, you know, 
 insinuations, stories like, though I don't 
 exactly know the rights of it, but they do 
 say something about Miss Upham's being 
 guilty of stealing a nice gold watch! But, 
 I dare say, it is all nonsense; only, of 
 course, there are some people, you know, 
 that will talk. 
 
 Miss M. There, now! who would have 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 185 
 
 thought it? Did you ever? But there was 
 always something very sly about Miss Up- 
 ham — I've seen it often. 
 
 Miss G. What I hope is, that little 
 Emma won't take after her aunt — poor 
 thing ! 
 
 Miss S. Oh, as for that, bless you, like 
 aunt like niece — but I say nothing, not I. 
 No, no ! nobody ever heard Nancy Slander 
 go beyond the line in that way. Mum is 
 my word, — mum, mum ! What I say is, that 
 people ought to keep people's tongues be- 
 tween people's teeth ; that's all. Emma Up- 
 ham ! — ha, ha, bless you ! 
 
 Miss M. Hush, hush, if here is not Miss 
 Upham herself. 
 
 Enter Miss Upham. 
 
 Miss G. My dear Miss Upham, I am 
 very sorry, indeed. 
 
 Miss M. I could almost shed tears for 
 you, Miss Upham. 
 
 Miss S. But, my dear Miss Upham, 
 there is one consolation for you— you are 
 not without a friend in the hour of mis- 
 fortune, you know that. 
 
 Miss U. I must beg you to explain your- 
 selves, ladies. 
 
 Miss S. Well, Miss Upham, I do not 
 think you have any reason now to put on 
 those proud airs. 
 
 Miss G. It is hardly worth while to keep 
 a secret that is known all over the town. 
 
 Miss S. You would do better to remem- 
 ber that pride will have a fall, Miss Up- 
 ham, pride will have a fall ! 
 
 Miss U. Well, ladies, I must ask you 
 once more to explain yourselves. 
 
 Miss M. Well, Miss Upham, does not 
 your brother's store look very different to- 
 day from what it did yesterday? 
 
 Miss S. And did not my brother Wil- 
 
 liam find, this morning, the door of your 
 brother's store locked? 
 
 Miss G. And would not some people get 
 some very queer answers if they were to 
 ask you, Miss Upham, why your brother's 
 store was shut up this morning? 
 
 Miss U. Well, I believe it is a very com- 
 mon thing for merchants to take an account 
 of stock at certain seasons of the year; at 
 least, that is the reason why my brother's 
 store was not open quite as early as usual, 
 this morning. He is taking an account of 
 stock. 
 
 Miss M. Taking an account of stock ? 
 
 Miss U. Yes, Miss Marvel. 
 
 Miss G. And that is the reason why the 
 door of your brother's store was shut this 
 morning? 
 
 Miss U. Yes, Miss Gad. 
 
 Miss S. And you are not to be sold out 
 and out ? 
 
 Miss U. Not that I know of, Miss 
 Slander. 
 
 Miss M. I wish you a very good even- 
 ing, Miss Upham. 
 
 Miss U. Good evening, Miss Marvel. 
 
 [Exit Miss M. 
 
 Miss G. I hope no offense given, Miss 
 Upham ? 
 
 Miss U. Not in the least, Miss Gad. 
 
 {Exit Miss G. 
 
 Miss S. Give my love to your sweet 
 niece, Emma, Miss Upham. 
 
 Miss U. With great pleasure, Miss 
 Slander. [Exit Miss S. 
 
 There go Marvel, Gad, and Slander ; how 
 full of spite and mischief they are ! May I 
 take warning from them, and keep alto- 
 gether from gossiping and misrepresenta- 
 tion. 
 
1S(> 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 ON TIME— A FARCE. 
 
 Copyright, 1900, by the Lyceum Publishing Company. (Used by Permission.) 
 ROBERT C. V. MEYERS. 
 Ferment. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Jerry Earley, who fearing to be late, is 
 just in time. 
 
 Claude Latterly, who, intending to be 
 early, is a little behind time. 
 
 Mr. Ferment, who effervesces early and 
 late, but comes to time. 
 
 Katharine, his daughter, who de- 
 termines that Earley must be in time. 
 
 Mrs. Campbell, the housekeeper, who 
 early makes a mistake, but rectifies it in 
 time. 
 
 Suggestions as to Costumes. — Earley, ragged 
 coat, afterward frock coat, with fashionable 
 dress. Latterly, ragged coat, clothing disar- 
 ranged, hat smashed. Ferment, old-fashioned 
 clothes, bald wig, spectacles. Katharine, white 
 gown and ribbons. Mrs. Campbell, black silk 
 dress, cap, spectacles. 
 
 Scene — Parlor in Ferment's house; en- 
 trances, right and left; Mrs. Campbell 
 discovered as curtain rises. 
 
 ISS CAMPBELL (with grip-sack). 
 Of all the impudence I ever saw ! Mr. 
 Latterly sends his grip by a boy, so as not 
 to lose time. I'd time him if I had anything 
 to do with him. (Shakes grip, then throws 
 it on floor.) 
 
 Enter Ferment, left. 
 Ferment. What's all this uproar, Mrs. 
 Campbell? What is that (pointing to grip) ? 
 Mrs. C. Mr. Latterly's grip, left by a 
 boy, who fairly threw it at me and rushed 
 off without a word, except to say that he 
 must see a fight. 
 
 Ferment. Latterly's grip, eh? Then 
 Latterly is not far off. Good ! Would you 
 mind taking the grip to his room? It has 
 his wedding coat in it, I suppose. 
 
 Mrs. C. I'd like to have a word with you, 
 Mr. Ferment. 
 
 M 
 
 Now, Mrs. Campbell, I have 
 no time for words. I am excited. 
 
 Mrs. C. I've had charge of Katharine 
 ever since her mother died, fifteen years 
 ago 
 
 Ferment. You wanted a word with me ? 
 This sounds as though you wanted the 
 whole dictionary ! 
 
 Mrs. C. A dictionary wouldn't hold all 
 the words I should like to say. 
 
 Ferment. Don't say 'em. Take one let- 
 ter at a time. 
 
 Mrs. C. I will. The letter K, Kathar- 
 ine. So she is to be married this morning ! 
 I am sorry to hear it. 
 
 Ferment. Everybody has a right to be 
 sorry. 
 
 Mrs. C. But she hasn't a right to be 
 sorry this way. Mr. Latterly is not her 
 choice. 
 
 Ferment. He is a choice young man — 
 he is my choice.. 
 
 Mrs. C. A girl has a right to her own 
 choice. 
 
 Ferment. Meaning Mr. Jerry Earley? 
 
 Mrs. C. She says he is a splendid young 
 man. 
 
 Ferment. Katharine shall marry the 
 man I pick out for her. It is my theory that 
 a girl should be guided by her father. Will 
 you kindly take that grip to Mr. Latterly's 
 room? 
 
 Mrs. C. (kicking grip ont.) Very well. 
 
 [Exit, right. 
 
 Ferment. Shall the daughter of Henry 
 Ferment, author of that book, "The Degen- 
 eracy of the Young," marry a man simply 
 because he is her choice? Never! The 
 young should be guided by the old, that's 
 my theory. Why, I've never seen this man 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 187 
 
 Earley. No, she marries Latterly as soon 
 as he arrives. It was a stroke of genius to 
 nab the minister and lock him in the study, 
 so that the wedding should take place as 
 soon as Latterly arrives — for I distrust 
 Katharine, she might give me the slip. 
 
 Enter Katharine, left. 
 
 Katharine. Father ! 
 
 Ferment. What is it, my daughter ? 
 
 Katharine. I have followed you to tell 
 you I will not marry Mr. Latterly. Simply 
 because he is the son of your old school 
 friend cannot make me like him. 
 
 Ferment. You've never seen him. 
 
 Katharine. Neither have you. He 
 writes you that he admires your book, and 
 on the strength of that you determine that 
 he is fit to be your son-in-law. 
 
 Ferment. I am upholding the theory of 
 that book — the young should be guided by 
 the old. Mr. Earley comes too late if, as 
 you say, he writes you that he comes this 
 morning to ask me for your hand. Every- 
 body has a right to be happy, and so have 
 I. My theory shall be upheld. [Exit, left. 
 
 Katharine. I marry a man I do not 
 know! Never! Oh, if Jerry only comes in 
 time ! If he will only make haste ! 
 
 Mrs. C. (entering). Mr. Latterly's, wed- 
 ding coat has arrived. I've just kicked it 
 into his room. Don't you dare to marry 
 that man ! 
 
 Katharine. But what shall I do if Mr. 
 Earley does not arrive in time? 
 
 Mrs. C. He's not fit to be called Earley 
 if he is late. But I am sorry your father 
 has never seen him. A man likes to marry 
 his daughter to a man he knows. 
 
 Katharine. He doesn't know Mr. Lat- 
 terly, except through his father. 
 
 Mrs. C. That's something, though your 
 Aunt Anna writes that he is a mere fortune- 
 hunter, and you say Mr. Earley is not that. 
 
 Katharine. Indeed, no! If father only 
 knew him ! 
 
 Mrs. C. Your father refuses to know 
 any young man. 
 
 Katharine. Consequently I had to meet 
 Mr. Earley at Aunt Anna's when I visited 
 there last winter. 
 
 Mrs. C. I think your father is scandal- 
 ous. But you needn't marry if you don't 
 want to. 
 
 Katharine. And the minister is locked 
 up in the study, and Mr. Latterly's coat in 
 his room. Oh, if Jerry would only come 
 (going to windozv) ! 
 
 Mrs. C. I've taken care of you for fif- 
 teen years, and you shall not be made mis- 
 erable now. Mr. Latterly has never seen 
 you. Suppose I waylay him and pretend 
 I am you ? That ought to make him hesitate. 
 
 Katharine. If he is what Aunt Anna 
 says he is, he will hesitate at nothing. 
 
 Mrs. C. But I am old enough to be his 
 mother. 
 
 Katharine. But father is rich enough 
 to be his father-in-law. Oh, if Jerry would 
 only come! 
 
 Ferment (entering). Mrs. Campbell, 
 will you please leave us? 
 
 Mrs. C. Very well (shaking list back at 
 him)! [Exit, right. 
 
 Ferment. I won't have any more non- 
 sense, Katharine. You've got to make Lat- 
 terly a happy man — everybody has a right 
 to be happy. Let us reason together? 
 
 Katharine. Reason ! You don't know 
 what reason is. Booh ! [Exit, right. 
 
 Ferment. She said "Booh!" to me. 
 This is degeneracy in the young with a ven- 
 geance. A girl to say Booh to her father. 
 I thought she couldn't say Booh to a goose. 
 Now she shall marry Latterly. I am an up- 
 right man (pitching over chair). Oh, oh! 
 (Gets tip, nibbing his leg, as pounding is 
 heard.) That's the minister. He don't get 
 
188 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 out till Latterly gets in. That's what he 
 gets for coming here to tell me my book is 
 all wrong. But I must go and pacify him. 
 
 [Exit, right. 
 
 Enter Earley, left; coat is ragged, collar 
 and necktie hanging. 
 
 Earley. I am in time. That's all I 
 want, time, and the last tap I gave Latterly 
 he didn't come to time. Now to find Kath- 
 arine and run off with her. 
 
 Katharine (entering, right, screaming). 
 Oh, Jerry! What is the matter? 
 
 Earley. What do you see is the matter ? 
 
 Katharine. Your condition. Such dis- 
 arrangement ! 
 
 Earley. The disarrangement arranged 
 itself. I've had a difference of opinion with 
 Mr. Latterly. 
 
 Katharine. Mr. Latterly! What has 
 he done to you? 
 
 Earley. You'd better ask what I've done 
 to him. 
 
 Katharine. What have you done ? 
 
 Earley. I've done him, after he tried to 
 .do me. 
 
 Katharine (Hying to him). He has in- 
 jured you? 
 
 Earley. Wait till you see him. 
 
 Katharine. Tell me about it, tell me! 
 
 Earley. We came here in the same car. 
 I recognized him by your Aunt Annie's de- 
 scription of him. He didn't know me. At 
 the station he was in such a hurry that he 
 scourged me. I am not the man to be 
 scourged. I pushed him. At that he struck 
 me. I threw my grip to the platform. He 
 threw his, and yelled to a boy to carry it 
 here. But the boy took mine in mistake. 
 Then Latterly grappled with me. I left him 
 getting plastered up by the trainmen. That 
 gives us a few minutes start of him. Now 
 come, we'll get out of this, come ! 
 
 Katharine. Oh, Jerry, the minister is 
 here to marry me to Mr. Latterly. 
 
 Earley. Then we have no time to lose. 
 Come! 
 
 Noise heard outside; Ferment calling, 
 "Katharine ! Katharine !" 
 
 Katharine. There is papa. He must 
 not find me here. He does not know you. 
 Pretend you are somebody else. Tell him 
 you are a book-agent. I will see you in a 
 few minutes. [Exit, left; running. 
 
 Earley. Pretend I am a book-agent ! Do 
 I look like one? (Ferment, calling, "Kath- 
 arine! Katharine!") No, I am not the man 
 to pretend. I meet him as myself. 
 
 Ferment (entering, right, calling; then 
 seeing Earley). What, here! You are in 
 time. My dear boy, I am delighted to see 
 you (shaking Earley violently by the hand). 
 
 Earley. Delighted to see me! Sir — sir 
 —I 
 
 Ferment. You are in time ; in fact, you 
 are early. 
 
 Earley. I certainly am Earley. 
 
 Ferment. I feared you would be late. 
 
 Earley. I — I do not understand. 
 
 Ferment. I've captured a minister. He 
 came to argue with me about my book. I 
 simply locked him in my study. My theory 
 shall be upheld. 
 
 Earley. But listen to me, sir. I am here 
 to see your daughter. 
 
 Ferment. And she will see you. 
 
 Earley. I do not understand. 
 
 Ferment. My theory shall be upheld. 
 
 Earley (angrily). I have no objection 
 to your upholding anything, except an ob- 
 jectionable aspirant to Katharine's hand — 
 
 Ferment. Who shall be — ha, ha! held 
 • up if he appears? 
 
 Earley. Oh, I've attended to that. 
 
 Ferment. You ! What do you mean ? 
 
 Earley. Sir, I must tell you the truth. 
 
 Ferment. You'd better not tell me any- 
 thing else. 
 
 Earley (angrily). Give me a chance. 
 
Photo by Byron, N. Y. 
 
 A STRUGGLE FOE, LIFE. 
 
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 03 
 O 
 
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 8 
 
 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 191 
 
 Ferment. My dear boy, I am anxious to 
 make you happy and uphold my theory at 
 the same time. Go on ! 
 
 Earley. You see my condition ? 
 
 Ferment. Now I notice you. I do think 
 you are a trifle out of order. 
 
 Earley. I met that rival of mine. He 
 struck me. I left him with the trainmen — 
 getting patched up. 
 
 Ferment. What ! He dares to come here 
 and brave me. {Calling.) Mrs. Campbell! 
 Mrs. Campbell ! 
 
 Mrs. C. {entering, right.) I am here, I 
 am here ! 
 
 Ferment. Show the gentleman his 
 room. I will go after Katharine. My theory 
 shall be upheld. [Exit, right. 
 
 Mrs. C. ( grasping Earley' s arm.) Aren't 
 you ashamed to marry Katharine like this ! 
 
 Earley. I don't care how I marry her, 
 so I do marry her. 
 
 Mrs. C. And she loving another man ! 
 
 Earley {astounded) . Explain yourself. 
 
 Mrs. C. She's dead in love with another 
 man. 
 
 Earley {grasping her arm). What do 
 you mean ? Tell me instantly. 
 
 Mrs. C. {freeing herself). She told me 
 so ; she has always said so. She only takes 
 you because you force her. 
 
 Earley. Force her? I give her up! In 
 love with another man! Good-by {going; 
 then returning and shaking her) . Woman, 
 I must know all of this. Tell me ! 
 
 Mrs. C. You know very well the minis- 
 ter is here to marry you to Katharine, and 
 she loving poor Mr. Earley. 
 
 Earley {releasing her; his hand to his 
 head). My brain reels ! {Aside.) I see. 
 The light is beginning to come. There is 
 yet hope. {Aloud.) Show me to my room, 
 I must rest. 
 
 Mrs. C. Nothing will stop your mar- 
 riage ? 
 
 Earley. Nothing! My room — I am 
 dizzy. 
 
 Mrs. C. {pointing, left.) Unhappy man, 
 there is your room. {Earley goes in, and 
 she turns the key in lock.) Mr. Ferment 
 locked up the minister, and I lock up the 
 bridegroom. Let us see if he will be mar- 
 ried before Mr. Earley gets here. 
 
 Katharine {entering, right). Where is 
 he, where is he? 
 
 Mrs. C. Mr. Latterly is in there with his 
 wedding-coat. 
 
 Katharine. Surely he has not come ? 
 
 Mrs. C. Surely he has. 
 
 Katharine. And where is Mr. Earley? 
 
 Mrs. C. I haven't the slightest idea. 
 
 Katharine {wringing hands). Oh, to 
 treat me thus — to treat me thus ! 
 
 Mrs. C. Never you mind, I've locked 
 Mr. Latterly in, and here's the key. 
 
 Katharine. The key! Give it to me 
 {taking it and going to zvindow and throw- 
 ing it out). Now let father do his worst. 
 But Jerry to treat me thus. 
 
 [Exit right, weeping. 
 
 Mrs. C. {dashing off her cap) . She shall 
 never marry Latterly. {Pounding heard at 
 door.) You may pound, but you won't get 
 out. {Ferment outside, calling, "Katha- 
 rine! Katharine!") Now for it. {Claps on 
 cap. ) 
 
 Ferment {entering, left). Where is 
 Katharine? I am in a hurry. {Pounding 
 heard.) Who is that? 
 
 Mrs. C. That is Mr. Latterly. He is in 
 that room. I have locked him in and the key 
 is thrown away. He shall not marry Katha- 
 rine. 
 
 Ferment. Locked him in ! - You vixen ! 
 Go ! Leave me — leave the house ! 
 
 Mrs. C. I will — with Katharine. 
 
 [Exit, right. 
 
 Ferment. Locked him inf {At door, 
 left.) Break the lock! Burst open the 
 
192 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 door! (Door flies open; Earley enters in 
 wedding-coat.) Now, my lad, I'll see who 
 is master here. Come to the minister. 
 
 Earley. I will. First, let me explain. 
 
 Ferment. I will listen to no explana- 
 tions. My theory shall be upheld. 
 
 Katharine (entering, right, not observ- 
 ing Earley). Father, I will never permit 
 this outrage ! 
 
 Ferment. My theory shall be upheld ! 
 
 Earley (coming forward). Mr. Fer- 
 ment, listen to me. 
 
 Katharine (screaming with delight). 
 Who is this ? 
 
 Ferment. Your husband that is to be. 
 Go ! To the minister, go ! 
 
 Katharine. Father, there is a mistake. 
 
 Ferment. Go, I tell you ! Take her, my 
 boy ! Go ! 
 
 Earley (with warning glance at Katha- 
 rine). But, sir 
 
 Ferment (angrily). You object? 
 
 Earley (in mock obeisance). By no 
 means ; but 
 
 Ferment. Go ! That scoundrel may be 
 here at any minute and make trouble. Not 
 a word. To the minister, go (pushing them 
 off, left) ! Now let the villain come! 
 
 Mrs. C. (entering, right, excitedly, in 
 bonnet and coat, with boxes). I am going. 
 I am going first. I want to tell you my 
 opinion of you. 
 
 Ferment. I don't wish to hear it. 
 
 Mrs. C. You are a bear. 
 
 Ferment. Go ! 
 
 Mrs. C. You are a donkey. 
 
 Ferment. Go ! 
 
 Mrs. C. You are a wolf in sheep's cloth- 
 ing. 
 
 Ferment. I don't care if I am a whole 
 zoological garden. Go! My theory shall 
 be upheld. 
 
 Mrs. C. (dropping boxes and running to 
 
 him). I'll uphold your theory (boxing his 
 ears, he crying: You vixen, etc.) ! 
 
 Enter, Latterly, left, in ragged coat, his 
 face plastered. 
 
 Ferment. (breaking away). How? 
 What ? Who are you ? 
 
 Mrs. C. (running to Latterly). Oh, you 
 poor, dear creature ! You are too late. 
 
 Ferment. You may be Earley (laugh- 
 ing) — but too late. 
 
 Latterly. Sir, I have been maltreated 
 by a villain. 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh, why didn't you kill him ! 
 
 Latterly. Mr. Ferment, I am here ; and 
 where is she? 
 
 Mrs. C. (weeping). She is being mar- 
 ried. 
 
 Latterly. Married ? 
 
 Ferment (rubbing his hands). Married! 
 
 Latterly. But she is to be married to 
 me. 
 
 Ferment. As I said before, you may be 
 Earley, but you are too late. 
 
 Latterly. Sir, I will have damages. 
 
 Ferment. It looks to me as though you 
 have had damages enough. 
 
 Latterly. You make a jest of me? I 
 will claim damages for breach of promise. 
 
 Ferment. Claim what you please ; you 
 — you fortune-hunter. 
 
 Latterly. You insult me. Because 
 your sister calls me a fortune-hunter, you 
 insist upon it? I will have damages. I 
 know your means. I will claim damages 
 or your daughter. I've never seen her, and 
 damages will do as well. 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh, sir, how can you ! 
 
 Latterly. I've been imposed upon. But 
 the money will do — I'll claim damages. I'll 
 enter proceedings at once. I don't want the 
 girl, but I will have the money, as sure as 
 my name is Latterly. 
 
 Ferment. Latterly? 
 
 Mrs. C. Latterly (sinking into chair) ! 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 193 
 
 Latterly (to Ferment). You know 
 very well that I am Claude Latterly ; and 
 you have brought me here to make a fool 
 of me. 
 
 Ferment. And you'd rather have dam- 
 ages than my daughter. 
 
 Latterly. I don't want your daughter. 
 You've made a fool of me. I want dam- 
 ages. 
 
 Ferment. Then my sister's opinion of 
 you was correct ; you are a fortune-hunter ? 
 
 Latterly. I want damages. 
 
 Ferment. Then you shall have damages 
 (running to him, scuffling him off, left; 
 noise, as of some one falling dozvn stairs). 
 
 Mrs. C. (rising). I see it, I see it (clap- 
 ping her hands) ! Katharine is being mar- 
 ried to Mr. Earley. I see it, I see it ! 
 
 Ferment (returning and rolling up his 
 sleeves). I've settled him, I've settled him ! 
 Rather have the money, would he? He's 
 running for the train as fast as his legs will 
 carry him. My theory shall be — oh, where 
 is my theory? 
 
 Mrs. C. (clapping him on the back). I 
 see it, I see it ! 
 
 Ferment. Mrs. Campbell, I don't know 
 what yon see, but / see that I have made a 
 fool of myself. 
 
 Mrs. C. No, you haven't ; you've made 
 a happy woman of your daughter. 
 
 Ferment. But my dignity! They'll 
 think I've been fooled. 
 
 Mrs. C. Pretend — pretend you knew all 
 the time — pretend you did it all to try Kath- 
 arine's attachment for Mr. Earley. I'll help 
 you out. 
 
 Ferment. You will? You're an angel, 
 if you are a widow. And you'll never tell ? 
 
 Mrs. C. Never. 
 
 Ferment. Never expose me? 
 
 Mrs. C. Never. Hush ! Here they are. . 
 Enter, Katharine and Earley, arm in arm. 
 
 Katharine (running to him). Father, 
 I must confess. 
 
 Earley. Mr. Ferment, you refused to 
 hear my explanation. 
 
 Ferment (bombastically). My lad, my 
 daughter, be happy. I know all. 
 
 Katharine. Why, father! 
 
 Ferment. I tell you I know all. Hasn't 
 a father who writes about the degeneracy 
 of the young the right to test the affection 
 of his daughter for the man she professes to 
 love? 
 
 Earley. You knew all along who I was ? 
 
 Mrs. C. Of course he did. 
 
 Earley. But my grip came here instead 
 of Mr. Latterly's. 
 
 Ferment. I wish no explanations, I tell 
 you. 
 
 Katharine. Oh, father, and I thought 
 you were determined to marry me to Mr. 
 Latterly ! 
 
 Ferment. A fortune-hunter. He'll not 
 come to-day; I've a theory he will not. 
 And now — I am giddy. (Sits in chair.) 
 
 Mrs. C. (fanning him). Don't faint. 
 Revive yourself. 
 
 Ferment (jumping up). Revive myself ! 
 I will, Mrs. Campbell; you've been my 
 daughter's companion for fifteen years, be 
 her father's companion for the rest of his 
 life. I'll revive myself — Be my wife. 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh, sir (resting her head on his 
 shoulder) ! 
 
 Katharine. Father, may you be happy. 
 
 Earley. Bless you, my children. 
 
 Ferment. And now let's all be happy 
 together. It is one of my theories that — 
 
 Mrs. C. That everybody is an idiot who 
 does not find the way to happiness. 
 
 Ferment. And I'll uphold that theory. 
 It may be a little late, but it is — 
 
 Katharine. Earley (pointing to Ear- 
 ley). 
 
194 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Earley. Not too late. In fact, it is "On 
 Time." 
 
 Earley. Katharine. Mrs. Campbell. 
 
 Ferment. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 t2& t&* t2& 
 
 THE HARVEST QUEEN 
 
 SARAH M. 
 Characters. 
 The Queen, Marion, Julia, Lulu, 
 Helen, Maria, Lilian, Bertha, 
 Blanche, Nettie, Alice. 
 The real names of the children can be sub- 
 stituted if desired. 
 Scene — A platform with raised seat for the 
 Queen at right; the maidens gracefidly 
 grouped at left. 
 
 WHAT your gleanings, darling maid- 
 ens, 
 Through the precious Summer time? 
 From the year's maturer ripenings, 
 What your offering for my shrine ? 
 
 In the golden-dotted meadows, 
 
 In the fields of yellow grain, 
 Through the orchard, crimson-fruited, 
 
 By the streamlet's low refrain, — 
 
 You have found great nature's treasures 
 Sparkling with the gems they wear; 
 
 Have you brought them, sweet-voiced 
 maidens, 
 That your Queen the gifts may bear ? 
 
 Marion — 
 
 This sheaf of wheat 
 The loyal Marion lays 
 
 Low at your feet; 
 Emblem of pleasant days, 
 Found in the sunny ways 
 
 Where maidens meet. 
 
 Julia — 
 
 For thee these grapes, from clinging vine ; 
 
 So clings my heart, dear Queen, to thine. 
 
 AND HER MAIDENS. 
 
 WYMAN. 
 Lulu — 
 
 Melons, juicy and red, — 
 
 Melons, yellow as gold, — 
 Melons, from emerald bed, — 
 Melons, I scarce can hold ! 
 Oh, take them, my Queen, and the homage, 
 
 too, 
 Of your loving subject, the little Lu ! 
 
 Helen — 
 
 Delaware peaches, soft as the cheek is 
 
 Of baby Grace; 
 No nicer nor rarer, no sweeter nor fairer, 
 
 In any place. 
 
 Maria — 
 
 Oh, the fields of growing corn, 
 
 With tassels soft as silk ; 
 And little tender baby ears, 
 
 At first as white as milk. 
 
 And then, the white is changed to gold, 
 The husks grow tough and strong; 
 
 September brings the harvesters, 
 And wakes their merry song. 
 
 Lilian — 
 
 These little ferns within a deep alcove 
 
 So deftly grew ; 
 I seized the pretty, feathery things, 
 Soft as blue bird's tender wings, 
 And brought to you. 
 
 Oh, let the graceful, fragile forms 
 
 Around the altar lie, 
 And grace the heavier gifts it bears, 
 The stiffer lines its contour wears, 
 
 Until they die. 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 195 
 
 Bertha — 
 
 Some Autumn leaves for thee I've gathered 
 
 From maples clashed with gold ; 
 From sumacs, flaming by the way-side, 
 And oaks centuries old. 
 
 Blanche — 
 
 These asters, with their fringe of blue, 
 
 I picked, dear Queen, and brought to you. 
 
 Nettie — 
 
 And the gentian, 
 "Whose sweet and quiet eye 
 Looks through its fringes to the sky." 
 
 Queen — 
 Oh, thank you, maidens, for the gifts 
 
 My heaped-up altar shows ; 
 Such love the true heart ever feels, 
 
 But other, never knows. 
 
 Alice — 
 
 Great Queen, myself I give to thee ; 
 All that I am, or hope to be ; — 
 My love, my trust, my life, my all, 
 Attentive to thy slightest call. 
 
 Within an attic's low retreat, 
 Where grateful sunbeams never meet, 
 Weary and sick, lame, and in pain, 
 I heard on the roof the Summer rain, 
 And longed to lay my burdens by, 
 And in the bliss of rest to lie, 
 Till, rain-refreshed, the grain and flowers 
 Should brighten in the sunny hours, 
 And I could gather them for thee, 
 And fruits from many a loaded tree. 
 
 But no ! for me 'twas never meant ; 
 
 Alas ! I groped in discontent, 
 
 'Till suddenly a silver light 
 
 Around my couch, one stormy night, 
 
 Seemed all the dreary room to fill ; 
 
 A voice spake softly: "Peace, be still!" 
 
 Subdued, I lay in wondering rest ; 
 New thoughts arose within my breast. 
 Content, no more the fields to roam, 
 I pledged to make for thee a home 
 Within my heart; to consecrate 
 My life to thee, and humbly wait 
 Thy will ; to walk when thou shouldst lead, 
 And trust in every hour of need. 
 
 Queen — 
 Ah, sweet maiden, you have chosen 
 
 Wisest, truest, fondest, best; 
 Other gifts will crown my altar, 
 
 Yours within my heart shall rest. 
 
 Such living trust, — such devotion, 
 
 Jesus, Lord, the Crucified, 
 Asks of all His loving children, 
 
 That in Him they may abide. 
 
 Oh, my Alice! in your sufferings, 
 Christ's the light that shone around ; 
 
 When yourself you freely offered 
 'Twas this Jesus that you found. 
 
 Maidens, come, and give your service, 
 
 All your lives can ever be, 
 To the glorified Redeemer — 
 
 Just these little gifts to me. 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 1£& W& t0* 
 
 A WOMAN'S RIGHTS MEETING. 
 
 Characters. 
 Miss Belinda Inez Snicks, an old maid. 
 Mrs. Betsy Swagglesnock, a widow. 
 Miss Mary Ann Higgins, an old maid. 
 Florabel Snipper, a young lady. 
 
 Scene — A schoolroom, or an apartment in 
 a house. 
 
 MISS SNICKS (rising). Feller-citi- 
 zens — that is to say, my country- 
 women: This is an important and un- 
 
196 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 conquerable occasion, — an occasion fully — 
 that is to say — an epoch in the history of 
 woman, — an epoch big and overflowin' with 
 unexpoundable and paregorical events, 
 whose oleaginous paradigms shall rise up in 
 the dim future,' which is fast recedin' into 
 atmospherical and oblivious phantasma- 
 goria of the past, to lead us on over the 
 precipitous and inflexible profundity of the 
 mountainous and ever-rising periods, which 
 shall grow more and more inflammable and 
 multitudinous until the rising whirlpools 
 shall sweep the malestrom from Dan — that 
 is, I mean Daniel — to that other place which 
 is derived from the Latin word big sheep, 
 and shall go on in a roarin', unaccountable, 
 automatical, jimmy-twistical 
 
 Florabel. Run for a dictionary ! 
 
 Miss Higgins. Run for a doctor ! 
 
 Miss Snicks. Order, until I have co- 
 incided. 
 
 Mrs. Swagglesnock. You mean until 
 you have concluded. 
 
 Miss Snicks (angrily). No, sir! I mean 
 just what I say. Do you pretend to in- 
 culcate the abject and unconquerable idea 
 that I cannot give the proper words in their 
 proper places, and expatiate and preponder- 
 ate to a certainty on the inexplicable 
 
 Mrs. Swagglesnock. Let's get to busi- 
 ness. We didn't come here to waste time 
 and say big words. Important work is be- 
 fore us. 
 
 Miss Snicks. I'm sure I was making 
 the opening speech, and was digressing 
 spontaneously, but was direfully and rue- 
 fully interrupted. 
 
 Mrs. Swagglesnock. The first thing in 
 order is to elect a President. 
 
 Miss Snicks. I do not like to put my- 
 self forward, but I think this society, the 
 great Frog Hollow Woman's Rights So- 
 ciety, should have a President who could 
 use sweeping and high-sounding words, 
 
 and who would be an inflammable and 
 never-receding light, and one that could ad- 
 dress all the women's rights conventions 
 and mass meetings, and be an honor to her- 
 self, her friends, her society, and her female 
 relations. I, therefore, think that I should 
 be your President ; but pardon me in making 
 the direful provocation. 
 
 Florabel. I don't know what that 
 means. 
 
 Miss Higgins. I'm in favor of Miss 
 Snicks for President ; she's the oldest. 
 
 Miss Snicks (springing to her feet). 
 It isn't so. Thirty-two summers alone have 
 passed over my unwrinkled brow. I tell 
 you, Mary Ann Higgins, you are the oldest, 
 and you know it! 
 
 Miss Higgins. It isn't so ! 
 
 Miss Snicks. It is ! 
 
 Florabel. I think you are both pretty 
 old chickens. 
 
 Miss Higgins. And what are you ? An 
 impertinent minx, and you ought to be at 
 home ! 
 
 Miss Snicks. You are a dilapidated 
 decoction of diametrical docility. 
 
 Florabel (aside). Goodness, I think she 
 must have swallowed another dictionary 
 this morning! 
 
 Miss Snicks. You are the conglomera- 
 tion and the expurgation of the quintessence 
 of all the constitutional impudence in crea- 
 tion. How do you like that, hey? 
 
 Florabel. I like that first-rate! But 
 how about the President? Wouldn't I run 
 well? 
 
 Miss Snicks. Yes; you run well after 
 the young men, that's all! 
 
 Florabel. And the young men run after 
 me ; but they don't trouble you old gals very 
 much. 
 
 Miss Higgins. For my part, I hold my- 
 self aloof from the male sect. I despise 
 them, one and all. 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 197 
 
 Florabel. The "male sect" must take it 
 pretty hard. 
 
 Miss Snicks. And for my part, I 
 throw my head loftily aloof and pass the 
 male sect with impetuosity and fiery indig- 
 nification, never once condescending in my 
 unlimited and unfirmamentable scorn to 
 look upon those bituferated bipeds, who 
 would, dare to take away our rights and 
 trample our liberties under their unhallowed 
 feet. 
 
 Florabel. Oh, dear! 
 
 Mrs. Swagglesnock. There will be 
 
 nothing done here to-day. I'm going home. 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Swagglesnock. 
 
 Miss Snicks (continuing). And thus it 
 is. Trifling discouragements and small 
 botherfications make small-minded people 
 forget that there is an extraordinary — and 
 — and — an anti-spasmodical work to be 
 done. The world is one great parenthetical 
 
 and antediluvian field, which the octoge- 
 narian 
 
 Miss Higgins (aside). The old fool. 
 
 [Exit hastily. 
 
 Miss Snicks (continuing) . Worker and 
 believer in woman's rights will have to 
 unsallivate and throw the direful effects 
 arising from the opprobriousness upon the 
 status of the ignus fatus and the aristo- 
 cratus 
 
 Florabel. Of the crazy Snicks snatus. 
 Finish the dictionary, old gal, and then 
 come home. Good-by. If you choke on one 
 of your big words write and let me know, i 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Miss Snicks. Impudent minx ! They are 
 gone, and will not listen to golden words 
 and magnificent splutterances. Well, I sup- 
 pose we will have to postpone until the next 
 adjournment. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 (5* t5* ^* 
 
 MOTHER EARTH AND THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 LIZZIE M. HADLEY. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Mother Earth, Dame Nature, Mr. 
 Weathercock, May, Queen of May. 
 
 Sunbeams, eight very small children, 
 with song. 
 
 May Flower, Arum, Yarrow, Dande- 
 lion, Anemone, Yellow Weed, six girls, 
 with recitation. 
 
 Crocus, Lady-slipper, Trillium, Daf- 
 fodil, four girls, with extracts from the 
 poets. 
 
 Birds, a troupe of little folks, with song 
 and march, in which the flowers join. 
 
 May Pole Dancers, selected for the pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Scene — A laivn, or woodland, with gaily- 
 decked background; elevated positions 
 for Mother Earth and Dame Nature; 
 
 the various participants wearing ' a 
 dress, sash, or flower, to indicate the 
 character represented. The introduc- 
 tion of music at proper intervals %vill, 
 aid the children in performing their 
 parts. 
 
 MOTHER EARTH. I'm fairly worn 
 out. No sooner do I get the snow 
 and ice fairly settled for the winter and the 
 flowers safely tucked into their beds, than 
 up jumps the sun and hints that it is time 
 for them to be stirring again, and that I 
 had better clear away the snow drifts. Then 
 of course everything goes wrong. The 
 north wind comes blustering round undo- 
 ing all my work ; the south wind, who ought 
 to be at home helping me, goes scurrying 
 off, no one knows where, and even the flow- 
 
198 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 ers declare it isn't time to grow, and not one 
 of them will stir. Oh, dear! such wayward 
 children! They will break my heart. 
 ( Wipes her eyes. ) 
 
 Dame Nature. Truly, mother, your 
 life is a hard one. But come, cheer up, 
 better days are coming I am sure. 
 
 Mother Earth. I hope so, for I am 
 getting quite discouraged. Just look at the 
 old brown gown I am wearing, and there's 
 the spring dressmaker pretends she can't 
 find green enough to finish my new one, 
 and here it is half-past April by the season's 
 clock. I don't know what to do with such 
 children ; they are getting beyond my con- 
 trol and unless there is a change very soon 
 we shall have no May Day. 
 
 Dame Nature. Why don't you consult 
 Mr. Weathercock ? He may be able to send 
 the south wind to help you. 
 
 Mother Earth. I will, and, as good 
 luck will have it, here he comes now. {En- 
 ter Mr. Weathercock.) Good morning to 
 you, neighbor. 
 
 Mr. Weathercock. Good morning. 
 Mother Earth and fair Dame Nature. What 
 mean these anxious faces? Surely the 
 springtime should bring only happiness. 
 
 Mother Earth. How can I be happy 
 when I am so anxious ? Everything is late. 
 
 Mr. Weathercock. We have had a 
 tardy spring. Indeed my neck is quite stiff 
 from trying to keep track of the winds. 
 
 Mother Earth (anxiously). What are 
 our prospects for May Day ? Can you help 
 us? 
 
 Mr. Weathercock (looking about him). 
 I'm looking north, I'm looking south, 
 
 I'm glancing east and west, 
 Dear, kindly Mother Earth, for you 
 
 I'll try to do my best. 
 The warm south wind will soon be here, 
 
 I see him on his way, 
 
 So summon from their wintry beds 
 The flowers to welcome May. 
 
 Mother Earth. Thank you, Mr. 
 Weathercock. Now, Dame Nature, if you 
 will help me we will try to waken the lag- 
 gard flowers. 
 
 Mother Earth and Dame Nature. 
 Come, little flowers, 
 Springtime is coming, 
 'Tis time to arise, 
 Flowers fair, flowers sweet, 
 Open your eyes. 
 (Enter Sunbeams, skipping and dancing.) 
 
 Mother Earth. What curious folks are 
 these? Whence come you, little ones? 
 
 Sunbeams (singing — air: "Rosalie, the 
 Prairie Flozver"). 
 
 We are little sunbeams, 
 
 Dancing here and there, 
 And we've come to help you, 
 
 Earth so fair. 
 We will wake the flowers 
 From their winter's sleep, 
 Send them hither, May to keep. 
 
 chorus. 
 Yes, we are children 
 
 Of the shining sun, 
 See he has sent us 
 
 One by one, 
 Pretty yellow pencils 
 
 Of golden light, 
 
 We have come to waken night. 
 
 Come, my pretty flow'rets, 
 
 Open wide your eyes, 
 Winter's over, now 'tis time 
 
 To arise. 
 Birdie in the tree-top 
 Sings his sweetest strain, 
 Bright springtime is here again. 
 
 (Chorus.) 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 199 
 
 Now they all have heard us, 
 
 From their little beds, 
 See where one by one, they 
 
 Lift their heads. 
 Oh, my pretty flowers, 
 Sleep no more I pray, 
 Come here and help us keep May Day. 
 
 (Chorus.) 
 
 The first group of flowers, having been se- 
 creted, before rise of curtain, behind 
 screens, fancy parasols, or large Japa- 
 nese fans, now peep out in turn from 
 their hiding places, and all arise as last 
 verse is sung. 
 
 Flowers (in concert). 
 Something's astir, 
 Hear the birds chirp and chatter, 
 What can it be? Dear me, what's the 
 matter ? 
 
 (They hide again.) 
 
 Sunbeams (calling to them). 
 Don't you know, flower lassies, 
 For each year that passes, 
 In spite of the work, there is o'er time for 
 
 play, 
 And every one has its own holiday. 
 Cold winter is over, glad springtime is here, 
 And that's what the chirping and chatter 
 
 means, dear. 
 
 Flowers (rising). 
 Oh, thank you, kind sunbeams, 
 For telling the reason, 
 But what is the holiday, pray, for this 
 season ? 
 
 Sunbeams. 
 The brightest and best in the annals, I'm 
 
 told, 
 Glad May Day, so famous in stories of old, 
 So wake from your slumber, now winter is 
 
 over, 
 Come, lift up your heads, my bonny red 
 
 clover, 
 
 Come, Mayflowers sweet, and buttercups 
 
 bold, 
 Come, dandelions, lift up your faces of gold, 
 All come here together, my blossoms so 
 
 bright, 
 Each one in your springtime colors bedight. 
 
 Mother Earth. I thank you, fair Sun- 
 beams. You have started the lazy flowers 
 at last. (Flowers come forward.) Here 
 they come now. Good- morrow, my pretty 
 ones! 
 
 Flowers. 
 
 Good morrow, gentle Mother Earth, 
 
 To you we make our bow, 
 We heard the sunbeams call us, 
 
 And so we greet you now. 
 Oh, yes, we flower people 
 
 Have all come here to-day, 
 And we'll show you how we mean 
 
 To keep this springtime holiday. 
 
 May Flower. 
 
 See, I'm the little Mayflower, 
 
 Beside the brooklet's brink, 
 When springtime winds are blowing, 
 
 I lift my buds of pink. 
 
 Arum. 
 
 Within the woods you'll find me, 
 
 The Arum — if you search. 
 I preach to all the flower folk 
 
 Who care to go to church. 
 
 Yarrow. 
 
 I'm but a summer flower, 
 
 And yet I'm here to-day 
 To tell you how we flowers keep 
 
 This happy first o' May. 
 
 Dandelion. 
 
 See! I'm a Dandelion, 
 
 So sturdy, strong and bold, 
 The merry children laugh to see 
 
 My starry face of gold. 
 
200 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Anemone. 
 
 Because with all the breezes, 
 
 I nod my head, you see 
 The children call me "wind-flower," 
 
 But my name's Anemone. 
 Yellow Weed (Buttercup). 
 My name is little Buttercup; 
 
 But you may somewhere read 
 That the country folk in olden days 
 
 Oft called me Yellow-weed. 
 Dame Nature. 
 Now that was well said, my fair little 
 
 flowers. 
 Come rest for awhile within these shady 
 
 bowers, 
 For see, just behind you with music and 
 
 song, 
 More gay flower-folk come trooping along. 
 
 (They step aside.) 
 Enter other flowers and May. 
 Flowers. 
 We heard the wood birds' carol, 
 
 Upon the tasseled trees, 
 And so we lifted up our heads, 
 To catch the passing breeze ; 
 And then we heard you calling, 
 
 And so, we came this way, 
 We bring your youngest daughter, — 
 
 The merry month of May. 
 Mother Earth. You are welcome, dear 
 daughter, beloved alike by young and old. 
 (May bozvs and steps back with {towers.) 
 Dame Nature. Of a truth, she hath a 
 goodly presence, and you may well be proud 
 of your fair daughter. But why do you call 
 her May? 
 
 Mother Earth. Her name comes from 
 the Latin Marius, meaning, to grow — tak- 
 ing its name from Maia, one of the heathen 
 deities. 
 
 Dame Nature. Well named, indeed! 
 She is a growing month, and giveth new 
 life and joy to all who greet her. 
 
 Mother Earth. Aye, and many curi- 
 ous rites of old did usher in her coming. 
 E'en royalty itself did not disdain to seek 
 the fields and woods and "fetch the haw- 
 thorn blooms" to crown the month of May. 
 The ancient Romans, too, held a springtime 
 feast in honor of the goddess Flora. Poets 
 have sung the praises of the merry month ; 
 wouldst hear some of their words of praise ? 
 
 Dame Nature. That would please me 
 right well. 
 
 Mother Earth. Come, fair flowers, 
 can you tell us aught that the poets have 
 said? 
 
 Flowers. 
 Yes, kind Mother Earth, 
 
 Gladly we will now say 
 Words that have been said or sung 
 
 Of the month of May. 
 
 Crocus. 
 Now lilacs break out into buds ; 
 
 Now spicy winds are blowing ; 
 And 'tis heigho ! the daffodils 
 
 Down in the garden growing. 
 
 — M. F. Butts. 
 Ladyslipper. 
 
 May shall make the bud appear 
 Like a jewel, crystal clear, 
 Mid the leaves upon the limb 
 Where the robin lilts his hymn. 
 
 — Frank Dempster Sherman. 
 Trillium. 
 May with cowslip-braided locks 
 
 Walks through the land in green attire ; 
 And burns in meadow-grass the phlox 
 His torch of fire. 
 
 — Bayard Taylor. 
 Daffodil. 
 April and May one moment meet, — 
 
 But farewell sighs their greetings 
 smother ; 
 And breezes tell, and birds repeat 
 How May and April love each other. 
 — Lucy Larcom. 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 M 
 
 All the Flowers. 
 Time presses, and we may not stay 
 
 To tell you all the words 
 That poets oft have sung and said, 
 
 For see ! here come the birds — 
 Robins, bluebirds, swallows, 
 
 Orioles, blithe and gay, 
 These and many more have come 
 
 To welcome in the May : 
 
 Birds (singing — Tune : "Sing a Song of 
 Sixpence"). 
 
 Sing a song of birdies 
 Flying here and there 
 In the shady woodlands, 
 Through the sunny air. 
 
 Sing a song of birds' nests 
 
 Underneath the eaves, 
 Nestled in the tree tops 
 
 'Mong the starting leaves. 
 
 Sing a song of birds' eggs 
 
 Blue as summer's sky, 
 When their doors are open'd 
 
 Out the birdlings fly. 
 
 (Floivers join in the song.) 
 Sing a song of springtime's 
 
 Merry month of May. 
 And of flowers gathered 
 
 Here to keep May Day. 
 
 Sing about the May-Queen, 
 (They lead hn forzvard.) 
 Flower-crowned, you see, 
 
 Gayest little lassie 
 In the world is she. 
 
 Oh, our sovereign lady, 
 
 Bow we unto thee ; 
 Birds and flowers together 
 
 Vow thee fealty. 
 
 May Queen. 
 True and loyal, Oh, my subjects, 
 
 You will ever be,- I ween, 
 So, gay birds and pretty flowers, 
 
 Take the blessing of your Queen. 
 
 Mother Earth. 
 I, too, now would welcome 
 The fair Queen o' May, 
 It is well you are here, 
 Though you reign but a day. 
 Dame Nature. . 
 Thy voice is as sweet 
 
 As the low, rippling waters. 
 My greeting now to thee 
 May's fairest of daughters. 
 Mr. Weathercock. 
 My respects to your majesty, Queen of the 
 
 May, 
 For your sake, the winds shall be quiet 
 to-day. 
 May Queen. 
 Thanks for pleasant words of greeting 
 
 One and all have given to me, 
 I will try to be, my subjects, 
 Worthy of your loyalty. 
 But old Time goes hurrying onward, 
 
 With him there is no delay, 
 So, together let us frolic 
 
 Through the shining hours to-day. 
 Hand in hand, close-locked together, 
 
 Let us all at once advance, 
 While our voices ring out gayly, 
 We will round the May-pcle dance. 
 They dance around May-pole, singing: 
 Tune — "Buy a Broom." 
 The robin just whispered, "Oh, springtime 
 is coming, 
 The flowers' gay banners are all now un- 
 furled, 
 And down in the meadows, the bees are a- 
 humming, 
 For springtime, fair springtime's renew- 
 ing the world." 
 Chorus — • 
 
 We'll be gay ! we'll be gay ! 
 See the bluebirds gayly winging, 
 And the robins lightly swinging, 
 Hear happy voices ringing, 
 Singing, here is May. 
 
202 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 HOBSON'S CHOICE. 
 
 J. S. MURPHY. 
 
 An uproarious farce in one act, illustrating the ludicrous and perplexing predicaments in 
 
 which a similarity of names places a nervous and modest grocer, who is 
 
 mistaken for a popular hero by the ladies in an Atlantic City 
 
 cottage during the Spanish-American war. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Richmond P. Hobbs (Mr. Hobbs' son), a 
 Hoboken grocer. 
 
 Mrs. Sapphira Hobbs, his wife, a small 
 woman with a large temper. 
 
 Richmond P. Hobson, the hero of the 
 Merrimac. 
 
 Dr. Marian Measles, a very new woman, 
 but "mannish" in appearance. 
 
 Mrs. Maria Quigg, proprietor of Quigg's 
 cottage. 
 
 Miss Adelaide von Chatterton, Miss 
 Eugenia Montmorency, Miss Ger- 
 trude WlGGLESWORTH, MlSS MlLDRED 
 
 Fitz-Wilson, guests of the cottage 
 and hero worshipers. 
 Patience Magillicuddy, the lady of the 
 
 kitchen. 
 Koopay, a seashore cabman. 
 Klubbs, an Atlantic City policeman. 
 Scene — Dining-room in Quigg's cottage 
 August, i8p8. Entrances right and 
 left, and right and left center at back. 
 Patience discovered arranging table in 
 center of stage. Enter Mrs. Quigg 
 from right with letter in hand. 
 RS. QUIGG. Patience, we'll soon 
 have a man in the cottage now. 
 Patience. Fortune be praised, mum. 
 Shure, this Spanish war's an awful blow till 
 us gur-r-ls. 
 
 Mrs. Q. There's hardly a male guest on 
 the island. 
 
 Patience. Sorry a wan, mum. Aven 
 Thorndyke's futman — ond a foine luckin' 
 mon he wuz — has gone aff wid the marine 
 corpse. 
 
 Mrs. Q. (laughing). What is the ma- 
 rine corpse, Patience? 
 
 M 
 
 Patience. Shure, it's the dead min the 
 sailyors sphin yarn for. 
 
 Mrs. Q. To make their shrouds, I sup- 
 pose. 
 
 Patience. Indade, I don't know, mum. 
 But who is it's comin' here? 
 
 Mrs. Q. (proudly). Mr. Hobson, the 
 hero of the Merrimac. 
 
 Patience. Av he's a Merry Mack he 
 must be a gude-natured Irishman. 
 
 Mrs. Q. He's coming here to regain his 
 health, which was shattered in a Spanish 
 prison. I forget the name, but it was Moro 
 something. 
 
 Patience. Oh, I know — Moryomensing. 
 Enter Dr. Measles, right. 
 
 Dr. Measles. I hear that Mr. Hobson 
 is coming here. 
 
 Mrs. Q. I expect him by the next train. 
 I hope everything is ready for 
 
 M. 
 
 Dr. 
 him. 
 Mrs. Q 
 Dr. M. 
 
 Ready and waiting. 
 I should like to see whether his 
 room is right. I feel it my duty as a medi- 
 cal practitioner to help him regain his 
 health. 
 
 Mrs. Q. We all feel the same way, Doc- 
 tor, I'm sure. 
 
 Dr. M. I shall take it upon myself to see 
 that Patience cooks his food hygienically. 
 
 Patience (bristling up.) Indade, Dr. 
 Mazles, Oi'll do me own cookin' mesilf. 
 
 Dr. M. (decisively.) You will do it much 
 better under the supervision of a physician. 
 
 Patience. Oi wull luck after the soup 
 all roight. 
 
 Dr. M. Mrs. Quigg, I wish to inspect 
 Mr. Hobson's room. 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 203 
 
 Mrs. Q. Come with me, Doctor. 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Q. and Dr. M. 
 
 Patience. Oi shuppose Mazles wull 
 want me to do the cookin' in caster ile. 
 Shure, the poor-ir mon's in hard luck. Be- 
 gorry, av Mazles takes howld av fwhat the 
 Spaniards has left av 'im she'll make 'im 
 sorry he didn't sink with his ship. 
 Enter Miss von Chatterton, Miss Mont- 
 morency, Miss Wigglesworth, and 
 Miss Fitz-Wilson, by different doors, 
 cautiously, and each oblivious of the 
 others. They tip-toe to Patience, to 
 whom they all speak at once in subdued 
 tones. 
 
 All Four. Is he here yet, Patience? 
 {Patience looks at one after the other in 
 surprise, and they also are surprised when 
 they become aware of the presence of each 
 other.) 
 
 Each (to the others). Oh, I didn't see 
 you! 
 
 Patience. Ez who here? 
 
 All Four. Our hero, Hobson, the brave. 
 
 Patience. Not yit; but he'll be here 
 purty soon. Onyhow, Oi don't think yous 
 gur-r-ls will huv much show at him. 
 
 All Four. Why not, Patience? 
 
 Patience. Dr. Mazles is goin' t' take 
 charge av him. 
 
 All Four. Who says so, Patience ? 
 
 Patience. She diz; and fwhat she sez 
 goes — outside av the cookin' departmint. 
 She's upsthairs now luckin' av his room's 
 all roight. [Exit right center. 
 
 Miss von Chatterton. Only one man 
 in the place, and that horrid doctor wants 
 to monopolize him. 
 
 Miss Montmorency. I wish this awful 
 war was over. 
 
 Miss Wigglesworth. I wish I was 
 back in Philadelphia. 
 
 Miss Fitz-Wilson. I wonder if any 
 men are left there. 
 
 Miss von C. I feel that I know Mr. 
 Hobson already. I've had his picture for 
 two months. 
 
 Miss M. I've written poetry about him. 
 
 Miss W. That doesn't give you any 
 claim on him. 
 
 Miss M. Yes it does. 
 
 Miss von C. No it doesn't. 
 
 Miss M. More than buying his picture 
 does. 
 
 Miss W. Maybe it isn't his picture 
 at all. 
 
 Miss von C. It is his picture. 
 
 Miss F. How do you know ? You never 
 saw him. 
 
 Miss von C. I cut it from a magazine ; 
 his name's under it. 
 
 Miss F. I have his signature in my auto- 
 graph album. 
 
 The Others. Oh-h ! How did you get 
 it? 
 
 Miss F. I got it with a pound of mixed 
 tea and pasted it in the album. It looks real 
 cute. 
 
 Miss W. What is his full name ? 
 
 Miss F. Richmond Pearson Hobson. 
 
 Miss W. Is he the one that said : "On, 
 Richmond, on"? 
 
 Miss M. You mean, "Charge, Rich- 
 mond, charge !" 
 
 Miss W. No, indeed ; he's a hero. 
 
 Miss M. Well, heroes have things 
 charged. 
 
 Miss F. So do their wives. (Patience 
 enters, listening. ) 
 
 Miss von C. Do you know what it was 
 made him a hero? 
 
 Miss M. He kissed all the girls in Cuba. 
 
 Miss W. He sank a Spanish mackerel 
 fleet and said : "There's glory enough for 
 all!" 
 
 Miss F. He stopped the Cubans from 
 making Havana cigars from Spanish 
 onions. 
 
204 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Patience. Bedad, yer all wrong. He 
 joomped overboard and saved an Irish 
 sailyorman named Merry Mack. 
 
 Miss von C. There must be six Rich- 
 monds in the field. 
 
 Patience. Av they're not vaccinated 
 Mazles wull catch thim all. 
 
 All Four. Do you think so, Patience? 
 
 Patience. Mazles is very catchin', ond 
 av you gur-r-ls don't luck yer purtiest the 
 dochter wull be Hobson's ch'ice. 
 
 All Four. Oh, oh, oh, oh! (Each 
 takes out a pocket mirror and looks at her- 
 self critically. ) 
 
 Miss von C. My frizzes are out. I must 
 fix them. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Mont. My nose is red. That will 
 never do. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Wig. My head looks like a fright. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Miss Fitz. I must change my bow. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Patience. Av onny poo-ir mon ivir de- 
 sarved a pinshin, it wull be Hobson fwhen 
 he escapes from this place. He'll foind it 
 takes a braver mon till face the gur-r-ls 
 single-honded at Atlantic City thon it diz 
 till run past the Spanish foorts in Santiago 
 harbor. 
 
 [Exit, shaking head dolefidly, right. 
 
 Enter Koopay, left, carrying two cabas. 
 
 Koopay. Here you are, sir, right end 
 uppermost, as the man said when he trod 
 on a tack in his stockin'-feet a-tryin' to 
 hush the babby in the middle of the night. 
 Enter Hobbs, with a fan in one hand and a 
 folded sun-umbrella in the other. He 
 looks around suspiciously, zvalks softly, 
 
 ■ acts timidly, and speaks in a mild, sub- 
 dued voice. 
 
 Hobbs. Are you sure this is Twigg's 
 Cottage ? 
 
 Koopay. Sure as Davy Crockett afore 
 he went ahead. 
 
 Hobbs. Thank you. How much do I 
 owe you? 
 
 Koopay. Twenty-five fer the ride and 
 fifty cents fer amusin' ye with conversation 
 'long the road. 
 
 Hobbs (looking in pockctbook). A dol- 
 lar is the smallest I have. 
 
 Koopay (taking it). I'll git it changed 
 at the store. I'll buy a quarter's worth oo' 
 cigars. See ? 
 
 Hobbs. But I don't smoke. 
 
 Koopay. No; but I do. S' long, boss. 
 Any time ye want another ride lemme know. 
 
 [Exit, left. 
 
 Hobbs (looking around). Strange Sap- 
 phira isn't here to meet me. I suppose she's 
 having her afternoon nap. I don't hear a 
 sound. This is just the kind of a place I 
 need. (Lays hat and umbrella on tabic, and 
 puts the cabas beside chair in which he sits. ) 
 I'll have a nice, quiet time here, and I'll go 
 back to town feeling like a new man. 
 Strange there's no one here to meet me. 
 Maybe Sapphira's never told 'em. That's 
 it. She knows I'm nervous and don't want 
 any fuss made over me ; so I suppose I'll 
 have to wait here until somebody comes, 
 and then I can explain. I'll read the paper 
 awhile. (He takes out a paper and reads.) 
 Ah ! Well, well ! "Insanity on the increase 
 among the fashionable women of America." 
 
 Patience (entering, right; aside). Ah, 
 there he is now ! But ain't he the quiet 
 luckin' little mon for a hero? Shure, thim 
 brave min's always quiet. The wans that 
 makes the noise niver diz onnything else. 
 Oi'm the fur-st wan t' see 'im, ond Oi'll be 
 the fur-rst t' sphake till 'im. (Aloud.) Is 
 this Mishter Hob-son? (Hobbs jumps up 
 nervously, dropping paper and upsetting 
 chair. ) 
 
 Hobbs. Ye-yes. I — I — a — just arrived. 
 Was I expected? 
 
 Patience. Indade ye were. 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 205 
 
 Hobbs. I suppose Mrs. 
 
 Patience. Mrs. Quigg has ivirything 
 prepared fur ye. 
 
 Hobbs. I'm very glad to know it. 
 
 Patience. Ivirybody wull be glad to 
 welcome Mr. Hob-son, ond wull be proud 
 to be sthayin' in under the same roof wid 
 him. 
 
 Hobbs. You are very kind, I'm sure. 
 
 Patience. Oi'll go ond tell Mrs. Quigg 
 yer come. 
 
 Hobbs. Thank you. (He watches Pa- 
 tience, who goes to right entrance, where 
 she stops, takes out a small American Hag 
 and waves it at Hobbs l cheering in a sub- 
 dued voice.) 
 
 Patience. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! 
 
 Hobbs (greatly astonished). That young 
 woman seems to be bubbling over with pa- 
 triotism. It's astonishing how this war 
 with Spain has aroused the American peo- 
 ple. I'm glad to see it. (Sits.) It only 
 needed this to unite our glorious country 
 into one coherent homogeneous mass of 
 consolidated patriotism, of which it be- 
 hooves all foreign governments to take im- 
 mediate and perpetual notice. Now, then, 
 to resume this extraordinary article. (He 
 reads.) 
 
 Mrs. O. (entering right, aside). Ah, 
 there he is, sure enough ! How noble look- 
 ing. Reminds me of poor, dear Quigg. I 
 must speak to him. (Aloud.) I believe I 
 have the honor of addressing Mr. Hob-son ? 
 (Hobbs jumps up and bows.) 
 
 Hobbs (aside) Hobbs' son! She, too, 
 seems to be acquainted with father. 
 (Aloud.) Yes, ma'am, I am Mr. Hobbs' 
 son. (Aside.) The old man must have 
 been here. (Aloud.) And you are Mrs. 
 Twigg? 
 
 Mrs. Q. (bowing). At your service, sir. 
 
 Hobbs. Thank you. You're very kind. 
 
 Mrs. Q. Pray, be seated, sir. I will re- 
 move your luggage to your room. 
 
 Hobbs. No; let me do it. 
 
 Mrs. Q. Oh, no ; I couldn't think of it. 
 I consider it an honor, sir. 
 
 Hobbs. Thank you. I should like 
 
 Mrs. Q. Just make yourself at home, 
 and I will have a nice, tempting luncheon 
 set out for you. 
 
 Hobbs. But, madam, if it is not incon- 
 venient, I should like to see 
 
 Mrs. O. No trouble at all. Everybody 
 will be delighted to see you. Now, pray, 
 make yourself easy while I give my orders. 
 (Aside.) To think that such a hero should 
 be so modest and unassuming. Just like the 
 late Mr. Quigg. (Takes Hobbs' two cabas, 
 goes to right door, where she repeats Hag 
 business, and exits.) 
 
 Hobbs. The landlady also is filled to 
 overflowing with patriotism. I like to see 
 it. I wonder how Sapphira likes it. I 
 shouldn't wonder if they made her patriotic, 
 too. By jingo, I feel like saying "hurrah!" 
 myself. I believe I'm beginning to im- 
 prove already. Now, then, to finish this 
 startling article. (Sits and reads.) 
 
 Dr. M. (entering right; aside, admir- 
 ingly). Ah! my beau ideal of a hero. But 
 a man in the nervous condition sure to be 
 brought on by confinement in a prison must 
 not read. No, no. Conversation, and 
 promenades, and proper diet are what he 
 must have, and it is my duty as a patriotic 
 American to see that he gets them. 
 (Snatches paper.) Mr. Hobson, I believe? 
 
 Hobbs (timidly). Yes, sir — ma'am — I 
 mean — that is — yes. (Aside.) She knows 
 the old man, too. 
 
 Dr. M. I am Dr. Measles. You are very 
 nervous. 
 
 Hobbs. Yes, Doctor. I suppose you have 
 been talking with Mrs. 
 
206 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Dr. M. With no one. I saw it as soon 
 as I focused my professional eyes on you. 
 
 Hobbs (timidly). Do you think 
 
 Dr. M. (imperiously). I do not think, 
 sir; I know that you must not read news- 
 papers with their exciting, sensational 
 articles. It is poison to one in your 
 neurasthenic state. Let me feel your pulse. 
 I knew it. Pulse feeble and fluctuating. 
 Show me your tongue. (He puts out 
 tongue a little.) Open your mouth wider. 
 (He does so.) And put out your tongue as 
 if you meant it to be out on dress-parade. 
 (He obeys.) Um-m! Coated. 
 Hobbs. Coated ! 
 
 Dr. M. (strongly). Yellow-coated! 
 Hobbs. I'm surprised. 
 Dr. M. You needn't be. It results from 
 reading yellow journals. 
 
 Hobbs. Doctor, what kind of coat 
 should toy tongue have when it's out on 
 dress-parade? 
 
 Dr. M. (severely). I never allow my 
 patients to treat the subject of health with 
 levity. Remain perfectly quiet while I see 
 about your food. 
 
 [Exits, with more flag business. 
 Hobbs. The Doctor has it. It must be 
 epidemic. Somebody has inoculated every- 
 body else with rampant, flag-waving, hip- 
 hip-hurraying patriotism. I wish Sapphira 
 would come. If any more of these effer- 
 vescent patriots hurrah at me I'm afraid I 
 may get a nervous chill. I admire patriot- 
 ism, especially American red, white and 
 blue patriotism ; but when it becomes a dis- 
 ease there is no telling where it may lead, 
 particularly to a man whose pulse is feeble 
 and fluctuating, and whose tongue* has a 
 yellow coat just like a Chinese prime min- 
 ister. 
 
 Enter Miss von C, left, with small Hag; they 
 eye each other steadfastly as she crosses 
 to door, right, and goes through Hag 
 
 exercise, cheers with suppressed ardor, 
 
 and exits. 
 Hobbs. Another of 'em; right good- 
 looking, too. This is the most remarkable 
 experience I've ever had. 
 
 Miss F. enters right, with a flag; crosses to 
 left, watching Hobbs admiringly (as 
 he watches her suspiciously, and fol- 
 lows at a safe distance), repeating, 
 "Huzzah! Huzzahl Huzzahl" and 
 exits. 
 
 Hobbs. I wonder if these people are 
 crazy. That article said that insanity is 
 greatly on the increase among the fashion- 
 able women of America. I wonder if I've 
 struck some kind of a sanitarium. I wish 
 Sapphira were here. I'll try if I can find 
 her. (Crosses to right, but halts on seeing 
 Miss M. enter. She begins tvainng a flag 
 round her head.) Another; she's as crazy 
 as a March hare. So young and handsome, 
 too. Poor thing! I must humor her. (He 
 takes out a handkerchief, waves it every 
 time she waves the flag.) The people have 
 gone crazy over the war. Probably they've 
 lost their relatives — their brothers, or hus- 
 bands, or lovers. (She advances, waving 
 flag, and he retreats, waving handkerchief.) 
 
 Miss M. Huzzah! huzzah! huzzah! 
 
 Hobbs. Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! 
 
 Miss M. makes a quick advance. Hobbs 
 turns to run out left, but encounters 
 Miss W., who enters, bearing a flag. 
 Hobbs stops, and he and Miss W. gaze 
 at each other a moment in silence. 
 Hobbs (aside). Two of 'em! This thing 
 is becoming alarming. 
 
 Miss W. (waving flag). Huzzah! huz- 
 zah ! huzzah ! 
 
 Hobbs (responding feebly). Huzzah! 
 huzzah! huzzah! (He retreats as Miss W. 
 advances.) 
 
 Miss M. Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! 
 
Photo by Byron, N. Y. 
 
 A TOKEN OF LOVE. 
 
H 
 
 W 
 P 
 P 
 
 w 
 
 W 
 
 H 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND FLAYS. 
 
 209 
 
 Hobbs (turning to her). Huzzah! huz- 
 zah ! huzzah ! 
 
 Miss W. Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! 
 Hobbs (taking out another handker- 
 chief). Huzzah! huzzah! huzzah! 
 
 Miss M. Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! 
 Hobbs huzzahs alternately to the tzvo ladies, 
 until Miss W. advances to door right 
 center and Miss M. to door left -center, 
 with Hobbs standing between them near 
 the table. Both ladies wave and huzzah 
 together, Hobbs waving both handker- 
 chiefs at once. They jump towards him 
 and finally disappear. Hobbs jumps back 
 against the table which moves forward 
 and he falls beneath it, then lies on his 
 back waving and huzzahing zvildly. 
 Hobbs (under table). Huzzah ! huzzah ! 
 huzzah ! Every body ! huzzah for every- 
 thing! I've got the disease myself! Huz- 
 zah ! hip, hip, huzzah ! 
 Enter Dr. Measles, carrying red, zvhite and 
 blue napkin, followed by Mrs. Q. with 
 pitcher of ice-water, knife, fork and 
 spoon, and Patience with a table-cloth. 
 They are astonished to see Hobbs and ex- 
 press sympathy. 
 Dr. M. My dear patient ! 
 Patience. Pu-ir mon! 
 Mrs. Q. What ever can be the matter? 
 Dr. M. (lifting him to a chair.) Those 
 papers have brought on an attack of vertigo. 
 (She fans him with the red, zvhite and blue 
 napkin, which starts him off again.) 
 
 Hobbs (waving)'. Huzzah! huzzah! 
 
 huzzah ! All round, for everybody, for 
 
 everything! (Collapses, and rolls up eyes.) 
 
 Patience. He's kilt ! he's kilt ! arrah me, 
 
 he's kilt! 
 
 Dr. M. (authoritatively.) Leave it all to 
 
 me. The best thing in a case of this kind 
 
 is an application of ice-cold water to the 
 
 base of the cerebellum. 
 
 Mrs. Q. Here it is, Doctor. (Mrs Q. 
 
 pours water on the napkin as Dr. M. holds 
 it, and applies it to the back of Hobbs' neck. 
 He jumps to his feet and wriggles.) 
 
 Hobbs. Ouch! Take it off! My spine's 
 on fire! Put it out and I'll huzzah for a 
 week. . 
 
 Dr. M. (taking the napkin from his neck.) 
 I knew that would bring him around. 
 There's nothing like ice-cold water in such 
 cases. 
 
 Hobbs. Ice-cold water! I thought it 
 was a red-hot poker you were running up 
 and down my spine ! 
 
 Dr. M. Now, sit down and remain quiet 
 while we get your luncheon ready. After 
 you get that I'll allow you to take a nap, 
 and you will awake greatly improved. 
 Mrs. Q. and Patience set the table and exit 
 
 right. Dr. M. in the interval patting 
 
 Hobbs' hands and rubbing his forehead. 
 
 He presents a pitiful sight and speaks in a 
 
 tone of anguish. 
 
 Hobbs (aside). How will I ever get out 
 of this place ? Where can Sapphira be ? - 1 
 must ask! (Aloud.) Doctor. 
 
 Dr. M. Shish (putting her finger to her 
 lips and then placing her hand over Hobbs' 
 mouth) ! You must not talk yet. Let me 
 prepare you for your luncheon. (She tucks 
 the napkin under his chin like a bib as Mrs. 
 Q. enters, followed by Miss von C, Miss 
 M., Miss W. and Miss F. each carrying a 
 dish. Patience brings tip the rear with a 
 huge tureen.) 
 
 Dr. M. Now, Mrs. Quigg, what have 
 you first? 
 
 Mrs. Q. (taking tureen.) Some delicious 
 snapper soup. 
 
 Hobbs (brightening and smacking his 
 lips). If there's anything I dote on it is 
 snapper soup. 
 
 Dr. M. Take it away ! It would poison 
 a man of his nervous temperament. 
 
 Hobbs (disappointed). I'm not as nerv- 
 
210 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 ous as I was, Doctor. I think that half a 
 bowl 
 
 The Others. Oh, yes ; just half a bowl. 
 
 Dr. M. {peremptorily.) Not a spoonful 
 under any circumstances! Send it out, 
 Mrs. Quigg! 
 
 Mrs. Q. Patience, take it back. (Pa- 
 tience takes it and exits.) 
 
 Dr. M. What has Miss von Chatterton? 
 
 Miss von C. A lovely stewed lobster. 
 
 Hobbs (cheering up). Lobster! I like it 
 any old way. 
 
 Dr. M. My dear man, that would kill 
 you with cramps in an hour. Take it away. 
 
 Miss von C. (going out, aside.) It's my 
 opinion that this isn't the only lobster in 
 Atlantic City. [Exit. 
 
 Dr. M. Miss Montmorency, we'll try 
 yours. What is it? 
 
 Miss M. Fried scrapple and Dutch 
 apple-dumplings. It's just lovely. 
 
 Hobbs (gleefully). Scrapple and dump- 
 lings will make a new man of me. 
 
 Dr. M. It would make a dead man of 
 you. Do you wish to commit suicide? 
 Fried scrapple will kill anything ten miles 
 away from Philadelphia. 
 
 Mrs. Q. The dumplings will neutralize 
 the ill effects of the scrapple. 
 
 Dr. M. Not apple dumplings, especially 
 Dutch apple dumplings. Dried apple dump- 
 lings or pepper-pot dumplings might have 
 been allowable, but not these. They would 
 kill a door-knob. (With a dramatic ges- 
 ture.) Remove the scrapple and the Dutch 
 apple dumplings ! 
 
 Miss M. (going out with dish, aside.) 
 It's my opinion that doctor doesn't know a 
 Dutch apple dumpling from a Welch rarebit. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Dr. M. Now, Miss Wigglesworth ? 
 (She lays her dish on table and Dr. M. 
 sniffs at it suspiciously.) What in the 
 world is it? 
 
 Macaroni croquettes and 
 I'm sure that will soothe his 
 
 Miss W. 
 cheese sauce, 
 nerves. 
 
 Hobbs (bracing up). Ah! Macaroni and 
 cheese ! I could eat it alive. 
 
 Dr. M. Impossible. Macaroni alone 
 would give you that terrible Italian disease 
 — sciatica — before sundown, and cheese 
 sauce at this season would simply be placing 
 an undertaker's mortgage on your liver. 
 
 Mrs. Q. Why, Doctor, the Ladies' Mag- 
 azine specially recommends macaroni and 
 cheese for August luncheons. 
 
 Dr. M. Madam, if you feed the poor 
 man by the Ladies' Magazine you will give 
 him the barber's itch. Remove it ! 
 
 Miss W. (going out with dish, aside.) I 
 don't believe she is a doctor at all. She's a 
 graduate of one of those six weeks' barber 
 colleges. 
 
 Dr. M. Next! 
 
 Miss W. (triumphantly.) .There! I knew 
 she was a female barber. Next, indeed ! 
 She'll be feeding the poor fellow on lather 
 and bay rum next ! [Exit. 
 
 Dr. M. What have you, Miss Fitz-Wil- 
 son? 
 
 Miss F. (hesitating.) I'm afraid it won't 
 answer. (Puts dish on table.) It's only 
 plain water-cress and nothing more. 
 (Hobbs makes a zvry face.) 
 
 Dr. M. (enthusiastically.) The finest 
 thing in the world for nervous dyspepsia. 
 A water-cress diet will starve it out of the 
 system in a year. 
 
 Hobbs (feebly). Doctor, I don't like 
 water-cress. 
 
 Dr. M. You must like water-cress. 
 
 Hobbs (firmly). But I don't like water 
 anything; not even water-crackers, or salt- 
 water taffy. I can't even look at water 
 colors without gagging. 
 
 Miss von C. hurries in with a dish. 
 
 Dr. M. Ah! What have we now? 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 211 
 
 Miss von C. Carrot salad. 
 
 Dr. M. Splendid ! Splendid ! 
 
 Hobbs. I can't go carrots. Carrots are 
 worse to me than a red-headed girl is to a 
 mad bull. 
 
 Dr. M. (zvho has red hair, severely.) 
 Red hair has its mission in this world, sir ! 
 
 Hobbs. But not in the cooking depart- 
 ment, Doctor. 
 
 Miss M. {entering, hurriedly, placing 
 dish on table.) Fish balls! 
 
 Miss W. (following her.) Gravy for the 
 fish balls. 
 
 Patience, (following with a large cov- 
 ered dish.) Here's the sthuff ! 
 
 Dr. M. What is it, Patience? (All come 
 up as Patience removes cover. ) 
 
 Patience, (waving it triumphantly.) 
 Biled ingyins. (All jump azvay but Dr. M. 
 Hobbs nearly collapses.) 
 
 Dr. M. Ah ! a dish for the Roman gods. 
 This is, indeed, a savory feast. . 
 
 Hobbs (whining). Doctor, I positively 
 cannot eat onions. 
 
 Dr. M. The very thing to make you 
 strong, lusty, robust. 
 
 Hobbs. I don't want to be strong; I 
 want to be quiet. 
 
 Dr. M. Quiet ! What so quieting to the 
 nervous system as a diet of water-cress, car- 
 rots, fish-balls and onions? 'Twill make 
 you as quiet as the night before Christmas. 
 
 Patience. Fwhin all t'rough the house 
 not a thing was sthirring, not aven a mouse. 
 
 Hobbs. Doctor, I don't want to be quiet 
 that way. If I did, prussic acid or Paris 
 green would be just as effective and more 
 convenient than your prescription. 
 
 Dr. M. Ungrateful man! to speak thus 
 after all our trouble. Eat, man, eat, and be 
 glad you have fallen under our care. 
 
 Hobbs (aside). If I don't get out of this 
 lunatic asylum, Mrs. Hobbs will be a widow 
 in twenty-four hours. Poor Sapphira ! she 
 
 doesn't look well in black, either. (Rising, 
 aloud.) If you will excuse me, ladies, I 
 will not eat anything at present. I will take 
 a stroll along the beach. 
 
 Dr. M. That will never do. You must 
 not stir until you have partaken of this 
 hygienic feast that we have prepared ex- 
 pressly for you. 
 
 Hobbs. But I ain't hungry. 
 
 Dr. M. You will get hungry as you eat. 
 Sit down (forcing him back and holding 
 him). Ladies, feed him ! (Each offers him 
 a large spoonful or ladleful of something. 
 Patience offers a huge onion on a fork. 
 Hobbs protests. Dr. M. tries to pull his 
 jazvs apart, when a commotion is heard out- 
 side. ) 
 
 Mrs. H. (outside.) You're sure he's in 
 here? 
 
 Koopay (outside). That's where I left 
 him, mum. 
 
 Mrs. H. (outside.) Come in with us, 
 Officer; I may need your services. 
 Enter Mrs. Hobbs, Koopay and Klubbs, 
 left. 
 
 Koopay. There he is. Mebbe he ain't in 
 it with both feet with all them good-lookin' 
 girls round him. 
 
 Mrs. H. I'll girl 'em (pushing them 
 azvay). How dare you hang around my 
 husband in this shameless manner? 
 
 All. Mr. Hobson her husband! 
 
 Mrs. H. Yes, Mr. Hobbs' son is my 
 husband. 
 
 Hobbs. Save me, Sapphira! save me! 
 They are feeding me to death ! 
 
 Mrs. H. (snatching the napkin from his 
 neck.) Why do you allow them to do it, 
 you booby? Stand up ! (She pulls him up 
 and shakes him.) Can't you feed yourself? 
 (To the others.) How dare you feed my 
 husband ? 
 
 Dr. M. We were treating him for the 
 benefit of his health. 
 
212 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Mrs. H. Health! What do you know 
 about health? 
 
 Dr. M. (frigidly.) I am a doctor, 
 madam ! 
 
 Mrs. H. Doctor! You look more like a 
 kidnapper. 
 
 Dr. M. I am a graduate of two colleges, 
 — old school and new school. 
 
 Mrs. H. I don't care whether you're an 
 old fool or a young fool, you shan't fool 
 with my husband. 
 
 Dr. M. Your husband, madam, has 
 grossly deceived us. 
 
 The Others (approvingly). Yes, yes, 
 shamefully ! 
 
 Mrs. H. How? 
 
 Dr: M. By coming here and posing as a 
 single man. 
 
 Mrs. H. (shaking him.) Is this true, 
 you wretch? 
 
 Hobbs. They haven't given me a chance 
 to pose yet. 
 
 Mrs H. What are you doing here, any- 
 how? 
 
 Hobbs. Why, my dear, are you not stop- 
 ping here? 
 
 Mrs. H. You know very well that I am 
 staying at Mrs. Twigg's cottage. 
 
 Hobbs. They told me this was Mrs. 
 Twigg's cottage. 
 
 Mrs. H (To Mrs. Q.) Did you, 
 madam ? 
 
 Mrs. Q. (haughtily.) Certainly not. This 
 is my cottage. 
 
 Hobbs. Aren't you Mrs. Twigg? 
 
 Mrs. Q. (loftily.) No, sir, I am Mrs. 
 Quigg. Mrs. Twigg has the little cottage 
 in the street back of this. 
 
 Mrs. H. (severely.) Mr. Hobbs, this is 
 one of your little tricks. 
 
 All (in surprise). Hobbs! 
 
 Mrs. H. Hobbs, yes, Hobbs, and I am 
 Mrs. Hobbs. 
 
 Dr. M. Isn't he Richmond P. Hobson, 
 the hero of Santiago? 
 
 Hobbs (aside). That's a sly one. 
 
 Mrs. H. He is Richmond P. Hobbs, son 
 of John Oliver Hobbs, of Hoboken, New 
 Jersey, green grocer. 
 
 Mrs. Q. What ! 
 
 Dr. M. Green ! I might have known it. 
 
 Miss von C. Gro-cer ! Go, sir ! 
 
 Miss M. Hoboken ! Ye gods of Greece, 
 weep for us ! 
 
 Miss W. And I was wasting macaroni 
 croquettes on it. 
 
 Miss F. I shall never enjoy the seashore 
 again. (They retire up the stage.) 
 
 Patience. Ain't ye the mon that kisses 
 all the gur-r-ls? 
 
 Mrs. H. Let me catch him at it if he 
 dares ! 
 
 Patience (disdainfully). A Hoboken 
 canned-pea meixhant! Ond him wantin' 
 snapper-soup for lunch, bad 'cess to 'im. 
 Oi'll take these ingyuns away. The Hobo- 
 ken sphalpeen shan't hov annything till ate 
 here. Let 'em go till Twigg's where they 
 fade thim on dried apples ond paynuts on 
 the half-shell, so they do. [Exit. 
 
 Hobbs (after talking in pantomime with 
 Mrs. H.) Now, Sapphira, if you love me, 
 get me out of this lunatic asylum. 
 
 Mrs. H. Where are your things? 
 
 Hobbs (pointing to right). In there. 
 
 Mrs. H. (severely.) You stand here. 
 Don't budge till I come back. 
 
 Hobbs (nodding toward Mrs. Q. and 
 others). Suppose these flag-waving luna- 
 tics make a rush for me ? 
 
 Mrs. H. (pointing to Hobb's bald head.) 
 Who touches a hair of yon gray head dies 
 like a dog ! Come on, Mr. Officer, and Mr. 
 Cabman, help me find my husband's clothes, 
 which these feeble-minded females have 
 secreted somewhere. (She exits right fol- 
 lowed by Klubbs and Koopay.) 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 213 
 
 Koopay (going, aside). I'll want an- 
 other dollar and no change for this trip. 
 
 Mrs. Q. Ladies, we had better follow 
 that woman and watch her. There is no 
 telling who she is or her purpose. 
 
 Dr. M. She may not be his wife at all. 
 The vixen ! to call me a kidnapper. 
 
 Miss von C. As if any one would kid- 
 nap that (pointing at Hobbs, zvho screens 
 himself behind his opened umbrella). 
 
 All (sneering at Hobbs as they go out). 
 Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! 
 
 Hobbs (watching them off). If they 
 imagine they can intimidate Mrs. Hobbs by 
 going in a bunch like bananas they'll find 
 they are mistaken. Sapphira is little, but, 
 oh, my! she weighs a ton when she gets 
 started. I wonder if there's anything on 
 that table a starving man can eat. (He ex- 
 amines contents of dishes.) I'll try a carrot 
 for luck. (He gets one on a fork.) If I 
 survive this I'll try a fish-ball. 
 Enter Hobson, left, while Hobbs is eating. 
 
 Hobson (watching Hobbs). David 
 Paul Jones ! what kind of a port have I 
 sailed into? That lubber's helping himself 
 out of the general mess. (Shouts.) Ship 
 ahoy, messmates ! (Hobbs drops fork and 
 carrot, jumps up and opens umbrella as a 
 shield.) Where's the captain? 
 
 Hobbs (scared). Wh — wh — what cap- 
 tain ? 
 
 Hobson. The captain of this craft. 
 
 Hobbs. Do you m — m — mean the boss 
 of the ranch? 
 
 Hobson. I suppose that's how a land- 
 lubber would put it. 
 
 Hobbs (pointing). She's over there on 
 dog watch. 
 
 Hobson (looking around). I presume 
 I'm in Mrs. Quigg's ? 
 
 Hobbs. Twigg's ? 
 
 Hobson. Yes, Quigg's. 
 
 Hobbs. Twigg's or Quigg's? 
 
 Hobson (bawling). Quigg's, you lubber, 
 Quigg's. 
 
 Hobbs (looking over umbrella). How. 
 does it begin? 
 
 Hobson. In the name of Davy Jones 
 what difference does it make ? 
 
 Hobbs. If your nerves are good and 
 strong and your stomach can digest cork- 
 soled shoes, none ; but if not, you don't want 
 to get mixed on your Twigg's or Quigg's. 
 
 Hobson. Quigg's ; yes, that's it, Quigg's. 
 Is this Quigg's? 
 
 Hobbs. Will you be kind enough to spell 
 it? 
 
 Hobson (aside). I suppose I must 
 humor this imbecile. (Aloud.) Q — u — ■ 
 
 Hobbs. That's sufficient. 
 
 Hobson. It ends with a double g. 
 
 Hobbs. They both end with double g's. 
 If you want the one beginning with a Q, 
 this is it. 
 
 Hobson. Q! Confound it, you talk as 
 if I were hunting for a Chinese laundry, I 
 am cruising around for Mrs. Quigg's sea- 
 side cottage. 
 
 Hobbs (as Mrs. Q. enters). Here she 
 comes now ! (Aside. ) He'll think he's struck 
 a laundry when they start to feed him on 
 that water-cress. 
 
 Hobson (approaching and bowing). Is 
 this Mrs. Quigg? 
 
 Mrs. Q. Quigg, sir, or Twigg, sir ? 
 
 Hobson (aside). I'd give a fig to know 
 whether these people are twigging me with 
 their Quigg, sir, or Twigg, sir. (Aloud.) 
 Madam, I am looking for Mrs. Quigg's sea- 
 side cottage. Is this it ? 
 
 Mrs. Q. There are two, sir — Mrs. 
 Quigg's and Mrs. Twigg's. 
 
 Hobson. I want only one. I can't board 
 at two different houses at the same time, 
 madam. I'm not twins. 
 
214 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 Mrs. Q. {haughtily.) I am Mrs. Quigg, 
 sir. Who are you, pray? 
 
 Hobson. I am Lieutenant Hobson. 
 
 Hobbs (aside). Gad! he's my double. 
 
 Mrs. Q. (screaming.) Police! Police! 
 Police! (All come rushing on, including 
 Klubbs and Koopay. Mrs. Hobbs rushes 
 on carrying Hobbs' s cabas.) 
 
 Klubbs. Wot's de row ? 
 
 Mrs. Q. (pointing to Hobson.) Arrest 
 that man ! He is in this conspiracy to rob 
 my house! 
 
 Hobson (to Klubbs). Stand back, sir! 
 I am not a burglar ! I am an officer of the 
 United States Navy — Lieutenant Richmond 
 P. Hobson. 
 
 Mrs. Q. (pointing to Hobbs.) Pshaw! 
 that's what he said. 
 
 Hobson (fiercely)'. You're an impostor! 
 
 Hobbs (using umbrella as a shield). 
 First I was a hero, then I was a wretch ; 
 now I am an impostor. In a few minutes 
 more I suppose I'll be a lobster. Pray, go 
 on. I'm enjoying this trip very much. I'm 
 glad I didn't go to the mountains. If I had 
 I suppose I would have been a genuine bald 
 eagle by this time. 
 
 Miss von C. (looking at a picture.) I 
 do believe he is Lieutenant Hobson. He's 
 just like his picture. (She kisses it and 
 shows it to the other girls.) 
 
 Hobson. Of course I'm Lieutenant 
 Hobson. My trunks are at the depot. If 
 you will send for them you will see 1 my 
 name on all of them. 
 
 Mrs. Q. Koopay, go for the gentleman's 
 trunks. 
 
 Koopay (getting checks). I'll have 'em 
 here in a jiffy. (Aside.) This is a two 
 dollar job and no change. [Exit. 
 
 Miss W. There is one infallible test by 
 which we may know whether or not this is 
 the genuine Santiago hero. 
 
 All. What's that? 
 
 Miss W. If he is he'll kiss all of us girls. 
 
 All. Yes ! yes ! yes ! yes ! 
 
 Hobson. Well, ladies, it's on rather 
 short acquaintance; but if you can stand it 
 I'll try and weather the gale. 
 
 Patience (going to Hobson' s side). 
 Shure, we can sthand it. 
 
 Hobson (looking at her dubiously). 
 Um-m! courage, my boy, courage. You 
 think you can? 
 
 Patience (puckering her mouth). Oi 
 know Oi can. 
 
 Dr. M. (going to Hobson.) All of us 
 girls can. 
 
 Hobson (looking at Dr. M. on one side 
 and Patience on the other, dejectedly). 
 Was it for this I was spared at Santiago? 
 
 Hobbs. You must kiss 'em all ; Hobson, 
 old boy, no firing of blank shots, you know, 
 in this engagement. 
 
 Hobson. All ! Is there no other choice 
 in the matter? 
 
 Hobbs. Well, ah — there's one other 
 choice. 
 
 Hobson (eagerly). Name it! name it! 
 
 Hobbs. You must kiss 'em all or buy 
 dinners for all. 
 
 Hobson (counting). Eight kisses or ten 
 dinners. 
 
 Klubbs. Ahem ! 
 
 Hobson. Eleven dinners, thank you. 
 
 Hobbs. That's- about the size of it at 
 $2.50 per. 
 
 Hobson (hesitating). Um-m! 
 
 Hobbs. Well, what's Hobson 's choice? 
 
 Hobson (looking first at Patience's puck- 
 ered mouth and then at Dr. M.'s). Bring 
 on the dinners ! (Dinner gong sounds, and 
 Koopay dumps in Hobson's trunks as cur- 
 tain falls.) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 215 
 
 WHEN SCHOOL DAYS ARE ENDED. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Louise Earnest ; Kate Spangle; Madge 
 
 Flyaway; Lizzie Helpful; Susan 
 
 Easy; Miss Leslie, a teacher; 
 
 Little Girl. 
 
 Scene, a schoolroom. Present, Louise 
 
 and Kate. 
 
 LOUISE. I say, Kate! what are you 
 going to do when you leave school? 
 
 Kate. What am I going to do? Why, 
 what's put that into your head? 
 
 Louise. It seems to me the most natural 
 question in the world. Here we are in the 
 last half-quarter of a four years' course. A 
 few more weeks, and we shall be scattered, 
 — I was going to add, as my grandmother 
 would have done, "one to his farm, and an- 
 other to his merchandise." I wish I could 
 say it! 
 
 Kate. Ha, ha, ha ! That sounds well ! 
 You wish we were going to be farmers and 
 merchants ? 
 
 Louise. No, I don't mean that, literally ; 
 but I wish the spirit of it were true. 
 
 Madge (entering). What's that you 
 wish were true? 
 
 Kate. Good, Madge! I'm glad you're 
 here. Come and sit down, and hear what 
 our future class-poet is singing about. 
 
 Louise. None of your nonsense, Kate! 
 I'm in dead earnest; I mean every word I 
 say; I can't say half I feel on the subject! 
 
 Madge. What's up now? More fun? 
 I am in for that ! Was just wishing I could 
 hear of some good news to drive dull care 
 away. 
 
 Kate. Anything but fun. We are go- 
 ing to have a sermon. We have already 
 had the text. 
 
 Louise. I'll tell you, Madge: I have 
 been turning it over in my mind lately, how 
 we girls are going to employ our time when 
 
 we get through school. You know I have 
 four brothers — 
 
 Madge. Yes, I know that. 
 
 Kate. Of course! Madge always finds 
 out, somehow or other, how many brothers 
 any of us girls have. But go on with your 
 story, Louise. I'll try to hold my tongue 
 for five seconds. 
 
 Louise. How many seconds? 
 
 Kate puts her finger on her lips, and holds 
 
 up five fingers, trying to look prim 
 
 and sober. 
 
 Louise. As I was saying, I have four 
 brothers, who are all studying; and when 
 we are at home together at vacation, I hear 
 them discussing with the utmost eagerness 
 what each shall do in life. Now, I have been 
 with my brothers so much all my life, shar- 
 ing their sports, in-doors and out, that I 
 feel quite out in the cold when they get to 
 talking about their future. I must say I 
 wasn't much flattered the other day when I 
 heard Will say, "What a bother it is, try- 
 ing to find the right thing to do! Now, 
 girls don't have such a time. All they 
 have to think of when they leave school is, 
 what shall be the color of their next dress." 
 
 Kate. I hope you don't object to a girl's 
 giving attention to her dress. [Looking 
 over her shoulder with satisfaction at her 
 own showy, well-fitting basque.] 
 
 Louise. O no ! of course not. But dress 
 is not everything. 
 
 Kate. Dress is a good deal, let me tell 
 you that ! I'll wager I could make a better 
 impression on your brothers, or any other 
 young gentlemen, if I had on a stylish 
 dress. 
 
 Madge. That's so. 
 
 Louise. I wouldn't give a fig for any 
 man who judged a girl by her dress alone ! 
 
 Madge. Nor I. One of thejolliest times 
 
216 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 I ever had in my life — when we were at 
 the beach, you know — was one day when I 
 had gone with Hal and Herbert on a fish- 
 ing-scrape; had on a short dress, jacket 
 to match, big rubber boots, and a great sun- 
 hat that looked like a Chinese umbrella. 
 You, Kate, wouldn't dare to go in such a 
 
 Louise. I don't see anything particu- 
 larly jolly in that. 
 
 Kate. Ah ! she don't tell the whole story. 
 Some of Hal's college friends came along — 
 where's my fan? — only half a dozen, I be- 
 lieve; three out of the six were — where's 
 my smelling-bottle? — mortally wounded by 
 Cupid's darts. 
 
 Madge. How absurd you are, Kate! 
 
 Kate. It is the solemn truth ! [Looking 
 very wise.] One will never be seen on this 
 mundane sphere again. The other two are 
 still lingering along, but these ( Madge gets 
 up and tries to stuff her handkerchief in 
 Kate's mouth) will soon be (struggling 
 with Madge) no more. Their epitaph will 
 be — "Died of — a big pair of rubber boots !" 
 [The girls all laugh.} 
 
 Louise. O Kate, you always remind me 
 of a champagne bottle — full of sparkle and 
 effervescence. But, seriously, there is 
 something quite captivating in seeing a girl 
 brave the elements in pursuit of health and 
 fun. Suppose Madge had worn a long trail 
 down over the rocks and into the fishing- 
 wherry; don't you believe those same fel- 
 lows would have laughed at her? My 
 brothers would. 
 
 Madge. I don't care that (snapping her 
 fingers) whether a man laughs at me or 
 not! When I'm in for a good time, don't 
 bring me any of your trails and flounces ! I 
 hate long dresses, unless I am off for a 
 horseback ride; and even then I wish I 
 could cut off about so much (measuring 
 half a yard with her hands). 
 
 Susan enters. 
 
 Louise. We are wandering from our 
 subject somewhat. Here comes Susan 
 Easy; let's ask her opinion. Susan, what 
 are you going to do when you leave school ?, 
 
 Susan. Do? I'm sure I don't know — 
 never asked myself. I suppose I shall do 
 as other girls do: stay at home, when I 
 am not away visiting; read, and write to 
 my friends; practice a little; go to the 
 opera. Won't it be jolly to have no more 
 compositions to write? 
 
 Kate. I don't dread compositions very 
 much. 
 
 Susan. You don't. They are the bug- 
 bear of my life. 
 
 Madge. Louise, you have made me a 
 little curious. I want to know what you 
 are going to do. 
 
 Louise. That is just what I don't know. 
 Wish from the bottom of my heart, I 
 did. 
 
 Kate. How absurd you are, Louise. 
 You know I am crazy to have you go to 
 Washington with me and spend the winter. 
 
 Louise. Yes, you would be very proud 
 of me and my gay outfit of three or four 
 dresses, wouldn't you, Kate? — you with 
 your splendid wardrobe, fresh from Paris. 
 Say, Kate, be honest, and tell me if you 
 should look forward now with quite so 
 much zest to a winter in Washington, if 
 you were to have no elegant dresses to 
 display? Let me see; how many dozen 
 have you ordered from Paris? 
 
 Kate (a little touched). I won't tell 
 you, because you have hurt me. Just as if 
 I should stop to ask how many yards of 
 silk or cashmere you had in your trunk, 
 if I could only have your own dear self? 
 
 Louise. Good ! good ! I am glad I have 
 brought you to the point at last. You have 
 acknowledged now that dress is not every- 
 thing. 
 
MODERN Dl ALCOVES AND PLAYS. 
 
 217 
 
 Madge. Yes, she has owned up hand- 
 somely. 
 
 Susan (to Louise). You are one of the 
 queerest girls I ever knew. Guess / 
 shouldn't have to be asked twice to spend 
 the winter in Washington! 
 
 Louise. I should enjoy going there, — 
 hope I shall some time ; but I have a ques- 
 tion or two to settle first. I can't enjoy 
 myself anywhere till I know what I ought 
 to do, when we leave these dear rooms. 
 Kate, you don't suspect it, but I am quite 
 as much exercised about you as about my- 
 self. Now, you have splendid talents. 
 [Kate bows mockingly.] Your father has 
 spent a small fortune on your education. It 
 is a wicked shame for you to be so in- 
 different as to what you ought to do with 
 your acquirements. You'll never rest con- 
 tent to simply dress and flirt; you know 
 you won't. 
 
 Susan. Perhaps she'll get married. 
 
 Louise. That's all true. I hope she will 
 some time. But in the meanwhile what is 
 she to do, to think of? I don't know why 
 girls should sit down and wait for mar- 
 riage any more than their brothers. Any 
 sensible man would think better of a girl if 
 she exercised her faculties in some way 
 helpful to society, than if she let them die 
 out for want of use. 
 
 Madge. So I say. Here comes Lizzie 
 Helpful. She never talks much with us 
 girls. I don't like to ask her about herself. 
 Lizzie enters. 
 
 Louise. I had just as lief. I will be 
 thankful to any one to show me the truth. 
 Lizzie, we are talking about what we shall 
 do when we leave school. What are you 
 going to do? Are you anxious to have 
 school close? 
 
 Lizzie. Were I to consult my inclina- 
 tions, I might stay here and study always ; 
 but I have others beside myself to think of. 
 
 Perhaps you do not know that I have lost 
 my father. My mother's income is small. 
 I have several brothers and sisters younger 
 than myself. Of course I must support my- 
 self and help support them. I am in hopes 
 to help one of my brothers through college. 
 
 Susan. O dear ! what a life of drudgery. 
 Don't you hate to teach? 
 
 Lizzie. Not at all. At least I do not 
 since I hope to accomplish so much by it. 
 I should be very glad if I could be sure of 
 a paying school as soon as I leave here. 
 My little sisters might come to me to be 
 taught, and this would relieve mother of a 
 great deal of anxiety on their account. 
 They are bright, wide-awake girls, and 
 mother could never afford to spend as much 
 for their education as she has for mine. 
 
 Louise (extending her hand to Lizzie). 
 You are a lucky girl. I envy you. I wish 
 every one of us could be as worthy of a 
 diploma as you are. 
 
 Miss Leslie (enters, smiling). Girls, I 
 hope you will forgive me ; but being in the 
 next room, and the door being open, I could 
 not avoid hearing your conversation ; and I 
 assure you the most of it has given me 
 pleasure. You were speaking of Lizzie 
 Helpful just now, and I wanted to call your 
 attention to one fact that you may not have 
 noticed. As Lizzie has had an object in 
 studying, an- aim in life, she has never been 
 so perplexed by the difficulties in her four 
 years' course as some of you have. Com- 
 positions, for instance, were at first quite 
 distasteful to her, as was algebra; but she 
 said to herself, I must become acquainted 
 with these studies, or I cannot teach them 
 to others. Hence she readily overcame her 
 dislike to them. 
 
 I hope you will never forget your talk 
 of to-day, girls. Think it over, and get 
 some good out of it. I could have no 
 greater happiness than to be sure my pupils 
 
218 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 will all make the highest use of what they 
 have learned here. I hope to hear some 
 clay that Kate is an authoress, — writing 
 books that will do good in the world. 
 
 Kate (eagerly). Do you think I ever 
 could ? 
 
 Miss L. Madge will, I trust, teach gym- 
 nastics, and give lessons in hygiene. Susan 
 will, I am sure, be a good little housekeeper 
 for her mother, and keep her father's ac- 
 counts. You are very quick at figures (to 
 Susan). 
 
 Louise (rising). And I? 
 
 Miss L. (putting her hand on Louise's 
 head and thinking a moment). For you, 
 dear child, I cannot seem to mark out a 
 course. But you are thoroughly in earnest 
 as to what is your duty. Heaven gives to 
 those who seek. There will be a way of 
 usefulness opened to you, I have no doubt. 
 A little girl enters, bringing a note to Miss 
 L., who takes it and reads it to herself. 
 
 Miss L. (smiling). This is a note that 
 will interest you, girls. [Reads.] 
 
 "Dear Miss Leslie: We are making 
 preparations to leave for Europe, with our 
 little daughters. I am exceedingly anxious 
 
 to find a young lady to accompany us who 
 shall be at once companionable to my wife, 
 and competent to educate my little girls. 
 She must be earnest and practical, desirous 
 not only to be good, but to do good. If 
 you know of any such young lady among 
 your pupils who would like the situation, 
 please answer by return mail, and oblige, 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 "Henry B. Claflin." 
 
 Kate. Mr. Claflin ! I know him well. 
 He has one of the most delightful families 
 I ever met. I shouldn't object to traveling 
 to Europe with them myself. 
 
 Madge. I don't know who would. 
 
 Susan. I am dying to go to Europe. 
 
 Miss L. Louise, you have not had to 
 wait very long for a chance to make your- 
 self useful. I feel that this opportunity 
 belongs to you, if you will take it. 
 
 Louise. I should like to go, above all 
 things. I will write to my parents at once. 
 [Bell rings.] 
 
 Kate. There is the bell for recitation. 
 
 Madge. Yes, we must hurry, or we shall 
 all be late. [Exeunt. 
 
 J* ^w ^* 
 
 FOX AND GEESE. 
 
 Characters. 
 Mother Goose, 
 Two Young Geese, 
 Fox. 
 
 Background — Brown muslin curtain. 
 Costume — Full white muslin cloaks with 
 
 hoods. Yellow stockings. 
 Mother Goose in the chair. Could be 
 
 dressed as in the engraving. 
 Mother Goose. 
 
 COME, children dear, and listen to me, 
 I'm feeble and old, as you can see, 
 And soon away from this world of woe, 
 
 Your poor, old mother must go, go, go! 
 [Shakes her head.] 
 Now, when I am gone, you must not fret, 
 Nor my good advice must you e'er forget. 
 Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, 
 [Enter Fox unseen.] 
 Remember that when you pass him by. 
 
 [Shakes her fingers.] 
 And, children dear, whatever you do, 
 Never listen to him when he speaks to you ! 
 And stay you at home when the hour is 
 
 late, 
 Or sad, sad indeed will be your fate. 
 
 
MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 219 
 
 Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, 
 Remember that when I die, die, die ! 
 
 [Young geese kneel beside her.] 
 
 First Young Goose. 
 Oh, mother dear, we will e'er be true, 
 When the fox is near we will think of you. 
 
 Second Young Goose. 
 And though we may believe he is nice, 
 We'll be sure to remember your good ad- 
 vice; 
 And chance we to meet him, whenever the 
 
 day, 
 We'll turn our faces the other way. 
 
 Both Young Geese (in chorus). 
 And when night comes we will never roam, 
 But think of the sly fox, and stay at home. 
 
 [Rise hand in hand and repeat.] 
 Mother Goose. 
 Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, 
 Remember that when I die, die, die ! [Exit. 
 Scene II. 
 
 First Young Goose. 
 Come, take a walk, come, sister dear, 
 See ! overhead the moon shines clear ; 
 And, if our way the fox should pass, 
 We'll hide us down in some thick grass ; 
 And, when he's gone, we'll hasten home — 
 Don't be a coward, sister, come ! 
 ' Second Young Goose. 
 Oh, sister dear, I should love to go; 
 But he, the old fox, is sly, you know. 
 
 First Young Goose. 
 What if he is ! we are not afraid ; 
 We'll show him that we geese, are made 
 Of something more than feathers. Come! 
 We'll go not very far from home. 
 They zvalk back and forth, hand in hand — 
 meet Fox face to face. Fox in brown 
 
 fur cloak and hood. 
 
 Fox. 
 
 Good evening, oh, good evening ! Flow d'ye 
 
 do? 
 Two charming little maids like you 
 Should never walk alone. 
 
 I see, my dears, you're really quite afraid 
 
 of me. 
 I'm not a handsome fellow, that I own, 
 And if you bid me, I'll go my way alone. 
 But come, my dears, I know you will — 
 Come walk with me to yonder moonlit hill ; 
 I'll show you where the vine's rich clusters 
 
 grow; 
 And you shall feast upon them — will you 
 
 go? 
 [Aside.] 
 I ask these silly geese on grapes to sup, 
 But when I get them safe, Fll eat them up ! 
 [Geese walk off, hand in hand, with Fox.] 
 Scene III. 
 A pen made with chairs, Young Geese 
 kneeling within. 
 Young Geese (in chorus). 
 Oh, please let us out, kind sir, please do. 
 And whatever you ask we will do for you. 
 
 [Repeat.] 
 
 Fox (with contempt.) 
 What! let you out, now that I've got you 
 
 in; 
 Why, my liitle dears, that would be a sin? 
 If you had been to your mother true, 
 You'd have shunned the trap I laid for you. 
 But now you are here, please don't blame 
 
 me, 
 It's all your own fault, as you can see. 
 Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly. 
 Did you think of that when I passed you 
 
 by? 
 And you listened to me when I spoke to 
 
 you, 
 Is that what your mother advised you to 
 
 do? 
 Oh, no! my dears, you may cackle and. 
 
 squeal, 
 But you're here to make me a luscious 
 
 meal. 
 Good sense is but folly when it comes too 
 
 late! 
 
220 
 
 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 
 
 And a goose must expect but a goose's 
 
 fate! 
 So, to-night you may sup on regret and 
 
 tears, 
 To-morrow (smacks his lips) — good night, 
 
 pleasant dreams, my pretty 
 
 dears ! 
 
 [Aside.) 
 
 I might have said more, but what's the use, 
 Of talking good sense to a silly young 
 
 goose ; 
 Young geese zvill be silly, and the fox is sly, 
 Remember that, kind friends, good-bye! 
 
 good-bye ! 
 
 Alarm 
 
This department includes selections that afford the reader opportunities for the full and 
 varied display of dramatic and oratorical powers. 
 
 t5* *5* &5* 
 
 BEN HUR'S CHARIOT RACE. 
 
 THE trumpet sounded short and sharp. 
 The starters, one for each chariot, 
 leaped down, ready to give assistance if 
 any of the fours proved unmanageable. 
 Again the trumpet blew, and simultane- 
 ously the gate-keepers threw the stalls 
 open. Forth from each stall, like missiles 
 in a volley from so many great guns, 
 rushed the six contesting fours — the Cor- 
 inthian's, Messala's, the Athenian's, the 
 Byzantine's, the Sidonian's, and Ben- 
 Hur's — and the vast assemblage rose and, 
 leaping upon the benches, filled the circus 
 with yells and screams. 
 
 The competitors were under view from 
 nearly every part of the circus, yet the race 
 was not begun; they had first to make suc- 
 cessfully the chalked line, stretched for the 
 purpose of equalizing the start. If it were 
 dashed upon, discomfiture of man and 
 horses might occur; on the other hand, to 
 approach it timidly was to incur the hazard 
 of being thrown behind in the beginning of 
 the race — a certain loss of the great advan- 
 tage of being next the wall on the inner line 
 of the course. 
 
 Each driver looked first for the rope, 
 then for the coveted inner line. With all 
 six aiming at the same point and speeding 
 furiously, a collision seemed inevitable. 
 Quick the eye, steady the hand, unerring 
 the judgment required. The fours neared 
 the rope together. Ben-Hur was on the 
 
 extreme left of the six. At Messala, who 
 was more than an antagonist to him, he 
 gave one searching look, and saw the soul 
 of the man, cunning, cruel, desperate, in a 
 tension of watchfulness' and fierce resolve. 
 In that brief instant all his former rela- 
 tions with Messala came before him. 
 First, happy childhood, when, loving and 
 beloved, they played together. Then, 
 manhood that brought a change in Messala, 
 and the Roman's inborn contempt of Jews 
 asserted itself and broke the friendship. 
 Then the bitter day, when, by the accidental 
 falling of a loose tile, the Roman procurator 
 was nearly killed, and he, Ben-Hur, was 
 accused of willfully throwing the missile. 
 One word from Messala would have saved 
 the family from ruin, but the word was not 
 spoken. Nay, more, it was Messala that 
 urged on the Roman authorities and pre- 
 vented even a fair trial of the case. It was 
 Messala's influence that had banished him 
 to the galleys for life, that had consigned 
 his mother and sister to an uncertain fate, 
 whose very uncertainty was more torture 
 than their certain death would have been. 
 It was Messala that had stolen his property 
 and with it had bought the silence of the 
 authorities on the cruel deeds; and was it 
 not money that belonged to the House of 
 Hur that Messala was betting with in this 
 very race? Was it human nature to resist 
 an opportunity for vengeance like this? 
 
 221 
 
222 
 
 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 No. At whatever cost he would humble 
 his enemy. 
 
 He saw that Messala's rush would, if 
 there was no collision, and the rope fell, 
 give him the wall. Therefore, he yielded it 
 for the time. Just then the trumpeter 
 blew a signal. The judges dropped the 
 rope. And not an instant too soon, for the 
 hoof of one of Messala's horses struck it 
 as it fell. The Roman shook out his long 
 lash, loosed the reins, leaned forward, and 
 with a triumphant shout took the wall. 
 
 "Jove with us! Jove with us!" yelled the 
 Roman faction, in a frenzy of delight. 
 
 "Jove with us!" screamed a young noble- 
 man. 
 
 "He wins! Jove with us!" answered his 
 associates. 
 
 Messala having passed, the Corinthian 
 was the only contestant on the Athenian's 
 right, and to his side he tried to turn his 
 four; but the wheel of the Byzantine, who 
 was next on the left, struck the tail-piece 
 of his chariot, knocking his feet from under 
 him. There was a crash, a scream of rage 
 and fear, and the unfortunate Athenian fell 
 under the hoofs of his own steeds. San- 
 ballat, a friend of Ben-Hur, turned to a 
 group of Roman noblemen. 
 
 "A hundred sestertii on the Jew!" he 
 cried. 
 
 "Taken!" answered one of the group. 
 
 "Another hundred on the Jew!" shouted 
 Sanballat. Nobody appeared to hear him. 
 The situation below was too absorbing, 
 and they were too busy shouting, "Messala! 
 Messala! Jove with us!" 
 
 While the spectators were shivering at 
 the Athenian's mishap, and the Sidonian, 
 Byzantine, and Corinthian were striving to 
 avoid involvement in the ruin, Ben-Hur 
 drew head to the right, and, with all the 
 speed of his Arabs, darted across the trails 
 of his opponents, and took the course neck 
 
 and neck with Messala, though on the out- 
 side. And now, racing together, side by 
 side, a narrow interval between them, the 
 two neared the second goal. Making the 
 turn here was considered the most telling 
 test of a charioteer. A hush fell over the 
 circus. Then, it would seem, Messala ob- 
 served Ben-Hur and recognized him, and 
 at once the audacity of the man flamed out. 
 
 "Down, Eros! up, Mars!" he shouted, 
 whirling his lash. "Down, Eros! up, Mars!" 
 he repeated, and gave the Arab steeds of 
 Ben-Hur a cut, the like of which they had 
 never known. 
 
 The blow was seen in every quarter. The 
 silence deepened and the boldest held his 
 breath. The affrighted four sprang for- 
 ward as with one impulse, and forward 
 leaped the car. The car trembled with a 
 dizzy lurch, but Ben-Hur kept his place 
 and gave the horses free rein,, and called to 
 them in a soothing voice, trying to guide 
 them round the dangerous turn, and before 
 the fever of the people began to abate he 
 had back the mastery. Not that only; on 
 approaching the first goal he was again 
 side by side with Messala, bearing with him 
 the sympathy and admiration of every one 
 not a Roman. Even Messala, with all his 
 boldness, felt it unsafe to trifle further. 
 
 On whirled the cars. Three rounds were 
 concluded; still Messala held the inside 
 position; still Ben-Hur moved with him 
 side by side; still the other competitors 
 followed as before. The contest began to 
 have the appearance of a double race, Mes- 
 sala and Ben-Hur in the first, the Corin- 
 thian, Sidonian, and Byzantine in the sec- 
 ond. In the fifth round the Sidonian suc- 
 ceeded in getting a place outside Ben-Hur, 
 but lost it directly. The sixth round was 
 entered upon without change of relative 
 position. Gradually the speed had been 
 quickened; men and beasts seemed to know 
 
DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 223 
 
 alike that the final crisis was near. The in- 
 terest, which from the beginning had 
 centred chiefly in the struggle between the 
 Roman and the Jew, with an intense gen- 
 eral sympathy for the latter, was fast chang- 
 ing to anxiety on his account. On all the 
 benches the spectators bent forward, mo- 
 tionless. 
 
 "A hundred sestertii on the Jew!" cried 
 Sanballat to the Romans. 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 "A talent, or five talents, or ten; choose 
 ye!" 
 
 "I will take thy sestertii," answered a 
 Roman youth. 
 
 "Do not so," interposed a friend. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Messala has reached his utmost speed. 
 See him lean over his chariot-rim, the reins 
 loose as flying ribbons, then look at the 
 Jew!" 
 
 "By Hercules!" replied the youth, "I see, 
 I see! If the gods help him not, he will be 
 run away with by the Israelite. No; not 
 yet! Look! Jove with us! Jove with us!" 
 
 If it were true that Messala had gained 
 his utmost speed, he was slowly but cer- 
 tainly beginning to forge ahead. His horses 
 were running with their heads low down; 
 from the balcony their bodies appeared 
 actually to skim the earth; their nostrils 
 showed blood-red in expansion; their eyes 
 seemed straining in their sockets. The 
 good steeds were doing their best! How 
 long could they keep the pace? It was but 
 the commencement of the sixth round. On 
 they dashed! As they neared the second 
 goal, Ben-Hur turned in behind the Ro- 
 man's car. The joy of the Messala faction 
 reached its bound. They screamed, and 
 howled, and tossed their colors, and San- 
 ballat filled his tables with their wagers. 
 Ben-Hur was hardly holding a place at the 
 tail of his enemy's car. 
 
 Along the home-stretch — sixth round — 
 Messala leading, next him, pressing close, 
 Ben-Hur. Thus to the first goal, and around 
 it, Messala, fearful of losing his place, 
 hugged the stony wall with perilous clasp; 
 a foot to the left and he had been dashed to 
 pieces; yet when the turn was finished, no 
 man, looking at the wheel-tracks of the 
 two cars, could have said, "Here went Mes- 
 sala, there the Jew." They left but one 
 trace behind them. 
 
 And now all the people drew a long 
 breath, for the beginning of the end was at 
 hand. First, the Sidonian gave the scourge 
 to his four, and they dashed desperately 
 forward, promising for an instant to go to 
 the front. The effort ended in promise. 
 Next, the Byzantine and the Corinthian 
 each made the trial with like result, after 
 which they were practically out of the race. 
 Thereupon, all the factions except the Ro- 
 mans joined hope in Ben-Hur, and openly 
 indulged their feeling. 
 
 "Ben-Hur! Ben-Hur!" they shouted. 
 "Speed thee, Jew!" 
 
 "Take the wall now!" 
 
 "On! loose the Arabs! Give them rein 
 and scourge!" 
 
 "Let him not have the turn on thee again. 
 Now or never!" 
 
 Either he did not hear, or could not do 
 better, for half-way round the course and 
 he was still following; at the second goal, 
 even still no change. 
 
 And now, to make the turn, Messala be- 
 gan to draw in his left-hand steeds. His 
 spirit was high ; the Roman genius was still 
 present. On the pillars, only six hundred 
 feet away, were fame, fortune, promotion, 
 and a triumph ineffably sweetened by hate, 
 all in store for him! That moment Ben- 
 Hur leaned forward over his Arabs and 
 gave them the reins. Out flew the many- 
 folded lash in his hand; over the backs of 
 
224 
 
 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 the startled steeds it writhed and hissed, 
 and hissed and writhed again and again, 
 and, though it fell not, there were both 
 sting and menace in its quick report. In- 
 stantly, not one, but the four as one, an- 
 swered with a leap that landed them along- 
 side the Roman's car. Messala, on the 
 perilous edge of the goal, heard but dared 
 not look to see what the awakening por- 
 tended. The thousands on the benches un- 
 derstood it all. They saw the four close 
 outside Messala's outer wheel, Ben-Hur's 
 inner wheel behind the other's cart. Then, 
 with a cunning touch of the reins, Ben-Hur 
 caught Messala's fragile wheel with the 
 iron-shod point of his axle and crushed it. 
 There was a crash loud enough to send a 
 thrill through the circus, and out over the 
 course a spray of shining white and yellow 
 flinders flew. Down on its right side top- 
 pled the bed of the Roman's chariot. 
 There was a rebound, as of the axle hit- 
 
 then the car went to pieces, and Messala, 
 entangled in the reins, pitched forward 
 headlong, and lay still, crushed, and bleed- 
 ing, and crippled for life. Above the noises 
 of the race arose one voice, that of Ben- 
 Hur: 
 
 "On, Altair! On, Rigel! What, Antares! 
 dost thou linger now? Good horse-oho, 
 Aldebaran! I hear them singing in the 
 tents. I hear the children singing, and the 
 women singing of the stars, of Altair, 
 Antares, Rigel, Aldebaran, victory — and 
 the song will never end. Well done! On, 
 Antares! The tribe is waiting for us, and 
 the master is waiting! 'tis done! 'tis done! 
 Ha! ha! We have overthrown the proud! 
 The hand that smote us is in the dust! 
 Ours the glory! Ha! ha! — steady! The 
 work is done — soho! Rest!" 
 
 And Ben-Hur turned the goal of victory 
 and revenge, and the race was won ! — Gen. 
 Lew Wallace. 
 
 ting the hard earth! another and another; 
 
 ^w t5* w™ 
 
 FIRE IN THE WOODS; or THE OLD SETTLER'S STORY. 
 
 (From "Songs of the Great Dominion.") 
 
 WHEN first I settled in the woods, 
 There were no neighbors nigh, 
 And scarce a living thing, save wolves, 
 
 And Molly, dear, and I. 
 We had our troubles, ne'er a doubt, 
 
 In those wild woods alone; 
 But then sir, I was bound to have 
 A homestead of my own. 
 
 This was my field of battle, and 
 
 The forest was my foe, 
 And here I fought with ne'er a thought, 
 
 Save "lay the giants low." 
 I toiled in hope — got in a crop, 
 
 And Molly watched the cattle; 
 To keep those "breachy" steers away, 
 
 She had a weary battle. 
 
 The devil's dears were those two steers, — 
 
 Ah, they were born fence-breakers! 
 And sneaked all day, and watched their 
 prey, 
 
 Like any salt-sea wreckers. 
 And gradually, as day by day, 
 
 My crop grew golden yellow, 
 My heart and hope grew with that crop, — 
 
 I was a happy fellow. 
 
 That crop would set me on my feet, 
 
 And I'd have done with care; 
 I built away, the livelong day, 
 
 Such "castles in the air!" 
 I'd beaten poverty at last, 
 
 And, like a little boy 
 When he has got his first new coat, 
 
 I fairly leapt for joy. 
 
ft- 
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 hi 
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 ft 
 
 w 
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 w 
 W 
 
 S 
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 ft 
 ft 
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 w 
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 fc 
 
 M 
 
 <4 
 
DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 221 
 
 I blush to think upon it yet 
 
 That I was such a fool; 
 But young folks must learn wisdom, sir, 
 
 In old misfortune's school. 
 One fatal night, I thought the wind 
 
 Gave some unwonted sighs, 
 Down through "he swamp I heard a tramp 
 
 Which took me by surprise. 
 
 Is this an earthquake drawing near? 
 
 The forest moans and shivers ; 
 And then I thought that I could hear 
 
 The rushing of great rivers ; 
 And while I looked and listened there, 
 
 A herd of deer swept by, 
 As from a close pursuing foe 
 
 They madly seemed to fly. 
 
 But still those sounds, in long, deep bounds, 
 
 Like warning heralds came, 
 And then I saw, with fear and awe, 
 
 The heavens were all aflame. 
 I knew the woods must be on fire, 
 
 I trembled for my crop; 
 As I stood there, in mute despair, 
 
 It seem'd the death of hope. 
 
 On, on it came, a sea of flame, 
 
 In long deep rolls of thunder, 
 And drawing near, it seem'd to tear 
 
 The heavens and earth asunder! 
 How those waves snored, and raged, and 
 roared, 
 
 And reared in wild commotion! 
 On, on they came, like steeds of flame 
 
 Upon a burning ocean. 
 
 How they did snort, in fiendish sport, 
 
 As at the great elms dashing; 
 And how they tore 'mong hemlocks hoar, 
 
 And through the pines went crashing; 
 While serpents wound the trunks around, 
 
 Their eyes like demons gleaming, 
 And wrapped like thongs around the 
 prongs, 
 
 And to the crests went screaming! 
 
 Ah ! how they swept, and madly leapt 
 
 From shrinking spire to spire, 
 'Mid hissing hail, and in their trail 
 
 A waving lake of fire! 
 Anon some whirlwind, all aflame, 
 
 Growled in the ocean under; 
 Then up would reel a fiery wheel 
 
 And belch forth smoke and thunder! 
 
 And it was all that we could do 
 
 To save ourselves by flight, 
 As from its track we madly flew, — 
 
 Oh! 'twas an awful night! 
 When all was past, I stood aghast, 
 
 My crop and shanty gone, 
 And blackened trunks 'mid smouldering 
 chunks 
 
 Like specters looking on! 
 
 A host of skeletons they seemed, 
 
 Amid the twilight dim, 
 All standing there in their despair, 
 
 With faces gaunt and grim ; 
 And I stood like a specter too, 
 
 A ruined man was I, 
 And nothing left, — what could I do 
 
 But sit me down and cry? 
 
 A heavy heart indeed was mine, 
 
 For I was ruined wholly, 
 And I gave way that awful day 
 
 To moping melancholy; 
 I lost my all, in field and stall, 
 
 And nevermore would thrive, 
 All save those steers, — the devil's dears 
 
 Had saved themselves alive. 
 
 Nor would I have a farm to-day 
 
 Had it not been -for Molly, 
 She cheered me up, and charmed away 
 
 My moping melancholy; 
 She schemed and planned to keep the land, 
 
 And cultivate it too; 
 And how I moiled, and strained, and toiled, 
 
 And fought the battle through! 
 
228 
 
 DRAMATIC HEADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 Yes, Molly played her part full well; 
 
 She's plucky, every inch, sir! 
 It seemed to me the "deil himsel' " 
 
 Could not make Molly flinch, sir; 
 
 We wrought and fought, until our star 
 
 Got into the ascendant; 
 At troubles past we smile at last, 
 
 And now we're independent! 
 
 — Alexander M' Lac Man. 
 
 1£& c5* t^» 
 
 MACBETH TO THE DAGGER. 
 
 IS this a dagger which I see before me, 
 The handle toward my hand? Come, 
 let me clutch thee — 
 I have thee not; and yet I see thee still. 
 Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
 To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but 
 A dagger of my mind? a false creation 
 Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? 
 I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
 As this which I draw. 
 
 Thou marshal'st me the way that I was 
 
 going; 
 And such an instrument I was to use. 
 Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other 
 
 senses, 
 Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still; 
 And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of 
 
 blood, 
 Which was not so before. There's no such 
 
 thing! — 
 It is the bloody business, which informs 
 Thus to mine eyes. 
 
 Now o'er the one-half world, 
 
 Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams 
 abuse 
 
 The curtained sleep: now witchcraft cele- 
 brates 
 
 Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered 
 murder, 
 
 Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf, 
 
 Whose howl's his watch — thus with his 
 stealthy pace, 
 
 Toward his design moves like a ghost. 
 
 Thou sure and firm-set earth, 
 Hear not my steps, which way they walk, 
 
 for fear 
 The very stones prate of my whereabout; 
 And take the present horror from the time, 
 Which now suits with it. While I threat, 
 
 he lives — 
 I go and it is done; the bell invites me. 
 Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell 
 That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. 
 
 — Shakespeare. 
 
 t?* *5* &5* 
 
 SEVEN AGES OF MAN. 
 
 ALL the world's a stage, 
 And all the men and women merely 
 players : 
 They have their exits and their entrances, 
 And one man in his time plays many parts, 
 His acts being, seven ages. At first, the 
 
 infant, 
 Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. 
 
 Then the whining school-boy, with his 
 
 satchel 
 And shining morning face, creeping like a 
 
 snail 
 Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover, 
 Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad 
 Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a 
 
 soldier, 
 
DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 229 
 
 Full of strange oaths and bearded like a 
 
 bard, 
 Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in a 
 
 quarrel, 
 Seeking the bubble reputation 
 Even in the cannon's mouth. 
 
 And then, the justice, 
 In fair round belly, with good capon lined, 
 With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
 Full of wise saws and modern instances: 
 And so he plays his part. The sixth age 
 shifts 
 
 Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, 
 With spectacles on nose and pouch on side ; 
 His youthful hose, well saved, a world too 
 
 wide 
 For his shrunk shank, and his big manly 
 
 voice, 
 Turning again towards childish treble, 
 
 pipes 
 And whistles in his sound. Last seen of all, 
 That ends this strange, eventful history, 
 Is second childishness, and mere oblivion; 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans 
 
 everything. —Shakespeare. 
 
 
 HOW RUBY PLAYED. 
 
 Jud Brownin, when visiting New York, goes 
 
 description of 
 
 WELL, sir, he had the blamedest, big- 
 gest, catty-cornedest pianner you 
 ever laid eyes on; somethin' like a dis- 
 tracted billiard-table on three legs. The 
 lid was hoisted, and mighty well it was. If 
 it hadn't been, he'd a tore the entire inside 
 clean out and scattered 'em to the four 
 winds of heaven. 
 
 Played well? You bet he did; but don't 
 interrupt me. When he first sit down, he 
 'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin', 
 and wisht he hadn't come. He tweedle- 
 leedled a little on the treble, and twoodle- 
 oodled some on the bass — just foolin' and 
 boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' in the way. 
 And I says to a man settin' next to me, 
 says I, "What sort of fool playin' is that?" 
 And he says, "Heish!" But presently his 
 hands commenced chasin' one another up 
 and down the keys like a parcel of rats 
 scamperin' through a garret very swift. 
 Parts of it was sweet, though, and re- 
 minded me of a sugar squirrel turnin' the 
 wheel of a candy cage. 
 
 "Now," I says to my neighbor, "he's 
 showin' off. He thinks he's a doin' of it, 
 
 to hear Rubinstein, and gives the following 
 his playing. 
 
 but he ain't got no idee, no plan of nothin'. 
 If he'd play me a tune of some kind or 
 other, I'd— 
 
 But my neighbor says, "Heish," very 
 impatiently. 
 
 I was just about to get up and go home, 
 bein' tired of that foolishness, when I heard 
 a little bird wakin' up away off in the 
 woods, and call sleepy-like to his mate, and 
 I looked up and see that Ruby was begin- 
 ning to take some interest in his business, 
 and I sit down again. It was the peep of 
 day. The light came faint from the east, 
 the breezes blowed gentle and fresh; some 
 more birds waked up in the orchard, then 
 some more in the trees near the house, and 
 all begun singin' together. People began 
 to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. 
 Just then the first beam of the sun fell 
 upon the blossoms a little more, and it techt 
 the roses on the bushes, and the next thing 
 it was broad day; the sun fairly blazed, the 
 birds sung like they'd split their little 
 throats; all the leaves was movin', and 
 flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole 
 wide world was bright and happy as a king. 
 
230 
 
 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 Seemed to me like there was a good break- 
 fast in every house in the land, and not a 
 sick child or woman anywhere. It was a 
 fine mornin'. 
 
 And I says to my neighbor, "That's 
 music, that is." 
 
 But he glared at me like he'd like to cut 
 my throat. 
 
 Presently the wind turned; it began to 
 thicken up, and a kind of gray mist came 
 over things; I got low-spirited directly. 
 Then a silver rain begun to fall. I could 
 see the drops touch the ground; some 
 flashed up like long pearl earrings, and the 
 rest rolled away like round rubies. It was 
 pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls 
 gathered themselves into long strands and 
 necklaces, and then they melted into thin 
 silver streams, runnin' between golden 
 gravels, and then the streams joined each 
 other at the bottom of the hill, and made 
 a brook that flowed silent, except that 
 you could kinder see the music, specially 
 when the bushes on the banks moved as 
 the music went along down the valley. I 
 could smell the flowers in the meadow. 
 But the sun didn't shine, nor the birds 
 sing; it was a foggy day, but not cold. 
 
 The most curioUs thing was the little 
 white angel boy, like you see in pictures, 
 that run ahead of the music brook and led 
 it on, and on, away out of the world, where 
 no man ever was, certain. I could see that 
 boy just as plain as I see you. Then the 
 moonlight came, without any sunset, and 
 shone on the graveyards where some few 
 ghosts lifted their hands and went over the 
 wall, and between the black, sharp-top 
 trees, splendid marble houses rose up, with 
 fine ladies in the lit-up windows, and men 
 that loved 'em, but could never get a-nigh 
 'em, who played on guitars under the trees, 
 and made me that miserable I could have 
 cried, because I wanted to love somebody, 
 
 I don't know who, better than the men 
 with the guitars did. 
 
 Then the sun went down, it got dark, the 
 wind moaned and wept like a lost child 
 for its dead mother, and I could a got up 
 then and there and preached a better ser- 
 mon than any I ever listened to. There 
 wasn't a thing in the world left to live 
 for, not a blame thing, and yet I didn't 
 want the music to stop one bit. It was 
 happier to be miserable than to be happy 
 without being miserable. I couldn't under- 
 stand it. I hung my head and pulled out 
 my handkerchief, and blowed my nose loud 
 to keep me from cryin'. My eyes is weak, 
 anyway. I didn't want anybody to be 
 a-gazin' at me a-snivelin', and it's nobody's 
 business what I do with my nose. It's 
 mine. But some several glared at me, mad 
 as blazes. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin 
 changed his tune. He ripped out and he 
 rared, he tipped and he tared, he pranced 
 and he charged like the grand entry at a 
 circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in 
 the house was turned on at once, things 
 got so bright, and I hilt up my head, ready 
 to look any man in the face, and afraid of 
 nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass band, 
 and a big ball all a-goin' on at the same 
 time. He lit into them keys like a thousand 
 of brick ; he gave 'em no rest day or night ; 
 he set every livin' joint in me a-goin'; and, 
 not bein' able to stand it no longer, I 
 jumped, sprang onto my seat, and jest 
 hollered: 
 
 "Go it, Rube!" 
 
 Every blamed man, woman, and child in 
 the house riz on me and shouted, "Put 
 him out! Put him out!" 
 
 "Put your great-grandmother's grizzly- 
 gray-greenish cat into the middle of next 
 month!" I says. "Tech me, if you dare! 
 I paid my money, and you just come a-nigh 
 me!" 
 
DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 2$l 
 
 With that some several policemen run 
 up, and I had to simmer down. But I 
 could 'a' fit any fool that laid hands on 
 me, for I was bound to hear Ruby out or 
 die. 
 
 He had changed his tune again. He 
 hop-light ladies and tip-toed fine from end 
 to end of the key-board. He played soft 
 and low and solemn. I heard the church- 
 bells over the hills. The candles of heaven 
 was lit, one by one I saw the stars rise. 
 The great organ of eternity began to play 
 from the world's end to the world's end, 
 and all the angels went to prayers. * * * 
 Then the music changed to water; full of 
 feeling that couldn't be thought, and be- 
 gan to drop — drip, drop — drip, drop, clear 
 and sweet, like tears of joy falling into a 
 lake of glory. It was sweeter than that. 
 It was as sweet as a sweetheart sweetened 
 with white sugar mixt with powdered sil- 
 ver and seed diamonds. It was too sweet. 
 I tell you the audience cheered. Rubin he 
 kinder bowed like he wanted to say, "Much 
 obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't in- 
 terrup' me." 
 
 He stopt a moment or two to ketch 
 breath. Then he got mad. He run his 
 fingers through his hair, he shoved up his 
 sleeves, he opened his coat-tails a leetle 
 further, he drug up his stool, he leaned 
 over, and sir, he just went for that old 
 pianner. He slapt her face, he boxed her 
 jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her 
 ears, and he scratched her cheeks, until she 
 fairly yelled. He knockt her down, and he 
 stampt on her shameful. She bellowed, 
 she bleated like a calf, she howled like a 
 hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked 
 like a rat, and then he wouldn't let her up. 
 He ran a quarter-stretch down the low 
 grounds of the base, till he got clean in the 
 bcwels of the earth, and you heard thunder 
 ga loping after thunder, through the hol- 
 
 lows and caves of perdition, and then he 
 fox-chased his right hand with his left till 
 he got way out of the treble into the clouds, 
 whar the notes was finer than the pints of 
 cambric needles, and you couldn't hear 
 nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And then 
 he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He 
 for'ard two'd, he crost over first gentle- 
 man, he chassade right and left, back to 
 your places, he all hands'd aroun' ladies to 
 the right, promenade all, in and out, here 
 and there, back and forth, up and down, 
 perpetual motion, double-twisted and 
 turned and tacked and tangled into forty 
 eleven thousand doublebow knots. 
 
 By jinks! it was a mixtery. And then he 
 wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fecht 
 up his right wing, he fecht up his left 
 wing, he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his 
 reserves. He fired by file, he fired by 
 platoons, by company, by regiments, and 
 by brigades. He opened his cannon — siege 
 guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve- 
 pounders yonder — big guns, little guns, 
 middle-sized guns, round shot, shells, 
 shrapnels, grape, canister, mortar, mines, 
 and magazines, every livin' battery and 
 bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house 
 trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, 
 the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, 
 the sky split, the ground rokt — heavens 
 and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, 
 ninepences, glory, tenpenny nails, Samp- 
 son in a 'simmon tree, Tump Tompson in 
 a tumbler-cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle — 
 ruddle-uddle-uddle-uddle — raddle-addle- 
 addle-addle — riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle — 
 reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle — p-r-r-r-r-r-lang ! 
 Bang!!!! lang! per-lang! p-r-r-r-r-r! 
 Bang!!! 
 
 With that bang! he lifted himself bodily 
 into the air, and he come down with his 
 knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his el- 
 bows, and his nose, striking every single, 
 
232 
 
 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 solitary key on the pianner at the same 
 time. The thing busted, and went off into 
 seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thou- 
 sand five hundred and forty-two hemi- 
 demi-semi-quivers, and I know'd no mo'. 
 When I come to, I were under ground 
 about twenty foot, in a place they call 
 Oyster Bay, a-treatin' a Yankee that I 
 
 never laid eyes on before, and never expect 
 to again. Day was br'akin' by the time I 
 got to the St. Nicholas Hotel, and I pledge 
 you my word I did not know my name. 
 The man asked me the number of my 
 room, and I told him, "Hot music on the 
 half-shell for two!" 
 
 c5* c5* (5* 
 
 OTHELLO'S APOLOGY. 
 
 M 
 
 OST potent, grave and reverend 
 seigniors : 
 
 My very noble, and approved good master; 
 That I have ta'en away this old man's 
 
 daughter, 
 It is most true; true, I have married her: 
 The very head and front of my offending 
 Hath this extent ; no more. 
 
 Rude am I in speech, 
 And little blessed with the set phrase of 
 
 peace: 
 For since these arms of mine had seven 
 
 years' pith, 
 Till now some nine months wasted, they 
 
 have used 
 Their dearest action in the tented field; 
 And little of this great world can I speak, 
 More than pertains to feats of broils and 
 
 battle; 
 And therefore, little shall I grace my cause, 
 In speaking of myself. 
 
 Yet, by your patience, 
 I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver, 
 Of my whole course of love; what drugs, 
 
 what charms, 
 What conjuration, and what mighty 
 
 magic — 
 For such proceedings I am charged 
 
 withal — 
 I won his daughter with. 
 
 Her father loved me ; oft invited me ; 
 
 Still questioned me the story of my life, 
 
 From year to year: the battles, sieges, for- 
 tunes, 
 
 That I had past. 
 
 I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days, 
 
 To the very moment that he bade me tell it. 
 
 Wherein I spake of most disastrous 
 chances; 
 
 Of moving accidents by flood and field; 
 
 Of hairbreadth 'scapes, in the imminent 
 deadly breach; 
 
 Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
 
 And sold to slavery; of my redemption 
 thence, 
 
 And with it all my travel's history. 
 
 All these to hear, 
 
 Would Desdemona seriously incline; 
 
 But still the house affairs would draw her 
 thence, 
 
 Which ever as she could with haste 
 despatch, 
 
 She'd come again, and with a greedy ear, 
 
 Devour up my discourse. Which I observ- 
 ing, 
 
 Took once a pliant hour, and found good 
 means 
 
 To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, 
 
 That I would all my pilgrimage dilate; 
 
 Whereof my parcels, she had something 
 heard, 
 
 But not distinctively. 
 
DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 233 
 
 I did consent; 
 And often did beguile her of her tears, 
 When I did speak of some distressful 
 
 stroke, 
 That by my youth suffered. My story being 
 
 done, 
 She gave me for my pains, a world of sighs. 
 She swore in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas 
 
 passing strange; 
 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful; 
 She wished she had not heard it; yet she 
 
 wished 
 That heaven had made her such a man. 
 
 She thanked me, 
 And bade me, if I had a friend who loved 
 
 her, 
 I should but teach him how to tell my 
 
 story, 
 And that would woo her. On this hint I 
 
 spake; 
 She loved me for the dangers I had passed; 
 And I loved her, that she did pity them. 
 This is the only witchcraft which I've used. 
 
 — Shakespeare. 
 
 t&*i t&* <£• 
 
 CASSIUS AGAINST CAESAR. 
 
 HONOR is the subject of my story, 
 I cannot tell what you and other men 
 Think of this life ; but for my single self, 
 I had as lief not be, as live to be 
 In awe of such a thing as myself. 
 I was born as free as Caesar; so were you; 
 We have both fed as well; and we can both 
 Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
 
 For, once upon a raw and gusty day, 
 The troubled Tiber, chafing with its shores, 
 Caesar says to me — "Darest thou, Cassius, 
 
 now 
 Leap in with me, into this angry flood, 
 And swim to yonder point?" — upon the 
 
 word, 
 Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 
 And bade him follow; so, indeed he did. 
 The torrent roared, and we did buffet it; 
 With lusty sinews, throwing it aside, 
 And stemming it, with hearts of contro- 
 versy. 
 But ere we could arrive the point proposed, 
 Caesar cried — "Help me, Cassius, or I 
 sink." 
 
 I, as 7Eneas, our great ancestor, 
 Did from the flames of Troy, upon his 
 shoulder 
 
 The old Anchises bear, so, from the 
 
 waves of Tiber 
 Did I the tired Caesar; and this man 
 Is now become a god; and Cassius is 
 A wretched creature, and must bend his 
 
 body, 
 If Caesar carelessly but nod to him. 
 
 He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
 And when the fit was on him, I did mark 
 How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did 
 
 shake; 
 His coward lips did from their color fly; 
 And that same eye whose bend doth awe 
 
 the world, 
 Did lose its luster; I did hear him groan, 
 Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the 
 
 Romans 
 Mark him, and write his speeches in their 
 
 books, 
 "Alas!" it cried, "give me some drink, 
 
 Titinius." 
 
 Ye gods! it doth amaze me, 
 A man of such a feeble temper should 
 So get the start of the majestic world, 
 And bear the palm alone. 
 Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow 
 world, 
 
234 
 
 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 Like a Colossus, and we petty men, 
 Walk under his huge legs, and peep about, 
 To find ourselves dishonorable graves. 
 
 Men, at some time, are masters of their 
 
 fates: 
 The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 
 But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
 Brutus and Caesar! What should be in that 
 
 Csesar? 
 Why should that name be sounded more 
 
 than yours? 
 Write them together: yours is as fair a 
 
 name; 
 Sound them: it doth become the mouth as 
 
 well; 
 Weigh them: it is as heavy; conjure with 
 
 'em: 
 Brutus will start a spirit as soon as 
 
 Csesar. 
 
 Now, in the name of all the gods at once, 
 
 Upon what meats doth this our Csesar 
 
 feed, 
 That he hath grown so great? Age, thou 
 
 art ashamed; 
 Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble 
 
 bloods. 
 When went there by an age, since the great 
 
 flood, 
 But it was famed with more than with one 
 
 man? 
 When could they say, till now, that talked 
 
 of Rome, 
 That her wide walls encompassed but one 
 
 man? 
 Oh! you and I have heard our fathers say, 
 There was a Brutus once, that would have 
 
 brooked 
 The infernal devil, to keep his state in 
 
 Rome, 
 As easily as a king. 
 
 — Shakespeare. 
 
 £pl %S* *£& 
 
 PETERS' REPORT OF WEBSTER'S SPEECH. 
 
 OLD Seth Peters once heard Daniel 
 Webster deliver an oration at an 
 agricultural fair way back in the forties. 
 This oration made such an impression upon 
 Seth that he has talked about it ever since. 
 And every time he talks about it, he see 
 new beauties in that speech. The oration 
 that the God-like Daniel delivered grows 
 more and more wonderful to him ; and so 
 every time he describes it, he tells a new 
 story more extravagant and grotesque than 
 the last. I once heard him describe this 
 speech, in a country store. This is the way 
 he did it: 
 
 "Want to hear 'bout Dan'l Webster's 
 gret lectur' I heerd at the county fair, do 
 ye? Don't blame ye. There ain't no man 
 alive to-day who can throw language an' 
 sling words like Dan'l could. There ain't 
 
 no man now, I say, nor never wuz, nor 
 never will be till eternity dies of ol' age. 
 
 "Wall, the only time I ever heerd Dan'l 
 wuz at our county fair w'en I wuz a young- 
 ster. Lemme see, thet wuz goin' on fifty 
 year ago nex' tater diggin'; but I got 
 elerkunce 'nough thet day to las' me all the 
 rest er my life. I hain't never heerd a 
 speech since then. Dan'l sp'ilt me for any 
 other kiner speech, lectur', sermon, pr'ar- 
 meetin' an' everythin' else. Every speech I 
 have ever heerd sense, falls ez flat on my 
 ear ez a hunk er putty on a pine slab. They 
 all soun' jes' ez if you hit a feather bed with 
 a snow shovel. There ain't no ring, no roar, 
 no rumble, no rush, .no ring-tailed thunder 
 to 'em, the way ther wuz to Dan'l's stuff. 
 Dan'l, I tell you, wuz a six-foot-an'-half 
 seraph with pants on; an' w'en he opened 
 
DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 235 
 
 his mouth the music er the spheres stopped 
 playin', fer nobody wanted to listen to sich 
 fool, fol-de-rol music, w'en Dan'l opened up 
 his flood-gates an' jest drowned the worl' 
 with elerkunce. 
 
 "I remember jes' ez if it wuz yes'day, 
 w'en Dan'l riz up there on the ol' plank plat- 
 form, bordered with punkins, at the ol' 
 county fair. He riz an' riz, an' every time 
 he riz, he let out another j'int, jes as you 
 do in the new-fangled fishin' poles. Sez I 
 to myself, 'He'll never git thro' risin' ;' but 
 bimeby, after he had shot up inter the 
 heavens a long ways, he suddenly stopped 
 and stood there like Bunker Hill Monimunt 
 in a garding er cabbages. 
 
 "Dan'l warn't in no hurry 'bout be- 
 ginnin'. He jest stood still, it seems to me, 
 'bout half a nour, an' looked aroun' with 
 them awful eyes of his'n. They seemed 
 like two mighty souls lookin' out of the 
 winder at a worl' thet wuz afraid of 'em. 
 I jes' hung down my head an' wouldn't look 
 at 'em. I knew they could look right inter 
 me, an' through me, an' see what a miser- 
 able little cuss I wuz. So Dan'l jes' stood 
 an' looked at his audience until he froze 'em 
 into their tracks. The Durham bull stopped 
 blartin', an' jest' stood and gawped at Dan'l. 
 The prize hog stopped eatin' his corn, an' 
 there warn't a rooster crowed — they all 
 knowed if they did they'd drop dead. Dan'l 
 stood still so long I got awful nervous fer 
 him. I wuz 'fraid he'd forgotten his speech. 
 But bimeby, he opened his mouth an' words 
 begun to rumble out like low thunder frum 
 underneath the groun'. They come kinder 
 slow at first, but every one on 'em wuz sent 
 like a cannon ball, an' struck every man, 
 woman an' child there right over the heart. 
 Then they come faster, an' then we all 
 knowed thet the universe wuz a big music 
 box, an' Dan'l wuz turnin' the crank. The 
 hull dictionary wuz a big gin filled with 
 
 apple sass, honey, an' stewed quinces, an' 
 Dan'l jest stood there jabbin' both hands 
 into it way up to the elbow, and scatterin' 
 the sweetness over the worl'. I jest threw 
 out my arms an' legs like a frog in a mill- 
 pond, an' swum through the ocean of sweet 
 sass an' honey thet wuz sloshin' all about 
 me. I div down to the bottom, an' brought 
 up hundred thousand dollar pearls in my 
 mouth, an' splashed about like a crazy luna- 
 tic in a sea of glory. 
 
 W'en Dan'l smiled it seemed ez if the sun 
 hed been whitewashed with a mixture of 
 melted gold, silver, jasper, saffire, emerald, 
 chrysolite an' stuff, sich ez St. John seen on 
 the foundations of the new Jerusalem; it 
 seemed ez if the sun had been whitewashed 
 with these things, an' then smiled on the 
 earth, jest like a lovesick feller onto his best 
 gal. W'en Dan'l frowned the sun grew ez 
 black ez a black ink spot on a black cat 
 hidin' in a coal bin on a dark night. Hope 
 lef the worl' an' went on an everlastin' 
 vacation; the bottom tumbled outer natur', 
 an' I jest opened my mouth an' bawled like 
 a baby. An' I jest kep' on bawlin' until 
 Dan'l smiled agin, we'n I wuz so happy an' 
 light thet I could hev walked on the air 
 without bustin' through the crust, clear 
 from here way up to the north star. 
 
 "Wall, bimeby Dan'l got excited. He 
 threw out his right han' an' pulled the 
 mornin' star from the bosom of the sky ; he 
 threw out his left han' an' snatched the 
 trailin' robes from the sunset an' flapped 
 them over the cattle shed. He threw up his 
 head an' the sun dodged ; he stamped his 
 foot an' the earth trembled; and the prize 
 hog give a gasp an' dropped dead. DanTs 
 eyes now looked like two suns in two uni- 
 verses; and if he only shet them once, we 
 knew that darkness would cover the face 
 of the deep, an' the world would roam 
 about in the dark parsture of the universe 
 
236 
 
 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 like a stray cow, an' git lost. Oh, them 
 eyes ! them eyes ! they'll shine into my soul 
 after the sun goes out, an' after the stars 
 have dropped like loose buttons from the 
 jacket of the sky. 
 
 "But still Dan'l kep' on. Thet son of 
 thunder stood there surrounded by punkins, 
 and I verily believe the angels bent over the 
 railin's of heaven an' listened to him ; an' I 
 only wonder thet they didn't lose their bal- 
 ance an' come a-fallin' down an' sprawl out 
 like celestial lummuxes before his feet. 
 They might hev for all I know. We 
 shouldn't hev noticed 'em. We wouldn't 
 hev paid any attention to an earthquake or 
 an Odd Fell'rs purcession. If Gabrul had 
 
 blown his trumpet right then an' there, an' 
 tooted until he wuz red in the face, we 
 wouldn't hev heerd it any more than we 
 could hev heerd a watch tick in a biler fac- 
 tory. Gabrul himself would hev dropped 
 his horn an' stood an' listened to Dan'l. We 
 couldn't see nothin' but Dan'l, we couldn't 
 hear nothin' but Dan'l, an', — well, there 
 warn't nothin' but Dan'l. He filled up the 
 whole bushel basket of the universe an' then 
 spilled over onto the floor. 
 
 "Wen Dan'l stopped, I wanted to die ; an' 
 I almost wish I hed, for I hain't heerd a de- 
 cent speech sense his day, an' I never ex- 
 pect to agin until I hear Dan'l spoutin' from 
 the platforms of paradise." 
 
 ji jt t »g 
 
 A RACE FOR LIFE. 
 
 A GUN is heard at the dead of night — 
 "Lifeboat ready!" 
 And every man, to the signal true, 
 Fights for place in the eager crew; • 
 
 "Now, lads! steady." 
 First a glance at the shuddering foam, 
 Now a look at the loving home, 
 Then together, with bated breath, 
 They launch their boat in the gulf of death. 
 
 Over the breakers wild, 
 
 Little they reck of weather, 
 
 But tear their way 
 
 Through blinding spray. 
 
 Hear the skipper cheer and say: 
 
 "Up with her, lads, and lift her! 
 
 All together." 
 
 They see the ship in a sudden flash, 
 
 Sinking ever, 
 And grip their oars with a deeper breath ; 
 Now it's come to a fight with death, 
 
 Now or never! 
 Fifty strokes, and they're at her side, 
 If they live in the boiling tide, 
 If they last through the awful strife. 
 
 Ah, my lads, it's a race for life! 
 Over the breakers wild, 
 Little they reck of weather, 
 But tear their way 
 Through blinding spray. 
 Hear the skipper cheer and say: 
 "Up with her, lads, and lift her! 
 All together!" 
 
 And loving hearts are on the shore, 
 
 Hoping, fearing; 
 Till over the sea there comes a cheer, 
 Then the click of the oars you hear, 
 
 Homeward steering — 
 Ne'er a thought of the danger past, 
 Now the lads are on land at last; 
 What's a storm to a gallant crew 
 Who race for life, and who win it, too? 
 
 Over the breakers wild, 
 
 Little they reck of weather, 
 
 But tear their way 
 
 Through blinding spray. 
 
 Hear the skipper cheer and say: 
 
 "Up with her, lads, and lift her! 
 
 All together!" 
 
DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 237 
 
 WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. 
 
 YOU'RE surprised that I ever should 
 say so? 
 Just wait till the reason I've given, 
 Why I say I shan't care for the music, 
 Unless there is whistling in heaven. 
 Then you'll think it no very great wonder, 
 
 Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit, 
 That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, 
 Its music will not be complete. 
 
 It was late in the autumn of '40, 
 
 We had come from our far Eastern home 
 Just in season to build us a cabin, 
 
 Ere the cold of the winter should come ; 
 And we lived all the while in our wagon 
 
 While husband was clearing the place 
 Where the house was to stand; and the 
 clearing 
 
 And building it took many days. 
 
 So that our heads were scarce sheltered 
 
 In under its roof, when our store 
 Of provisions was almost exhausted, 
 
 And husband must journey for more ; 
 And the nearest place where he could get 
 them 
 
 Was yet such a distance away, 
 That it forced him from home to be absent 
 
 At least a whole night and a day. 
 
 You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, 
 
 And the nearest was more than a mile ; 
 And we hadn't found time yet to know 
 them, 
 
 For we had been busy the .while. 
 And the man who had helped at the raising 
 
 Just staid till the job was well done ; 
 And as soon as the money was paid him, 
 
 Had shouldered his axe, and had gone. 
 
 Well, husband just kissed me and started, 
 I could scarcely suppress a deep groan 
 
 At the thought of remaining with baby 
 So long in the house all alone ; 
 
 For, my dear, I was childish and timid, 
 And braver ones might well have feared, 
 
 For the wild wolf was often heard howling, 
 And savages sometimes appeared. 
 
 But I smothered my grief and my terror 
 
 Till husband was off on his ride, 
 And then in my arms I took Josey, 
 
 And all the day long sat and cried, 
 As I thought of the long, dreary hours 
 
 When the darkness of night should fall, 
 And I was so utterly helpless, 
 
 With no one in reach of my call. 
 
 And when the night came with its terrors, 
 
 To hide ev'ry ray of light, 
 I hung up a quilt by the window, 
 
 And almost dead with affright, 
 I kneeled by the side of the cradle, 
 
 Scarce daring to draw a full breath, 
 Lest the baby should wake, and its crying 
 
 Should bring us a horrible death. 
 
 There I knelt until late in the evening, 
 
 And scarcely an inch had I stirred, 
 When suddenly, far in the distance, 
 
 A sound as of whistling I heard! 
 I started up dreadfully frightened, 
 
 For fear 'twas an Indian's call ; 
 And then very soon I remembered 
 
 The red man ne'er whistles at all. 
 
 And when I was sure 'twas a white man, 
 
 I thought were he coming for ill, 
 He'd surely approach with more caution — 
 
 Would come without warning, and still. 
 Then the sounds coming nearer and nearer, 
 
 Took the form of a tune light and gay, 
 And I knew I needn't fear evil, 
 
 From one who could whistle that way. 
 
 Very soon I heard footsteps approaching, 
 Then came a peculiar dull thump, 
 
 As if some one was heavily striking 
 An axe in the top of a stump; 
 
238 
 
 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 And then in another brief moment, 
 There came a light tap on the door, 
 
 When quickly I undid the fast'ning, 
 And in stepped a boy, and before 
 
 There was either a question or answer, 
 
 Or either had time to speak, 
 I just threw my glad arms around him, 
 
 And gave him a kiss on the cheek. 
 Then I started back, scared at my boldness, 
 
 But he only smiled at my fright, 
 As he said, "I'm your neighbor's boy, Elick, 
 
 Come to tarry with you through the 
 night. 
 
 "We saw your husband go eastward, 
 
 And made up our minds where he'd gone, 
 And I said to the rest of our people, 
 
 'That woman is there all alone. 
 And I venture she's awfully lonesome, 
 
 And though she may have no great fear 
 I think she would feel a bit safer 
 
 If only a boy were but near.' 
 
 "So, taking my axe on my shoulder, 
 For fear that a savage might stray 
 
 Across my path and need scalping, 
 I started right down this way ; 
 
 And coming in sight of the cabin, 
 
 • And thinking to save you alarm, 
 
 I whistled a tune, just to show you 
 I didn't intend any harm. 
 
 "And so here I am at your service ; 
 
 But if you don't .want me to stay, 
 Why, all you need do is to say so, 
 
 And should'ring my axe, I'll away." 
 I dropped in a chair and near fainted, 
 
 Just at the thought of his leaving me 
 then, 
 And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle 
 
 As he said, "I guess I'll remain." 
 
 And then I just sat there and told him 
 
 How terribly frightened I'd been, 
 How his face was to me the most welcome, 
 
 Of any I ever had seen ; 
 And then I lay down with the baby, 
 
 And slept all the blessed night through, 
 For I felt I was safe from all danger 
 
 Near so brave a* young fellow and true. 
 
 So now, my dear friend, do you wonder, 
 
 Since such a good reason I've given, 
 Why I say I shan't care for the music, 
 
 Unless there is whistling in heaven ? 
 Yes, often I've said so in earnest, 
 
 And now what I've said I repeat, 
 That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, 
 
 Its music will not be complete. 
 
 t5* t5* *5* 
 
 THE ENGINE DRIVER'S STORY. 
 
 WE were driving the down express — 
 Will at the steam, I at the coal- 
 Over the valleys and villages ! 
 Over the marshes and coppices ! 
 Over the river, deep and broad ! 
 Through the mountain, under the road ! 
 Flying along, tearing along ! 
 Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong, 
 Fifty tons she was, whole and sole ! 
 
 I had been promoted to the express; 
 I warrant you I was proud and gay, 
 It was the evening that ended May, 
 And the sky was a glory of tenderness. 
 We were thundering down to a midland 
 
 town; 
 It makes no matter about the name — 
 For we never stopped there, or anywhere 
 For a dozen of miles on either side : 
 
DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 239 
 
 So it's all the same — 
 
 Just there you slide, 
 With your steam shut off, and your brakes 
 
 in hand, 
 Down the steepest and longest grade in the 
 
 land 
 At a pace that I promise you is grand. 
 We were just there with the express, 
 When I caught sight of a muslin dress 
 On the bank ahead ; and as we passed — 
 You have no notion of how fast — 
 A girl shrank back from our baleful blast. 
 
 We were going a mile and a quarter a 
 minute 
 With vans and carriages down the incline, 
 But I saw her face, and the sunshine in it, 
 I looked in her eyes, and she looked in mine 
 As the train went by, like a shot from a 
 mortar, 
 A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke ; 
 And I mused for a minute, and then awoke, 
 And she was behind us — a mile and a 
 quarter. 
 
 And the years went on, and the express 
 Leaped in her black resistlessness, 
 
 Evening by evening, England through. 
 Will — God rest him! — was found, a mash 
 Of bleeding rags, in a fearful smash 
 
 He made with a Christmas train at 
 Crewe. 
 It chanced I was ill the night of the mess, 
 
 Or I shouldn't now be here alive ; 
 But thereafter the five-o'clock out express 
 
 Evening by evening I used to drive. 
 
 And I often saw her, — that lady I mean, 
 That I spoke of before. She often stood 
 A-top o' that bank : it was pretty high — 
 Say twenty feet, and backed by a wood. 
 
 She would pick the daises out of the 
 green 
 To fling down at us as we went by. 
 We had got to be friends, that girl and I, 
 
 Though I was a rugged, stalwart chap, 
 And she a lady ! I'd lift my cap, 
 Evening by evening, when I'd spy 
 
 That she was there, in the summer air, 
 Watching the sun sink out of the sky. 
 
 Oh, I didn't see her every night : 
 Bless you ! no ; just now and then, 
 
 And not at all for a twelvemonth quite. 
 Then, one evening, I saw her again, 
 Alone, as ever, but deadly pale, 
 And down on the line, on the very rail, 
 While a light, as of hell, from our wild 
 wheels broke, 
 Tearing down the slope with their devilish 
 
 clamors, 
 And deafening din, as of giant's hammers 
 That smote in a whirlwind of dust and 
 smoke 
 All the instant or so that we sped to meet 
 
 her. 
 Never, oh, never, had she seemed sweeter! 
 I let yell the whistle, reversing the stroke 
 Down that awful incline, and signaled the 
 
 guard 
 To put on his brakes at once, and hard — 
 Though we couldn't have stopped. We 
 
 tattered the rail 
 Into splinters and sparks, but without avail. 
 
 We couldn't stop; and she wouldn't stir, 
 Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretch 
 Her arms to us ; — and the desperate wretch 
 
 I pitied, comprehending her. 
 
 So the brakes let off, and the steam full 
 
 again, 
 Sprang down on the lady the terrible 
 
 train — 
 She never flinched. We beat her down, 
 And ran on through the lighted length of 
 
 the town 
 Before we could stop to see what was done. 
 Oh, I've run over more than one ! 
 Dozens of 'em, to be sure, but none 
 
240 
 
 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 That I pitied as I pitied her — 
 
 If I could have stopped, with all the spur 
 
 Of the train's weight on, and cannily — 
 
 But it wouldn't do with a lad like me 
 And she a lady — or had been — sir ? 
 Who ivas 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. 
 
 (J* ^* %£& 
 
 HENRY V. AT HARFLEUR. 
 
 ONCE more unto the breach, dear 
 friends, once more; 
 Or close the wall up with our English 
 
 dead. 
 In peace there's nothing so becomes a man 
 As modest stillness and humility; 
 But when the blast of war blows in our 
 
 ears, 
 Then imitate the action of the tiger; 
 Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
 Disguise fair nature with hard-favored 
 
 rage; 
 Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; 
 Let it pry through the portage of the head 
 Like the brass cannon; let the brow over- 
 whelm it, 
 As fearfully as doth a galled rock 
 Overhang and jutty his confounded base, 
 Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
 
 Now set the teeth, and stretch the nos- 
 tril wide, 
 
 Hold hard the breath, and bend up every 
 spirit 
 
 To his full height. Now on, you noblest 
 English, 
 
 Whose blood is fetched from fathers of 
 war-proof; 
 
 Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, 
 
 Have in these parts from morn to even 
 fought, 
 
 And sheathed their swords for lack of ar- 
 gument : 
 
 Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 
 
 And teach them how to war! 
 
 And you, good yeomen, 
 Whose limbs are made in England, show 
 
 us here 
 The mettle of your pasture; let us swear 
 That you are worth your breeding, which 
 
 I doubt not: 
 For there is none of you so mean and base 
 That hath not noble luster in your eye; 
 I see you stand like greyhounds in the 
 
 slips, 
 Straining upon the start : the game's a-foot ; 
 Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge, 
 Cry, Heaven for Harry, England, and St. 
 
 George. 
 
 — Shakespeare. 
 
•-V. 
 
 Treasure Trove-- World Favorites 
 w 
 
 This department includes those immortal writings that won favor throughout the world and 
 are as popular to-day as when they were first written many years ago. 
 They belong to "Auld Lang Syne," and are old acquaint- 
 ances that shall never be forgot. 
 
 fc?W t^f (5* 
 
 PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S FAVORITE POEM. 
 
 The brow of the priest that the mitre hath 
 
 worn, 
 The eye of the sage, and the heart of the 
 
 brave, 
 Are hidden and lost in the depths of the 
 
 grave. 
 
 OH, why should the spirit of mortal be 
 proud? 
 Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying 
 
 cloud, 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of the 
 
 wave, 
 He passes from life to his rest in the grave. 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall 
 
 fade, 
 Be scattered around and together be laid; 
 And the young and the old, and the low 
 
 and the high, 
 Shall moulder to dust and together shall 
 
 die. 
 
 The child that a mother attended and loved, 
 The mother that infant's affection that 
 
 proved, 
 The husband that mother and infant that 
 
 blessed, 
 Each, all, are away to their dwelling of 
 
 rest. 
 
 The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, 
 
 in whose eye, 
 Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs 
 
 are by; 
 And the memory of those that loved her 
 
 and praised, 
 Are alike from the minds of the living 
 
 erased. 
 
 The hand of the king that the sceptre hath 
 borne, 
 
 The peasant whose lot was to sow and to 
 
 reap, 
 The herdsman who climbed with his goats 
 
 to the steep, 
 The beggar that wandered in search of his 
 
 bread, 
 Have faded away like the grass that we 
 
 tread. 
 
 The saint that enjoyed the communion of 
 
 Heaven, 
 The sinner that dared to remain unfor- 
 
 given, 
 The wise and the foolish, the guilty and 
 
 just, 
 Have quickly mingled their bones in the 
 
 dust. 
 
 So the multitude goes, like the flower and 
 the weed, 
 
 That wither away to let others succeed; 
 
 So the multitude come, even those we be- 
 hold, 
 
 To repeat every tale that hath often been 
 told. 
 
 For we are the same that our fathers have 
 been; 
 
 241 
 
212 
 
 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 
 
 We see the same sights that our fathers 
 have seen, — 
 
 We drink the same stream, and we feel the 
 same sun, 
 
 And we run the same course that our fath- 
 ers have run. 
 
 The thoughts we are thinking our fathers 
 
 would think; 
 From the death we are shrinking from, they 
 
 too would shrink; 
 To the life we are clinging to, they too 
 
 would cling; 
 But it speeds from the earth like a bird on 
 
 the wing. 
 
 Thev loved, but their story we cannot un- 
 'fold; 
 
 They scorned, but the heart of th^. haughty 
 is cold; 
 
 They grieved, but no wail from their slum- 
 bers may come; 
 
 They joyed, but the voice of their gladness 
 is dumb. 
 
 They died, — ay, they died; and we things 
 that are now, 
 
 Who walk on the turf that lies over their 
 brow, 
 
 Who make in their dwellings a transient 
 abode, 
 
 Meet the changes they met on their pil- 
 grimage road. 
 
 Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and 
 
 pain, 
 Are mingled together like sunshine and 
 
 rain; 
 And the smile and the tear and the song 
 
 and the dirge 
 Still follow each other, like surge upon 
 
 surge. 
 
 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of 
 
 a breath, 
 From the blossom of health to the paleness 
 
 of death, 
 From the gilded saloon to the bier and the 
 
 shroud, — 
 Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be 
 
 proud? 
 
 THERE came to the beach a poor Exile 
 of Erin, 
 The dew on his thin robe was heavy and 
 chill; 
 For his country he sighed, when at twilight 
 repairing 
 To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 
 But the day-star attracted his eye's sad de- 
 votion, 
 For it rose o'er his own native isle of the 
 
 ocean, 
 Where once in the fire of his youthful 
 emotion 
 He sang the bold anthem of Erin go 
 bragh. 
 
 t5* «■?* t5* 
 
 THE EXILE OF ERIN. 
 
 "Sad is my fate," said the broken-hearted 
 
 stranger, — 
 "The wild deer and wolf to a covert can 
 flee; 
 But I have no refuge from famine and 
 danger, 
 A home and a country remain not to me. 
 Never again in the green, sunny bowers 
 Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend 
 
 the sweet hours, 
 Or cover my harp with the wild-woven 
 flowers, 
 And strike to the numbers of Erin go 
 bragh ! 
 
SHARING A SORROW. 
 
P5 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 W 
 
 o 
 «J 
 
 w 
 
 & 
 
 o 
 
 w 
 o 
 
 p 
 
 W 
 
 Ph 
 W 
 
 W 
 
 E4 
 
TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 
 
 245 
 
 "Erin, my country! though sad and for- 
 saken, 
 In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; 
 But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, 
 And sigh for the friends who can meet 
 me no more ! 
 Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me 
 In a mansion of peace, where no perils can 
 
 chase me? 
 Never again shall my brothers embrace 
 me? 
 They died to defend me, or live to de- 
 plore! 
 
 "Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild 
 wood? 
 Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? 
 Where is the mother that looked on my 
 childhood? 
 And where is the bosom friend, dearer 
 than all? 
 
 j» 
 
 Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by 
 pleasure, 
 
 Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure? 
 
 Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without 
 measure, 
 But rapture and beauty they cannot re- 
 call. 
 
 "Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, 
 
 One dying wish my lone bosom can 
 
 draw: 
 
 Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! 
 
 Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 
 
 Buried and cold, when my heart stills her 
 
 motion, 
 Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the 
 
 ocean ! 
 And thy harp-striking bard sings aloud 
 with devotion, — 
 Erin mavourneen! Erin go bragh!" 
 — Thomas Campbell. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 UNDER a spreading chestnut tree 
 The village smithy stands; 
 The smith, a mighty man is he, 
 
 With large and sinewy hands; 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp and black and long; 
 
 His face is like the tan; 
 His brow is wet with honest sweat; 
 
 He earns whate'er he can, 
 And looks the whole world in the face, 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
 You can hear his bellows blow; 
 
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
 With measured beat and slow, 
 
 Like a sexton ringing the village bell 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children coming home from school 
 
 Look in at the open door; 
 They love to see the flaming forge, 
 
 And hear the bellows roar, 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church, 
 
 And sits among his boys; 
 He hears the parson pray and preach, 
 
 He hears his daughter's voice 
 Singing in the village choir, 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 
 
 Singing in Paradise. 
 He needs must think of her once more, 
 
 How in the grave she lies; 
 And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
 
 A tear out of his eyes. 
 
246 
 
 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 
 
 Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing — 
 Onward through life he goes; 
 
 Each morning sees some task begin, 
 Each evening sees it close; 
 
 Something attempted — something done, 
 Has earned a night's repose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
 For the lesson thou hast taught! 
 
 Thus at the flaming forge of life 
 Our fortunes must be wrought; 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought. 
 
 JOHN 
 
 JOHN Anderson my jo, John, 
 When we were first acquent 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 Your bonnie brow was brent; 
 But now your brow is bald, John, 
 Your locks are like the snow; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow; 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 
 & & * 
 
 ANDERSON. 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither, 
 And mony a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither: 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go, 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 
 — Robert Burns. 
 
 t£* <<?* 1,5* 
 
 "ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER." 
 
 BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time! 
 in your flight, 
 Make me a child again, just for to-night! 
 Mother, come back from the echoless 
 
 shore, 
 Take me again to your heart, as of yore ; 
 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
 Smooth the few silver threads out of my 
 
 hair; 
 Over my slumbers your loving watch 
 
 keep — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to 
 
 sleep! 
 
 Backward, flow backward, O swift tide of 
 
 years 
 
 I am weary of toil, I am weary of tears ; 
 Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, 
 Take them, and give me my childhood 
 
 again ! 
 I have grown weary of dust and decay, 
 Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away, 
 
 Weary of sowing for others to reap; 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to 
 sleep! 
 
 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
 Mother, O mother! my heart calls for you! 
 Many a summer the grass has grown 
 
 green, 
 Blossomed and faded, our faces between; 
 Yet with strong yearning and passionate 
 
 pain, 
 Long I to-night for your presence again; 
 Come from the silence so long and so 
 
 deep — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to 
 
 sleep! 
 
 Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
 No love like mother-love ever has shone. 
 No other worship abides and endures 
 Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours; 
 None like a mother can charm away pain 
 
TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 
 
 247 
 
 From the sorrowing soul and the world- 
 weary brain; 
 
 Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids 
 creep ; 
 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to 
 sleep! 
 
 Come, let your brown hair, just lighted 
 
 with gold, 
 Fall on your shoulders again as of old; 
 Let it fall over my forehead to-night, 
 Shielding my eyes from the flickering 
 
 light; 
 For oh! with its sunny-edged shadows 
 
 once more, 
 Haply will throng the sweet visions of 
 
 yore; 
 
 Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep — 
 Reck me to sleep, mother, rock me to 
 sleep ! 
 
 Mother, dear mother! the years have been 
 
 long 
 Since last I was hushed by your lullaby 
 
 song; 
 Sing them again, — to my soul it shall seem 
 Womanhood's years have been only a 
 
 dream ; 
 Clasp to your arms in a loving embrace, 
 With your soft, light lashes just sweeping 
 
 my face, 
 Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to 
 
 sleep ! 
 
 — Mrs. Elizabeth Akers. 
 
 t5* o5* t5* 
 
 THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 
 
 H 
 
 OW dear to this heart are the scenes 
 of my childhood, 
 When fond recollection presents them to 
 view! 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled 
 wildwood, 
 And every loved spot which my infancy 
 knew; 
 The wide-spreading pond, and the mill 
 which stood by it, 
 The bridge, and the rock where the 
 cataract fell; 
 The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh 
 
 it. 
 And e'en the rude bucket which hung 
 
 in the well. 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
 
 bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket which hung in 
 
 the well. 
 
 That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treas- 
 ure; 
 
 For often, at noon, when returned from 
 the field, 
 I found it the source of an exquisite 
 pleasure, 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can 
 yield. 
 How ardent I seized it, with hands that 
 were glowing! 
 And quick to the white-pebbled bottom 
 it fell; 
 Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- 
 flowing, 
 And dripping with coolness, it rose from 
 the well; 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
 
 bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket, arose from the 
 well. 
 
 How sweet from the green mossy brim to 
 receive it, 
 As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my 
 lips! 
 
248 
 
 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 
 
 Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me 
 to leave it, 
 Though filled with the nectar that Jupi- 
 ter sips. 
 And now, far removed from the loved 
 situation, 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
 And sighs for the bucket which hangs in 
 the well; 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
 
 bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket which hangs in 
 the well. 
 
 — Samuel Woodworth. 
 
 (5* *5* (3* 
 
 I'VE wandered to the village, Tom, I've 
 sat beneath the tree, 
 Upon the school-house play-ground, that 
 
 sheltered you and me; 
 But none were left to greet me, Tom; and 
 
 few were left to know, 
 Who played with us upon the green, some 
 forty years ago. 
 
 The grass is just as green, Tom; bare- 
 footed boys at play 
 
 Were sporting, just as we did then, with 
 spirits just as gay. 
 
 But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, 
 which, coated o'er with snow, 
 
 Afforded us a sliding-place, some forty 
 years ago. 
 
 The old school-house is altered now; the 
 benches are replaced 
 
 By new ones, very like the ones our pen- 
 knives once defaced; 
 
 But the same old bricks are in the wall, the 
 bell swings to and fro; 
 
 It's music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas 
 forty years ago. 
 
 The boys were playing some old game, be- 
 neath that same old tree; 
 
 I have forgot the name just now, — you've 
 played the same with me, 
 
 On that same spot; 'twas played with 
 knives, by throwing so and so; 
 
 FORTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 The loser had a task to do, — there, forty 
 
 years ago. 
 
 The river's running just as still; the wil- 
 lows on its side 
 
 Are larger than they were, Tom; the 
 stream appears less wide; 
 
 But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, 
 where once we played the beau, 
 
 And swung our sweethearts, — pretty girls, 
 — just forty years ago. 
 
 The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, 
 
 close by the spreading beech, 
 Is very low, — 'twas then so high that we 
 
 could scarcely reach; 
 And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear 
 
 Tom, I started so, 
 To see how sadly I am changed, since 
 
 forty years ago. 
 i» 
 Near by that spring, upon old elm, you 
 
 know I cut your name, 
 Your sweetheart's put beneath it, Tom, and 
 
 you did mine the same. 
 Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 
 
 'twas dying sure but slow, 
 Just as she died, whose name you cut, some 
 
 forty years ago. 
 
 My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears 
 came to my eyes; 
 
TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 
 
 249 
 
 I thought of her I loved so well, those 
 
 early broken ties. 
 I visited the old church-yard, and took 
 
 some flowers to strew 
 Upon the graves of those we loved, some 
 
 forty years ago. 
 
 Some are in the church-yard laid, some 
 
 sleep beneath the sea; 
 But few are left of our old class, excepting 
 
 you and me ; 
 And when our time shall come, Tom, and 
 
 we are called to go, 
 I hope they'll lay us where we played, just 
 
 forty years ago. 
 
 &5* ^* ^* 
 
 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 
 
 I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare 
 To chide me for loving that old arm- 
 chair? 
 
 I've treasured it long as a sainted prize; 
 
 I've bedewed it with tears, and embraced 
 it with sighs. 
 
 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my 
 heart ; 
 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
 
 Would ye learn the spell? — a mother sat 
 there ; 
 
 And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 
 
 In childhood's hour I lingered near 
 The hallowed seat with listening ear; 
 And gentle words that mother would give, 
 To fit me to die and teach me to live. 
 She told me shame would never betide, 
 With truth for my creed and God for my 
 
 guide; 
 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer 
 As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 
 
 I sat and watched her many a day 
 
 When her eye grew dim and her locks were 
 
 gray; 
 And I almost worshiped her when she 
 
 smiled, 
 And turned from her Bible, to bless her 
 
 child. 
 Years rolled on; but the last one sped — 
 My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled; 
 I learned how much the heart can bear, 
 When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 
 
 'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now 
 With quivering breath and throbbing brow. 
 'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she 
 
 died; 
 And memory flows with lava tide. 
 Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
 While the scalding drops start down my 
 
 cheek; 
 But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear 
 My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 
 
 ^* ^* ^* 
 
 '•ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEER" 
 
 ROCKED in the cradle of the deep 
 I lay me down in peace to sleep; 
 Secure I rest upon the wave, 
 For thou, O Lord, hast power to save. . 
 I know thou wilt not slight my call, 
 For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall! 
 And calm and peaceful is my sleep, 
 Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 
 
 And calm and peaceful is my sleep, 
 Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 
 And such the trust that still is mine, 
 Tho' stormy winds sweep o'er the brine, 
 Or tho' the tempests fiery breath 
 Roused me from sleep to wreck and death, 
 In ocean cave still safe with Thee, 
 The germ of immortality! 
 
250 
 
 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 
 
 ROGER AND I. 
 
 WE are two travelers, Roger and I. 
 Roger's my dog; — come here, you 
 scamp! 
 Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye! 
 Over the table, — look out for the lamp, — 
 The rogue is growing a little old: 
 
 Five years we've tramped through wind 
 and weather, 
 And slept out-doors when nights were cold, 
 And ate and drank — .and starved to- 
 gether. 
 
 We've learned what comfort is, I tell you! 
 
 A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
 
 A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! 
 
 The paw he holds up there's been 
 
 frozen,) 
 
 Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 
 
 (This out-door business is bad for 
 
 strings,) 
 
 Then a few nice buckwheats, hot from the 
 
 griddle, 
 
 And Roger and I set up for kings ! 
 ****** 
 
 Why not reform? That's easily said; 
 But I've gone through such wretched 
 treatment, 
 Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 
 And scarce remembering what meat 
 meant, 
 That my poor stomach's past reform; 
 And there are times when, mad with 
 thinking, 
 I'd sell out heaven for something warm 
 To prop a horrible inward sinking. 
 
 Is there a way to forget to think? 
 At your age, sir, home, fortune and 
 friends, 
 A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink, — 
 The same old story; you know how it 
 ends. 
 
 If you could have seen these classic fea- 
 tures, — 
 You needn't laugh sir; they were not 
 then 
 Such a burning libel on God's creatures: 
 I was one of your handsome men! 
 
 If you have seen her, so fair and young, 
 
 Whose head was happy on this breast ! 
 If you could have heard the songs I sung 
 
 When the wine went round, you 
 wouldn't have guessed 
 That ever I, sir, should be straying 
 
 From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
 Ragged and penniless, and playing 
 
 To you to-night for a glass of grog! 
 
 She's married since, — a parson's wife: 
 'Twas better for her that we should 
 part- 
 Better the soberest, prosiest life 
 
 Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
 I have seen her? Once: I was weak and 
 spent 
 On the dusty road, a carriage stopped; 
 But little she dreamed, as on she went, 
 Who kissed the coin that her fingers 
 dropped! 
 
 You've set me to talking, sir; I'm sorry; 
 
 It makes me wild to think of the change ! 
 What do you care for a beggar's story? 
 
 Is it amusing? you find it strange? 
 I had a mother so proud of me ! 
 
 'Twas well she died before — Do you 
 know 
 If the happy spirits in heaven can see 
 
 The ruin and wretchedness here below? 
 
 Another glass, and strong, to deaden 
 This pain ; then Roger and I will start. 
 
 I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 
 Aching thing, in place of a heart? 
 
TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 
 
 251 
 
 He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if 
 he could, 
 No doubt, remembering things that 
 were, — 
 A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 
 And himself a sober, respectable cur. 
 
 I'm better now; that glass was warming, — 
 You rascal ; limber your lazy feet ! 
 
 We must be fiddling and performing 
 
 For supper and bed, or starve in the 
 street. 
 Not a very gay life to lead, you think? 
 But soon we shall go where lodgings 
 are free, 
 And the sleepers need neither victuals or 
 drink; — 
 The sooner the better for Roger and me! 
 
 
 BILL AND JOE. 
 
 COME, dear old comrade, you and I 
 Will steal an hour from days gone 
 by; 
 The shining days when life was new, 
 And all was bright with morning dew, — 
 The lusty days of long ago, 
 When you were Bill and I was Joe. 
 
 Your name may flaunt a titled trail 
 Proud as a cockrel's rainbow tail; 
 And mine as brief appendix wear 
 As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare: 
 To-day, O friend, remember still 
 That I am Joe, and you are Bill. 
 
 You've won the great world's envied prize 
 And grand you look in people's eyes. 
 With H. O. N. and LL. D., 
 In big brave letters, fair to see, — 
 Your fist, old fellow, off they go ! — 
 How are you, Bill; How are you, Joe? 
 
 You've won the judge's ermined robe, 
 You've taught your name to half the globe ; 
 You've sung mankind a deathless strain; 
 You've made the dead past live again; 
 The world may call you what it will, 
 But you and I are Joe and Bill. 
 
 The chaffing young folks stare, and say, 
 "See those old buffers, bent and gray, — 
 
 They talk like fellows in their teens! 
 Mad, poor old boys! That's what 
 
 means," — 
 And shake their heads ; they little know 
 The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe ! 
 
 How Bill forgets his hour of pride, 
 While Joe sits smiling at his side; 
 How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 
 Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — 
 Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill 
 As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 
 
 Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame? 
 
 A fitful tongue of leaping flame; 
 
 A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, 
 
 That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; 
 
 A few swift years, and who can show 
 
 Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe? 
 
 The weary idol takes his stand, 
 Holds out his bruised and aching hand, 
 While gaping thousands come and go, — 
 How vain it seems, this empty show! 
 Till all at once his pulses thrill — ■ 
 'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!" 
 
 And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
 The names that pleased our mortal ears, 
 In some sweet lull of harp and song 
 For earth-born spirits none too long, 
 
 it 
 
252 
 
 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 
 
 Just whispering of the world below 
 Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? 
 
 No matter: while our home is here, 
 No sounding name is half so dear; 
 
 When fades at length our lingering day, 
 Who cares what pompous tombstones say? 
 Read on the hearts that love us still, 
 Hie Jacet Joe. Hie Jacet Bill. 
 
 — Oliver W. Holmes. 
 
 tSfc t5* (5* 
 
 OVER THE RIVER. 
 
 OVER the river, over the river — 
 The river silent and deep — 
 When the boats are moored on the shadow 
 shore 
 And the waves are rocked to sleep; 
 When the mists so pale, like a bridal veil, 
 
 Lie down on the limpid tide, 
 I hear sweet sounds in the still night-time 
 
 From the flowing river's side; 
 And the boat recedes from the earthly 
 strand. 
 Out o'er the liquid lea — 
 Over the river, the deep dark river, 
 My darlings have gone from me. 
 
 Over the river, over the river, 
 
 Once in summer time 
 The boatman's call we faintly heard, 
 
 Like a vesper's distant chime; 
 And a being fair, with soft, dark hair 
 
 Paused by the river's side, 
 For the snowy boat with the golden oars 
 
 That lay on the sleeping tide 
 And the boatman's eyes gazed into hers, 
 
 With their misty dreamlike hue — 
 Over the river, the silent river 
 
 She passed the shadows through. 
 
 Over the river, over the river 
 
 A few short moons ago 
 Went a pale young bride with fair, slight 
 form, 
 
 And a brow as pure as snow; 
 And music low, with a silvery flow, 
 
 Swept down from the starry skies, 
 As the shadows slept in her curling hair, 
 
 And darkened her twilight eyes, 
 Still the boat swept on to the spirit shore 
 
 With a motion light and free — 
 Over the river, the cold, dark river, 
 
 My sister has gone from me. 
 
 Over the river, over the river, 
 
 When the echoes are asleep, 
 I hear the dip of the golden oars, 
 
 In the waters cold and deep; 
 And the boatman's call, when the shad- 
 ows fall, 
 
 Floats out on the evening air, 
 And the light winds kiss his marble brow, 
 
 And play with his wavy hair; 
 And I hear the notes of an angel's harp, 
 
 As they sweep o'er the liquid lea — 
 Over the river, the peaceful river, 
 
 They're calling — calling for me. 
 
 »£• »5* t5* 
 
 BEAUTIFUL ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 IT was many and many years ago, 
 In a kingdom by the sea, 
 That a maiden there lived, whom you may 
 know 
 By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
 
 And this maiden she lived with no other 
 thought 
 Than to love, and be loved by me! 
 
 I was a child, and she was a child, 
 
 
TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 
 
 253 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea; 
 But we loved with a love that was more 
 than love, 
 I and my Annabel Lee — 
 With a love that the winged seraph of 
 heaven 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea 
 A wind blew out of a cloud chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 So that her high-born kinsman came 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
 
 Went envying her and me, 
 Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea) 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by 
 night, 
 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than 
 the love 
 
 Of those who were older than we, 
 Of many far wiser than we; 
 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
 For the moon never beams without bring- 
 ing me dreams 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
 And the stars never rise, but I feel the 
 bright eyes 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 
 And so all night-time, I lie by the side 
 Of my darling — my darling — my life and 
 my bride 
 In the sepulchre there by the sea, 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
 tB& x&& && 
 
 THE HURRICANE. 
 
 LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh, 
 I know thy breath in the burning 
 sky! 
 And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, 
 For the coming of the hurricane! 
 
 And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, 
 
 Through the boundless arch of heaven he 
 sails, 
 
 Silent and slow, and terribly strong, 
 
 The mighty shadow is borne along, 
 
 Like the dark eternity to come; 
 
 While the world below, dismayed and 
 dumb, 
 
 Through the calm of the thick hot atmos- 
 phere, 
 
 Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. 
 
 They darken fast; and the golden blaze 
 
 Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, 
 And he sends through the shade a funeral 
 
 ray — 
 A glare that is neither night nor day, 
 A beam that touches, with hues of death, 
 The clouds above and the earth beneath. 
 To its covert glides the silent bird, 
 While the hurricane's distant voice is heard 
 Uplifted among the mountains round, 
 And the forests hear and answer the sound. 
 
 He is come! he is come! do ye not behold 
 His ample robes on the wind unrolled? 
 Giant of air! we bid thee hail! 
 How his gray skirts toss in the whirling 
 
 gale; 
 How his huge and writhing arms are bent 
 To clasp the zone of the firmament, 
 
254 
 
 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 
 
 And fold at length, in their dark embrace, 
 From mountain to mountain the visible 
 space. 
 
 Darker — still darker! the whirlwinds bear 
 The dust of the plains to the middle air; 
 And hark to the crashing, long and loud, 
 Of the chariot of God in the thunder- 
 cloud ! 
 You may trace its path by the flashes that 
 
 start 
 From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, 
 As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, 
 And flood the skies with a lurid glow. 
 
 What roar is that? — 'tis the rain that breaks 
 In torrents away from the airy lakes, 
 Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, 
 And shedding a nameless horror round. 
 Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, 
 
 and skies, 
 With the very clouds! — ye are lost to my 
 
 eyes. 
 I seek ye vainly, and see in your place 
 The shadowy tempest that sweeps through 
 
 space, 
 A whirling ocean that fills the wall 
 Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. 
 And I, cut off from the world, remain 
 Alone with the terrible hurricane. 
 
 Triumph 
 
Great Orations 
 
 The masterpieces of American eloquence and statesmanship are included in this department. 
 
 The selections are particularly adapted to the anniversaries of our Great 
 
 American Statesmen and to all patriotic holidays as well. 
 
 *5* *5* t^* 
 
 McKINLEY'S EULOGY OF LINCOLN. 
 
 IT is not difficult to place a correct esti- 
 mate upon the character of Lincoln. 
 He was the greatest man of his time, es- 
 pecially approved of God for the work He 
 gave him to do. 
 
 "History abundantly proves his superior- 
 ity as a leader, and establishes his constant 
 reliance upon a higher power for guidance 
 and support. 
 
 "The tendency of this age is to exagger- 
 ation, but of Lincoln certainly none have 
 spoken more highly than those who knew 
 him best. 
 
 "The greatest names in American history 
 are Washington and Lincoln. One is for- 
 ever associated with the independence of 
 the states and formation of the Federal 
 Union, the other with the universal free- 
 dom and preservation of that Union. 
 
 "Washington enforced the Declaration of 
 Independence as against England, Lincoln 
 proclaimed its fulfillment, not only to a 
 downtrodden race in America, but to all 
 people, for all those who may seek the pro- 
 tection of our flag. 
 
 "These illustrious men achieved grander 
 results for mankind within a single century 
 — from 1775 to 1865 — than any other men 
 ever accomplished in all the years since 
 first the flight of time began. 
 
 "Washington engaged in no ordinary 
 revolution. With him it was not who should 
 rule, but what should rule. He drew his 
 sword, not for a change of rulers upon an 
 established throne, but to establish a new 
 
 government, which should acknowledge no 
 throne but the tribune of the people. 
 
 "Lincoln accepted war to save the Union, 
 the safeguard of our liberties, and re-es- 
 tablished it on 'indestructible foundations' 
 as forever 'one and indivisible.' 
 
 "To quote his own grand words : 
 
 " 'Now, we are all contending that this 
 nation, under God, shall have a new birth 
 of freedom, and that the government of the 
 people, by the people, for the people, shall 
 not perish upon the earth.' 
 
 "Each lived to accomplish his appointed 
 task. Each received the unbounded grati- 
 tude of the people of his time, and each is 
 held in great and ever-increasing reverence 
 by posterity. 
 
 "The fame of each will never die. It will 
 grow with the ages, because it is based 
 upon imperishable service to humanity — 
 not to the people of a single generation or 
 country, but to the whole human family, 
 wherever scattered, forever. 
 
 "The present generation knows Wash- 
 ington only from history, and by that alone 
 can judge him. 
 
 "Lincoln we know by history also; but 
 thousands are still living who participated 
 in the great events in which he was leader 
 and master. 
 
 "Many of his contemporaries survive 
 him; some > are here yet in almost every 
 locality. So Lincoln is not far removed 
 from us. 
 
 "History has proclaimed them the two 
 
 255 
 
256 
 
 GREAT ORATIONS. 
 
 greatest and best Americans. That verdict 
 has not changed, and will not change, nor 
 can we conceive how the historians of this 
 or any age will ever determine what is so 
 clearly a matter of pure personal opinion 
 as to which of these noble men is entitled 
 to greatest honor and homage from the 
 people of America. 
 
 "Says the gifted Henry Watterson, in a 
 most beautiful, truthful and eloquent trib- 
 ute to the great emancipator: 
 
 " 'Born as lowly as the Son of God, 
 reared in penury and squalor, with no 
 gleam of light nor fair surroundings, it was 
 reserved for this strange being, late in life, 
 without name or fame, or seeming prep- 
 aration, to be snatched from obscurity, 
 raised to supreme command at a supreme 
 moment, and intrusted with the destiny of 
 a nation. 
 
 " 'Where did Shakspere get his genius ? 
 
 Where did Mozart get his music? Whose 
 hand smote the lyre of the Scottish plow- 
 man and staid the life of the German 
 priest? 
 
 " 'God alone, and as surely as these were 
 raised by God, inspired of God was Abra- 
 ham Lincoln; and a thousand years hence 
 no story, no tragedy, no epic poem will be 
 filled with greater wonder than that which 
 tells of his life and death. 
 
 " 'If Lincoln was not inspired of God, 
 then there is no such thing on earth as spe- 
 cial providence or the interposition of di- 
 vine power in the affairs of men.' 
 
 "My fellow citizens, a noble manhood, 
 nobly consecrated to man, never dies. 
 
 "The martyr to liberty, the emancipator 
 of a race, the savior of the only free gov- 
 ernment among men, may be buried from 
 human sight, but his .deeds will live in 
 human gratitude forever." 
 
 ^* &5* ^^ 
 
 LINCOLN'S ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG. 
 
 FOUR score and seven years ago our 
 fathers brought forth on this conti- 
 nent a new nation, conceived in liberty and 
 dedicated to the proposition that all men 
 are created equal. 
 
 Now we are engaged in a great civil 
 war, testing whether that nation, or any 
 nation so conceived and so dedicated, can 
 long endure. We are met on a great bat- 
 tlefield of that war. We have come to 
 dedicate a portion of that field as a final 
 resting place for those who here gave their 
 lives that that nation might live. It is 
 altogether fitting and proper that we should 
 do this. 
 
 But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedi- 
 cate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hal- 
 low this ground. The brave men, living 
 and dead, who struggled here, have conse- 
 
 crated it far above our poor power to add 
 or detract. The world will little note, nor 
 long remember, what we say here, but it 
 can never forget what they did here. It is 
 for us, the living, rather to be dedicated 
 here to the unfinished work which they 
 who fought here have thus far so nobly 
 advanced. It is rather for us to be here 
 dedicated to the great task remaining be- 
 fore us; that from the same honored dead 
 we take increased devotion to that cause for 
 which they gave the last full measure of 
 devotion; that we here highly resolve that 
 these dead should not have died in vain; 
 that this nation, under God, shall have a 
 new birth of freedom, and that government 
 of the people, by the people, for the people, 
 shall not perish from the earth. 
 
 — Abraham Lincoln. 
 
GREAT ORATIONS. 
 
 257 
 
 FROM BLAINE'S ORATION ON GARFIELD. 
 
 (Delivered in the city of Washington, Monday, February 27th, 1882.) 
 
 ON the morning of Saturday, July- 
 second, the President was a con- 
 tented and happy man — not in an ordinary 
 degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly hap- 
 py. On his way to the railroad station, to 
 which he drove slowly, in conscious en- 
 joyment of the beautiful morning, with an 
 unwonted sense of leisure and keen antici- 
 pation of pleasure, his talk was all in the 
 grateful and gratulatory vein. He felt that 
 after four months of trial his administra- 
 tion was strong in its grasp of affairs, 
 strong in popular favor and destined to 
 grow stronger; that grave difficulties con- 
 fronting him at his inauguration had been 
 safely passed ; that trouble lay behind him 
 and not before him ; that he was soon to 
 meet his wife whom he loved, now recov- 
 ering from an illness which had but lately 
 disquieted and at times almost unnerved 
 him ; that he was going to his Alma Mater 
 to renew the most cheerful associations of 
 his young manhood and to exchange greet- 
 ings with those whose deepening interest 
 had followed <w y step of his upward 
 progress from the day he entered upon his 
 college course until he had attained the 
 loftiest elevation in the gift of his country- 
 men. 
 
 Surely, if happiness can ever come from 
 the honors or triumphs of this world, on 
 that quiet July morning James A. Garfield 
 may well have been a happy man. No 
 foreboding of evil haunted him; no slight- 
 est premonition of danger clouded his sky. 
 His terrible fate was upon him in an in- 
 stant. One moment he stood erect, strong, 
 confident in the years stretching peacefully 
 out before him. The next he lay wounded, 
 bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks 
 of torture, to silence and the grave. 
 
 Great in life, he was surpassingly great 
 in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy 
 of wantonness and wickedness, by the red 
 hand of murder, he was thrust from the 
 full tide of this world's interest, from his 
 hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the 
 visible presence of death — and he did not 
 quail. Not alone for the one short moment 
 in which, stunned and dazed, he could give 
 up life hardly aware of its relinquishment, 
 but through days of deadly languor, 
 through weeks of agony, that was not less 
 agony because silently borne, with clear 
 sight and calm courage he looked into his 
 open grave. What blight and ruin met his 
 anguished eyes whose lips may tell — what 
 brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high 
 ambitions, what sundering of strong, 
 warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter 
 rending of sweet household ties! Behind 
 him a proud expectant nation ; a great host 
 of sustaining friends ; a cherished and hap- 
 py mother, wearing the full, rich honors 
 of her early toil and tears ; the wife of his 
 youth, whose whole life lay in his ; the lit- 
 tle boys not yet emerged from childhood's 
 day of frolic; the fair young daughter; 
 the sturdy sons just springing into closest 
 companionship, claiming every day and 
 every day rewarding a father's love and 
 care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing 
 power to meet all demands. Before him, 
 desolation and great darkness ! And his 
 soul was not shaken. His countrymen 
 were thrilled with instant, profound and 
 universal sympathy. Masterful in his mor- 
 tal weakness, he became the center of a 
 nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a 
 world. But all the love and all the sym- 
 pathy could not share with him his suffer- 
 ing. He trod the winepress alone. With 
 
258 
 
 GREAT ORATIONS. 
 
 unfaltering front he faced death. 
 
 With un- 
 
 failing tenderness he took leave of life. 
 Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's 
 bullet he heard the voice of God. With 
 simple resignation he bowed to the Divine 
 decree. 
 
 As the end drew near his early craving 
 for the sea returned. The stately mansion 
 of power had been to him the wearisome 
 hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken 
 from its prison walls, from its oppressive, 
 stifling air, from its homelessness and its 
 hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a 
 great people bore the pale sufferer to the 
 longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to 
 die, as God should will, within sight of its 
 heaving billows, within sound of its mani- 
 
 fold voices. With wan, fevered face ten- 
 derly lifted to the cooling breeze he looked 
 out wistfully upon the ocean's changing 
 wonders ; on its far sails, whitening in the 
 morning light ; on its restless waves, rolling 
 shoreward to break and die beneath the 
 noonday sun ; on the red clouds of evening, 
 arching low to the horizon; on the serene 
 and shining pathway of the stars. Let us 
 think that his dying eyes read a mystic 
 meaning which only the rapt and parting 
 soul may know. Let us believe that in the 
 silence of the receding world he heard the 
 great waves breaking on a farther shore, 
 and felt already upon his wasted brow the 
 breath of the eternal morning. 
 
 t5* t5* t5* 
 
 LINCOLN ON SLAVERY. 
 
 (Delivered at the Republican State Convention at Springfield, 111., in 1858.) 
 
 I BELIEVE this government cannot en- 
 dure permanently half slave and half 
 free. I do not expect the Union to be dis- 
 solved; I do not expect the house to fall; 
 but I do expect that it will cease to be di- 
 vided. It will become all one thing, or all 
 the other. Either the opponents of slavery 
 will arrest the further spread of it, and 
 place it where the public mind shall rest in 
 the belief that it is in the course of ultimate 
 extinction ; or its advocates will push it 
 forward till it shall become alike lawful 
 in all the states, old as well as new, North 
 as well as South. Have we no tendency 
 to the latter condition? Let anyone who 
 doubts carefully contemplate that now al- 
 most complete legal combination piece of 
 machinery, so to speak, compounded of the 
 Nebraska doctrine and the Dred Scott de- 
 cision. Let him consider not only what 
 work the machinery is adapted to do, and 
 how well adapted, but also let him study 
 
 the history of its construction, and trace, 
 if he can, or rather fail, if he can, to trace 
 the evidences of design and concert of 
 action among its chief architects from the 
 beginning." 
 
 During the course of his second inaugu- 
 ral address, delivered on March 4th, 1865, 
 but a short time before his assassination, 
 President Lincoln said: 
 
 "Neither party (North or South) ex- 
 pected for the war the magnitude or the 
 duration which it has already attained. 
 Neither anticipated that the cause of the 
 conflict might cease when, or even before 
 the conflict itself should cease. Each looked 
 for an easier triumph, and a result less 
 fundamental and astounding. Both read 
 the same Bible and pray to the same God, 
 and each invokes His aid against the other. 
 It may seem strange that any men should 
 dare to ask a just God's assistance in 
 wringing their bread from the sweat of 
 
GREAT ORATIONS. 
 
 259 
 
 other men's faces ; but let us judge not, that 
 we be not judged. The prayer of both 
 could not be answered. That of neither has 
 been answered fully. The Almighty has 
 His own purposes. 'Woe unto the world 
 because of offenses, for it must needs be 
 that offenses come, but woe to that man by 
 whom the offense cometh.' If we shall 
 suppose that American slavery is one of 
 those offenses which, in the providence of 
 God, must needs come, but which having 
 continued through His appointed time, He 
 now wills' to remove, and that He gives 
 to both North and South this terrible war 
 as the woe due to those by whom the of- 
 fense came — shall we discern there any de- 
 parture from those divine attributes which 
 the believers in a living God always ascribe 
 to Him ? Fondly do we hope, fervently do 
 we pray, that this mighty scourge of war 
 
 may speedily pass away. Yet if God wills 
 that it continue until all the wealth piled 
 by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty 
 years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and 
 until every drop of blood drawn with the 
 lash shall be paid by another drawn with 
 the sword; as was said three thousand 
 years ago, so still it must be said, that 'the 
 judgments of the Lord are true and right- 
 eous altogether.' 
 
 "With malice toward none, with charity 
 for all, with firmness in the right as God 
 gives us to see the right, let us finish the 
 work we are in, to bind up the nation's 
 wounds, to care for him who shall have 
 borne the battle, and for his widow and his 
 orphans, to do all which may achieve and 
 cherish a just and a lasting peace among 
 ourselves and with all nations." 
 
 (■?• «i5* t5* 
 
 CONKLING'S EULOGY OF GRANT. 
 
 W 
 
 (Nominating General Grant for President at 
 HEN asked what State he hails 
 from, 
 Our sole reply shall be, 
 He comes from Appomattox, 
 And its famous apple tree." 
 
 Continuing Senator Conkling said: 
 
 "New York is for Ulysses S. Grant. 
 Never defeated in peace or in war, his name 
 is the most illustrious borne by living man. 
 
 "His services attest his greatness, and 
 the country — nay, the world — knows them 
 by heart. His fame was earned not alone 
 in things written and said, but by the ardu- 
 ous greatness of things done. And perils 
 and emergencies will search in vain in the 
 future, as they have searched in vain in 
 the past, for any other on whom the nation 
 leans with such confidence and trust. Never 
 
 the Republican National Convention of 1880.) 
 
 having had a policy to enforce against the 
 will of the people, he never betrayed a 
 cause or a friend, and the people will never 
 desert or betray him. * * * 
 
 "His integrity, his common sense, his 
 courage, his unequaled experience, are the 
 qualities offered to his country. The only 
 argument, the only one that the wit of man 
 or the stress of politics has devised is one 
 which would dumfounder Solomon, because 
 he thought there was nothing new under 
 the sun. Having tried Grant twice and 
 found him faithful, we are told that we 
 must not, even after an interval of years, 
 trust him again. My countrymen! my 
 countrymen ! what stultification does not 
 such a fallacy involve! * * * 
 
 "He was the arch-preserver of his coun- 
 try, and not only in war, but twice as Civil 
 
260 
 
 GREAT ORATIONS. 
 
 Magistrate, he gave his highest, noblest ef- 
 forts to the Republic. Is this an election- 
 eering juggle, or is it hypocrisy's masquer- 
 ade? There is no field of human activity, 
 responsibility, or reason in which rational 
 beings object to an agent because he has 
 been weighed in the balance and not found 
 wanting. There is, I say, no department of 
 human reason in which sane men reject an 
 agent because he has had experience, mak- 
 ing him exceptionally competent and fit. 
 From the man who shoes your horse, to the 
 lawyer who tries your case, the officer who 
 manages your railway or your mill, the 
 doctor into whose hands you give your life, 
 or the minister who seeks to save your 
 
 soul, what man do you reject because by 
 his works you have known him and found 
 him faithful and fit? 
 
 "What makes the presidential office an 
 exception to all things else in the common 
 sense to be applied to selecting its incum- 
 bent? Who dares — who dares to put fet- 
 ters on that free choice and judgment 
 which is the birthright of the American 
 people ? Can it be said that Grant has used 
 official power and place to perpetuate his 
 term ? He has no place, and official power 
 has not been used for him. * * * 
 
 "This convention is master of a supreme 
 opportunity." 
 
 *5* &5* '3* 
 
 BIRTH OF THE NEW SOUTH. 
 
 (Delivered before the New England Society of New York in 1886.) 
 
 THERE was a South of slavery and se- 
 cession — that South is dead. There 
 is a South of union and freedom — that 
 South, thank God, is living, breathing, 
 growing every hour." These words, deliv- 
 ered from the immortal lips of Benjamin 
 H. Hill, at Tammany Hall, in 1866, true 
 
 then, and truer now, I shall make my text. 
 * * * 
 
 We of the South have found out that in 
 the general summary the free negro counts 
 more than he did as a slave. We have 
 planted the schoolhouse on the hill top and 
 made it free to white and black. We have 
 sowed towns and cities in the place of 
 theories, and put business above politics. 
 We have challenged your spinners in Mas- 
 sachusetts and your ironmakers in Penn- 
 sylvania. We have learned that $400,000,- 
 000 annually received from our cotton crop 
 will make us rich, when the supplies that 
 make it are home-raised. * * * We 
 have established thrift in the city and coun- 
 
 try. We have fallen in love with work. 
 We have restored comfort to homes from 
 which culture and elegance never departed. 
 We have let economy take root and spread 
 among us as rank as the crab grass which 
 sprung from Sherman's cavalry camps, un- 
 til we are ready to lay odds on the Georgia 
 Yankee, as he manufactures relics of the 
 battlefield in a one-story shanty and 
 squeezes pure olive oil out of his cotton 
 seed, against any down-easter that ever 
 swapped wooden nutmegs for flannel sau- 
 sages in the valley of Vermont. 
 
 Above all, we know that we have 
 achieved, in these "piping times of peace," 
 a fuller independence for the South than 
 that which our fathers sought to win in the 
 forum by their eloquence, or compel on the 
 field by their swords. * * * 
 
 But what of the negro ? Have we solved 
 the problem he presents, or progressed in 
 honor and equity toward the solution ? Let 
 the record speak to the point. No section 
 
GREAT ORATIONS. 
 
 261 
 
 shows a more prosperous laboring popula- 
 tion than the negroes of the South ; none 
 in fuller sympathy with the employing and 
 land-owning class.. He shares our school 
 fund, has the fullest protection of our laws, 
 and the friendship of our people. Self-in- 
 terest, as well as honor, demand that they 
 should have this. Our future, our very 
 existence, depends upon our working out 
 this problem in full and exact justice. We 
 understand that when Lincoln signed the 
 
 Emancipation Proclamation, your victory 
 was assured; for he then committed you 
 to the cause of human liberty, against 
 which the arms of man cannot prevail; 
 while those of our statesmen who trusted 
 to make slavery the corner stone of the 
 Confederacy doomed us to defeat as far as 
 they could, committing us to a cause that 
 reason could not defend or the sword main- 
 tain in the sight of advancing civilization. 
 — Henry W. Grady. 
 
 (■?• e5* *5* 
 
 THE CHARACTER AND WORK OF GLADSTONE. 
 
 (Delivered in the Canadian Hou 
 
 MR. SPEAKER:— Everybody in this 
 House will, I think, agree that it is 
 eminently fitting and proper that in the uni- 
 versal expression of regret which ascends 
 towards heaven from all parts of the civil- 
 ized world we also should join our voice 
 and testify to the very high sense of re- 
 spect, admiration, and veneration which the 
 entire people of Canada, irrespective of 
 creed, or race, or party, entertain for the 
 memory of the great man who has just 
 closed his earthly career. 
 
 England has lost the most illustrious of 
 her sons; but the loss is not England's 
 alone, nor is it confined to the great em- 
 pire which acknowledges England's suze- 
 rainty, nor even to the proud race which can 
 claim kinship with the people of England. 
 The loss is the loss of mankind. Mr. Glad- 
 stone gave his whole life to his country; 
 but the work which he did for his coun- 
 try was conceived and carried out on prin- 
 ciples of such high elevation, for purposes 
 so noble and aims so lofty, that not his 
 country alone, but the whole of mankind, 
 benefited by his work. It is no exaggera- 
 tion to say that he has raised the standard 
 of civilization, and the world to-day is un- 
 
 se of Commons, May 26, 1898.) 
 
 doubtedly better for both the example and 
 the precept of his life. His death is 
 mourned, not only by England, the land of 
 his birth, not only by Scotland, the land of 
 his ancestors, not only by Ireland, for 
 whom he did so much, and attempted to 
 do more ; but also by the people of the two 
 Sicilies, for whose outraged rights he once 
 aroused the conscience of Europe ; by the 
 people of the Ionian Islands, whose inde- 
 pendence he secured ; by the people of Bul- 
 garia and Danubian provinces, in whose 
 cause he enlisted the sympathy of his own 
 native, country. Indeed, since the days of 
 Napoleon, no man has lived whose name 
 has traveled so far and so wide over the 
 surface of the earth; no man has lived 
 whose name alone so deeply moved the 
 hearts of so many millions of men. Where- 
 as Napoleon impressed his tremendous per- 
 sonality upon peoples far and near by the 
 strange fascination which the genius of 
 war has always exercised over the imag- 
 ination of men in all lands and in all ages, 
 the name of Gladstone had come to be, in 
 the minds of all civiLzed nations, the liv- 
 ing incarnation of right against might — the 
 champion, the dauntless, tireless champion, 
 
263 
 
 GREAT ORATIONS. 
 
 of the oppressed against the oppressor. It 
 is, I believe, equally true to say that he 
 was the most marvelous mental organiza- 
 tion which the world has seen since Napo- 
 leon — certainly the most compact, the most 
 active, and the most universal. 
 
 This last half century in which we live 
 has produced many able and strong men, 
 who, in different walks of life, have at- 
 tracted the attention of the world at large ; 
 but of the men who have illustrated this 
 age, it seems to me that in the eyes of 
 posterity four will outlive and outshine the 
 others — Cavour, Lincoln, Bismarck, and 
 Gladstone. If we look simply at the mag- 
 nitude of the results obtained, compared 
 with the exiquity of the resources at com- 
 mand — if we remember that out of the 
 small kingdom of Sardinia grew the United 
 Italy — we must come to the conclusion that 
 Count Cavour was undoubtedly a states- 
 man of marvelous skill and prescience. 
 Abraham Lincoln, unknown to fame when 
 he was elected to the presidency, exhibited 
 a power for the government of men which 
 scarcely has been surpassed in any age. 
 He saved the American Union, he fran- 
 chised the black race, and for the task he 
 had to perform he was endowed in some 
 respects almost miraculously. No man ever 
 displayed a greater insight into the mo- 
 tives, the complex motives, which shape the 
 public opinion of a free country, and he 
 possessed almost to the degree of an in- 
 stinct the supreme quality in a statesman 
 
 of taking the right decision, taking it at 
 the right moment, and expressing it in lan- 
 guage of incomparable felicity. 
 
 As a statesman, it was the good fortune 
 of Mr. Gladstone that his career was not 
 associated with war. The reforms which 
 he effected, the triumphs which he achieved, 
 were not won by the supreme arbitrament 
 of the sword. The reforms which he ef- 
 fected and the triumphs which he achieved 
 were the result of his power of persuasion 
 over his fellowmen. The reforms which 
 he achieved in many ways amounted to a 
 revolution. They changed in many partic- 
 ulars, the face of the realm. After Sir 
 Robert Peel had adopted the great princi- 
 ple which eventually carried England from 
 protection to free trade, it was Mr. Glad- 
 stone who created the financial system 
 which has been admitted ever since by all 
 students of finance as the secret of Great 
 Britain's commercial success. He enforced 
 the extension of the suffrage to the masses 
 of the nation, and practically there he made 
 the government of monarchical England as 
 democratic as that of any republic. He 
 disestablished the Irish Church; he intro- 
 duced reform into the land tenure, and 
 brought hope into the breasts of those til- 
 lers of the soil in Ireland who had for so 
 many generations labored in despair. And 
 all this he did, not by force or violence, but 
 simply by the power of his eloquence and 
 the strength of his personality. 
 
 — Sir Wilfrid Lanrier. 
 St 
 
 GRANT'S HERITAGE. 
 
 (From an oration delivered at Galena, 111., on the seventy-eighth anniversary of the birth- 
 day of General Grant.) 
 
 IN the long run every great nation 
 instinctively recognizes the man who 
 peculiarly and pre-eminently represents its 
 own type. Here in our country we have 
 
 had many public men of the first rank — sol- 
 diers, orators, constructive statesmen and 
 popular leaders. We have also had great 
 philosophers who were also leaders of 
 
GREAT ORATIONS. 
 
 263 
 
 popular thought. Each one of these men 
 has had his own group of devoted follow- 
 ers, and some of them have at times swayed 
 the nation with a power such as the fore- 
 most of all hardly wielded. Yet as the gen- 
 erations slip away, as the dust of conflict 
 settles and as through the clearing air we 
 look back with keener vision into the na- 
 tion's past, mightiest among the mighty 
 dead loom the three great figures of Wash- 
 ington, Lincoln and Grant. There are 
 great men also in the second rank; for in 
 any gallery of merely national heroes, 
 Franklin and Hamilton, Jefferson and Jack- 
 son, would surely have their place. But 
 these three greatest men have taken their 
 place among the great men of all nations, 
 the great men of all times. They stood 
 supreme in the two great crises of our coun- 
 try, on the two great occasions when we 
 stood in the van of all humanity and struck 
 the most effective blows that have even been 
 struck for the cause of human freedom un- 
 der the law. 
 
 Washington fought in the earlier strug- 
 gle, and it was his good fortune to win the 
 highest renown alike as soldier and states- 
 man. In the second and even greater strug- 
 gle, the deeds of Lincoln, the statesman, 
 were made good by those of Grant, the 
 soldier, and later Grant himself took up the 
 work that dropped from Lincoln's tired 
 hands when the assassin's bullet went home 
 and the sad, patient, kindly eyes were closed 
 forever. 
 
 Grant and his fellow soldiers who fought 
 through the war, and his fellow statesmen 
 who completed the work partly done by the 
 soldiers, not only left us the heritage of a 
 reunited country, and of a land from which 
 slavery had been banished, but left us what 
 was quite as important, the great memory 
 of their great deeds, to serve forever as an 
 example and an inspiration, to spur us on 
 
 so that we may not fall far below the level 
 reached by our fathers. The rough, strong 
 poet of democracy has sung of Grant as 
 the man of mighty days, and equal to the 
 days. The days are less mighty now ; and 
 that is all the more reason why we should 
 show ourselves equal to them. 
 
 We meet here to pay homage to the 
 memory of our illustrious dead ; and let us 
 keep ever clear before our minds the fa'ct 
 that mere lip loyalty is no loyalty at all, and 
 that the only homage that counts is tfie 
 homage of deeds, not words. It is but an 
 idle waste of time to celebrate the memory 
 of the dead, unless we, the living, in our 
 lives, strive to show ourselves not unworthy 
 of them. If the careers of Washington and 
 Grant are not vital and full of meaning to 
 us, if they are merely part of the storied 
 past, and stir us to no eager emulation in 
 the ceaseless, endless war for right against 
 wrong, then the root of right thinking is not 
 in us ; and where we do not think right we 
 can not act right. I shall ask attention, not 
 to Grant's life, but to the lessons taught by 
 that life as we of to-day should learn them. 
 
 Foremost of all, the lesson of tenacity, of 
 stubborn fixity of purpose. In the Union 
 armies there were generals as brilliant as 
 Grant, but none with his iron determination. 
 This quality he showed as President no less 
 than as general. He was no more to be 
 influenced by a hostile majority in Con- 
 gress than he was to be influenced by check 
 or repulse into releasing his grip on be- 
 leagured Richmond. 
 
 Grant's supreme virtue as a soldier was 
 his "doggedness" — the quality which found 
 expression in his famous phrases, uncon- 
 ditional surrender and "fighting it out on 
 this line if it takes all summer." He was a 
 master of strategy and tactics, but he was 
 also a master of hard hitting, of that "con- 
 tinuous hammering" which finally broke 
 
2G4 
 
 GREAT ORATIONS. 
 
 through even Lee's guard. While an armed 
 foe was in the field it never occurred to 
 Grant that any question could be so im- 
 portant as his overthrow. 
 
 Grant was no lover of fighting for fight- 
 ing's sake. He was a plain, quiet man, not 
 seeking for glory; but a man who, when 
 aroused, was always in deadly earnest and 
 who never shrank from duty. He was al- 
 ways slow to strike, but he never struck 
 softly. His promise squared with his per- 
 formance. His deeds made good his words. 
 He did not denounce an evil in strained 
 and hyperbolic language ; but when he did 
 denounce it he strove to make his denuncia- 
 tion effective by his action ; he did not 
 plunge lightly into war, but once in he saw 
 the war through, and when it was over it 
 was over entirely. Unsparing in battle, he 
 was very merciful in victory. There was no 
 let-up in his grim attack, his grim pursuit, 
 until the last body of armed foes surrend- 
 ered. But, that feat once accomplished, his 
 first thought was for the valiant defeated — 
 to let them take back their horses to their lit- 
 tle homes, because they would use them to 
 work on their farms. Grant, the cham- 
 pion whose sword was sharpest in the great 
 fight for liberty, was no less sternly insistent 
 upon the need or order of obedience to law. 
 No stouter foe of anarchy in every form 
 ever lived within our borders. 
 
 Grant, in short, stood for the great ele- 
 mentary virtues — for justice, for freedom, 
 for order, for unyielding resolution, for 
 manliness in its broadest and highest sense. 
 
 His greatness was not so much greatness of 
 intellect as greatness of character; includ- 
 ing in the word character all the strong, 
 virile virtues. It is character that counts 
 in a nation as in a man. It is a good thing 
 to have a clean, fine intellectual develop- 
 ment in a nation, to produce orators, artists, 
 successful business men ; but it is an 
 infinitely greater thing to have those solid 
 qualities which we group together under 
 the name of character — sobriety, steadfast- 
 ness — the sense of obligation towards one's 
 neighbor and one's God, hard commonsense, 
 and combined with it the gift of generous 
 enthusiasm towards whatever is right. 
 These are the qualities which go to make 
 up true national greatness, and these were 
 the qualities which Grant possessed to an 
 eminent degree. 
 
 To do our duty, that is the sum and sub- 
 stance of the whole matter. Not trying to 
 win glory, not trying to do anything bril- 
 liant or unusual, setting ourselves vigor- 
 ously at each task as the task arises, and try- 
 ing to face each difficulty as Grant faced 
 innumerable and eminently greater difficul- 
 ties. The sure way to succeed is to set 
 about our work in the spirit that marked 
 the great soldier whose life we this day 
 celebrate; the spirit of devotion to duty, of 
 determination to deal fairly, justly and fear- 
 lessly with all men, and of iron resolution 
 never to abandon any task once begun until 
 it has been brought to a successful and tri- 
 umphant conclusion. 
 
 — Theodore Roosevelt 
 
The selections in this department have been made with a view of impressing upon the minds 
 of all hearers the lessons of temperance by picturing the happiness and pros- 
 perity of abstainers and the misery and poverty of drunkards. 
 
 THE BRIDAL PLEDGE. 
 
 ( ( F) LEDGE with wine — pledge with 
 1 wine!" cried the young and 
 thoughtless Harry Wood. 
 
 "Pledge with wine," ran through the 
 brilliant crowd. 
 
 The beautiful bride grew pale — the de- 
 cisive hour had come, she pressed her 
 white hands together, and the leaves of 
 her bridal wreath trembled on her pure 
 brow; her breath came quicker, her heart 
 beat wilder. 
 
 "Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples 
 for this once," said the Judge, in a low 
 tone, going towards his daughter, "the 
 company expect it; do not so seriously 
 infringe upon the rules of etiquette; — in 
 your own house act as you please; but in 
 mine, for this once please me." 
 
 Every eye was turned towards the 
 bridal pair. Marion's principles were 
 well known. Henry had been a con- 
 vivialist, but of late his friends noticed the 
 change in his manners, the difference in 
 his habits — and to-night they watched him 
 to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was 
 tied down to a woman's opinion so soon. 
 
 Pouring a brimming beaker, they held 
 it with tempting smiles toward Marion. 
 She was very pale, though more com- 
 posed, and her hand shook not, as smiling 
 back, she gratefully accepted the crystal 
 tempter and raised it to her lips. But 
 scarcely had she done so, when every 
 hand was arrested by her piercing excla- 
 mation of, "Oh, how terrible!" "What 
 
 265 
 
 is it?" cried one and all, thronging 
 together, for she had slowly carried the 
 glass at arm's length, and was fixedly 
 regarding it as though it were some 
 hideous object. 
 
 "Wait," she answered, while an inspired 
 light shone from her dark eyes, "wait, 
 and I will tell you. I see," she added, 
 slowly pointing one jeweled finger at the 
 sparkling ruby liquid, "a sight that beg- 
 gars all description; and yet listen; I will 
 paint it for you if I can: It is a lonely 
 spot; tall mountains, crowned with ver- 
 dure, rise in awful sublimity around; a 
 river runs through, and bright flowers 
 grow to the water's edge. There is a 
 thick, warm mist that the sun seeks 
 vainly to pierce; trees, lofty and beauti- 
 ful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; 
 but there, a group of Indians gather; 
 they flit to and fro with something like 
 sorrow upon their dark brow; and in their 
 midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, 
 how deathly! his eye wild with the fitful 
 fire of fever. One friend stands beside 
 him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is 
 pillowing that poor head upon his breast. 
 
 "Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy 
 looking brow! Why should death mark 
 it, and he so young? Look how he 
 throws the damp curls! See him clasp 
 his hands! hear his thrilling shrieks for 
 life! mark how he clutches at the form of 
 his companion, imploring to be saved. 
 Oh! hear him call piteously his father's 
 
:gg 
 
 TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 
 
 name; see him twine his fingers together 
 as he shrieks for his sister — his only 
 sister — the twin of his soul — weeping -for 
 him in his distant native land. 
 
 "See!" she exclaimed, while the bridal 
 party shrank back, the untasted wine 
 trembling in their faltering grasp, and the 
 Judge fell, overpowered, upon his seat; 
 "see! his arms are lifted to heaven; he 
 prays, how wildly, for mercy! hot fever 
 rushes through his veins. The friend 
 beside him is weeping; awe-stricken, the 
 dark' men move silently, and leave the 
 living and dying together." 
 
 There was a hush in that princely 
 parlor, broken only by what seemed a 
 smothered sob, from some manly bosom. 
 The bride stood yet upright, with quiver- 
 ing lip, and tears stealing to the outward 
 edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm 
 had lost its tension, and the glass, with its 
 little troubled red waves, came slowly 
 towards the range of her vision. She 
 spoke again; every lip was mute. Her 
 voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct; 
 she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon 
 the wine-cup. 
 
 "It is evening now; the great white 
 moon is coming up, and her beams lie 
 gently on his forehead. He moves not; 
 his eyes are set in their sockets; dim are 
 their piercing glances; in vain his friend 
 whispers the name of father and sister — 
 death is there. Death! and no soft hand, 
 no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. 
 His head sinks back! one convulsive 
 shudder! he is dead!" 
 
 A groan ran through the assembly, so 
 vivid was her description, so unearthly 
 her look, so inspired her manner, that 
 what she described seemed actually to 
 have taken place then and there. They 
 noticed, also, that the bridegroom hid his 
 face in his hands and was weeping. 
 
 "Dead!" she repeated again, her lips 
 quivering faster and faster, and her voice 
 more and more broken; "and there they 
 scoop him a grave; and there, without a 
 shroud, they lay him down in the damp, 
 reeking earth. The only son of a proud 
 father, the only idolized brother of a fond 
 sister. And he sleeps to-day in that dis- 
 tant country, with no stone to mark the 
 spot. There he lies — my father's son — 
 my own twin brother! a victim to this, 
 deadly poison. Father," she exclaimed, 
 turning suddenly, while the tears rained 
 down her beautiful cheeks, "father, shall 
 I drink it now?" 
 
 The form of the old Judge was con- 
 vulsed with agony. He raised his head, 
 but in a smothered voice he faltered — 
 "No, no, my child, in God's name, no." 
 
 She lifted the glittering goblet, and let- 
 ting it suddenly fall to the floor it was 
 dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a 
 tearful eye watched her movements, and 
 instantaneously every wine-glass was 
 transferred to the marble table on which 
 it had been prepared. Then, as she 
 looked at the fragments of crystal, she 
 turned to the company, saying: "Let no 
 friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt 
 me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer 
 the everlasting hills than my resolve, God 
 helping me, never to touch or taste that 
 terrible poison. And he to whom I have 
 given my hand; who watched over my 
 brother's dying form in that last solemn 
 hour, and buried the dear wanderer there 
 by the river in that land of gold, will, I 
 trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will 
 you not, my husband?" 
 
 His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet 
 smile, was her answer. 
 
 The Judge left the room, and when, an 
 hour later, he returned, and with a more 
 subdued manner took part in the enter- 
 
TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 
 
 261 
 
 tainment of the bridal guests, no one 
 could fail to read that he, too, had 
 determined to dash the enemy at once 
 and forever from his princely rooms. 
 
 Those who were present at that wed- 
 ding can never forget the impression so 
 solemnly made. Many from that hour for- 
 swore the social glass. 
 
 t?* ^w t2& 
 
 DRINK AND DIE. 
 
 (By a young lady, who was told that she was a monomaniac in her hatred of 
 
 alcoholic liquors.) 
 
 GO, feel what I have felt, 
 Go, bear what I have borne; 
 Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt, 
 And the cold, proud world's scorn; 
 Thus struggle on from year to year, 
 Thy sole relief the scalding tear. 
 
 Go, weep as I have wept 
 
 O'er a loved father's fall; 
 See every cherished promise swept, 
 Youth's sweetness turned to gall; 
 Hope's faded flowers strewn all the way 
 That led me up to woman's day. 
 
 Go, kneel as I have knelt; 
 
 Implore, beseech, and pray, 
 Strive the besotted heart to melt, 
 The downward course to stay; 
 Be cast with bitter curse aside — 
 Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. 
 
 Go, stand where I have stood, 
 
 And see the strong marf bow, 
 With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in 
 blood, 
 And cold and livid brow; 
 Go, catch his wandering glance, and see 
 There mirrored his soul's misery. 
 
 Go, hear what I have heard — 
 
 The sobs of sad despair, 
 As memory's feeling-fount hath stirred, 
 And its revealings there 
 Have told him what he might have been, 
 Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. 
 
 Go to a mother's side, 
 
 And her crushed spirit cheer; 
 Thine own deep anguish hide, 
 Wipe from her cheek the tear; 
 Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, 
 The gray that streaks her dark hair now, 
 The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb, 
 And trace the ruin back to him 
 Whose plighted faith, in early youth, 
 Promised eternal love and truth, 
 But who, forsworn, hath yielded up 
 This promise to the deadly cup, 
 And led her down from love and light, 
 From all that made her pathway bright, 
 And chained her there 'mid want and strife, 
 That lowly thing — a drunkard's wife! 
 And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild, 
 That withering blight — a drunkard's child! 
 
 Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know 
 
 All that my soul hath felt and known, 
 Then look within the wine-cup's glow; 
 See if its brightness can atone; 
 Think if its flavor you would try, 
 If all proclaimed — 'Tis drink and die! 
 
 Tell me I hate the bowl — 
 
 Hate is a feeble word; 
 I loathe, abhor — my very soul 
 By strong disgust is stirred 
 Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell 
 Of the DARK BEVERAGE OF HELL! 
 
2G8 
 
 TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 
 
 "GOOD NIGHT, PAPA." 
 
 THE words of a blue-eyed child as she 
 kissed her chubby hand and looked 
 down the stairs: "Good-night, papa; Jessie 
 see you in the morning." 
 
 It came to be a settled thing, and every 
 evening, as the mother slipped the white 
 night-gown over the plump shoulders, the 
 little one stopped on the stairs and sang 
 out, "Good-night, papa," and as the father 
 heard the silvery accents of the child, he 
 came, and taking the cherub in his arms, 
 kissed her tenderly, while the mother's 
 eyes filled, and a swift prayer went up, for, 
 strange to say, this man who loved his 
 child with all the warmth of his great, 
 noble nature, had one fault to mar his 
 manliness. From his youth he loved the 
 wine-cup. Genial in spirit, and with a fas- 
 cination of manner that won him friends, 
 he could not resist when surrounded by his 
 boon companions. Thus his home was 
 darkened, the heart of his wife bruised and 
 bleeding, the future of his child shadowed. 
 
 Three years had the winsome prattle of 
 the baby crept into the avenues of the 
 father's heart, keeping him closer to his 
 home, but still the fatal cup was in his 
 hand. Alas for frail humanity, insensible 
 to the calls of love! With unutterable 
 tenderness God saw there was no other 
 way; this father was dear to him, the 
 purchase of His Son; He could not see 
 him perish, and calling a swift messenger, 
 He said, "Speed thee to earth and bring 
 the babe." 
 
 "Good-night, papa," sounded from the 
 stairs. What was there in the voice? was 
 it the echo of the mandate, "Bring me the 
 babe"? — a silvery plaintive sound, a linger- 
 ing music that touched the father's heart, 
 as when a cloud crosses the sun. "Good- 
 night, my darling;" but his lips quivered 
 and his broad brow grew pale. "Is Jessie 
 
 sick, mother? Her cheeks are flushed, and 
 her eyes have a strange light." 
 
 "Not sick," and the mother stooped to 
 kiss the flushed brow; "she may have 
 played too much. Pet is not sick?" 
 
 "Jessie tired, mamma; good-night, papa; 
 Jessie see you in the morning." 
 
 "That is all, she is only tired," said the 
 mother as she took the small hand. An- 
 other kiss and the father turned away; but 
 his heart was not satisfied. 
 
 Sweet lullabies were sung; but Jessie 
 was restless and could not sleep. "Tell me 
 a story mamma;" and the mother told of 
 the blessed babe that Mary cradled, fol- 
 lowing along the story till the child had 
 grown to walk and play. The blue, wide- 
 open eyes filled with a strange light, as 
 though she saw and comprehended more 
 than the mother knew. 
 
 That night the father did not visit the 
 saloon; tossing on his bed, starting from 
 a feverish sleep and bending over the crib, 
 the long, weary hours passed. Morning 
 revealed the truth — Jessie was smitten with 
 a fever. 
 
 "Keep her quiet," the doctor said; "a 
 few days of good nursing, and she will be 
 all right." 
 
 Words easy said; but the father saw a 
 look on the sweet face such as he had seen 
 before. He knew the message was at the 
 door. 
 
 Night came. "Jessie is sick; can't say 
 good-night, papa;" and the little clasping 
 fingers clung to the father's hand. 
 
 "O God, spare her! I cannot, cannot 
 bear it!" was wrung from his suffering 
 heart. 
 
 Days passed; the mother was tireless in 
 her watching. With her babe cradled in 
 her arms her heart was slow to take in the 
 
TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 
 
 269 
 
 truth, doing her best to solace the father's 
 heart: "A light case! the doctor says, 'Pet 
 will soon be well.' " 
 
 Calmly as one who knows his doom, the 
 father laid his hand upon the hot brow, 
 looked into the eyes even then covered 
 with the film of death, and with all the 
 strength of his manhood cried, "Spare her, 
 O God! spare my child, and I will follow 
 Thee." 
 
 With a last painful effort the parched 
 lips opened: "Jessie's too sick; can't say 
 good-night, papa — in the morning." There 
 was a convulsive shudder, and the clasp- 
 
 ing fingers relaxed their hold; the messen- 
 ger had taken the child. 
 
 Months have passed. Jessie's crib stands 
 by the side of her father's couch; her blue 
 embroidered dress and white hat hang in 
 his closet; her boots with the print of the 
 feet just as she last wore them, as sacred 
 in his eyes as they are in the mother's. 
 Not dead, but merely risen to a higher 
 life; while, sounding down from the upper 
 stairs, "Good-night, papa, Jessie see you in 
 the morning," has been the means of win- 
 ning to a better way one who had shown 
 himself deaf to every former call. 
 
 
 COUNTING THE COST. 
 
 (A glass of wine may be held in the hand 
 and then dashed 
 
 SUPPOSE the young man who holds 
 the first glass of intoxicating liquor 
 in his hands were to hold it there for five 
 minutes, counting the cost of a burning 
 brain; counting the cost of a palsied hand; 
 counting the cost of a staggering step; 
 counting the cost of broken hearts and of 
 tear-stained pillows; counting the cost of 
 a blighted home; counting the cost of the 
 
 up to the words "slow poison of death," 
 to the floor.) 
 
 self-respect which oozes out at the finger 
 tips as they clasp the sparkling curse; 
 counting the cost of the degradation and 
 disgrace of a ruined body and a lost soul. 
 What young man could soberly count the 
 cost of that one step, and not be strength- 
 ened against the temptation to sip the slow 
 poison of death? 
 
 
 TEMPERANCE SPEECH. 
 
 I WISH to say a few words on temper- 
 ance. I suppose you'll say the sub- 
 ject is too deep for boys, and that this 
 speech is altogether too old for me. Now, 
 I will be honest with you, and say, in the 
 first place, that these are not my words, or, 
 rather, the thoughts are not really mine; 
 but it is what I think of other people's 
 thoughts. And as for the subject being too 
 deep for me, that is all mere nonsense. 
 Small as I am, I have seen people drunk 
 
 a great many times. And they are not 
 men alone; I have seen women and chil- 
 dren drunk, more than once; and every 
 time I see it, I feel sorry. 
 
 When I see men going into a lager beer 
 saloon, day after day, or women carrying 
 home liquor in a pitcher or bottle, then I 
 think of the time when I saw them drunk 
 on the sidewalk, or quarreling with a 
 lamp-post, or staggering home to beat 
 their wife or children, and I know that 
 
270 
 
 TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 
 
 one is the beginning of the other. That 
 is not what somebody else says; for I 
 know that of myself. 
 
 I have been to temperance meetings 
 some, and have heard about the best 
 means of promoting the cause of temper- 
 ance — and they tell about taking away the 
 liberty of the people! I confess, I don't 
 understand this; but I want to; for I 
 want to be intelligent enough to vote one 
 of these days, which some men are not, 
 they say. But I'm going to tell you what 
 I think about it, from what I do know. I 
 think it is a strange liberty that men want 
 — liberty to get drunk, and reel around 
 the streets, and frighten children, and be 
 made fun of by the boys, and to go home 
 
 at two o'clock in the morning, and get into 
 bed with their boots on and not know the 
 difference. 
 
 Then, they say it is no sin to drink, but 
 it is a sin to get drunk. Now, my father 
 and mother teach me that it is just as 
 wrong to steal a pin as to steal money, 
 and they would punish me just the same 
 for it. If it is a sin to drink ten glasses of 
 whisky and get drunk, it is a sin to drink 
 one glass; for some people can get more 
 tipsy, disagreeable and dangerous on one 
 glass than if they drank many and grew 
 helplessly drunk. Take a boy's advice and 
 don't touch it yourself and don't sell or 
 give it to others. 
 
 t5* t5* *5* 
 
 I HAVE DRANK MY LAST GLASS. 
 
 N' 
 
 0, comrades, I thank you — not any for 
 me; 
 My last chain is riven — henceforward I'm 
 
 free! 
 I will go to my home and my children to- 
 night 
 With no fumes of liquor, their spirits to 
 
 blight ; 
 And, with tears in my eyes, I will beg my 
 
 poor wife 
 To forgive me the wreck I have made of 
 
 her life. 
 / have never refused you before ? Let that 
 
 pass, 
 
 For I've drank my last glass, boys, 
 I have drank my last glass. 
 
 Just look at me now, boys, in rags and dis- 
 grace, 
 
 With my bleared, haggard eyes, and my red, 
 bloated face; 
 
 Mark my faltering step and my weak 
 palsied hand, 
 
 And the mark on my brow that is worse 
 
 than Cain's brand ; 
 See my crownless old hat, and my elbows 
 
 and knees, 
 Alike, warmed by the sun, or chilled by the 
 
 breeze. 
 Why, even the children will hoot as I 
 
 pass ; — 
 
 But I've drank my last glass, boys, 
 I have drank my last glass. 
 
 You would hardly believe, boys, to look at 
 
 me now 
 That a mother's soft hand was pressed on 
 
 my brow — 
 When she kissed me, and blessed me, her 
 
 darling, her pride, — 
 Ere she laid down to rest by my dead 
 
 father's side: 
 But with love in her eyes, she looked up to 
 
 the sky, 
 Bidding me meet her there, and whispered 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
TEMPEEANGE SELECTIONS. 
 
 $71 
 
 And I'll do it, God heiping ! Your smile I 
 let pass, 
 
 For I've drank my last glass, boys, 
 I have drank my last glass. 
 
 Ah! I reeled home last night — it was not 
 
 very late, 
 For I'd spent my last sixpence, and land- 
 lords won't wait 
 On a fellow, who's left every cent in their 
 
 till, 
 And has pawned his last bed, their coffer's 
 
 to fill. 
 Oh, the torments I felt, and the pangs I 
 
 endured ! 
 And I begged for one glass — just one 
 
 would have cured. — 
 But they kicked me out doors ! I let that, 
 
 too, pass, 
 
 For I've drank my last glass, boys, 
 I have drank my last glass. 
 
 At home, my pet Susie, with her rich golden 
 hair, 
 
 I saw through the window, just kneeling in 
 prayer ; 
 
 From her pale, bony hands, her torn sleeves 
 were strung down, 
 
 While hef feet, cold and bare, shrank be- 
 neath her scant gown ; 
 
 And she prayed — prayed for bread, just a 
 poor crust of bread, — 
 
 For one crust, on her knees my pet darling 
 plead ! 
 
 And I heard, with no penny to buy one, 
 alas ! 
 
 But I've drank my last glass, boys, 
 I have drank my last glass. 
 
 For Susie, my darling, my wee six-year-old, 
 Though fainting with hunger and shivering 
 
 with cold, 
 There, on the bare floor, asked God to 
 
 bless me! 
 And she said, "Don't cry, mamma ! He will ! 
 
 for, you see, 
 I believe what I ask for." Then sobered, I 
 
 crept 
 Away from the house ; and that night, when 
 
 I slept, 
 Next my heart lay the Pledge ! You smile ! 
 
 let it pass, 
 
 For I've drank my last glass, boys, 
 I have drank my last glass. 
 
 My darling child saved me! Her faith and 
 
 her love 
 Are akin to my dear sainted mother's above ! 
 I will make my words true, or I'll die in the 
 
 race, 
 And sober I'll go to my last resting place ; 
 And she shall kneel there, and, weeping, 
 
 thank God 
 No drunkard lies under the daisy-strewn 
 
 sod! 
 Not a drop more of poison my lips shall e'er 
 
 pass, 
 
 For I've drank my last glass, boys, 
 I have drank my last glass. 
 
 t£* $^» <,5* 
 
 DRINKING A HOME. 
 
 MY homeless friend with the ruby 
 nose, while you are stirring up the 
 sugar in that ten-cent glass of gin, let me 
 give you a fact to wash it down with. You 
 say you have longed for years for the free, 
 independent life of the farmer, but have 
 
 never been able to get enough money to- 
 gether to buy a farm. But this is just 
 where you are mistaken. For several years 
 you have been drinking a good improved 
 farm at the rate of one hundred square feet 
 a gulp. If you doubt this statement, figure 
 
87S 
 
 TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 
 
 it out for yourself. An acre of land con- 
 tains forty-three thousand five hundred 
 and sixty square feet. Estimating, for con- 
 venience, the land at forty-three dollars and 
 fifty-six cents per acre, you will see that 
 this brings the land to just one mill per 
 square foot, one cent for ten square feet. 
 Now pour down that fiery dose, and just 
 imagine you are swallowing a strawberry 
 patch. Call in five of your friends, and 
 have them help you gulp down that five- 
 hundred-foot garden. Get on a pro- 
 longed spree some day, and see how long 
 a time it requires to swallow a pasture 
 
 large enough to feed a cow. Put down 
 that glass of gin! there is dirt in it — one 
 hundred square feet of good, rich dirt, 
 worth forty-three dollars and fifty-six cents 
 per acre. 
 
 But there are plenty of farms which do 
 not cost more than a tenth part of forty- 
 three dollars and fifty-six cents per acre. 
 What an enormous acreage has gone down 
 many a homeless drinker's throat! No 
 wonder such men are buried in the "pot- 
 ter's field"; they have swallowed farms and 
 gardens and homes, and even drank up 
 their own graveyard. 
 
 (,?• t5* i5* 
 
 THE TWO GLASSES. 
 
 THERE sat two glasses filled to the brim, 
 On a rich man's table, rim to rim, 
 One was ruddy and red as blood, 
 And one as clear as the crystal flood. 
 
 Said the glass of wine to the paler brother: 
 "Let us tell the tales of the past to each 
 
 other; 
 I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth, 
 And the proudest and grandest souls on 
 
 earth 
 Fell under my touch as though struck by 
 
 blight, 
 Where I was king, for I ruled in might; 
 From the heads of kings I have torn the 
 
 crown, 
 From the heights of fame I have hurled 
 
 men down: 
 I have blasted many an honored name ; 
 I have taken virtue and given shame ; 
 I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste 
 That has made his future a barren waste. 
 Greater, far greater than king am I, 
 Or than any army beneath the sky. 
 I have made the arm of the driver fail, 
 And sent the train from the iron rail ; 
 
 I have made good ships go down at sea, 
 And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to 
 
 me, 
 For they said, 'Behold how great you be! 
 Fame, strength, wealth, genius before you 
 
 fall, 
 For your might and power are over all.' 
 Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine, 
 "Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?" 
 
 Said the water glass: "I cannot boast 
 Of a king dethroned or a murdered host; 
 But I can tell of a heart once sad, 
 By my crystal drops, made light and glad; 
 Of thirsts I've quenched, of brows I've 
 
 laved, 
 Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have 
 
 saved; 
 I have leaped through the valley, dashed 
 
 down the mountain, 
 Flowed in the river and played in the 
 
 fountain, 
 Slept in the sunshine and dropped from the 
 
 sky, 
 And everywhere gladdened the landscape 
 
 and eye. 
 
TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 
 
 273 
 
 I have cased the hot forehead of fever and 
 
 pain ; 
 I have made the parched meadows grow 
 
 fertile with grain; 
 I can tell of the powerful wheej of the mill, 
 That ground out the flour and turned at 
 
 my will. 
 I can tell of manhood debased by you, 
 That I have lifted and crowned anew. 
 
 I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; 
 I gladden the heart of man and maid; 
 I set the chained wine-captive free; 
 And all are better for knowing me." 
 
 These are the tales they told each other, 
 The glass of wine and the paler brother, 
 As they sat together filled to the brim, 
 On the rich man's table, rim to rim. 
 
 i^% t5* *5* 
 
 THEY'VE STOPPED SELLING LIQUOR IN TOWN. 
 
 "You needn't buy things at the corners no 
 
 HERE'S good news for you, mother." 
 the old farmer said, 
 As he paused where his good wife was 
 
 moulding the bread, 
 "I've been talking awhile with our friend 
 
 neighbor Brown, 
 And he says they've stopped selling liquor 
 in town. 
 
 "I just took off my hat and shouted huzza, 
 When he said men had got to live up to 
 
 the law, 
 And I knew it would make your heart 
 
 happy to know 
 They have dried up the fountain of madness 
 
 and woe. 
 
 "Now the town will be peaceful and safe 
 
 once again, 
 And the street won't be crowded with wild, 
 
 drunken men ; 
 And the boys won't be tempted to smoke, 
 
 drink and fight, 
 To gamble all day and carouse all the night. 
 
 "There's Kate, bless her heart, she will 
 
 dance like a top, 
 For she can go back now and sew in the 
 
 shop, 
 It won't be unsafe for her now I am sure, 
 For though she is thoughtless the child's 
 
 heart is pure. 
 
 more, 
 For I'll send Sam to town to the big dry 
 
 goods store ; 
 He won't come home drunk, with the buggy 
 
 broke down, 
 For I tell you they have stopped selling 
 
 liquor in town. 
 
 "There's Jim, he won't study, and don't 
 
 take to work, 
 We can let him go now and hire out for a 
 
 clerk, 
 It will do the boy good, he'll find out it ain't 
 
 play, 
 And there ain't any grog-shops to lead him 
 
 astray. 
 
 "And there's little Peter, you know how he 
 
 learns, 
 And how he saves up every penny he earns 
 To buy a new book, and the boy's got a 
 
 plan, 
 That he'll be a lawyer when he is a man. 
 
 "So if you are willing to venture, I think 
 We will send him to town now — he won't 
 
 learn to drink. 
 They've got a good school, and he'll learn 
 
 very fast, 
 I am glad they have stopped selling liquor 
 
 at last." 
 
274 
 
 TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 
 
 He paused, and the wife of his youth made 
 
 reply, 
 While joy sent the tear-drops like pearls 
 
 from her eye, 
 
 "Heaven bless the pure hearts that have put 
 
 the curse down, 
 Thank God they have stopped selling liquor 
 
 in town." 
 
 — Dell M. Mason. 
 
 t£* t<5* <^* 
 
 A GLASS OF COLD WATER. 
 
 (A stirring Temperance oration. When the two last words are spoken raise and hold before 
 
 the audience a glass of water.) 
 
 WHERE is the liquor which God the 
 Eternal brews for all his children? 
 Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires 
 choked with poisonous gases, and sur- 
 rounded with the stench of sickening 
 odors, and rank corruptions, doth your 
 Father in heaven prepare the precious 
 essence of life,, the pure cold water. But 
 in the green glade and grassy dell, where 
 the red deer wanders, and the child loves 
 to play; there God brews it. And down, 
 low down in the lowest valleys, where the 
 fountains murmur and the rills sing; and 
 high upon the tall mountain tops, where 
 the naked granite glitters like gold in the 
 sun; where the storm-cloud broods, and 
 the thunder-storms crash ; and away far out 
 on the wide, wild sea, where the hurricane 
 howls music, and the big waves roar; the 
 chorus sweeping the march of God: there 
 he brews it — that beverage of life and 
 health-giving water. And everywhere it 
 is a thing of beauty, gleaming in the dew- 
 drop; singing in the summer rain; shin- 
 
 ing in the ice-gem, till the leaves all seem 
 to turn to living jewels; spreading a golden 
 veil over the setting sun; or a white gauze 
 around the midnight moon. 
 
 Sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the 
 glacier; dancing in the hail shower; fold- 
 ing its bright snow curtains softly about 
 the wintry world; and waving the many- 
 colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, 
 whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, 
 whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven; all 
 checkered over with celestial flowers, by 
 the mystic hand of refraction. 
 
 Still always it is beautiful, that life-giv- 
 ing water; no poison bubbles on its brink; 
 its foam brings not madness and murder; 
 no blood stains its liquid glass; pale 
 widows and starving orphans weep no 
 burning tears in its depth; no drunken, 
 shrieking ghost from the grave curses it 
 in the words of eternal despair ; speak out, 
 my friends, would you exchange the 
 demon's drink, alcohol, for this? 
 
 c5* S(5* %/* 
 
 SAVED BY A SONG. 
 
 NEARER, my God, to Thee," 
 What, can it be I hear aright 
 That sweet old song in such a place — 
 
 Beneath the bar-room's glittering light: 
 Listen; it is a woman's voice 
 That drifts upon the breeze to me, 
 
 From yonder gilded, gay saloon, 
 "Nearer, my God, to Thee." 
 
 Where have I heard that song before? 
 
 Memory adown the long years speeds; 
 I hear once more those precious words, 
 
TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 
 
 275 
 
 And then the preacher softly reads 
 A few lines from the book of life ; 
 
 Then some one softly strokes my head 
 And whispers, oh, so tenderly: 
 
 "Poor little boy, your mother's dead." 
 
 Oh! how it all comes back to me! 
 
 Those whispered words, that tender 
 song; 
 My boyish heart was well-nigh broke; 
 
 I cried for mother all night long. 
 I see the cozy sitting-room, 
 
 The straight-back chairs 'ranged in a 
 row — 
 The moonlight stealing thro' the blinds, 
 
 The jessamine swaying to and fro. 
 
 And there my mother's rocking chair, 
 
 From which a sweet face often smiled, 
 As with her Bible on her lap 
 
 She turned to bless her darling child. 
 But that was years and years ago; 
 
 What am I now? A wretch to shun, 
 Going down the road to ruin fast, 
 
 I'm on the drunkard's "homeward run." 
 
 Somehow that -song has reached my heart 
 
 And seemed to pierce it thro' and thro', 
 And called forth feelings that I'm sure 
 
 Naught else on earth could ever do. 
 My throat is parched from want of rum, 
 
 My head seems growing wild with pain ; 
 But, mother, hear your boy to-night: - 
 
 I'll never touch a drop again. 
 
 ^* «£• ^* 
 
 TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 
 
 TRAMP, tramp, the boys are marching; 
 how many of them? Sixty thousand! 
 Sixty full regiments, every man of which 
 will, before twelve months shall have com- 
 pleted their course, lie down in the grave 
 of a drunkard! Every year during the 
 past decade has witnessed the same sacri- 
 fice; and sixty regiments stand behind this 
 army ready to take its place. It is to be 
 recruited from our children and our chil- 
 dren's children. Tramp, tramp, tramp — 
 the sounds come to us in the echoes of the 
 army just expired; tramp, tramp, tramp — 
 the earth shakes with the tread of the host 
 now passing; tramp, tramp, tramp — comes 
 to us from the camp of the recruits. A 
 great tide of life flows resistlessly to its 
 death. What in God's name are they fight- 
 ing for? The privilege of pleasing an ap- 
 petite, of conforming to a social usage, of 
 filling sixty thousand homes with shame 
 and sorrow, of loading the public with the 
 burden of pauperism, of crowding our 
 
 prison houses with felons, of detracting 
 from the productive industries of the coun- 
 try, of ruining fortunes and breaking hopes, 
 of breeding disease and wretchedness, of 
 destroying both body and soul in hell be- 
 fore their time. 
 
 The prosperity of the liquor interest, 
 covering every department of it, depends 
 entirely on the maintenance of this army. 
 It cannot live without it. It never did live 
 without it. So long as the liquor interest 
 maintains its present prosperous condition, 
 it will cost America the sacrifice of sixty 
 thousand men every year. The effect is 
 inseparable from the cause. The cost to 
 the country of the liquor traffic is a sum so 
 stupendous that any figures which we 
 should dare to give would convict us of 
 trifling. The amount of life absolutely de- 
 stroyed, the amount of industry sacrificed, 
 the amount of bread transformed into 
 poison, the shame, the unavailing sorrow, 
 the crime, the poverty, the pauperism, the 
 
270 
 
 TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 
 
 brutality, the wild waste of vital and finan- 
 cial resources, make an aggregate so vast 
 — so incalculably vast, — that the only won- 
 
 der is that the American people do not rise 
 as one man and declare that this great 
 curse shall exist no longer. — F. G. Holland. 
 
 d?* t5* *5* 
 
 SAMPLE ROOMS. 
 
 SAMPLES of wine, and samples of beer, 
 Samples of all kinds of liquors sold 
 here ; 
 Samples of whiskey, samples of gin, 
 Samples of all kinds of bitters. Step in. 
 Samples of ale, and porter, and brandy; 
 Samples as large as you please, and quite 
 
 handy; 
 Our samples are pure, and also you'll find 
 Our customers always genteel and refined; 
 For gentlemen know when they've taken 
 
 enough, 
 And never partake of the common stuff. 
 
 Besides these samples within, you know, 
 There are samples without of what they 
 
 can do; 
 Samples of headache, samples of gout; 
 Samples of coats with the elbows out, 
 Samples of boots without heels or toes; 
 Samples of men with a broken nose, 
 Samples of men in the gutter lying, 
 Samples of men with delirium dying, 
 Samples of men carousing and swearing, 
 Samples of men all evil daring; 
 
 Samples of lonely, tired men, 
 Who long in vain for their freedom again ; 
 Samples of old men worn in the strife, 
 Samples of young men tired of life; 
 Samples of ruined hopes and lives, 
 Samples of desolate homes and wives; 
 Samples of aching hearts grown cold 
 With anguish and misery untold; 
 Samples of noble youth in disgrace, 
 Who meet you with averted face ; 
 Samples of hungry little ones, 
 Starving to death in their dreary homes. 
 In fact, there is scarcely a woe on earth 
 But these "samples" have nurtured or 
 
 given birth! 
 Oh! all ye helpers to sorrow and crime, 
 Who deal out death for a single dime, 
 Know ye that the Lord, though he may 
 
 delay, 
 Has in reserve for the last great day 
 The terrible "woe," of whose solemn weight 
 No mortal can know till the pearly gate 
 Is closed, and all with one accord 
 Acknowledge the justice of their reward. 
 
Photo by Byron, N. Y. 
 
 "DON'T GO. FOR MY SAKE, DON'T GO. 
 
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No program is complete without a religious selection, and those contained herein are among 
 the grandest and most beautiful in the English language. 
 
 &5* t£* t&* 
 
 THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 
 
 In Concert. 
 
 HOW sweet the chime of the Sabbath 
 bells ! 
 Each one its creed in music tells, 
 In tones that float upon the air, 
 As soft as song, as pure as prayer ; 
 And I will put in simple rhyme 
 The language of the golden chime ; 
 My happy heart with rapture swells 
 Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. 
 
 First Girl. 
 "In deeds of love excel ! excel !" 
 Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; 
 "This is the church not built on sands, 
 Emblem of one not built with hands ; 
 In forms and sacred rites revere, 
 Come worship here ! come worship here ! 
 In rituals and faith excel !" 
 Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 
 
 Second Girl. 
 "Oh, heed the ancient landmarks well!" 
 In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; 
 "No progress made by mortal man 
 Can change the just eternal plan ; 
 With God there can be nothing new ; 
 Ignore the false, embrace the true, 
 While all is well ! is well ! is well !" 
 Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. 
 
 Third Girl. 
 "Ye purifying waters swell !" 
 In mellow tones rang out a bell ; 
 "Though faith alone in Christ can save, 
 
 Man must be plunged beneath the wave, 
 To show the world unfaltering faith 
 In what the sacred scripture saith : 
 Oh swell ! ye rising waters, swell !" 
 Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 
 
 Fourth Girl. 
 "Not faith alone, but works as well, 
 Must test the soul !" said a soft bell ; 
 "Come here and cast aside your load, 
 And work your way along the road, 
 With faith in God, and faith in man, 
 And hope in Christ, where hope began ; 
 Do well! do well! do well! do well!" 
 Rang out the Unitarian bell. 
 
 Fifth Girl. 
 "Farewell ! farewell ! base world, farewell !" 
 In touching tones exclaimed a bell; 
 "Life is a boon, to mortals given; 
 To fit the soul for bliss in heaven; 
 Do not invoke the avenging rod, 
 Come here and learn the way to God ; 
 Say to the world farewell ! farewell !" 
 Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. 
 
 Sixth Girl. 
 "To all the truth we tell ! we tell !" 
 Shouted in ecstasies a bell; 
 "Come all ye weary wanderers, see ! 
 Our Lord has made salvation free ! 
 Repent, believe, have faith, and then 
 Be saved and praise the Lord, Amen ! 
 Salvation's free, we tell ! we tell !" 
 Shouted the Methodistic bell. 
 
 279 
 
2S0 
 
 RELIGIOUS READINGS. 
 
 Seventh Girl. 
 "In after life there is no hell !" 
 In rapture rang a cheerful bell ; 
 "Look up to heaven this holy day, 
 Where angels wait to lead the way ; 
 There are no fires, no fiends to blight 
 The future life; be just and right. 
 No hell ! no hell ! no hell ! no hell !" 
 Rang out the Universalist bell. 
 
 Eighth Girl. 
 "The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well 
 My cheerful voice," pealed forth a bell ; 
 "No fetters here to clog the soulj 
 No arbitrary creeds control 
 The free heart and progressive mind, 
 That 'leave the dusty past behind. 
 Speed well, speed well, speed well, speed 
 
 well!" 
 Pealed out the Independent bell. 
 
 Ninth Girl. 
 "No Pope, no Pope, to doom to hell !" 
 The Protestant rang out a bell ; 
 "Great Luther left his fiery zeal 
 Within the hearts that truly feel 
 
 That loyalty to God will be 
 The fealty that makes man free. 
 No images where incense fell !" 
 Rang out old Martin Luther's bell. 
 
 Tenth Girl. 
 "All hail, ye saints in heaven that dwell 
 Close by the cross !" exclaimed a bell ; 
 "Lean o'er the battlements of bliss, 
 And deign to bless a world like this ; 
 Let mortals kneel before this shrine — 
 Adore the water and the wine ! 
 All hail ye saints, the chorus swell !" 
 Chimed in the Roman Catholic bell. 
 
 In Chorus. 
 "Ye workers who have toiled so well, 
 To save the race !" said a sweet bell ; 
 "With pledge, and badge, and banner, 
 
 come, 
 Each brave heart beating like a drum; 
 Be royal men of noble deeds. 
 For love is holier than creeds ; 
 Drink from the well, the well, the well !" 
 In rapture rang the Temperance bell. 
 
 — George W. Bungay. 
 
 t5* t^* ^* 
 
 DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 
 
 SHE was dead. No sleep so beautiful 
 and calm, so free from trace of pain, 
 so fair to look upon. She seemed a crea- 
 ture fresh from the hand of God, and wait- 
 ing for the breath of life; not one who 
 had lived and suffered death. Her couch 
 was dressed with here and there some win- 
 ter-berries and green leaves, gathered in a 
 spot she had been used to favor. "When I 
 die, put me near something that has loved 
 the light, and had the sky above it always." 
 Those were her words. 
 
 She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, no- 
 ble Nell was dead. Her little bird, a poor 
 slight thing, which the pressure of a finger 
 
 would have crushed, was stirring nimbly 
 in its cage; and the strong heart of its 
 child-mistress was white and motionless for- 
 ever. Where were the traces of her early 
 cares, her sufferings, and fatigues? All 
 gone. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; 
 but peace and perfect happiness was born — 
 imaged — in her tranquil beauty and pro- 
 found repose. And still her former self 
 lay there, unaltered in this change. 
 
 Yes, the old fireside had smiled upon that 
 same sweet face, which had passed, like a 
 dream, through haunts of misery and care. 
 At the door of the poor schoolmaster on 
 the summer evening, before the furnace fire 
 
RELIGIOUS READINGS. 
 
 281 
 
 upon the cold wet night, at the same still 
 bedside of the dying boy, there had been 
 the same mild, lovely look. 
 
 The old man took one languid arm in his, 
 and held the small hand to his breast for 
 warmth. It was the hand she had stretched 
 out to him with her last smile — the hand 
 that had led him on through all their wan- 
 derings. Ever and anon he pressed it to 
 his lips ; then hugged it to his breast again, 
 murmuring that it was warmer now; and, 
 as he said it, he looked in agony to those 
 who stood around, as if imploring them 
 to help her. 
 
 She was dead, and past all help or need 
 of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed 
 to fill with life, even while her own was 
 waning fast, the garden she had tended, 
 the eyes she had gladdened, the noiseless 
 haunts of many a thoughtful hour, the 
 paths she had trodden, as it were, but yes- 
 terday, could know her no more. 
 
 She had been dead two days. They were 
 
 all about her at the time, knowing that the 
 end was drawing on. She died soon after 
 daybreak. They had read and talked to her 
 in the earlier portion of the night, but as 
 the hours crept on, she sunk to sleep. They 
 could tell, by what she faintly uttered in her 
 dreams, that they were of her journeyings 
 with the old man ; they were of no painful 
 scenes, but of those who had helped and 
 used them kindly; for she often said "God 
 bless you !" with great fervor. Walking, she 
 never wandered in her mind but once ; and 
 that was at beautiful music which she said 
 was in the air. God knows. It may have 
 been. 
 
 Opening her eyes at last from a very 
 quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss 
 her once again. That done, she turned 
 again to the old man, with a lovely smile on 
 her face, — such, they said, as they had nev- 
 er seen, and never could forget, — and clung 
 with both arms about his neck. They did 
 not know that she was dead at first. 
 
 te& t&fr (&& 
 
 SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE. 
 
 UNANSWERED yet ! The prayer your 
 lips have pleaded 
 In agony of heart, these many years? 
 Does faith begin to fail, is hope departing, 
 And think you all in vain those falling 
 tears ? 
 Say not the Father hath not heard your 
 prayer ; 
 You shall have your desire, sometime, 
 somewhere. 
 
 Unanswered yet? Though when you first 
 
 presented 
 This one petition to the Father's throne, 
 It seemed you could not wait the time of 
 
 asking, 
 
 So urgent was your heart to make it 
 
 known. 
 Though years have passed since then, do 
 
 not despair ; 
 The Lord will answer you sometime, 
 
 somewhere. 
 
 Unanswered yet? Nay, do not say, un- 
 granted ! 
 Perhaps your part is not yet wholly done. 
 The work began when first your prayer was 
 uttered, 
 And God will finish what He has begun. 
 If you will keep the incense burning there, 
 His glory you shall see, sometime, some- 
 where. 
 
282 
 
 RELIGIOUS READINGS. 
 
 Unanswered yet? Faith cannot be un- 
 answered, 
 Her feet are firmly planted on the Rock; 
 Amid the wildest storms she stands un- 
 daunted, 
 
 Nor quails before the loudest thunder 
 
 shock. 
 She knows Omnipotence has heard her 
 
 prayer 
 And cries, "It shall be done, sometime, 
 
 somewhere." 
 
 ONE sweetly solemn thought 
 Comes to me o'er and o'er : 
 I'm nearer my home to-day 
 Than I ever have been before. 
 
 Nearer my Father's house, 
 Where the many mansions be ; 
 
 Nearer the great white throne, 
 Nearer the crystal sea ; 
 
 Nearer the bound of life, 
 
 Where we lay our burdens down ; 
 Nearer leaving the cross, 
 
 Nearer gaining the crown. 
 
 (J* t£*l X0* 
 
 NEARER HOME. 
 
 But the waves of that silent sea 
 Roll dark before my sight, 
 
 That brightly the other side 
 Break on a shore of light. 
 
 O, if my mortal feet 
 
 Have almost gained the brink, 
 
 If it be I am nearer home 
 Even to-day than I think, 
 
 Father, perfect my trust, 
 Let my spirit feel in death 
 
 That her feet are firmly set 
 On the Rock of a living faith. 
 
 t£* fc5* &?* 
 
 THERE IS NO DEATH. 
 
 THERE is no death ! The stars go down 
 To rise upon some fairer shore ; 
 And bright in heaven's jeweled crown 
 They shine for evermore. 
 
 There is no death ! The dust we tread 
 Shall change beneath the summer showers 
 
 To golden grain or mellowed fruit 
 Or rainbow-tinted flowers, 
 
 The granite rocks disorganize, 
 
 And feed the hungry moss they bear ; 
 
 The forest leaves drink daily life 
 From out the viewless air. 
 
 There is no death ! The leaves may fall, 
 And flowers may fade and pass away ; 
 
 They only wait through wintry hours 
 The coming of the May. 
 
 There is no death ! An angel form 
 
 Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; 
 
 He bears our best-loved things away, 
 And then we call them "dead." 
 
 He leaves our hearts all desolate; 
 
 He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers; 
 Transplanted into bliss, they now 
 
 Adorn immortal bowers. 
 
 The birdlike voice, whose joyous tones 
 Made glad these scenes of sin and strife, 
 
 Sings now an everlasting song 
 Around the tree of life. 
 
 Where'er He sees a smile too bright, 
 Or heart too pure for taint and vice, 
 
 He bears it to that world of light, 
 To dwell in paradise. 
 
RELIGIOUS READINGS. 
 
 283 
 
 Born unto that undying life, 
 
 They leave us but to come again ; 
 
 With joy we welcome them the same,- 
 Except their sin and pain. 
 
 And ever near us, though unseen, 
 The dear immortal spirits tread; 
 
 For all the boundless universe 
 Is life — there are no dead. 
 
 ^* ^w ^w 
 
 A HOME WHERE GOD IS. 
 
 j npWAS early day, and sunlight streamed 
 
 1 Soft through a quiet room, 
 That hushed, but not forsaken, seemed 
 
 Still, but with naught of gloom. 
 For there, serene in happy age, 
 
 Whose hope is from above, 
 A father communed with the page 
 
 ,Of heaven's recorded love. 
 
 Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, 
 
 On his gray holy hair, 
 And touched the page with tenderest light, 
 
 As if its shrine were there ! 
 But oh ! that patriarch's aspect shone 
 
 With something lovelier far — 
 A radiance all the spirit's own, 
 
 Caught not from sun or star. 
 
 Some word of life e'en then had met 
 
 His calm benignant eye ; 
 Some ancient promise breathing yet 
 
 Of immortality ! 
 Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow 
 
 Of quenchless faith survives : 
 While every feature said — "I know 
 
 That my Redeemer lives !" 
 
 And silent stood his children by 
 
 Hushing their very breath, 
 Before the solemn sanctity 
 
 Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. 
 Silent — yet did not each young breast 
 
 With love and reverence melt ? 
 Oh ! blest be those fair girls, and blest 
 
 That home where God is felt ! 
 
 r?*$ t^* *5* 
 
 RECESSIONAL. 
 
 GOD of our fathers, known of old — 
 Lord of our far-flung battle-line — 
 Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold 
 Dominion over palm and pine — 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget! 
 
 The tumult and the shouting dies — 
 
 The captains and the kings depart — 
 Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, 
 An humble and a contrite heart. 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 
 
 Far-called our navies melt away — 
 
 On dune and headland sinks the fire — 
 Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
 
 Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 
 Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 
 
 If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
 
 Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe — 
 Such boasting as the Gentiles use 
 Or lesser breeds without the law — 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 
 
 For heathen heart that puts her trust 
 In reeking tube and iron shard — 
 
284 
 
 BELIGIOUS READINGS. 
 
 All valiant dust that builds on dust, 
 
 And guarding calls not Thee to guard — 
 For frantic boast and foolish word, 
 
 Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord! 
 Amen. 
 
 — Rudyard Kipling. 
 
 *£& t&fc K6& 
 
 THERE IS NO UNBELIEF. 
 
 THERE is no Unbelief ! 
 Whoever plants a seed beneath the 
 sod 
 And waits to see it push away the clod, 
 Trusts he in God. 
 
 There is no Unbelief ! 
 Whoever says, when clouds are in the sky, 
 Be patient, heart, light breaketh by and by, 
 
 Trusts the most High. 
 
 There is no Unbelief ! 
 Whoever sees 'neath Winter's fields of snow 
 The silent harvests of the future grow, 
 
 God's power must know. 
 
 There is no Unbelief ! 
 Whoever lies down on his couch to sleep, 
 
 Content to lock each sense in slumber deep, 
 Knows God will keep. 
 
 There is no Unbelief ! 
 Whoever says to-morrow, the unknown, 
 The future, trusts that power alone 
 
 He dare disown. 
 
 There is no Unbelief ! 
 The heart that looks on when dear eyelids 
 
 close 
 And dares to live when life has only woes, 
 
 God's comfort knows. 
 
 There is no Unbelief ! 
 For thus by day and night unconsciously 
 The heart lives by that faith the lips deny, 
 
 God knoweth why. 
 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 O listen, man! 
 
 A voice within us speaks that startling 
 word, 
 
 "Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial 
 voices 
 
 Hymn it into our souls; according harps, 
 
 By angel fingers touched, when the mild 
 stars 
 
 Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
 
 The song of our great immortality. 
 
 Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair do- 
 main, 
 
 The tall, dark mountains and the deep-toned 
 seas, 
 
 Join in this solemn, universal song. 
 
 O listen ye, our spirits ; drink it in 
 
 From all the air. 'Tis in the gentle moon- 
 light; 
 Tis floating midst Day's setting glories; 
 
 Night, 
 Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
 Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our 
 
 ears: 
 Night, and the dawn, bright day, and 
 
 thoughtful eve, 
 All time, all bounds, the lfmitless expanse, 
 As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 
 By an unseen, living Hand ; and conscious 
 
 chords 
 Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
 The dying hear it ; and, as sounds of earth 
 Grow dull and distant, wake their passing 
 
 souls 
 To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 
 
The Broomstick Army 
 
 (A splendid drill for a half-dozen pupils or the entire school.) 
 
 t£* *5* c5* 
 
 STANDING in rank near the front side 
 of the stage, the teacher gives the 
 command to "present arms," "carry arms," 
 "trail arms," etc. Each command consists 
 of two words : the first is to indicate what 
 the pupil is to do, and on the second word 
 the movement is made, all acting in con- 
 cert. 
 
 The following exercises are suitable for 
 this drill, and always prove very entertain- 
 ing to the audience. 
 
 Carry — Arms! — The broom is held in 
 the right hand, handle upward, with the 
 hand clasping the .handle where it joins the 
 brush. The left hand hangs at the side. 
 
 Present — Arms! — Place the broom with 
 the right hand in front of the center of the 
 body, clasping the handle with the left hand 
 above the right. Hold the broom perfectly 
 perpendicular. 
 
 Order — Arms! — Let go the handle with 
 the left hand, and carry the broom to the 
 side with the right hand ; then drop the 
 broom to the floor. 
 
 In place — Rest ! — Grasp the handle with 
 both hands, the left above the r'ght, and 
 place both hands in front of the lower part 
 of the breast. 
 
 Trail — Arms! — Grasp the handle with 
 the right hand and incline it forward, the 
 broom behind, resting on the floor. 
 
 Attention — Charge! — Half face to the 
 right, carrying the heel six inches to the 
 rear and three inches to the right of the 
 left, turning the toes of both feet slightly 
 inward; at the same time drop the stick 
 into the left hand, elbow against the body, 
 
 point of stick at the height of the chin, 
 right hand grasping the stick just above the 
 brush and supporting it firmly against the 
 right hip. 
 
 Port — Arms! — Raise and throw the 
 broom diagonally across the body; grasp it 
 smartly with both hands, the right, palm 
 down at the base of the stick ; the left, palm 
 up, thumb clasping stick; handle sloping 
 to the left and crossing opposite the middle 
 of left shoulder; right forearm horizontal; 
 forearms and handle near the body. 
 
 Secure — Arms ! — Advance the broom 
 slightly with the right hand, turn the han- 
 dle to the front with the left hand. At 
 the same time change the position of the 
 right hand, placing it further up the han- 
 dle, drop the handle to the front, placing 
 the broom where joined with the handle, 
 under the right arm. 
 
 Reverse — Arms! — Lift the broom ver- 
 tically with the right hand, clasp the stick 
 with the left hand; then, with the right 
 hand, grasp the handle near the brush. Re- 
 verse the broom, the handle dropping to 
 the front, the broom passing between the 
 breast and right forearm. Press the han- 
 dle under the arm with the left hand until 
 the right elbow can hold it in place against 
 the body; pass left hand behind the back 
 and clasp the stick. 
 
 Inspection — Arms ! — This is executed 
 from the "carry arms" position. Lift the 
 broom quickly with the right hand, bring- 
 ing it in front of the center of the body; 
 then grasp the handle with the left hand, 
 placed near the chin, and hold it. 
 
 285 
 
286 
 
 TEE BROOMSTICK ARMY. 
 
 MOVEMENTS OF ATTACK AND 
 DEFENSE. 
 
 These can be executed only with open 
 ranks, the pupils being placed seven or 
 eight feet apart. To so place them, the 
 teacher will give the order — 
 
 Right (or Left) open Ranks — March! 
 — The pupils face to the right or left, ac- 
 cording to the order given, except the one 
 at the extreme end of the line. The others 
 march, the last of the file halting at every 
 four or five steps from the one in the rear, 
 until all are the same distance apart. They 
 then face front. To" close the rank, turn to 
 the right or left and march toward the 
 pupil standing at the end until halted by 
 the one ahead. Then face front. 
 
 Attention — Guard ! — At the command 
 guard, half face to the right, carry back 
 and place the right foot about twice its 
 length to the rear and nearly the same dis- 
 tance to the right, the feet at little less than 
 a right angle, the right toe pointing square- 
 ly to the right, both knees bent slightly, 
 weight of the body held equally on both 
 legs ; at the same time throw the end of the 
 stick to the front, at the height of the chin, 
 grasping it lightly with both hands, the 
 right just above the brush, the left a few 
 inches higher; the right hand in line with 
 the left hip and both arms held free from 
 the body and without constraint. 
 
 Being at the Guard — Advance! — Move 
 the left foot quickly forward, twice its 
 length ; follow with the right foot the same 
 distance. 
 
 Retire ! — Move the right foot quickly to 
 the rear, twice its length ; follow with the 
 left foot the same distance. 
 
 Front — Pass ! — Advance the right foot 
 quickly, fifteen inches in front of the left, 
 keeping right toe squarely to the right ; ad- 
 
 vance the left foot to its relative position 
 in front. 
 
 Rear — Pass! — Carry the left foot quickly 
 fifteen inches to the rear of the right ; place 
 the right foot in its relative position in rear, 
 keeping the right toe squarely to the right. 
 
 Right — Volt! — Face to the right, turn- 
 ing on the ball of the left foot, at the same 
 time carry the right foot quickly to its po- 
 sition in the rear. 
 
 Left — Volt! — Face to the left, turning 
 on the ball of the left foot, at the same 
 time carry the right foot quickly to its po- 
 sition in rear. 
 
 Right rear and left rear volts are simi- 
 larly executed, facing about on the ball of 
 the left foot. 
 
 Quart e — Parry! — Hold the broom in 
 front of the left shoulder with the right 
 hand, handle upward, the fingers of the left 
 hand on the handle, the left elbow touch- 
 ing the right wrist. 
 
 Seconde — Parry! — Move the point of 
 the broom-handle quickly to the left, de- 
 scribing a semi-circle from left to right, 
 the left elbow in front of the body, the flat 
 of the broom under the right forearm, the 
 right elbow two or three inches higher 
 than the right shoulder. 
 
 Prime — Parry ! — Carry the broom to the 
 left, covering the left shoulder, the handle 
 downward, the left forearm behind the 
 handle, the right arm in front of and above 
 the eyes. 
 
 To Guard when Kneeling. — Bring the 
 toe of the left foot square in front, plant 
 the right foot to the rear, kneel on the right 
 knee, bending the left, hold the broom at 
 an angle of 45 degrees, pointing directly 
 to the front, the right hand pressed firmly 
 against the side, the left hand holding the 
 point of handle upward. 
 
 This drill may be terminated by a march. 
 
While enacting these tableaux the children should stand as motionless as possible. The cur- 
 tain should be drawn back and kept in that position for a full minute, 
 and then be slowly closed. 
 
 t5* t5* ^* 
 
 A CHRISTMAS PANTOMIME. 
 
 TIME: CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Characters and Costumes. — Santa Clans, a large boy, with long, white hair and beard, 
 round fur or paper cap, an enormous pack strapped upon his shoulders, from which protrude 
 various toys. A light carriage-cloth may be wrapped about him. George and Fred — Two 
 little boys, one quite small, dressed in short blouse and pantaloons in Scene I. In Scenes II, 
 III and IV in long colored dressing-gowns. Nellie — Small girl with short dress and apron 
 in Scene I. In Scenes II, III and IV in long white night-robe. Father and Mother — Large 
 boy and girl in ordinary house dress, except the father, as Santa Claus in Scene III. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 THE children come bounding- in, they 
 bow to the audience, glance at the 
 clock, go to a small bureau, and opening a 
 drawer, extract three pairs of colored hose. 
 They pin the tops together, and mounting 
 chairs proceed to hang them carefully upon 
 hooks prepared to receive them. Georgie 
 points to the clock, expressing that it is 
 nearly bed-time. Nellie claps her hands, 
 and Fred jumps about and smiles his joy. 
 Taking hold of hands they bow and go out. 
 
 Scene II. 
 The mother enters with the children, 
 who are robed for sleep. She leads the two 
 youngest, one by each hand. They pause, 
 pointing to the stockings. The mother 
 smiles, and toys with Fred's curls. She 
 leads them to the couch, over which blan- 
 kets are spread, and kneels in front of the 
 couch, the children follow her example, 
 with clasped hands and bowed heads. They 
 remain in this attitude a short time, then 
 rising, the mother proceeds to assist the 
 two boys into bed, kisses them good-night, 
 looks out of the window, then tucks the 
 covering closer about them. She then leads 
 Nellie to the crib, lifts her in, kisses her, 
 
 arranges the chairs, closes the drawer that 
 the children left open, takes one more look 
 at the boys and goes out. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Santa Claus comes creeping cautiously 
 in, makes a profound bow to the audience, 
 then peering at the occupants of couch and 
 crib to be sure they are asleep, he proceeds 
 to fill the stockings. While he is thus en- 
 gaged, the youngest boy (who should have 
 piercing eyes) slowly raises his curly head 
 from the pillow, and recognizing his father 
 in the person of Santa Claus, places a 
 finger significantly upon his nose, as much 
 as to' say, "You can't fool me." Of course, 
 his movements are unnoticed by Santa 
 Claus, who fills the stockings to repletion, 
 places sundry other large toys, such as a 
 sled, wax doll, hobby, etc., under each re- 
 spective stocking, and laying a finger upon 
 his lips, bows and goes out. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 The father and mother enter, and going 
 up to the children, pantomime that they are 
 asleep, and must not be disturbed. They 
 sit. Children begin to show signs of wak- 
 ing. Fred leaps to the floor with a bound, 
 
 287 
 
288 
 
 EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 
 
 rubbing his eyes, the others follow in rapid 
 succession, and mounting chairs, wrench 
 the stockings from the hooks, and scatter 
 their contents over the floor. — (They should 
 contain nothing that ivould injure by fall- 
 ing.) — Fred shakes his finger mischievous- 
 
 ly at his father, then rushes up and kisses 
 him heartily. The children gather up the 
 toys, which they drop again, and finally, 
 with arms full, they all face the audience, 
 bow and go out. 
 
 t£* t£* t5* 
 
 HOW TO ACT SHADOW PICTURES. 
 
 HOME entertainments can be given all 
 the year round, although it is the 
 custom to reserve them almost exclusively 
 for the holidays, or, at least, the season 
 when cold weather prevails. Young people 
 are always searching for something new, 
 but they have never discovered anything 
 more pleasurable than the old-time 
 shadow pantomime, which affords prac- 
 tical, endless amusement. 
 
 Of all the various methods which have 
 been devised for furnishing an amusing en- 
 tertainment there is probably none which 
 so strongly recommends itself for its sim- 
 plicity, its scope for originality and for 
 genuine fun as the shadow pantomime. 
 To the uninitiated the effects produced are 
 startling, and to all, if properly managed, 
 ludicrous in the extreme. 
 
 In the arrangement of tableaux the effect 
 is mainly dependent on the judicious and 
 artistic blending of colors, the expression 
 of countenances and the graceful positions 
 of the posers. In the pantomime, color is 
 of no consequence, and facial expression is 
 confined entirely to the profile. 
 
 The first thing requisite is a white cur- 
 tain or sheet to receive the shadows. Where 
 there is already a stage and drop curtain 
 the white sheet is arranged as an extra 
 drop, care being taken to have it hang so 
 as to be as tight and as free from inequali- 
 ties as possible, and the larger the better. 
 In adapting the exhibition to a parlor en- 
 
 tertainment the white sheet may be 
 stretched to fit exactly between sliding or 
 folding doors. Before stretching the sheet 
 it should be thoroughly and uniformly wet- 
 ted, and then wrung out. This insures 
 sharpness of outline to the shadows. 
 
 At the front or on that side of the sheet 
 appropriated to the spectators, the room 
 must, during the performance, be entirely 
 dark. On the stage or behind the sheet, 
 where the performers are, should be only 
 one bright, steady light. This must be ar- 
 ranged so as to be as near to the floor as 
 possible, and exactly opposite the center of 
 the sheet. For parlor purposes, where 
 there is gas in the room, the best con- 
 trivance is a drop light, the burner of which 
 (a large-sized one) is not more than two or 
 three inches from the ground and placed so 
 as to present the thin edge (not the flat) of 
 the flame to the curtain. This renders the 
 outlines all the more distinct and clearly 
 defined. 
 
 If gas is not to be had, the next best 
 lamp is a tin cup filled with tallow, in the 
 center of which is a cotton wick secured by 
 a wire coil soldered into the middle of the 
 inside of the cup, to prevent the wick from 
 falling down when the tallow has melted. 
 This tin lamp should be placed in the cen- 
 ter of a flat dish full of sand, as a precau- 
 tion against accident. 
 
 If the curtain is large, the light should be 
 placed at a distance of about five or six 
 
EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 
 
 289 
 
 feet, but a small curtain requires the light 
 to be two or three feet farther away. The 
 distance can be best ascertained by experi- 
 ment. If there should be no means of clos- 
 ing the sheet after or in the intervals of a 
 performance, there should be a light placed 
 on each side, behind the curtain, in such a 
 position that no shadow will be thrown by 
 it, and the center light extinguished, or ef- 
 fectually shaded by the placing of some 
 solid object close in front of it. 
 
 During the performance care must be 
 taken that those persons whose shadows 
 are not for the moment needed, should 
 stand behind the light, as entrance or exit 
 is effected by jumping lightly or stepping 
 sideways over the light. This produces an 
 effect on the curtain just as if the shadow 
 had dropped from or gone up into the ceil- 
 ing. As profile is essential, the side and 
 not the front or back should as far as prac- 
 ticable be presented to the light, and in 
 using tables or chairs let them be placed 
 close to, but not touching, the curtain. The 
 nearer the curtain, the clearer the shadow. 
 
 In order to bring any object on a table 
 clearly into shadow, it must be placed at 
 the edge of the table nearest the light, 
 otherwise the shadow of the top of the 
 table will obscure the shadow of the lower 
 part of the object. The table, therefore, 
 for general purposes, should not be too 
 wide, and may be just as well a strip of 
 board from two or three feet long, and 
 eight inches wide, nailed to four strips of 
 wood for legs. 
 
 An amusing deception may be practiced 
 with small objects, such as cups and 
 saucers, by first placing them at the edge 
 farthest from the light, where they will be 
 out of shadow, and by fastening a string 
 to them, which can be done with a piece of 
 wax, and carrying the end over the edge 
 and down the leg nearest the light, through 
 
 a small eyelet at the bottom of the leg and 
 so along the ground to the back of the 
 light. By this means the objects can be 
 drawn across to the edge nearest the light 
 and will appear to rise out of the table. 
 By reversing the arrangement they appear 
 to sink into the table. For this purpose 
 the table should be a little wider than that 
 ordinarily used. 
 
 Many curious effects are possible. For 
 instance, to make a false nose, cut a piece 
 of pasteboard to the required shape, and 
 split open the back edge sufficiently to al- 
 low the real nose to be inserted. It can 
 be fixed securely either by strings attached 
 to each side and tied behind the head, or 
 by gumming on with mucilage. The latter 
 plan is the better, as it admits of the nose 
 being apparently pulled off. When this is 
 done the performer who loses his nose 
 should have one hand full of sawdust, and, 
 at the moment that the false nose is re- 
 moved, bring that hand up in time to pre- 
 vent the shadow of his natural nose ap- 
 pearing on the curtain, then leaning his 
 head forward and letting the sawdust drop 
 gently in little gushes as it were. The blood 
 will seem to drop and call forth manifesta- 
 tions of deep emotion or high delight from 
 the sympathizing spectators. Sawdust is 
 the best thing to represent liquid in the act 
 of pouring, but if the orifice be small, as 
 in the case of a coffeepot or tea kettle, it 
 will be liable to choke up the spout, and 
 sand, thoroughly dried, will be found 
 preferable. 
 
 Any one with a moderate degree of in- 
 genuity and fertility of invention, will be 
 able to multiply the effects from the hints 
 given, and may produce an almost endless 
 variety of illusions. As an illustration of 
 this, some of the most effective conjuring 
 tricks may be produced with great suc- 
 cess. For instance, a number of objects 
 
290 
 
 EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 
 
 may be cut out of cardboard, such as birds, 
 animals, kettles, teapots, hats, flowers and 
 plants in pots, at least twenty or more of 
 which can be piled flat on the floor without 
 coming above the level of the lower part of 
 the shadow curtain. If these are lifted one 
 by one just behind the profile of a stiff hat, 
 all the amusing effects can be produced of 
 an inexhaustible "tile." A full-sized hoop- 
 skirt can be presented to the gaze of the 
 astonished spectators. All of these objects 
 can be thrown over the light, picked up by 
 an assistant behind, and pushed, one by 
 one, back to the hat, by means of a thin 
 strip of wood kept flat on the floor, and re- 
 produced as often as may be required. 
 
 It would be well to remark, incidentally, 
 that for grown-up performers the curtain 
 should not be less than ten feet high. 
 When the curtain is much less, smaller per- 
 formers are requisite. 
 
 Too much stress cannot be laid on thor- 
 ough rehearsal. Everything should be tried 
 over and over again, until perfectly accom- 
 plished. Care should be taken that the acts 
 or separate pieces performed during an ex- 
 hibition be as distinct in details as possible, 
 
 so as not to allow the effects produced in 
 any one of them to be repeated in any other. 
 
 Let nothing be undertaken in which 
 there is the possibility of failure in any of 
 the arrangements. Rather attempt little 
 and do it well, than too much and bungle 
 in it. Then always remember, also, that the 
 individual in corpore is nothing, the shadow 
 everything. Do not be too sure that this 
 little action or that bit of by-play will be 
 all right when the time comes ; try it be- 
 forehand, and in all possibility the trial will 
 show how imperfect the attempt would 
 have been. 
 
 It should be remembered: That in re- 
 hearsal only can the performer be permitted 
 to look at his own shadow; as during the 
 performance the profile must be constantly 
 presented to the curtain, a position which 
 will prevent the performer from witnessing 
 the effect of his actions. Let everything 
 be done as close to the curtain as possible, 
 but never so near as to touch it. 
 
 If these general directions are carefully 
 followed the performers will not fail to 
 elicit their meed of applause at the close of 
 the shadow pantomime. 
 
 ^w t2rf *2™ 
 
 THE MAY-POLE. 
 
 (This selection is one of the most effective opening acts for an evening's entertainment that 
 
 can be imagined or devised, and fully repays the comparatively trifling amount 
 
 of trouble and preparation necessary for its representation.) 
 
 IT requires a pole ten feet high with a 
 revolving head-piece, to which the rib- 
 bons are attached; the lower end of the 
 pole should be inserted and tightly wedged 
 into the middle of a piece of wood to serve 
 for a stand, into which a suitable hole has 
 been mortised to receive the pole; the 
 stand concealed by green branches and 
 flowers, or in any other way that may 
 suit. The pole is placed in the center of 
 the stage, the stand being strongly secured 
 
 to the floor. For outdoor purposes the pole 
 may be sunk in the ground. 
 
 Next provide eight strips of paper-mus- 
 lin or ribbon about six feet longer than the 
 height of the pole, and about three inches 
 wide. Four of the strips should be white, 
 two of them red and two blue. One end 
 of each strip should be fastened firmly on 
 the top of the pole, and so arranged that 
 they will hang down around the pole in 
 regular order, a white strip and a colored 
 
EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 
 
 291 
 
 strip alternately. The width of the strips, 
 which we will call "banners," should be 
 regulated to suit the thickness of the pole; 
 their width ought not to exceed its di- 
 ameter. A wreath or garland will make a 
 pretty finish for the top of the pole. For a 
 small pole eight performers are sufficient; 
 with a larger pole twelve or more may join, 
 but always an equal number of boys and 
 girls to form couples, and the total number 
 divisible by four, with sufficient ribbons for 
 one for each. 
 
 It may save possible confusion to loop 
 up the ends of the banners clear of the 
 floor and secure them to the pole with a 
 pin, each in its proper order. The pole 
 and banners are now ready for use. 
 
 The dance is here arranged for four 
 couples, costumed in old holiday style. 
 
 The girls may be dressed in short 
 dresses resembling a gypsy, milk-maid, 
 etc. The boys may wear knee breeches 
 and blouse with a scarf around the waist, 
 tied at one side. Round hats with gar- 
 lands for the girls, and sailor hats for the 
 boys. 
 
 The dresses should be of very bright 
 colors — with white or black rows of braid ; 
 or a blue or red cambric skirt, with bands of 
 plain white cotton cloth sewed in rows 
 around the bottom, will look almost as well 
 on the stage at night as silk; while danc- 
 ing no one can distinguish the difference. 
 
 When the curtain rises, the music should 
 strike up a lively tune in well-marked 
 polka time, and the four couples enter, 
 dancing, in their order. The movements 
 of all should be regulated by the first 
 couple, on whom, therefore, a great deal 
 of responsibility rests. The preliminary 
 dancing may be arranged to suit the 
 manager; but it must be so contrived 
 that it leaves the four couples standing 
 around and facing the pole (each boy 
 
 having his partner on his right), holding 
 'hands so as to form a ring as large as pos- 
 sible. A circle marked on the floor, hav- 
 ing the pole for its center, and its circum- 
 ference about six feet from the pole, will 
 form a very good line for the dancers to 
 stand upon. 
 
 At a signal, the boys advance to the pole, 
 keeping strict time to the music, and each 
 takes a pair of banners, the left one white, 
 and the right one colored; they dance 
 backwards to their places, each boy hand- 
 ing the colored banner to his partner, and 
 retaining the white one himself. 
 
 Another signal is given, when all, hold- 
 ing their banners in their right hands, 
 dance backwards, each in a line directly 
 away from the pole, as far as the banners 
 will conveniently allow. 
 
 All now face to the right, and dance in 
 perfect order round and round the pole. 
 This movement — if executed in exact pre- 
 cision, the dancers preserving the same dis- 
 tance from each other, and the banners 
 kept just tight enough to prevent them 
 from hanging loosely — will wind the ban- 
 ners around the pole, giving it the appear- 
 ance of a barber's pole. 
 
 As soon as the dancers, by the continu- 
 ous winding of the banners, have got 
 conveniently near to the pole and to one 
 another, a signal is given, at which they 
 stop; all face half round, and then dance 
 in reverse direction until the banners are 
 entirely unwound, and the dancers have 
 resumed their starting-points, where they 
 stop. At another signal all take the ban- 
 ners in their left hands, the boys only face 
 half round, taking their partners by the 
 right hand, and then right and left all 
 round, in the same manner as at the begin- 
 ning of the last figure of "The Lancers," 
 continuing until the banners are evenly 
 braided upon the pole, and the space for 
 
292 
 
 EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 
 
 dancing becomes too confined for comfort. 
 The leader should then give the signal to 
 stop, as soon as the dance brings him face 
 to face with his own partner. 
 
 Another signal is then given, at which 
 all face half round, bringing each boy 
 opposite a new partner, whose right hand 
 he takes, and the movement, thus reversed, 
 is repeated in the same manner as before, 
 until the banners are entirely unwound 
 again. 
 
 To succeed in this dance, it is absolutely 
 necessary for all the dancers to keep exact 
 time to the music, and to keep regular in- 
 tervals, or distances, between each other; 
 the banners will then lie evenly and sym- 
 metrically on the pole, and present a very 
 pretty appearance; a fearful forfeit being 
 
 exacted from the unlucky individual who, 
 by carelessness or inattention, gets his ban- 
 ner out of its proper place, as this, of 
 course, stops the dance entirely. The only 
 way to avoid such an accident is to re- 
 hearse the whole dance frequently and 
 thoroughly, until each is perfect in all the 
 details. 
 
 Previous to the figure just described, 
 other figures may be introduced. The re- 
 volving head-piece will allow of all joining 
 hands, holding the ribbons, and dancing 
 around the pole to the right; stopping at 
 a signal, and each couple balance to part- 
 ner; then all hands around to the left. 
 Various pleasing combinations would sug- 
 gest themselves to the arrangers of the 
 dance. 
 
 *5* g5* c?* 
 
 THE MINUET. 
 
 (This should be recited with a musical accompaniment of a "minuet." Between each stanza 
 dance a few measures, and on the final line the reciter should bow him- 
 self gracefully off the stage, keeping time to the music.) 
 
 GRANDMA told me all about it, 
 Told me so I couldn't doubt it, 
 How she danced — my grandma danced- 
 Long ago. 
 How she held her pretty head, 
 How her dainty skirt she spread, 
 How she turned her little toes — 
 Smiling little human rose ! — 
 Long ago. 
 
 Grandma's hair was bright and sunny; 
 Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny ! 
 Really quite a pretty girl, 
 
 Long ago. 
 Bless her! why, she wears a cap, 
 Grandma does, and takes a nap 
 Every single day; and yet 
 Grandma danced the minuet 
 
 Long ago. 
 
 Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, 
 Always knitting grandpa's stocking — 
 (Every girl was taught to knit 
 
 Long ago.) 
 Yet her figure is so neat, 
 And her way so staid and sweet, 
 I can almost see her now 
 Bending to her partner's bow, 
 
 Long ago. 
 
 Grandma says our modern jumping, 
 Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, 
 Would have shocked the gentle folk 
 
 Long ago. 
 No — they moved with stately grace. 
 Everything in proper place, 
 Gliding slowly forward, then 
 Slowly courtesying back again, 
 
 Long ago. 
 
EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 
 
 293 
 
 Modern ways are quite alarming, 
 Grandma says; but boys were charming — 
 Girls and boys, I mean, of course — 
 
 Long ago. 
 Bravely modest, grandly shy — 
 What if all of us should try 
 Just to feel like those who met 
 In the graceful minuet 
 
 Long ago. 
 
 With the minuet in fashion, 
 Who could fly into a passion ? 
 
 All would wear the calm they wore 
 
 Long ago. 
 In time to come, if I, perchance, 
 Should tell my grandchild of our dance, 
 I should really like to say, 
 "We did it, dear, in some such way, 
 
 Long ago." 
 — Mrs. Mary M. Dodge. 
 
 t5* t<5* <5* % 
 
 HIAWATHA. 
 
 (The Story of Hiawatha told in verse and tableaux.) 
 
 Directions. — Let one person recite the entire parts, standing on the stage in front 
 the curtain — stepping to the right each time a tableau is presented. In setting 
 the tableau follow the poem carefully for expression and delineation. 
 
 of 
 
 (( 
 
 A 
 
 Part I. 
 S unto the bow the cord is, 
 So unto the man is woman ; 
 Though she bends him, she obeys him, 
 Though she draws him, yet she follows, 
 Useless one without the other !" 
 
 Thus the youthful Hiawatha 
 Said within himself and pondered, 
 Much perplexed by various feelings, 
 Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, 
 Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 
 Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
 In the land of the Dacotahs. 
 
 "Wed a maiden of your people," 
 Warning said the old Nokomis; 
 "Go not eastward, go not westward, 
 For a stranger, whom we know not ! 
 
 "Bring not here an idle maiden, 
 Bring not here a useless woman, 
 Hands unskilful, feet unwilling; 
 Bring a wife with nimble fingers, 
 Heart and hand that move together, 
 Feet that run on willing errands !" 
 
 Smiling answered Hiawatha : 
 "In the land of the Dacotahs 
 Lives the arrow-maker's daughter, 
 
 Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
 Handsomest of all the women. 
 I will bring her to your wigwam, 
 She shall run upon your errands, 
 Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
 Be the sunlight of my people !" 
 
 Still dissuading said Nokomis: 
 "Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
 From the land of the Dacotahs! 
 Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 
 Often is there war between us, 
 There are feuds yet unforgotten, 
 Wounds that ache and still may open !" 
 
 Laughing answered Hiawatha: 
 "For that reason, if no other, 
 Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
 That our tribes might be united, 
 That old feuds might be forgotten, 
 And old wounds be healed forever!" 
 
 Thus departed Hiawatha 
 To the land of the Dacotahs. 
 
 (Tableau No. i. Scene — A wigwam. 
 Nokomis seated in doorway and Hiawatha 
 standing near — both in Indian costume. 
 Skins and guns and the usual paraphernalia 
 strewn about.) 
 
294 
 
 EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 
 
 Part II. 
 HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. 
 
 At the doorway of his wigwam 
 
 Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 
 
 In the land of the Dacotahs, 
 
 Making arrow-heads of jasper, 
 
 Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
 
 At his side in all her beauty, 
 
 Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
 
 Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, 
 
 Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; 
 
 Of the past the old man's thoughts were, 
 
 And the maiden's of the future. 
 
 He was thinking as he sat there, 
 Thinking of the great war-parties, 
 How they came to buy his arrows, 
 Could not fight without his arrows. 
 
 She was thinking of a hunter, 
 From another tribe and country, 
 Young and tall and very handsome, 
 Who one morning in the springtime, 
 Came to buy her father's arrows, 
 Sat and rested in the wigwam, 
 Lingered long about the doorway, 
 Looking back as he departed. 
 She had heard her father praise him, 
 Praise his courage and his wisdom; 
 Would he come again for a/rows 
 To the Falls of Minnehaha? 
 
 (Tableau 2. Scene — A wigwam, in the 
 doorway of which sits the arrow-maker 
 making arrow-heads. Near him sits Laugh- 
 ing Water plaiting mats. Both in Indian 
 costume.) 
 
 Part III. 
 HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 
 
 At the feet of Laughing Water 
 Hiawatha laid his burden, 
 Threw the red deer from his shoulders ; 
 And the maiden looked up at him, 
 Looked up from her mat of rushes, 
 
 Said with gentle look and accent, 
 "You are welcome, Hiawatha !" 
 
 Very spacious was the wigwam, 
 Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, 
 With the gods of the Dacotahs 
 Drawn and painted on its curtains, 
 And so tall the doorway, hardly 
 Hiawatha stooped to enter, 
 Hardly touched his eagle-feathers 
 As he entered at the doorway. 
 
 Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
 From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
 Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
 Brought forth food and set before them. 
 Water brought them from the brooklet, 
 Gave them food in earthen vessels, 
 Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, 
 Listened while the guest was speaking, 
 Listened while her father answered, 
 But not once her lips she opened, 
 Not a single word she uttered. 
 Yes, as in a dream she listened 
 To the words of Hiawatha : 
 
 "After many years of warfare, 
 Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
 There is peace between the O jib ways 
 And the tribe of the Dacotahs." 
 Thus continued Hiawatha, 
 And then added, speaking slowly: 
 "That this peace may last forever, 
 And our hands be clasped more closely, 
 And our hearts be more united, 
 Give me as my wife this maiden, 
 Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
 Loveliest of Dacotah women." 
 
 And the ancient Arrow-maker 
 Paused a moment ere he answered, 
 Smoked a little while in silence, 
 Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 
 Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 
 And made answer very gravely : 
 
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 CD H 
 
 P4 H 
 
 CD 
 
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 <D I 
 
 s S 
 
 <S M 
 
 B 
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 P 
 
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EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 
 
 297 
 
 "Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; 
 
 Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!" 
 
 And the lovely Laughing Water 
 Seemed more lovely as she stood there, 
 Neither willing nor reluctant, 
 As she went to Hiawatha, 
 Softly took the seat beside him, 
 While she said, and blushed to say it, 
 "I will follow you, my husband !" 
 
 This was Hiawatha's wooing ! 
 Thus it was he won the daughter 
 Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
 In the land of the Dacotahs. 
 
 (Tableau 3. For scene follow poem as 
 given in Part III.) 
 
 Part IV. 
 HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE. 
 
 From the wigwam he departed, 
 Leading with him Laughing Water ; 
 Hand in hand they went together, 
 Through the woodland and the meadow, 
 Left the old man standing lonely 
 At the doorway of his wigwam, 
 Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
 Calling to them from the distance, 
 Crying to them from afar off, 
 "Fare thee well, O Minnehaha !" 
 
 And the ancient Arrow-maker 
 Turned again unto his labor, 
 Sat down by his sunny doorway, 
 Murmuring to himself, and saying: 
 "Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
 Those we love, and those who love us! 
 Just when they have learned to help us, 
 When we are old and lean upon them, 
 Comes a youth with flaming feathers, 
 With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
 Wanders piping through the village, 
 Beckons to the fairest maiden, 
 And she follows where he leads her, 
 Leaving all things for the stranger !" 
 
 (Tableau 4. The arrow-maker alone, 
 watching the departure of Laughing 
 Water.) 
 
 Part V. 
 HIAWATHA'S RETURN. 
 Pleasant was the journey homeward 
 Through interminable forests, 
 Over meadow, over mountain, 
 Over river, hill, and hollow, 
 Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 
 Though they journeyed very slowly, 
 Though his pace he checked and slackened 
 To the steps of Laughing Water. 
 
 Over wide and rushing rivers 
 In his arms he bore the maiden ; 
 Light he thought her as a feather, 
 As the plume upon his head-gear ; 
 Cleared the tangled pathway for her, 
 Bent aside the swaying branches, 
 Made at night a lodge of branches, 
 And a bed with boughs of hemlock, 
 And a fire before the doorway 
 With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 
 
 All the traveling winds went with them 
 O'er the meadow, through the forest ; 
 All the stars of night looked at them, 
 Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber. 
 
 Pleasant was the journey homeward ! 
 All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
 Songs of happiness and heart's ease ; 
 Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
 "Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
 Having such a wife to love you !" 
 Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
 "Happy are you, Laughing Water, 
 Having such a noble husband!" 
 From the sky the sun benignant 
 Looked upon them through the branches 
 Saying to them, "O my children, 
 Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, 
 Life is checkered shade and sunshine, 
 Rule by love, O Hiawatha !" 
 
298 
 
 EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 
 
 From the sky the moon looked at them, 
 Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, 
 Whispered to them, "O my children, 
 Day is restless, night is quiet, 
 Man imperious, woman feeble; 
 Half is mine, although I follow ; 
 Rule by patience, Laughing Water!" 
 
 Thus it was they journeyed homeward. 
 Thus it was that Hiawatha 
 
 PRETTY 
 
 To the lodge of old Nokomis 
 
 Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, 
 
 Brought the sunshine of his people, 
 
 Minnehaha, Laughing Water. 
 
 Handsomest of all the women 
 
 In the land of the Dacotahs, 
 
 In the land of handsome women. 
 
 (Final Tableau. The welcome home- 
 Old Nokomis receiving the lovers.) 
 
 «,?• fc5* t(5* 
 
 GROUPS FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 DRESSED FOR THE PARTY. 
 
 Little girl in party dress, with fan partly 
 
 open in her hand, is looking backward over 
 
 her shoulder. Little boy, also in party 
 
 dress, is holding a bouquet toward the girl. 
 
 you can't find me. 
 
 A chair with a large shawl carelessly 
 arranged over it. A child's smiling face 
 peeping out from behind the drapery, while 
 its body is hidden. One hand holds the 
 drapery aside from the face. 
 
 PUTTING THE CHILDREN TO BED. 
 
 A toy bedstead in which are placed two 
 or three dolls. A little girl bending over 
 the bed, with her hand in position for 
 tucking in the bed-clothes. 
 
 RAISE THE GATES. 
 
 Two small girls with hands joined and 
 raised as in the game. A still smaller child 
 is about passing under the "gates." His 
 hands are clasped behind him, and one foot 
 is raised on tip-toe. His back is toward 
 the audience, and his head stretched a little 
 forward. 
 
 dolly's doctor. 
 
 A little girl seated with a doll on her lap. 
 A doll's baby-coach or cradle stands beside 
 her. A boy with high silk hat and long 
 coat touching the floor, with watch in one 
 hand, is holding the wrist of the doll as if 
 feeling its pulse. 
 
 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 
 
 A small boy holding a large slate, on 
 which is partly drawn with chalk a ludi- 
 crous outline of a little girl. Standing 
 near the boy is a little girl with the solemn 
 look of importance on her face befitting the 
 occasion of having her portrait made. The 
 boy holds his crayon on the unfinished pic- 
 ture, and he is looking intently at the girl 
 as if studying his subject. 
 
 TIRED OUT. 
 
 A child asleep in a large chair. One arm 
 thrown over the arm of the chair ; the 
 other in his lap, having just loosened his 
 hold of a picture-book, which lies open on 
 his knee. His mouth is a little open, and 
 his head drooped carelessly forward. 
 
 SUNSHINE OR SHOWER. 
 
 Three little girls with laughing faces are 
 huddled closely together under a large 
 dilapidated umbrella. The umbrella, held 
 open behind them, forms the back-ground 
 of the picture. 
 
 THE MATCH-BOY. 
 
 A small boy in ragged jacket, and old 
 hat pushed back from his forehead, hold- 
 ing a large package under his arm, and 
 some boxes of matches in his extended 
 hand. A little girl handsomely dressed, 
 with open pocket-book in hand and a 
 pitying look on her face is holding a coin 
 ready to give to the boy. 
 
I .... _L~™ 
 
 • 9 9 
 
 @ 
 
 Miscellaneous Selections 
 
 S«@30 
 
 The selections in this department are intended to supplement the regular departments and are 
 of such great variety that a selection can be made on any subject. 
 
 THE ROUGH RIDER. 
 
 WHERE the longhorns feed on the sun- 
 cured grass, 'neath the blaze of a 
 cloudless sky, 
 Where the cactus crawls and the sage brush 
 
 spreads on a plain of alkali, 
 Where the lone wolf prowls and makes his 
 
 feast on the range calf gone astray, 
 Where the coward coyote yelps by night 
 
 and slinks near the herds by day, 
 Where the mountains frame the pictured 
 
 plain with a border line of snow, 
 Where the chill of death in the blizzard's 
 
 breath falls with a sting and blow : 
 There rides a man of the wild wide west, 
 
 blest of the sun and air, 
 A simple man with a face of tan, and a heart 
 
 to do and dare. 
 
 From rope, and quirt, and ripping gaff, and 
 
 the strangling hackamore, 
 The untamed broncho learned his will and 
 
 a master burden bore. 
 Over the hills and the gophered ground; 
 
 still serving his direst need, 
 When he rides in the peril of hoof and horn 
 
 at the head of the night stampede. 
 He is slow of speech but quick of hand, and 
 
 keen and true of eye, 
 He is wise in the learning of nature's school, 
 
 the open earth and sky ; 
 He is strong with the strength of an honest 
 
 heart, he is free as the mountain's 
 
 breath, 
 He takes no fear of a living thing, and dy- 
 ing, jests with death. 
 
 — Richard Linthicum. 
 
 i5* i5* <5* 
 
 LOVE'S RAILWAY. 
 
 
 THE starting point on love's railway is 
 "Timid-glances." From thence the 
 train moves slowly, at irregular rates of 
 speed, till it reaches the station of "Squeeze- 
 the-hand." From "Squeeze-the-hand" to 
 "Call-in-the-evening" is but a short dis- 
 tance, and is made in good time. Next, on a 
 down-grade, and after a quick passage, we 
 reach "Moonlight- Walk ;" a long pause is 
 made here, and a fresh supply of fuel 
 taken aboard. Steam is then raised and 
 the train hurried on to the little station of 
 
 "Drop-letters." Then comes an up-grade 
 and bad track to "Green-eye." At "Green- 
 eye" some repairs are necessary before we 
 make the trip, still up-grade, to "Faith-re- 
 stored." Here we have a level track, and 
 make the station of "Pop-the-question" 
 inside of schedule time. At "Pop-the-ques- 
 tion" we must put on all the steam, for it 
 is a terribly stiff grade from thence up to 
 "Pa's-consent." Between these two points 
 more than half the accidents occur which 
 happen on this much-traveled road. Hav- 
 
 299 
 
300 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 ing reached ''Pa's-consent," we must screw 
 down the brakes and reverse the engine, 
 for the decline is almost precipitous, and 
 the speed is terrific from thence to "Tie- 
 the-knot." There are occasional accidents 
 between these two points, but not many. 
 Sometimes a train is complete. 
 
 From "Tie-the-knot," the train hurries 
 on as fast as possible, in order not to be 
 behind time in reaching the important sta- 
 tion of "Buy-the-cradle." Here the route 
 becomes monotonous, and little interest is 
 felt in the movement of the train — unless 
 it should switch off the main track and run 
 out to a side-station called "Family-jar." 
 From this station return trips are occa- 
 sionally made as far as "Pop-the-question," 
 but no farther. There are no back trains 
 to "Timid-glances," or "Squeeze-the- 
 hand." Accidents quite frequently happen 
 to trains which run direct from "Timid- 
 
 glances" to "Pa's-consent," without stop- 
 ping at intermediate points ; for in running 
 back from "Pa's-consent" to "Pop-the-ques- 
 tion" the train is frequently thrown from 
 the track, and there occurs a great smash. 
 
 I have traveled the road from "Timid- 
 glances" to "Moonlight-walk," stopping 
 for some time at the stations of "Squeeze- 
 the-hand" and "Call-in-the-evening." I 
 once ran a considerable distance toward 
 "Pop-the-question," but a screw got loose 
 and I couldn't proceed. 
 • I have now the machinery in good 
 working order, and am getting steam up 
 for a grand rush upon "Pop-the-question" 
 and "Pa's-consent." If I reach those 
 points in safety, no more will be heard of 
 my train until it arrives "At Home." If I 
 am unable to reach that point, it will be 
 safe to conclude that the effort has 
 "busted" the train. 
 
 10* 10& *£& 
 
 MONEY MUSK. 
 
 AH, the buxom girls that helped the 
 boys — 
 The nobler Helens of humbler Troys — 
 
 As they stripped the husks with rustling 
 
 fold 
 From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold, 
 
 By the candlelight in pumpkin bowls, 
 And the gleams that showed fantastic 
 holes 
 
 In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin, 
 From the hermit glim set up within; 
 
 By the rarer light in the girlish eyes 
 As dark as wells, or as blue as skies. 
 
 I hear the laugh when the ear is red 
 I see the blush with the forfeit paid, 
 
 The cedar cakes with the ancient twist, 
 The cider cup that the girls have kissed, 
 
 And I see the fiddler through the dusk 
 As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk!" 
 
 The boys and girls in a double row 
 Wait face to face till the magic bow 
 
 Shall whip the tune from the violin, 
 And the merry pulse of the feet begin. 
 
 In shirt of check, and tallowed hair, 
 The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair 
 Like Moses' basket stranded there 
 
 On the brink of Father Nile. 
 He feels the fiddle's slender neck, 
 Picks out the notes with thrum and check, 
 And times the tune with nod and beck, 
 
 And thinks it a weary while. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 '301 
 
 All ready! Now he gives trie call, 
 Cries, "Honor to the ladies!" All 
 The jolly tides of laughter fall 
 And ebb in a happy smile. 
 
 D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string, 
 "First couple join right hands and swing!' 
 As light as any bluebird's wing, 
 
 "Szving once-and-a-half times round." 
 Whirls Mary Martin all in blue — 
 Calico gown and stockings new, 
 And tinted eyes that tell you true, 
 
 Dance all to the dancing sound. 
 
 She flits about big Moses Brown, 
 
 Who holds her hands to keep her down 
 
 And thinks her hair a golden crown, 
 
 And his heart turns over once! 
 His cheek with Mary's breath is wet, 
 It gives a second somerset! 
 He means to win the maiden yet, 
 
 Alas, for the awkward dunce! 
 
 "Your stoga boot has crushed my toe;" 
 "I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe!" 
 "You clumsy fellow!" "Pass belozv!" 
 
 And the first pair dance apart. 
 Then "Forward six!" advance, retreat, 
 Like midges gay in sunbeam street, 
 'Tis Money Musk by merry feet 
 
 And the Money Musk by heart! 
 
 "Three-quarters round your partner 
 
 szving !" 
 "Across the set!" The rafters ring, 
 The girls and boys have taken wing 
 
 And have brought their roses out! 
 'Tis "Forward six!" with rustic grace, 
 Ah, rarer far than — "Swing to place!" 
 Than golden clouds of old point-lace 
 
 They bring the dance about. 
 
 Then clasping hands all — "Right and left!" 
 All swiftly weave the measure deft 
 Across the woof in living weft 
 
 And the Money Musk is done! 
 Oh, dancers of the rustling husk, 
 Good-night, sweethearts, 'tis growing 
 
 dusk, 
 Good-night for aye to Money Musk, 
 
 For the heavy march begun! 
 
 — Benjamin F. Taylor. 
 
 t3& *2r* t&& 
 
 THE LITTLE OLD LOG HOUSE WHERE WE WERE BORN 
 
 W 
 
 HEN the labors and the cares of 
 day are over, 
 And the shades of night are falling o'er 
 the town, 
 And the sleepy sparrows seek their hiding 
 places, 
 And the silvery moonbeams softly shim- 
 mer down, 
 Oft we sit and dream about the days of 
 childhood, 
 When the life now waning fast was in its 
 morn, 
 Of the faces hid forever in the church- 
 yard, 
 
 And the little old log house where we 
 were born. 
 
 We can hear the bluebirds singing in the 
 morning, 
 When the golden sunrays touch the for- 
 est trees; 
 
 We can hear the catbird calling in the 
 bushes, 
 And can hear the humming of the busy 
 bees. 
 
 There the saucy squirrels chattered to the 
 chipmunks, 
 
302 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And the Bob White whistled in the wav- 
 ing corn, 
 And the pheasant drummed a tattoo in the 
 wildwood, 
 
 Near the little old log house where we 
 were born. 
 
 When the King of Winter swung his icy 
 sceptre, 
 And the trees were draped in bridal 
 robes of white, 
 In the snow we tracked the rabbits 
 through the clearing, 
 EVery boyish heart a-qui.ver with de- 
 light, 
 We'd return with hands all scratched by 
 bristling briars, 
 And our homespun clothes by thorns 
 and bushes torn, 
 To be patched and mended by the patient 
 mother 
 In the little old log house where we 
 were born. 
 
 There the country boys and girls would 
 often gather 
 For the jolly party of the wintry night, 
 
 And the fiddler, with his hair all greased 
 and shining, 
 Jerked the bow across the strings with 
 muscled might. 
 And the old folks, too, would shake their 
 feet in rapture 
 O'er the solid puncheon floors so 
 smoothly worn, 
 While the god of love lurked near in wait 
 for victims 
 In the little old log house where we 
 were born. 
 
 Mid the grandeur of a mansion in the city, 
 With the choicest modern comforts at 
 command, 
 Oft there comes into the soul an earnest 
 longing 
 As the silent wings of memory expand — 
 Comes a wish to once more hear the wood- 
 land voices, 
 And to hear the song-birds greet the 
 early morn, 
 And to lie and dream beneath the oaks 
 and maples, 
 Near the little old log house where we 
 were born. 
 
 ta*t ic& t&r* 
 
 TO A MOUSE IN A TRAP. 
 
 POOR, trembling wretch, what sad mis- 
 hap 
 Has brought you tight within my tra 
 Had man's vile greed so clean bereft 
 Your bairnies that you'd stoop to theft ? 
 Ah, who'd not lay his scruples by 
 That heard his babies' hungered cry? 
 
 Still, though to mercy I incline, 
 
 Must I the ends of law resign? 
 
 The crust you sought full well you knew 
 
 Belonged to me and not to you. 
 
 But — peace ! I'll grant your frenzied plea, 
 
 Move back the bars and set you free. 
 
 If man one God-like spark can claim, 
 Then surely mercy is its name. 
 So, though you meant to steal my bread, 
 I'll spend no anger on your head, 
 But, warned by gentle mercy's flame, 
 I'll let you go as poor's you came. 
 
 As poor's you came, yet richer far 
 By freedom's gift than now you are. 
 Your life's to me of little worth — 
 To you the grandest fact of earth ; 
 So now, whilst I throw wide my door, 
 Begone, wee neighbor — sin no more ! 
 
 — Frank Putnam. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 303 
 
 TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 
 
 WHEN they reached the depot, Mr. 
 Mann and his wife gazed in un- 
 speakable disappointment at the receding 
 train, which was just pulling away from 
 the bridge switch at the rate of a mile 
 a minute. Their first impulse was to run 
 after it, but as the train was out of sight 
 and whistling for Sagetown before they 
 could act upon the impulse, they remained 
 in the carriage and disconsolately turned 
 their horses' heads homeward. 
 
 Mr. Mann broke the silence, very grimly : 
 "It all comes of having to wait for a woman 
 to get ready." 
 
 "I was ready before you were," replied 
 his wife. 
 
 "Great heavens," cried Mr. Mann, with 
 great impatience, nearly jerking the horses' 
 jaws out of place, "just listen to that! And 
 I sat in the buggy ten minutes yelling at 
 you to come along until the whole neigh- 
 borhood heard me." 
 
 "Yes," acquiesced Mrs. M'ann, with the 
 provoking placidity which no one can as- 
 sume but a woman, "and every time I 
 started down stairs you sent me back for 
 something you had forgotten." 
 
 Mr. Mann groaned. "This is too much 
 to bear," he said, "when everybody knows 
 that if I were going to Europe I would 
 just rush into the house, put on a clean 
 shirt, grab up my gripsack, and fly, while 
 you would want at least six months for pre- 
 liminary preparations, and then dawdle 
 around the whole day of starting until 
 every train had left town." 
 
 Well, the upshot of the matter was that 
 the Manns put off their visit to Aurora 
 until the next week, and it was agreed that 
 each one should get himself or herself 
 ready and go down to the train and go, and 
 the one who failed to get ready should be 
 
 left. The day of the match came around in 
 due time. The train was going at 10:30, 
 and Mr. Mann, after attending to his busi- 
 ness, went home at 9:45. 
 
 "Now, then," he shouted, "only three- 
 quarters of an hour's time. Fly around; 
 a fair field and no favors, you know." 
 
 And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged 
 into this room and flew through that one, 
 and dived into one closet after another with 
 inconceivable rapidity, chuckling under his 
 breath all the time to think how cheap Mrs. 
 Mann would feel when he started off alone. 
 He stopped on his way up stairs to pull 
 off his heavy boots to save time. For the 
 same reason he pulled off his coat as he 
 ran through the dining room and hung it 
 on the corner of the silver closet. Then 
 he jerked off his vest as he rushed through 
 the hall and tossed it on the hat-rack hook, 
 and by the time he had reached his own 
 room he was ready to plunge into his clean 
 clothes. He pulled out a bureau drawer 
 and began to paw at the things like a 
 Scotch terrier after a rat. 
 
 "Eleanor," he shrieked, "where are my 
 shirts?" 
 
 "In your bureau drawer," calmly replied 
 Mrs. Mann, who was standing before a 
 glass calmly and deliberately coaxing a re- 
 fractory crimp into place. 
 
 "Well, but they ain't!" shouted Mr. 
 Mann, a little annoyed. "I've emptied 
 everything out of the drawer, and there 
 isn't a thing in it I ever saw before." 
 
 Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, 
 held her head on one side, and after satis- 
 fying herself that the crimp would do, re- 
 plied: "These things scattered around on 
 the floor are all mine. Probably you 
 haven't been looking into your own 
 drawer." 
 
304 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 "I don't see," testily observed Mr. Mann, 
 "why you couldn't have put my things out 
 for me when you had nothing else to do 
 all the morning." 
 
 "Because," said Mrs. Mann, setting her- 
 self into an additional article of raiment 
 with awful deliberation, "nobody put mine 
 out for me. A fair field and no favors, my 
 dear." 
 
 Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like a 
 bull at a red flag. 
 
 "Foul!" he shouted in malicious triumph. 
 "No buttons on the neck!" 
 
 "Because," said Mrs. Mann sweetly, 
 after a deliberate stare at the fidgeting, im- 
 patient man, during which she buttoned 
 her dress and put eleven pins where they 
 would do the most good, "because you 
 have got the shirt on wrong side out." 
 
 When Mr. Mann slid out of the shirt he 
 began to sweat. He dropped the shirt three 
 times before he got it on, and while it was 
 over his head he heard the clock strike 
 ten. When his head came through he saw 
 Mrs. Mann coaxing the ends and bows of 
 her necktie. 
 
 "Where are my shirt studs?" he cried. 
 
 Mrs. Mann went out into another room 
 and presently came back with gloves and 
 hat, and saw Mr. Mann emptying all the 
 boxes he could find in and around the bu- 
 reau. Then she said, "In the shirt you 
 just pulled off." 
 
 Mrs. Mann put on her gloves while Mr. 
 Mann hunted up and down the room for 
 his cuff-buttons. 
 
 "Eleanor," he snarled, at last, "I believe 
 you must know where those cuff-buttons 
 are. 
 
 "I haven't seen them," said the lady, set- 
 tling her hat; "didn't you lay them down 
 on the window-sill in the sitting-room last 
 night?" 
 
 Mr. Mann remembered, and he went 
 
 down stairs on the run. He stepped on 
 one of his boots and was immediately 
 landed in the hall at the foot of the stairs 
 with neatness and despatch, attended in 
 the transmission with more bumps than 
 he could count with Webb's Adder, and 
 landed with a bang like the Hell Gate ex- 
 plosion. 
 
 "Are you nearly ready, Algernon?" 
 sweetly asked the wife of his bosom, lean- 
 ing over the banisters. 
 
 The unhappy man groaned. "Can't you 
 throw me down the other boot?" he asked. 
 
 Mrs. Mann, pityingly, kicked it down to 
 him. 
 
 "My valise?" he inquired, as he tugged 
 at the boot. 
 
 "Up in your dressing-room," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Packed?" 
 
 "I do not know; unless you packed it 
 yourself, probably not," she replied, with 
 her hand on the door knob; "I had barely 
 time to pack my own." 
 
 She was passing out of the gate when 
 the door opened, and he shouted, "Where 
 in the name of goodness did you put my 
 vest? It has all my money in it!" 
 
 "You threw it on the hat-rack," she 
 called. "Good-bye, dear." 
 
 Before she got to the corner of the street 
 she was hailed again. 
 
 "Eleanor! Eleanor! Eleanor Mann! 
 Did you wear off my coat?" 
 
 She paused and turned, after signaling 
 the street car to stop, and cried, "You 
 threw it in the silver closet." 
 
 The street car engulfed her graceful 
 form and she was seen no more. But the 
 neighbors say that they heard Mr. Mann 
 charging up and down the house, rushing 
 out of the front door every now and then, 
 shrieking after the unconscious Mrs. 
 Mann, to know where his hat was, and 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 305 
 
 where she put the valise key, and if she 
 had his clean socks and undershirts, and 
 that there wasn't a linen collar in the house. 
 And when he went away at last, he left the 
 kitchen door, the side door, and the front 
 door, all the down-stajrs windows and the 
 front gate, wide open. 
 
 The loungers around the depot were 
 somewhat amused, just as the train was 
 pulling out of sight down in the yards, to 
 see a flushed, enterprising man, with his 
 
 hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned and 
 necktie flying, and his gripsack flapping 
 open and shut like a demented shutter on 
 a March night, and a door key in his hand, 
 dash wildly across the platform and halt 
 in the middle of the track, glaring in de- 
 jected, impotent, wrathful mortification at 
 the departing train, and shaking his fist at 
 a pretty woman who was throwing kisses 
 at him from the rear platform of the last 
 car. 
 
 T 
 
 HESE days of cool September, 
 
 An' hazy night an' morn, 
 Set me thinkin' o' the punkins 
 
 Among the rustlin' corn; 
 An' I'm back again with mother, 
 
 A lookin' in her eyes, 
 An' thinkin' they are sweet'nin', 
 
 Her famous punkin pies. 
 
 tS* t3* w* 
 
 MOTHER'S PUNKIN PIES. 
 
 Why all I've larned of natur, 
 
 An' human natur's wiles, 
 An' the rugged path tu glory, 
 
 I owe tu mother's smiles, 
 As she helped us plant the punkin 
 
 An' corn, 'neath April skies, 
 An' told me how the seasons 
 
 Ripened her punkin pies. 
 
 Fer when from out the oven, 
 
 A crispy golden brown, 
 The crust in flaky scollops, 
 
 Like lace upon a gown, 
 She used tu take an' set 'em 
 
 In rows tu feast my eyes, 
 I jest thanked God fer mother, 
 
 An' mother's punkin pies. 
 
 I tell you there ain't nuthin' 
 
 Upon this livin' earth, 
 A man kin larn tu treasure 
 
 Of everlastin' worth, 
 Like things his mother taught him, 
 
 When his big an' honest eyes 
 Was watchin' her contrivin' 
 
 Them golden punkin pies. 
 
 t5* <5* &5* 
 
 BREVITIES. 
 
 THE man who insists upon conversa- 
 tion whether you will or no was on 
 the train with me between Detroit and Chi- 
 cago. This time, as is often the case, he 
 was one of those dear fellows, the com- 
 mercial travelers. I was reading when he 
 took a seat opposite and began to talk. 
 "Traveling?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What line?" 
 
 "Paper." 
 
 "Wall?" 
 
 I gave up. As an example of the laconic 
 in conversation it reminded me of a story 
 told me once by Max O'Rell. It was of a 
 Scotsman stopping before a shop door in 
 a Scotch village. He took a bit of cloth in 
 his hand. " 'Oo' ?" he asked. 
 
30(5 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 "Aye, W," said the shopkeeper. 
 "A' W?" 
 "Aye, a' W." 
 "A'ae W?" 
 "Aye, a' ae 'oo'." 
 
 Which, being interpreted, would be re- 
 corded in ordinary English. "Wool?" 
 
 ^w t5* %5* 
 
 CASEY AT THE BAT. 
 
 "Yes, wool." 
 
 "All wool?" 
 
 "Yes, all wool." 
 
 "All the same quality of wool ?" 
 
 "Yes, all the same wool." 
 
 , — Moses P. Handy. 
 
 IT looked extremely rocky for the Mud- 
 ville nine that day; 
 The score stood two to four, with but an 
 
 inning left to play. 
 So, when Cooney died at second, and Bur- 
 rows did the same, 
 A pallor wreathed the features of the pa- 
 trons of the game. 
 
 A straggling few got up to go, leaving there 
 
 the rest, 
 With that hope which springs eternal within 
 
 the human breast, 
 For they thought: "If only Casey could 
 
 get a whack at that," 
 They'd put up even money now, with Casey 
 
 at the bat. 
 
 But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so 
 
 did Blake, 
 And the former was a puddin', and the 
 
 latter was a fake. 
 So on that stricken multitude a deathlike 
 
 silence sat, 
 For there seemed but little chance of Casey's 
 
 getting to the bat. 
 
 But Flynn let drive a "single," to the won- 
 derment of all, 
 
 And the much-despised Blakey "tore the 
 cover off the ball." 
 
 And when the dust had lifted, and they 
 saw what had occurred, 
 
 There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn 
 a-huggin' third. 
 
 Then, from the gladdened multitude went 
 
 up a joyous yell, 
 It rumbled in the mountain tops, it rattled 
 
 in the dell ! 
 It struck upon the hillside and rebounded 
 
 on the flat; 
 For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to 
 
 the bat. 
 
 There was ease in Casey's manner as he 
 
 stepped into his place, 
 There was pride in Casey's bearing and a 
 
 smile on Casey's face ; 
 And, when responding to the cheers, he 
 
 lightly doffed his hat, 
 No stranger in the crowd could doubt 
 
 'twas Casey at the bat. 
 
 Ten thousand eyes were on him as he 
 
 rubbed his hands with dirt, 
 Five thousand tongues applauded when he 
 
 wiped them on his shirt; 
 Then, when the writhing pitcher ground 
 
 the ball into his hip, 
 Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a sneer 
 
 curled Casey's lip. 
 
 And now the leather-covered sphere came 
 hurtling through the air, 
 
 And Casey stood a-watchin' it in mighty 
 grandeur there. 
 
 Close by the sturdy batsman the ball un- 
 heeded sped ; 
 
 "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike 
 one," the umpire said. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 30? 
 
 From the benches, black with people, there 
 went up a muffled roar, 
 
 Like the beating of storm waves on the 
 stern and distant shore; 
 
 "Kill him ! kill the umpire !" shouted some- 
 one on the stand; 
 
 And it's likely they'd have killed him had 
 not Casey raised his hand. 
 
 With a smile of Christian charity great 
 
 Casey's visage shone; 
 He stilled the rising turrmlt, he made the 
 
 game go on ; 
 He signaled to the pitcher, and once more 
 
 the spheroid flew ; 
 But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire 
 
 said, "Strike two." 
 
 "Fraud !" cried the maddened thousands, 
 and the echo answered "Fraud !" 
 
 But one scornful look from Casey and the 
 audience was awed ; 
 
 They saw his face grow stern and cold, 
 they saw his muscles strain, 
 
 And they knew that Casey wouldn't let the 
 ball go by again. 
 
 The sneer is gone from Casey's lips, his 
 
 teeth are clenched in hate. 
 He pounds with cruel vengeance his bat 
 
 upon the plate ; 
 And now the pitcher holds the ball, and 
 
 now he lets it go, 
 And now the air is shattered by the force 
 
 of Casey's blow. 
 
 Oh, somewhere in this favored land the 
 sun is shining bright, 
 
 The band is playing somewhere, and some- 
 where hearts are light ; 
 
 And somewhere men are laughing, and 
 somewhere children shout, 
 
 But there is no joy in Mudville ; mighty 
 Casey has struck out! 
 
 — Ernest L. Thayer. 
 
 tSrl tgnt %£& 
 
 OLD MART AND ME. 
 
 HIT'S been so monstrous long ago it 
 seems jes like a dream, 
 Sence we was only chunks er boys — a 
 
 rough-an'-tumble team — 
 That useter dam the spring-house branch 
 
 an' set up flutter wheels, 
 An' work so dead in arnest that we often 
 
 missed our meals, 
 An' sometimes fit en quarreled till we war 
 a sight to see, 
 An' frequent we got licked for that, 
 Old Mart an' me. 
 
 Time come we had to go to school — some 
 
 furder en a mile— 
 But what we larnt, ontil this day, jis sorter 
 
 makes me smile; 
 
 'Twas little mo' than nuthin', en we got 
 
 it, inch by inch, 
 While the teacher lammed it to us, till we 
 
 hed the mortal cinch 
 On everything the old man knowed, plum 
 to the rule of three, 
 But frequent we got licked for that, 
 Old Mart an' me. 
 
 We was raised on farms adjinin', with 
 
 plenty all aroun', 
 But still we'd skip off, after dark, an' pole 
 
 away to town, 
 Three mile, up hill, ef 'twar a foot, an' 
 
 jine the boys up there, 
 To eat sardines, and smoke seegyars, an' 
 
 have a sort of "tare," 
 
303 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Or rob a neighbor's million patch — for dev- 
 iltry, you see — 
 But frequent we got licked for at, 
 Old Mart an' me. 
 
 At spellin' bees and singin' school, thar's 
 
 whar we useter shine; 
 We couldn't spell a little bit, ner sing so 
 
 mighty fine, 
 But when it come to courtin' gals an' seein' 
 
 of 'em home, 
 Why we was thar, an' you hear me, 'twas 
 
 honey in the comb, 
 Then Widdef Kane got married, an' we 
 raised a shivaree — 
 But didn't we get licked for that, 
 Old Mart an' me. 
 
 When finally the war broke loose, an' Mart 
 
 an' me went in, 
 One time we struck a scrimmage that was 
 
 livelier en sin; 
 
 We had it, back an' forrards, twict, acrost 
 
 a cotton patch — 
 You never see'd, in all yo' life, a hotter 
 
 shootin' match — 
 I got a plug clean through my leg, an' him 
 one in the knee, 
 So, we got sorter licked at that, 
 Old Mart an' me. 
 
 We've had some ups and downs in life, and 
 
 growin' kinder old, 
 With hearts as warm as ever, an' they will 
 
 never git cold, 
 So fur as him and me's consarned ; not even 
 
 over thar, 
 When all are called to answer, at the final 
 
 jedgement bar, 
 For friendship's close to holiness, and 
 blamed ef I can see, 
 How we'll git licked a bit for that, 
 Old Mart an' me. 
 — William Lightfoot Visscher. 
 
 t&& %£& %2& 
 
 THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 
 
 WHERE the tide crept up in a stealthy 
 way 
 By the reefs and hollows of Table Bay 
 The dwellings rude of the Dutchmen lay. 
 
 And the night approached with a sign of 
 
 storm, 
 For the winds blew cold and the winds blew 
 
 warm, 
 And cloud-rack high in the skies would 
 
 form. 
 
 And off to the right, in the lone cape's lee, 
 A vessel surged in the wallowing sea, 
 And the whitecaps gleamed and the winds 
 rose free. 
 
 'Twas the brig that carried the Holland 
 mails 
 
 Through the summer's calm or the winter 
 
 gales, 
 And her pennant streamed o'er her tawny 
 
 sails. 
 
 A giant she was in a giant's grip, 
 
 For the dark seas clung to the struggling 
 
 ship, 
 And the salt brine down from the shrouds 
 
 did drip. 
 
 And her sails were wet with the glancing 
 spray 
 
 As she loomed through the gathering dark- 
 ness gray, 
 
 And her bow was headed for Table Bay. 
 
 But the sea beat back with a sodden force 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 30C 
 
 The Dutchman's ship in its wandering 
 
 course, 
 And the thunder's mockery bellowed 
 
 hoarse. 
 
 And a woman waited beside a tree, 
 
 In the moan of the winds and the branches' 
 
 dree, 
 For a letter to come that night by sea. 
 
 Then shouted the mate to the skipper there, 
 "Turn back," so sounded his trumpet's 
 
 blare, 
 "Or our seams will split and our masts 
 
 stand bare." 
 
 But Vanderdecken drew his blade, 
 And the steely sheen that its flashing made 
 Struck light from the all-surrounding 
 shade. 
 
 And his anger stood in his bristling hair 
 While his furious sword-stroke smote the 
 
 air 
 As he stood alone in defiance there. 
 
 And he swore to weather the stubborn gaie 
 With its rattling volleys of icy hail, 
 If it stripped from the masts each tattered 
 sail; 
 
 And to beat around for that very bay, 
 And where was the one who could say him 
 
 nay — 
 "By God! if he sailed till the judgment 
 
 day." 
 
 Then the mist grew dense and the light- 
 ning flashed, 
 
 And a red bolt down on the tree-top 
 crashed, 
 
 Where a woman stood by the shore sea- 
 lashed. 
 
 And the thunder tolled in the blackening 
 clouds, 
 
 And the waves swept by in hurrying 
 
 crowds, 
 And a wan light paled in the creaking 
 
 shrouds ; 
 
 While a scream came by from the far-off 
 
 shore 
 That was hushed and drowned by the mad 
 
 waves' roar, 
 And the vessel passed and was seen no 
 
 more. 
 
 And now on that selfsame fateful night, 
 If the seas be calm and the skies are bright, 
 The ocean giveth a mystic sight. 
 
 For a shadow-ship and a shadow-frame 
 Goes by at twelve through the moonlight 
 
 flame, 
 Passing as suddenly as it came. 
 
 And a whisper thrills through the salt- 
 sweet breeze, 
 
 While a heart-throb stirs in the moving 
 seas 
 
 And the tide fast out to the ocean flees. 
 
 And a fine wind stirs in the tree-top high 
 That ghostly stands in the starlit sky, 
 And a sound wells up like a woman's sigh. 
 
 But when on that night the clouds turn 
 black 
 
 And the huge waves follow the storm 
 king's track, 
 
 And the skies are heavy with tempest- 
 wrack, 
 
 Why, then is seen, as a spectre gray, 
 'Mid the shimmering mist and lightning- 
 play, 
 A vessel headed for Table Bay. 
 
 And the ship, like a lover, keeps her troth 
 To her skipper's pledge — 'twas a pledge 
 for both 1 — 
 
310 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And the wild winds echo the Dutchman's 
 oath, 
 
 And a wraith waits there by the haunted 
 tree, 
 
 While the storm wails on and the wind 
 
 blows free, 
 For a letter which comes not in from the 
 
 sea. 
 
 —Ernest McGaffey. 
 
 c5* 1,5* <£* 
 
 THE MEN WHO LOSE. 
 
 HERE'S to the men who lose ! 
 What though their work be e'er so 
 nobly planned 
 And watched with zealous care, 
 No glorious halo crowns their efforts 
 grand ; 
 Contempt is failure's share. 
 
 Here's to the men who lose ! 
 If triumph's easy smiles our struggles greet, 
 
 Courage is easy then ; 
 The king is he who, after fierce defeat, 
 
 Can up and fight again. 
 
 Here's to the men who lose ! 
 The ready plaudits of a fawning world 
 Ring sweet in victor's ears ; 
 
 The vanquished's banners never are un- 
 furled — 
 For them there sound no cheers. 
 
 Here's to the men who lose ! 
 The touchstone of true wcrth is not suc- 
 cess: 
 There is a higher test — 
 Though fate may darkly frown, onward to 
 press, 
 And bravely do one's best. 
 
 Here's to the men who lose! 
 It is the vanquished's praises that I sing, 
 
 And this the toast I choose : 
 "A hard-fought failure is a noble thing. 
 Here's a luck to those who lose!" 
 
 — G. H. Broadhnrst. 
 
 i&fc i5* ^* 
 
 THE STREAMS OF LIFE. 
 
 THESE Streams of Life that ever flow 
 Through earth's unnumbered living 
 things — 
 Whence come they, whither do they go, 
 And where are their exhaustless springs? 
 
 Our little lives are here to-day, 
 
 Where, when these throbbing hearts are 
 still, 
 To me there comes no certain ray 
 
 Of light, the dark abyss to fill. 
 
 And do these fountains outward flow, 
 Wherever sweeps the Almighty's wand, 
 
 Farther than human thought can go, 
 Through the Measureless Beyond? 
 
 Oh, tell me why, if there are not, 
 
 On far more glorious worlds than ours, 
 
 Beings of broader, deeper thought, 
 Of nobler form, and mightier powers ? 
 
 Or, is it only on the earth, 
 
 This little speck of love and strife, 
 That thought and being have their birth, 
 
 And matter quickens into life? 
 
 Oh, Mysteries of Mysteries, 
 
 Who shall the vast unknown explore? 
 Who sail the illimitable seas 
 
 That stretch beyond this earthly shore? 
 
 And having scanned the realms of space, 
 The countless worlds that circle there, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 311 
 
 Shall come again, and face to face, 
 To us the wondrous truth declare. 
 
 Go forth ye workers of the brain, 
 
 Pierce the dark veil that hides the un- 
 known ; 
 
 There's much of truth and good to gain, 
 There's much of fallow ground unsown. 
 
 A life of idle luxury 
 
 For earnest, restless, thinking mind 
 I cannot think would even be 
 
 A happy life in heaven to find. 
 
 Search then and toil, even though ye fail, 
 Bold delvers in the mine of thought, 
 
 To look beyond the parting veil ; 
 Your labor shall not be for naught. 
 
 But give me still where'er I be, 
 All Nature's beauty bathed in light, 
 
 The glory of earth, sky and sea, 
 The solemn majesty of night. 
 
 For there's no breath of common air, 
 No ray of light from star or sun, 
 
 No shade of beauty anywhere 
 
 But whispers of the Almighty One. 
 
 His law supreme rules every place — 
 The invisible dust that floats around, 
 
 The mighty orbs that roll through space, 
 All life, all motion, light and sound. 
 
 (5* <5* i2& 
 
 ALWAYS CONSULT YOUR WIFE. 
 
 A 
 
 BLUEBIRD sat on a farmhouse 
 shed 
 And wagged his tail as he scratched his 
 
 head, 
 While he puzzled his brain to find the best 
 And safest spot to build his nest. 
 A "cruel monster," this bluebird, he 
 
 No counsel would take from Mrs. B b, 
 
 He did not allow her in aught to have 
 
 choice, 
 Nor in family matters to raise up her voice. 
 
 The consequence was that his wife's small 
 
 head 
 Was very firm set against all that he said ; 
 But he was the master, and "willy or nilly," 
 His orders she followed — no matter how 
 
 silly. 
 "Chick-a-dee ! I have it! The very thing! 
 We will go where the swallows built last 
 
 spring !" 
 "You have it, indeed!" sneered Mrs. 
 
 B b; 
 
 "You'd do no such thing if you listened to 
 
 me! 
 "Why not build in the shed?" "Hush! 
 
 hush, my dear! 
 You've nothing to do but sit quiet and 
 
 hear." 
 So sloth prevailed, and they quietly took 
 A swallow's nest in the chimney nook. 
 "Three eggs?" Mr. Bluebird hopped out 
 
 in the sun 
 To laugh at the trick he'd played. "What 
 
 fun!" 
 But as he was smoothing his little brown 
 
 vest, 
 Came a sound which soon made him fly 
 
 back to the nest. 
 
 The swallows had come, and their fierce, 
 flashing eyes 
 
 Showed the anger they felt, as well as sur- 
 prise. 
 
 After some consultation they urged the re- 
 quest 
 
312 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 That Blue and his wife would vacate their 
 
 nest. 
 But gentleman Blue knew the old-time saw, 
 Possession is fully nine-tenths of the law ; 
 And he laughed in their faces, and winked 
 
 his left eye, 
 As much as to say, "You are green, not I." 
 
 But Mrs. B b, with an angry burst, 
 
 Said, "I told you so from the very first; 
 And I won't stay here another day." 
 So out she flew and hurried away. 
 
 "Good riddance!" cried Bluebird. "To go 
 
 you are free, 
 But they won't find it easy to get rid of 
 
 me!" 
 
 Alas ! for the folly that revels in sin ; 
 The swallows with mud came and coffined 
 
 him in. 
 
 Moral : 
 Oh, man who wouldst flourish and prosper 
 
 in life, 
 In matters of moment consult with thy 
 
 wife. 
 
 t5* <5* ^* 
 
 SAND. 
 
 I OB SERVED a locomotive in the rail- 
 road yards one day — 
 It was waiting in the round-house where 
 
 the locomotives stay; 
 It was panting for the journey, it was 
 
 coaled and fully manned, 
 And it had a box the fireman was filling 
 full of sand. 
 
 It appears that locomotives cannot always 
 get a grip 
 
 On their slender iron pavement, 'cause the 
 wheels are apt to slip; 
 
 And when they reach a slippery spot, their 
 tactics they command, 
 
 And to get a grip upon the rail, they sprin- 
 kle it with sand. 
 
 It's about this way with travel along life's 
 slippery track, 
 
 If your load is rather heavy and you're al- 
 ways sliding back; 
 
 So, if a common locomotive you completely 
 understand, 
 
 You'll supply yourself, in starting, with a 
 good supply of sand. 
 
 If your track is steep and hilly and you 
 have a heavy grade, 
 
 And if those who've gone before you have 
 the rails quite slippery made, 
 
 If you ever reach the summit of the upper 
 tableland, 
 
 You'll find you'll have to do it with a lib- 
 eral use of sand. 
 
 If you strike some frigid weather and dis- 
 cover to your cost 
 
 That you're liable to slip on a heavy coat of 
 frost 
 
 Then some prompt, decided action will be 
 called into demand, 
 
 You'll slip way to the bottom if you haven't 
 any sand. 
 
 You can get to any station that is on life's 
 schedule seen, 
 
 If there's fire beneath the boiler of ambi- 
 tion's strong machine; 
 
 And you'll reach a place called Flushtown 
 at a rate of speed that's grand, 
 
 If for all the slippery places you've a good 
 supply of sand. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 313 
 
 LORRAINE, LORREE. 
 
 ARE you ready for your steeplechase, 
 Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree? 
 You're booked to ride your capping race 
 
 to-day at Coulterlee, 
 You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all 
 
 the world to see, 
 To keep him straight, and keep him first, 
 and win the run for me." 
 
 She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lor- 
 raine, Lorraine, Lorree, 
 
 "I can not ride Vindictive, as any man 
 might see, 
 
 And I will not ride Vindictive with this 
 baby on my knee; 
 
 He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and 
 why must he kill me ?" 
 
 "Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, 
 Lorraine, Lorree, 
 
 Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coul- 
 terlee 
 
 And land him safe across the brook and 
 win the blank for me, 
 
 It's you who may keep your baby, for you'll 
 get no keep from me." 
 
 "That husbands could be cruel," said Lor- 
 raine, Lorraine, Lorree, 
 
 "That husbands could be cruel I have 
 known for seasons three; 
 
 But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby 
 cries for me 
 
 And be killed across the fence at last for 
 all the world to see?" 
 
 She mastered young Vindictive — oh! the 
 
 gallant lass was* she ! — 
 And she kept him straight and won the 
 
 race, as near as near could be ; 
 But he killed her at the brook against a 
 
 pollard willow tree. 
 Oh ! he killed her at the brook — the brute ! 
 
 — for all the world to see, 
 And no one but the baby cried for poor 
 
 Lorraine, Lorree. 
 
 — Charles Kingsley. 
 
 t&* t5* %£& 
 
 LIKE OTHER MEN. 
 
 OH, varied are the changes, half unno- 
 ticed, all unsung, 
 That have passed across this world of ours 
 
 since you and I were young, 
 When all the sea, and sky, and earth, and 
 
 stars that gemmed the night, 
 Were ours by eminent domain of youth's 
 
 unchallenged right — 
 Old comrade of my boyhood, do you e'er 
 
 recall the joys 
 Of that glorious, care-free time of life when 
 
 you and I were boys? 
 
 We knew, perchance, that other ships o'er 
 favoring seas had sailed, 
 
 And of the harbor of success had fallen 
 
 short, and failed 
 To reach the golden shores they sought, but 
 
 no such luckless fate 
 Along the future's glittering waves for us 
 
 could lie in wait — 
 For all the good things of this world but 
 
 waited our command 
 And all there was for us to do was occupy 
 
 the land. 
 
 We dreamed of great and noble deeds we'd 
 do as life sped on, 
 
 When honor, fame and glory, and un- 
 bounded wealth were won ; 
 
314 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 For other men, perhaps, might be a life of 
 
 toil and grind, 
 The grip of poverty might seize upon the 
 
 grovelling mind — 
 But as for us, our shining path lay upward 
 
 and across 
 The everlasting hills of Hope, where no 
 
 man suffers loss ! 
 
 Ah, well, we've drifted on until the even- 
 ing shades lie long 
 
 Across the afternoon of life, and all the 
 happy throng 
 
 Of boys that used to play with us upon 
 the schoolhouse green, 
 
 Have laid their tired heads to rest, and 
 passed to the unseen, 
 
 And you and I, old comrade, have suc- 
 ceeded much the same 
 
 As the hundred thousand other men un- 
 known to wealth or fame. 
 
 — Clara A. Trask. 
 
 i0"> tJ* t5* 
 
 CANADIAN CAMPING SONG. 
 
 A WHITE tent "pitched by a glassy 
 lake, 
 Well under a shady tree, 
 Or by rippling rills from the grand old 
 hills, 
 Is the summer home for me. 
 I fear no blaze of the noontide rays, 
 
 For woodland glades are mine, 
 The fragrant air, and that perfume rare, — 
 The odor of forest pine. 
 
 A cooling plunge at the break of day, 
 
 A paddle, a row or sail ; 
 With always a fish for a midday dish, 
 . And plenty of Adam's ale; 
 
 With rod or gun, or in hammock swung, 
 We glide through the pleasant days; 
 
 When darkness falls on our canvas walls, 
 We kindle the camp-fire's blaze. 
 
 From out the gloom sails the silv'ry moon, 
 
 O'er forests dark and still; 
 Now far, now near, ever sad and clear, 
 
 Comes the plaint of whip-poor-will; 
 With song and laugh, and with kindly 
 chaff, 
 
 We startle the birds above ; 
 Then rest tired heads on our cedar beds, 
 
 And dream of the ones we love. 
 
 — James D. Edgar. 
 
 K0* 1&rl i£pl 
 
 ON THE SKAGUAY TRAIL. 
 
 GOD pity the babe on the icy trail, 
 In the arms of those who loved it 
 best, 
 Yet failed to shield from the withering 
 gale 
 That claimed its prey at the mother's 
 breast. 
 On the summit they mourned a lifeless 
 child, 
 Sobbing their grief to the mocking storm, 
 
 Then left to the snows and the trackless 
 wild 
 The cache that cradled the frozen form. 
 The argonaut pauses with moistened 
 cheek 
 And tear-dimmed eyes, who would never 
 quail 
 In the battle's front, for the strong grow 
 weak, 
 Where baby sleeps on the Skaguay trail. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 315 
 
 A youth with his face toward the great 
 divide, 
 With steady purpose that would not fail 
 Of the hidden gold on the other side, 
 For which he climbed up the mountain 
 trail, — 
 But the river, his fondest dreams to mock, 
 Hollowed a bed 'neath the yielding wave, 
 Then shattered his form on the tide and 
 rock, — 
 And instead of treasure he found a grave. 
 In the home where is dearth of song and 
 laugh, 
 Where echoes a stricken mother's wail, 
 And the father yearns for his broken 
 staff,— 
 An ended life on the Skaguay trail. 
 
 He was three score years, with the heart 
 of youth, 
 
 A hero's courage, an athlete's strength, 
 Who had compassed the fearful pass, for- 
 sooth, 
 Would traverse the mighty Yukon's 
 length. 
 But a messenger came, unvoiced, unsought, 
 Whose presence darkened the golden 
 star, 
 He called, but the stalwart answered not, 
 For speech was hushed and the soul 
 afar; 
 And she, who had periled her life with 
 him, 
 Who climbed the summit without avail, 
 Turned wearily back through the shadows 
 dim, 
 Back from the grave on the Skaguay 
 trail. 
 
 — Mary Byron Reese. 
 
 t&& d?* fe5* 
 
 DOMINION DAY. 
 
 "Fidelis." 
 
 WITH feu-de-joie and merry bells, 
 and cannon's thundering peal, 
 And pennons fluttering on the breeze, and 
 
 serried rows of steel, 
 We greet, again, the birthday morn of our 
 
 young giant's land, 
 From the Atlantic stretching wide to far 
 
 Pacific strand; 
 With flashing rivers, ocean lakes, and 
 
 prairies wide and free, 
 And waterfalls, and forests dim, and moun- 
 tains by the sea; 
 A country on whose birth-hour smiles the 
 
 genius of romance, 
 Above whose cradle brave hands waved 
 
 the lily-cross of France ; 
 Whose infancy was grimly nursed in peril, 
 
 pain and woe ; 
 Whose gallant hearts found early graves 
 
 beneath Canadian snow ; 
 
 When savage raid and ambuscade and fam- 
 ine's sore distress, 
 
 Combined their strength, in vain, to crush 
 the dauntless French noblesse; 
 
 When her dim, trackless forest lured again 
 and yet again, 
 
 From silken courts of sunny France, her 
 flower, the brave Champlain. 
 
 And now, her proud traditions boast four 
 blazoned rolls of fame, — 
 
 Crecy's and Flodden's deadly foes our an- 
 cestors we claim ; 
 
 Past feud and battle buried far behind the 
 peaceful years, 
 
 While Gaul and Celt and Briton turn to 
 pruning-hooks their spears; 
 
 Four nations welded into one, — with long 
 historic past, 
 
 Have found, in these our western wilds, 
 one common life, at last; 
 
;: ! G 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Through the young giant's mighty limbs, 
 that stretch from sea to sea, 
 
 There runs a throb of conscious life — of 
 waking energy. 
 
 From Nova Scotia's misty coast to far Co- 
 lumbia's shore, 
 
 She wakes, — a band of scattered homes and 
 colonies no more, 
 
 But a young nation, with her life full beat- 
 ing in her breast, 
 
 A noble future in her eyes — the Britain of 
 the West. 
 
 Hers be the noble task to fill the yet un- 
 trodden plains 
 
 With fruitful, many-sided life that courses 
 through her veins ; 
 
 The English honor, nerve, and pluck, — the 
 Scotsman's love of right, — 
 
 The grace of courtesy of France, — the Irish 
 fancy bright, — 
 
 The Saxon's faithful love of home, and 
 home's affections blest; 
 
 And, chief of all, our holy faith, — of all 
 our treasures best. 
 
 A people poor in pomp and state, but rich 
 in noble deeds, 
 
 Holding that righteousness exalts the peo- 
 ple that it leads ; 
 
 As yet the waxen mould is soft, the open- 
 ing page is fair; 
 
 It rests with those who rule us now, to 
 leave their impress there, — 
 
 The stamp of true nobility, high honor, 
 stainless truth; 
 
 The earnest quest of noble ends; the gen- 
 erous heart of youth ; 
 
 The love of country, soaring far above dull 
 party strife; 
 
 The love of learning, art, and song — the 
 crowning grace of life; 
 
 The love of science, soaring far through 
 Nature's hidden ways; 
 
 The love and fear of Nature's God — a na- 
 tion's highest praise. 
 
 So, in the long hereafter, this Canada shall 
 be 
 
 The worthy heir of British power and Brit- 
 ish liberty; 
 
 Spreading the blessings of her sway to her 
 remotest bounds, 
 
 While, with the fame of her fair name, a 
 continent resounds. 
 
 True to her high traditions, to Britain's 
 ancient glory 
 
 Of patient saint and martyr, alive in death- 
 less story ; 
 
 Strong, in their liberty and truth,, to shed 
 from shore to shore 
 
 A light among the nations, till nations are 
 no more. 
 
 c5* i5* <5* 
 
 A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 HE could not be so poor that he would 
 hate the rich, 
 Nor yet so rich that he despised the 
 poor. 
 He is so brave and just, that not a turn 
 nor hitch, 
 In all of fortune's winding way, could 
 lure 
 Him to an act or thought of vile in- 
 gratitude. 
 
 He's true unto himself, and thus to every 
 man 
 And has that courage, high, and grand, 
 and strong, 
 That comes with kindness, and with honor 
 leads the van 
 To help the right, and sternly punish 
 wrong ; 
 To strip injustice till it shivers, shamed 
 and nude. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 317 
 
 He seeks the culture that, refining, gives a 
 grace 
 And comfort to himself and those around. 
 He has no ostentation, nor would he abase 
 Himself to thus become a monarch 
 crowned. 
 Clean comes his thought and from his 
 hand a brother's grip. 
 
 He comes from anywhere — aye, e'en from 
 Nazareth — 
 From north and south, and from the" east 
 and west ; 
 He comes as comes the cool and grateful 
 breeze's breath. 
 He need not be an angel from the blest, 
 He might be, thus, too good for man's 
 companionship. 
 
 
 A FATHER'S ADVICE TO HIS SON. 
 
 REMEMBER, my son, you have to 
 work. Whether you handle a pick 
 or a pen, a wheelbarrow or a set of books, 
 digging ditches or editing a paper, ringing 
 an auction bell or writing funny things, 
 you must work. If you look around, you 
 will see the men who are the most able 
 to live the rest of their days without work 
 are the men who work the hardest. Don't 
 be afraid of killing yourself with overwork. 
 It is beyond your power to do that on the 
 sunny side of thirty. They die sometimes, 
 but it is because they quit work at six p. m., 
 and don't get home until two a. m. It's the 
 interval that kills, my son. The work gives 
 you an appetite for your meals; it lends 
 
 solidity to your slumbers ; it gives you a 
 perfect and grateful appreciation of a holi- 
 day. 
 
 There are young men who do not work, 
 but the world is not proud of them. It does 
 not know their names, even; it simply 
 speaks of them as "old So-and-so's boys." 
 Nobody likes them; the great, busy world 
 doesn't know that they are there. So find 
 out what you want to be and do, and take 
 off your coat and make a dust in the world. 
 The busier you are, the less harm you will 
 be apt to get into, the sweeter will be your 
 sleep, the brighter and happier your holi- 
 days, and the better satisfied will the world 
 be with you. — R. 7. Burdette. 
 
 fcr* kg"* i&rl 
 
 THE MAN THAT MARRIED. 
 
 THE sun's heat will give out in ten 
 million years more," 
 
 And he worried about it ; 
 "It will sure give out then, if it doesn't 
 before," 
 
 And he worried about it ; 
 It would surely give out, so the scientists 
 
 said 
 In all scientific books that he read, 
 And the whole mighty universe then would 
 be dead, 
 
 And he worried about it. 
 
 "And some day the earth will fall into the 
 sun," 
 
 And he worried about it ; 
 "Just as sure, and as straight as if shot 
 from a gun," 
 
 And he worried about it ; 
 "When strong gravitation unbuckles her 
 
 straps 
 Just picture," he said, "what a fearful col- 
 lapse ! 
 It will come in a few million ages, perhaps," 
 And he worried about it. 
 
318 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 "The earth will become much too small for 
 the race," 
 
 And he worried about it ; 
 "When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for 
 pure space," 
 
 And he worried about it ; 
 "The earth will be crowded so much, with- 
 out doubt, 
 That there'll be no room for one's tongue 
 
 to stick out, 
 And no room for one's thoughts to wander 
 about," 
 
 And he worried about it. 
 
 "The Gulf Stream will curve, and New 
 England grow torrider," 
 
 And he worried about it ; 
 "Than was ever the climate of southern- 
 most Florida," 
 
 And he worried about it. 
 "The ice crop will be knocked into small 
 
 smithereens, 
 And crocodiles block up our mowing ma- 
 chines, 
 And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes 
 and beans," 
 
 And he worried about it. 
 
 "And in less than ten thousand years, 
 there's no doubt," 
 
 And he worried about it ; 
 "Our supply of lumber and coal will give 
 out," 
 
 And he- worried about it ; 
 "Just when the Ice Age will return cold and 
 
 raw, 
 Frozen men will stand stiff with arms out- 
 stretched in awe, 
 As if vainly beseeching a general thaw," 
 And he worried about it. 
 
 His wife took in washing (a dollar a day), 
 
 He didn't worry about it ; 
 His daughter sewed shirts, the rude grocer 
 to pay, 
 
 He didn't worry about it, 
 While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub- 
 dub 
 On the washboard drum in her old wooden 
 
 tub 
 He sat by the stove and he just let her 
 rub, 
 
 He didn't worry about it. 
 — Sam Walter Foss. 
 
 t2& t5* *■?* 
 
 THE EGGS THAT NEVER HATCH. 
 
 THERE'S a young man on the cor- 
 ner, 
 Filled with life and strength and 
 hope, 
 Looking far beyond the present, 
 
 With the whole world in his scope. 
 He is grasping at to-morrow, 
 
 That phantom none can catch; 
 To-day is lost. He's waiting 
 For the eggs that never hatch. 
 
 There's an old man over yonder, 
 
 With a worn and weary face, 
 With searching anxious features, 
 
 And weak, uncertain pace. 
 He is living in the future, 
 
 With no desire to catch 
 The golden Now. He's waiting 
 
 For the eggs that never hatch. 
 
 There's a world of men and women, 
 
 With their life's work yet undone, 
 Who are sitting, standing, moving 
 
 Beneath the same great sun; 
 Ever eager for the future, 
 
 But not content to snatch 
 The Present. They are waiting 
 
 For the eggs that never hatch. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 319 
 
 EVERYTHING pleased our neighbor 
 Jim, 
 
 When it rained 
 He never complained, 
 But said wet weather suited him. 
 
 "There never is too much rain for me. 
 And this is something like," said he. 
 
 When earth was dry as a powder mill, 
 He did not sigh 
 Because it was dry, 
 But said if he could have his will 
 It would be his chief supreme delight 
 To live where the sun shone day and 
 night. 
 
 When winter came with its snow and ice, 
 
 He did not scold 
 
 Because it was cold, 
 But said : "Now this is real nice ; 
 If ever from home I'm forced to go, 
 
 CONTENTED JIM. 
 
 I'll move up North with the Esquimau. 
 
 A cyclone whirled along its track, 
 And did him harm — 
 It broke his arm, 
 And stripped the coat from off his back; 
 "And I would give another limb 
 To see such a blow again," said Jim. 
 
 And when at length his years were told, 
 And his body bent, 
 And his strength all spent, 
 And Jim was very weak and old: 
 
 "I long have wanted to know," he said, 
 "How it feels to die" — and Jim was dead. 
 
 The Angel of Death had summoned 
 To heaven, or — well, 
 I cannot tell; 
 But I knew that the climate suited Jim; 
 And cold or hot, it mattered not — 
 It was to him the long-sought spot. 
 
 ^* (5* icrl 
 
 THE TRUE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 WHAT is a gentleman? Is it a thing 
 Decked with a scarf-pin, a chain, 
 and a ring, 
 Dressed in a suit of immaculate style, 
 Sporting an eye-glass, a lisp, and a smile? 
 Talking of operas, concerts, and balls, 
 Evening assemblies and afternoon calls, 
 Sunning himself at "At Homes" and ba- 
 zars, 
 Whistling mazurkas, and smoking cigars? 
 
 What is a gentleman ? Say, is it one 
 Boasting of conquests and deeds he has 
 
 done? 
 One who unblushingly glories to speak 
 Things which should call up a blush to his 
 
 cheek ? 
 One, who, whilst railing at actions unjust, 
 
 Robs some young heart of its pureness and 
 
 trust ; 
 Scorns to steal money, or jewels, or wealth, 
 Thinks it no crime to take honor by stealth ? 
 
 What is a gentleman ? Is it not one 
 Knowing instinctively what he should shun, 
 Speaking no word that can injure or pain, 
 Spreading no scandal and deep'ning no 
 
 stain ? 
 One who knows how to put each at his 
 
 ease, 
 Striving instinctively always to please ; 
 One who can tell, by a glance at your cheek, 
 When to be silent, and when he should 
 
 speak ? 
 
 What is a gentleman? Is it not one 
 Honestly eating the bread he has won, 
 
320 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Living in uprightness, fearing his God, 
 Leaving no stain on the path he has trod, 
 Caring not whether his coat may be old, 
 Prizing sincerity far above gold, 
 Recking not whether his hand may be hard, 
 Stretching it boldly to grasp its reward ? 
 
 What is a gentleman ? Say, is it birth 
 
 Makes a man noble, or adds to his worth? 
 Is there a family tree to be had 
 Spreading enough to conceal what is bad? 
 Seek out the man who has God for his 
 
 Guide 
 Nothing to blush for, and nothing to hide ; 
 Be he a noble, or be he in trade, 
 This is the gentleman Nature has made. 
 
 <5* *5* c5* 
 
 N 
 
 WHY SHE DIDN'T STAY 
 
 O, I didn't stay in the poor-house, and 
 
 this is how, you see, 
 It happened at the very last, there came a 
 
 way for me. 
 The Lord, he makes our sunniest times 
 
 out of our darkest days, 
 And yet we fail most always to render His 
 
 name the praise. 
 But, as I am goin' to tell you, I have a 
 
 home of my own, 
 And keep my house, an' — no, I'm not a- 
 
 livin' here alone. 
 Of course you wonder how it is, an' I'm 
 
 a-goin' to tell 
 How, though I couldn't change a jot, the 
 
 Lord done all things well. 
 I've spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Re- 
 becca, "that lives out west;" 
 An' Isaac, not far from her, some twenty 
 
 miles at best; 
 An' Susan; — but not a single word I said 
 
 about another one, — 
 Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was 
 
 our wayward son, 
 An' while his father was livin' he ran away 
 
 to sea, 
 An' never sent a word or line to neither 
 
 him nor me. 
 Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides 
 
 in silence there, 
 An' what we can freely speak of is never 
 
 so hard to bear. 
 
 IN THE POOR-HOUSE. 
 
 But I couldn't talk of Georgie — he was too 
 
 dear to blame, — 
 It seemed as if I couldn't bear even to hear 
 
 his name. 
 But when I took my pauper's place in that 
 
 old work-house grim, 
 My weary heart was every day a-cryin' out 
 
 for him. 
 For I'd tried the love of the others, and 
 
 found it weak and cold, 
 An' I kind o' felt if Georgie knew that I 
 
 was poor and old, 
 He'd help to make it better, and try to do 
 
 his part, 
 For love and trust are last of all to die in 
 
 a woman's heart. 
 An' he used to be always tellin' when he 
 
 was a man and strong, 
 How he'd work for father and mother; 
 
 and he never done no wrong, 
 Exceptin' his boyish mischief, an' his run- 
 
 nin' off to sea; 
 So somehow now, out of them all, he 
 
 seemed the best to me. 
 And so the slow days wore along, just as 
 
 the days all go, 
 When we cling to some wild fancy that all 
 
 the time we know 
 Is nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till 
 
 'twould seem 
 That the dream alone is real, and the real 
 
 but a dream. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS, 
 
 321 
 
 And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my 
 
 faith in him, 
 And thought of him the long days 
 
 through, until my eyes were dim. 
 And my old heart ached full sorely to think 
 
 that never again 
 I should see my boy until we stood before 
 
 the Judge of men. 
 When one day a big brown-bearded man 
 
 came rushin' up to me, 
 Sayin', "Mother! my God! have they put 
 
 you here?" An' then I see 
 'Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, 
 
 and I knowed nothin' more, 
 'Cause I got faint, and but for him, I'd 
 
 fallen on the floor. 
 
 They say he swore some awful words — I 
 
 don't know — it may be; 
 But swear or not, I know my boy's been 
 
 very, very good to me. 
 An' he's bought the old home back again, 
 
 an' I've come here to stay, 
 Never to move till the last move — the final 
 
 goin' away. 
 An' I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie's 
 
 good an' kind, 
 An' the thought of bein' a pauper ain't 
 
 wearin' on my mind; 
 But still I never can forget until my dyin' 
 
 day, 
 That they put me in the poor-house 'cause 
 
 I was in the way. 
 
 c5* <5* t5* 
 
 SAVING MOTHER. 
 
 THE farmer sat in his easy chair 
 Between the fire and the lamplight's 
 glare; 
 His face was ruddy, and full and fair. 
 His three small boys in the chimney nook 
 Scanned the lines of a picture book; 
 His wife, the pride of his home and heart, 
 Baked the biscuit and made the tart, 
 Laid the table and steeped the tea, 
 Deftly, swiftly, silently; 
 Tired and weary, and weak and faint, 
 She bore her trials without complaint, 
 Like many another household saint — 
 Content, all selfish bliss above, 
 In the patient ministry of love. 
 
 At last, between the clouds of smoke 
 That wreathed his lips, the husband spoke : 
 "There's taxes to raise, and int'rest to pay, 
 And if there should come a rainy day, 
 'Twould be mighty handy, I'm boun' to 
 
 say, 
 T have sumpthin' put by. For folks must 
 die, 
 
 An' there's funeral bills an' gravestuns to 
 
 buy — 
 Enough to swamp a man, purty nigh. 
 Besides, there's Edward and Dick and Joe 
 To be provided for when we go. 
 
 "So'f I was you, I'll tell you what I'd du; 
 I'd be savin' of wood as ever I could — 
 Extry fire don't du any good — 
 I'd be savin' of soap, an' savin' of ile, 
 And run up some candles once in a while; 
 I'd be rather sparin' of coffee an' tea, 
 
 For sugar is high, 
 
 And all to buy, 
 And cider is good enough for me. 
 I'd be kind o' careful about my clo'es 
 And look out sharp how the money goes — 
 Gewgaws is useless, nater knows; 
 
 Extry trimmin' 
 
 'S the bane of women. 
 
 "I'd sell off the best of the cheese and 
 
 honey, 
 And eggs is as good, nigh about, 's the 
 
 money; 
 
322 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And as to the carpet you wanted new — 
 I guess we can make the old one du. 
 And as for the washer, an' sewin' machine, 
 Them smooth-tongued agents so pesky 
 
 mean, 
 You'd better get rid of 'em, slick an' clean. 
 What do they know about women's work? 
 Du they kalkilate women was born to 
 
 shirk?" 
 
 Dick and Edward and Little Joe 
 Sat in the corner in a row. 
 
 They saw the patient mother go, 
 
 On ceaseless errands to and fro; 
 
 They saw that her form was bent and 
 
 thin, 
 Her temples gray, her cheeks sunk in, 
 They saw the quiver of her lip and chin — 
 And then, with a warmth he could not 
 
 smother, 
 Outspoke the youngest, frailest brother — 
 "You talk of savin' wood and ile 
 An' tea an' sugar, all the while, 
 But you never talk of savin' mother!" 
 
 (J* <5* c5* 
 
 KIT CARSON'S RIDE. 
 
 R 
 
 UN? Now you bet you; I rather guess 
 
 SO! 
 
 But he's blind as a badger. Whoa, Pache, 
 
 boy, whoa, 
 No, you wouldn't think so to look at his 
 
 eyes, 
 But he is badger blind, and it happened 
 
 this wise: 
 We lay low in the grass on the broad plain 
 
 levels 
 Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown 
 
 bride. 
 "Forty full miles if a foot to ride, 
 Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils 
 Of red Comanches are hot on the track 
 When once they strike it. Let the sun go 
 
 down 
 Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old 
 
 Revels, 
 As he peered at the sun lying low on his 
 
 back, 
 Holding fast to his lasso; then he jerked 
 
 at his steed, 
 And sprang to his feet, and glanced swift- 
 ly around, 
 And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear 
 
 to the ground — 
 Then again to his feet and to me, to my 
 
 bride, 
 
 While his eyes were like fire, his face like 
 
 a shroud, 
 His form like a king, and his beard like a 
 
 cloud, 
 And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown 
 
 from a reed — 
 "Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to 
 
 steed, 
 And 'Speed, .if ever jfor life you would 
 
 speed; 
 And ride for your lives, for your lives you 
 
 must ride, 
 For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire; 
 And feet of wild horses hard flying before, 
 I hear like a sea breaking high on the 
 
 shore ; 
 While the buffalo come like the surge of 
 
 the sea, 
 Driven far by the flame, driving fast on 
 
 us three 
 As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in 
 
 his ire." 
 
 We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and 
 
 rein, 
 Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched 
 
 them over again, 
 And again drew the girth, cast aside the 
 
 macheer, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 323 
 
 Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from 
 its fold, 
 
 Cast aside the catenas red and spangled 
 with gold, 
 
 And gold-mounted Colt's, true compan- 
 ions for years; 
 
 Cast the silken serapes to the wind in a 
 breath, 
 
 And so bared to the skin sprang all haste 
 to the horse, 
 
 As bare as when born, as when new from 
 the hand 
 
 Of God, without word, or one word of 
 command, 
 
 Turned head to the Brazos in a red race 
 with death, 
 
 Turned head to the Brazos with a breath 
 in the hair 
 
 Blowing hot from a king leaving death in 
 his course; 
 
 Turned head to the Brazos with a sound in 
 the air 
 
 Like the rush of an army, and a flash in 
 the eye 
 
 Of a red wall of fire reaching up to the 
 sky, 
 
 Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black roll- 
 ing sea 
 
 Rushing fast upon us as the wind sweep- 
 ing free 
 
 And afar from the desert, blew hollow and 
 hoarse. 
 
 Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let 
 
 fall, 
 Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or 
 
 low call 
 Of love-note or courage, but on o'er the 
 
 plain 
 Bo steady and still, leaning low to the 
 
 mane, 
 With the heel to the flank and the hand 
 
 to the rein, 
 
 Rode we on, rode we three, rode we nose 
 and gray nose, 
 
 Reaching long, breathing loud, like a crev- 
 iced wind blows, 
 
 Yet we broke not a whisper, we breathed 
 not a prayer; 
 
 There was work to be done, there was 
 death in the air, 
 
 And the chance was as one to a thousand 
 for all. 
 
 Gray nose to gray nose and each steady 
 
 mustang 
 Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the 
 
 arid earth rang, 
 And the foam from the flank and the croup 
 
 and the neck 
 Flew around like the spray on z storm- 
 driven deck. 
 Twenty miles! thirty miles! — a dim distant 
 
 speck — 
 Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos 
 
 in sight, 
 And I rose in my seat with a shout of de- 
 light. 
 I stood in my stirrup and looked to my 
 
 right, 
 But Revels was gone; I glanced by my 
 
 shoulder 
 And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head 
 
 drooping 
 Hard on his breast, and his naked breast 
 
 stooping 
 Low down to the mane as so swifter and 
 
 bolder 
 Ran reaching out for us the red-footed 
 
 fire. 
 
 To right and to left the black buffalo came, 
 A terrible surf on a red sea of flame 
 Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, 
 
 reaching higher; 
 And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, 
 The monarch of millions, with shaggy 
 
 mane full 
 
324 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with 
 desire 
 
 Of battle, with rage and with bellowing 
 loud 
 
 And unearthly, and up through its lower- 
 ing cloud 
 
 Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hid- 
 den fire, 
 
 While his keen crooked horns through the 
 storm of his mane 
 
 Like black lances lifted and lifted again; 
 
 And I looked but this once, for the fire 
 licked through, 
 
 And he fell and was lost, as we rode two 
 and two. 
 
 I looked to my left, then, and nose, neck, 
 
 and shoulder 
 Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my 
 
 thighs; 
 And up through the black blowing veil of 
 
 her hair 
 Did beam full in mine her two marvelous 
 
 eyes 
 With a longing and love, yet a look of 
 
 despair, 
 And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke 
 
 fold her, 
 And flames reaching far for her glorious 
 
 hair. 
 Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears 
 
 fell 
 To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's 
 
 swell 
 Did subside and recede and the nerves fall 
 
 as dead. 
 
 Then she saw sturdy Pache still lorded his 
 head, 
 
 With a look of delight, for this Pache, you 
 see, 
 
 Was her father's, and once at the South 
 Santa Fe 
 
 Had won a whole herd, sweeping every- 
 thing down 
 
 In a race where the world came to run 
 
 for the crown; 
 And so when I won the true heart of my 
 
 bride — 
 My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, 
 And child of the kingly war-chief of his 
 
 tribe — 
 She brought me this steed to the border 
 
 the night 
 She met Revels and me in her perilous 
 
 flight 
 From the lodge of the chief to the north 
 
 Brazos side; 
 And said, so half-guessing of ill as she 
 
 smiled, 
 As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride 
 The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should 
 
 pursue 
 I should surely escape without other ado 
 Than to ride, without blood, to the north 
 
 Brazos side, 
 And await her, and wait till the next hol- 
 low moon 
 Hung her horn in the palms, when surely 
 
 and soon 
 And swift she would join me, and all would 
 
 be well 
 Without bloodshed or word. And now, 
 
 as she fell 
 From the front, and went down in the 
 
 ocean of fire, 
 The last that I saw was a look of delight 
 That I should escape — a love — a desire — 
 Yet never a word, not a look of appeal, 
 iLest I shlould reach hand, should stay 
 
 hand or stay heel 
 One instant for her in my terrible flight. 
 
 Then the rushing of fire around me and 
 under, 
 
 And the howling of beasts and a sound as 
 of thunder — 
 
 Beasts burning and blind and forced on- 
 ward and over, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 325 
 
 As the passionate flame reached around 
 
 them and wove her 
 Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they 
 
 died — 
 Till they died with a wild and a desolate 
 
 moan, 
 As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown 
 
 stone. 
 And into the Brazos — I rode all alone — 
 All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, 
 And blind and bare and burnt to the skin, 
 Then, just as the terrible sea came in, 
 And tumbled its thousands hot into the 
 
 tide, 
 Till the tide blocked up and the swift 
 
 stream brimmed 
 In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. 
 
 Sell Pache, — blind Pache? Now, mister, 
 
 look here, 
 You have slept in my tent and partook of 
 
 my cheer 
 
 Many days, many days, on this rugged 
 
 frontier, 
 For the ways they were rough and Co- 
 
 manches were near; 
 But you'd better pack up, sir! that tent is 
 
 too small 
 For us two after this! Has an old moun- 
 taineer, 
 Do you bookmen believe, got no tum-tum 
 
 at all? 
 Sell Pache? You buy him! A bag full of 
 
 gold! 
 You show him! Tell of him the tale I 
 
 have told! 
 Why, he bore me through fire, and is 
 
 blind, and is old! 
 Now pack up your papers and get up and 
 
 spin, 
 And never look back. Blast you and your 
 
 tin! 
 
 — Joaquin Miller. 
 
 £& t£r* %2rt 
 
 THEY ALL SANG ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 An incident of the Crimean war. 
 
 GIVE us a song !" the soldiers cried, 
 The outer trenches guarding, 
 When the heated guns of the camps allied 
 Grew weary of bombarding. 
 
 The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
 Lay, grim and threatening, under ; 
 
 And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
 No longer belched its thunder. 
 
 There was a pause. A guardsman said, 
 "We storm the forts to-morrow; 
 
 Sing while we may, another day 
 Will bring enough of sorrow." 
 
 They lay along the battery's side, 
 
 Below the smoking cannon: 
 Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 
 
 And from the banks of Shannon. 
 
 They sang of love, and not of fame; 
 
 Forgot was Britain's glory: 
 Each heart recalled a different name, 
 
 But all sang "Annie Laurie." 
 
 Voice after voice caught up the song, 
 
 Until its tender passion 
 Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 
 
 Their battle-eve confession. 
 
 Dear girl, her name he dared not speak 
 But, as the song grew louder, 
 
 Something upon the soldier's cheek 
 Washed off the stains of powder. 
 
 Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
 The bloody sunset's embers, 
 
 While the Crimean valleys learned 
 How English love remembers. 
 
326 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And once again a fire of hell 
 Rained on the Russian quarters, 
 
 With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
 And bellowing of the mortars ! 
 
 And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
 For a singer, dumb and gory; 
 
 And English Mary mourns for him 
 Who sang of "Annie Laurie." 
 
 Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest 
 Your truth and valor wearing ; 
 
 The bravest are the tenderest, — 
 The loving are the daring. 
 
 cJ» fc$* t<$* 
 
 "GOT STRIPES DOWN HIS LEGS." 
 
 I USED to boss him in the store 
 And oversee his work, 
 For I had charge of one whole floor 
 
 And he was just a clerk. 
 To-day it's different, if you please; 
 
 We've changed respective pegs, 
 I'm private in the ranks — and he's 
 Got stripes 
 Down 
 His 
 Legs. 
 
 The girls, whose smiles were once for me, 
 Now scarce vouchsafe a glance, 
 
 Such great attraction can they see 
 In decorated pants. 
 
 The erstwhile clerk no longer my 
 Indulgence humble begs. 
 
 He's up on high, 
 
 I'm down below. 
 With stripes 
 Down 
 His 
 Legs. 
 
 It's "Private Jones, do this and that." 
 
 In haste I must bestir — 
 To Jenkins, on whom oft I've sat, 
 
 I'm told to answer "Sir!" 
 One born to rule, it's come to pass 
 
 Of woe I drink the dregs — 
 I'm in the army with, alas ! 
 No stripes 
 Down 
 My 
 Legs. 
 
 — Edwin L. Sabin. 
 
 t&* t5* ^* 
 
 SOMEBODY. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S courting somebody 
 Somewhere or other to-night ; 
 Somebody's whispering to somebody, 
 Somebody's listening to somebody, 
 Under this clear moonlight. 
 
 Near the bright river's flow, 
 Running so still and slow, 
 Talking so soft an d low, 
 She sits with somebody. 
 
 Pacing the ocean's shore, 
 Edged by the foaming roar, 
 
 Words never used before 
 Sound sweet to somebody. 
 
 Under the maple tree 
 Deep though the shadow be, 
 Plain enough they can see, 
 Bright eyes has somebody. 
 
 No one sits up to wait, 
 Though she is out so late, 
 All know she's at the gate, 
 Talking with somebody. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 327 
 
 Tiptoe to parlor door, 
 Two shadows on the floor, 
 Moonlight, reveal no more, 
 Susy and somebody. 
 
 Two sitting side by side, 
 Float with the ebbing tide, 
 
 'Thus, dearest, may we glide 
 Through life," says somebody. 
 
 Somewhere, somebody 
 Makes love to somebody 
 To-night. 
 
 -Anonymous. 
 
 & & js 
 
 AN UNCOMPLAINING MAN. 
 
 HIS hoss went dead an' his mule went 
 lame; 
 He lost six cows in a poker game ; 
 A hurricane came on a summer's day, 
 An' carried the house whar he lived away ; 
 Then a earthquake come when that was 
 
 gone, 
 An' swallowed the land that the house stood 
 
 on! 
 An' the tax collector, he come roun' 
 An' charged him up for the hole in the 
 
 groun' ! 
 An' the city marshal — he came in view, 
 An' said he wanted his street tax, too ! 
 
 Did he moan an' sigh ? Did he set an' cry 
 
 An' cuss the hurricane sweepin' by? 
 
 Did he grieve that his ole friends failed to 
 
 call 
 When the earthquake come an' swallowed 
 
 all? 
 Never a word of blame he said, 
 With all them troubles on top his head ! 
 Not him! — He climbed to the top of the 
 
 hill— 
 Whar standin' room wuz left him still, 
 An', barin' his head, here's what he said : 
 "I reckon it's time to git up an' git ; 
 But, Lord, I hain't had the measles yit !" 
 — Philander Johnson. 
 
 e5* t5* te& 
 
 TWO WOMEN'S LIVES 
 
 TWO babes were born in the selfsame 
 town 
 On the very same bright day; 
 They laughed and cried in their mother's 
 arms 
 In the very selfsame way, 
 And both were pure and innocent 
 
 As falling flakes of snow, 
 But one of them lived in the terraced 
 house 
 And one in the street below. 
 
 Two children played in the selfsame town, 
 And the children both were fair, 
 
 But one had curls brushed smooth and 
 round, 
 The other had tangled hair ; 
 
 The children both grew up apace, 
 
 As other children grow, 
 But one of them lived in the terraced 
 house 
 
 And one in the street below. 
 
 Two maidens wrought in the selfsame 
 town, 
 And one was wedded and loved, 
 The other saw through the curtain's 
 part 
 The world where her sister moved; 
 And one was smiling, a happy bride, 
 
 The other knew care and woe, 
 For one of them lived in the terraced 
 house 
 And one in the street below. 
 
328 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Two women lay dead in the selfsame 
 . town, 
 
 And one had had tender care, 
 The other was left to die alone 
 
 On her pallet all thin and bare, 
 And one had many to mourn her loss, 
 
 For the other few tears would flow, 
 For one had lived in the terraced house 
 
 And one in the street below. 
 
 If Jesus, who died for the rich and the 
 poor 
 
 In wondrous holy love, 
 Took both the sisters in his arms 
 
 And carried them above, 
 Then all the differences vanished quite, 
 
 For in heaven none would know 
 Which of them lived in the terraced house 
 
 And which in the street below. 
 
 t.5* i£* ^5* 
 
 BEDTIME. 
 
 WHEN my good-nights and prayers 
 are said, 
 And I am warm tucked up in bed, 
 I know my guardian angel stands 
 And holds my head between his hands. 
 
 I cannot see his gown of light, 
 Because I keep my eyes shut tight, 
 
 For if I open them I know 
 My pretty angel has to go. 
 
 But while my eyes are shut I hear 
 His white wings rustling very near; 
 I know it is his darling wings, 
 Not mother folding up my things. 
 
 e5* c5* «5* 
 
 THE BOY TO THE SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 YOU" have quizzed me often and puzzled 
 me long; 
 You have asked me to cipher and spell; 
 You have called me a dolt if I answered 
 wrong, 
 Or a dunce if I failed to tell 
 Just when to say He and when to say lay, 
 
 Or what nine-sevenths may make, 
 Or the longitude of Kamtschatka bay, 
 Or the I-forget-what-it's-name lake, 
 So I think it's about my turn, I do, 
 To ask a question or so of you." 
 
 The schoolmaster grim he opened his eyes, 
 But he said not a word for sheer surprise. 
 
 "Can you tell what 'phen-dubs' means? I 
 can. 
 
 Can you say all off by heart 
 The oner)'-, twoery, hicgory ann? 
 
 Or tell 'commons' and 'alleys' apart? 
 
 Can you fling a top, I would like to know, 
 
 Till it hums like a bumble-bee? 
 Can you make a kite yourself that will go 
 
 Most as high as the eye can see, 
 Till it sails and soars, like a hawk on the 
 
 wing, 
 And the birds come and light on the 
 string?" 
 
 The schoolmaster grim he looked demure, 
 But his mouth was twitching, I'm almost 
 sure. 
 
 "Can you tell where the nest of the oriole 
 swings, 
 Or the color its eggs may be? 
 Do you know the time when the squirrel 
 brings 
 Its young from their nest in the tree? 
 Can you tell when the chestnuts are ready 
 to drop, 
 
"What shall I write?" 
 
 "I've got it." 
 THE LETTER TO PAPA.— PLATE I. 
 
'I send a thousand kisses. 
 
 "Now, I'll mail it." 
 THE LETTER TO PAPA.— PLATE H. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 331 
 
 Or where the best hazelnuts grow? 
 Can you climb a tree to the very tip-top, 
 
 And gaze, without trembling, below? 
 Can you swim and dive, can you jump and 
 run, 
 
 Or do anything else -we boys call fun?" 
 
 The master's voice trembled as he replied: 
 "You are right, my lad, I'm the dunce," 
 and sighed. 
 
 t5* <5* *S* 
 
 HIS BEST PRAYER. 
 
 THE proper way for a man to pray," 
 Said Deacon Lemuel Keys, 
 "And the only proper attitude, 
 
 Is down upon his knees." 
 "No; I should say the way to pray," 
 
 Said Rev. Dr. Wise, 
 "Is standing straight, with outstretched 
 arms, 
 And rapt and upturned eyes." 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no!" said Elder Slow, 
 
 "Such posture is too proud. 
 A man should pray with eyes fast closed 
 
 And head contritely bowed." 
 
 "It seems to me his hands should be 
 
 Austerely clasped in front, 
 With both thumbs pointed toward the 
 ground," 
 
 Said Rev. Dr. Hunt. 
 
 "Las' year I fell in Hodgkins' well 
 
 Head first," said Cyrus Brown, 
 "With both my heels a-stickin up, 
 
 My head a-pintin' down, 
 An' I made a prayer right then an' there — 
 
 Best prayer I ever said, 
 The prayin'est prayer I ever prayed — 
 
 A-standin' on my head." 
 
 t5* <5* <5* 
 
 "ARIZONY RAY." 
 
 THE wildest cowboy on the range was 
 that same Arizony Ray, 
 Neck deep in every crookedness that come 
 
 a-driftin' 'round his way, 
 As quick as lightnin' with the gun an' 
 
 mighty handy with the rope, 
 An' ridin' bronks he never had no equal on 
 
 the Western slope. 
 An' independent sort o' chap, but true as 
 
 steel to all his pals, 
 'Bout halfway liked and halfway feared by 
 
 all the purty rancher gals, 
 An' when he'd flood his inner works with 
 
 cactus-brier booze we found 
 'Twas safest to keep out o' reach o' that ol' 
 
 gun he packed around. 
 
 His daily work o' punchin' cows the kid 
 was never knowed to shirk, 
 
 He follered Injuns with a vim that showed 
 
 he sort o' liked the work, 
 And when we'd overtake the reds and 
 
 bump again a nasty fight, 
 That same young Arizony Ray'd seem a- 
 
 bilin' with delight. 
 His cup o' joy was alius full when he was 
 
 shootin' up a town, 
 An' somethin' alius overtook the man that 
 
 tried to call him down; 
 Was dumped in jail a hundred times, but 
 
 managed to git out agin 
 With jest the same affection fur the trail 
 
 o' devilment an' sin. 
 
 One day a letter come to him, an' with it 
 
 came a photygraph, 
 An' as he read the letter through us chaps 
 
 that knowed him had to laugh 
 
332 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 To see him cry, but changed our tune 
 when with his head at humble poise, 
 
 He handed us the pictur card and said, 
 "That's my ol' mother, boys!" 
 
 Then came a most surprisin' change — per- 
 haps a dozen times a day 
 
 He'd read that letter through an' through 
 in eager, lovin' sort o' way, 
 
 An' when we'd go to bunk at night it 
 seemed to us surprisin' odd 
 
 To see him down upon his knees a-tryin' 
 to make up with God. 
 
 <5* t5* <5* 
 
 LESSONS FROM SCRIPTURE FLOWERS. 
 
 The assignment of parts here given can be changed to suit different cases and such 
 
 other classifications adopted as may seem best. Singing could also be introduced 
 
 very effectively, especially in connection with "The Rose of Sharon," 
 
 by the use of»H. R. Palmer's hymn by that name. 
 
 The Lily of the Field. 
 First Boy — 
 
 This flower that Jesus bids us consider 
 was the Chalcedonian Lily, very common 
 in Palestine, with scarlet flowers, like those 
 that grow wild in our pastures. 
 First Girl — 
 
 In upland meadows bright flowers I see, 
 Like lilies that blossomed in Galilee; 
 When I see them shining in gold and red, 
 I think of the words that Jesus said: 
 
 TWO IN CONCERT — 
 
 Consider the lilies of the field, how they 
 grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; 
 and yet I say unto you that even Solomon, 
 in all his glory, was not arrayed like one 
 of these. — Matt, vi; 28, 29. 
 
 The Rose of Sharon. 
 Second B. — 
 
 This flower was not a rose, but the nar- 
 cissus, like our white flowers of that name. 
 This is the flower of which Solomon 
 speaks when he says: "I am the Rose of 
 Sharon." 
 Second G. — 
 
 In garden-borders, in rows of white, 
 The dear narcissus is spring's delight; 
 This lovely blossom in odors sweet, 
 The promise of old still seems to repeat: 
 
 Two in con. — 
 
 The desert shall rejoice and blossom as 
 the rose. — Isa. xxxv: 2. 
 
 The True Rose. 
 Third B.— 
 
 This grows in Palestine. The hills of 
 Jerusalem are covered with beautiful pink, 
 white, and yellow roses. 
 Third G. — 
 
 When lovely roses, in colors fair, 
 Are budding and blossoming everywhere, 
 By the brook of the fields in the bright 
 
 June day, 
 Their voices to the children shall sweetly 
 
 say: 
 Two in con. — 
 
 Hearken unto me, ye children, and bud 
 forth as a rose, growing by the brool 
 the fields. — Ecclesiasticus xxxix: 13. 
 
 The Almond Tree. 
 Fourth B. — 
 
 This is the wakeful tree, because it is the 
 first to awake from winter's sleep and put 
 on its beautiful garment of rose-colored 
 blossoms. 
 Fourth G. — 
 
 The flowering almond, we call it now; 
 Spring's brightest, earliest blooming 
 bough. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 333 
 
 The prophet found it a symbol true. 
 That God would hasten his work to do. 
 Two in con. — 
 
 And I said, I see a rod of an almond 
 tree. Then said the Lord unto me, Thou 
 hast well seen, for I will hasten my word 
 to perform it. — Jer. i: 1 1, 12. 
 
 Mint, Anise, Cummin. 
 Fifth B. — 
 
 These plants had small, fragrant seeds, 
 and were those that we now call by the 
 same name. 
 Fifth G. — 
 
 In fragrant gardens I love to go, 
 Where mint and anise and cummin grow; 
 But, oh! how sad it would be to hear 
 Such words as these from the Master, dear. 
 
 Two in con. — 
 
 Ye pay tithe of mint, and anise, and 
 cummin, and have omitted the weightier 
 matters of the law, — judgment, mercy and 
 faith. — Matt, xxiii: 23. 
 
 The Mustard Tree. 
 Sixth B. — 
 
 This was not our common mustard 
 plant. It is a shrub, still found by the sea 
 of Galilee. The seed is small but the shrub 
 grows so large that birds can, and do, 
 lodge in the branches. 
 Sixth G. — 
 
 Sometimes I stop by the way to heed 
 The simple bloom of the mustard seed; 
 
 And think how, from humblest things that 
 
 grew, 
 Such lessons as this our Teacher drew. 
 Two in con. — 
 
 The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain 
 of mustard seed, which a man took, and 
 sov/ed in his field; which, indeed, is the 
 least of all seeds; but when it is grown, 
 it is the greatest among herbs, and becom- 
 eth a tree, so that the birds of the air come 
 and lodge in the branches thereof. — Matt, 
 xiii: 31, 32. 
 Seventh G. — 
 
 When winter goes by and spring is here, 
 And over the earth the flowers appear, 
 While birds are singing and breezes play, 
 These beautiful words again we say: 
 Two in con. — 
 
 For lo! the winter is past; the rain is 
 over and gone. The flowers appear on the 
 earth. The time of the singing of birds 
 is come. — Cant. ii. 11, 12. 
 
 Eighth G. — 
 
 When spring and summer have hastened 
 
 on, 
 And beautiful buds and blooms are gone, 
 With fragrant breath, as they pass away, 
 The autumn blossoms to us shall say: 
 
 All in con. — 
 
 The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, 
 but the Word of the Lord endureth for- 
 ever! — Isa. xl: 8. 
 
 —M. B. C. Slade. 
 
 c?* t.5* «5* 
 
 WHAT ABOUT THE HIRED MAN? 
 
 THEY talk about the servant girl, sug- 
 gesting this and that, 
 To make her life more happy in the man- 
 sion or the flat. 
 They say to teach her music and to :lti- 
 vate her mind, 
 
 And never, never speak to her in voice 
 
 that is unkind; 
 But — what about the hired man, 
 
 Hired man, tired man — 
 Frequently the fired man — 
 
 What about his life? 
 
334 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 No one ever sighs for him; 
 Books nobody buys for him, 
 Or intimates that pies, for him, 
 Should ever know a knife. 
 
 The ladies sip Young Hyson at the Eso- 
 teric clubs, 
 And weep about the hardships of the maid 
 
 who bakes or scrubs; 
 They advocate a fashion-plate upon the 
 
 kitchen wall, 
 And "higher aspirations" they propose for 
 one and all; 
 But — what about the hired man, 
 
 Hired man, tired man — 
 Soon or late the fired man — 
 
 What about his lot? 
 No one ever thinks of him, 
 Or sends out fancy drinks for him, 
 
 Or talks of fashion's kinks for him, 
 Or gives to him a thought. 
 
 They write to all the papers on the "ser- 
 vant question" now, 
 And Mrs. Talkso Tellum-What gets up 
 
 and makes a bow, 
 And shows the ladies how to act, the ser- 
 vant girls to suit, 
 And all her hearers vow that her remarks 
 are "awful cute." 
 But — what about the hired man, 
 
 Hired man, tired man — 
 And after while the fired man — 
 
 Who's concerned for him? 
 He must keep his hustle on, 
 And toil, and tug, and rustle on, 
 With work to test his muscle on, 
 Or else his chance is slim. 
 
 t5* <£* t5* 
 
 THROUGH GRANDFATHER'S SPECTACLES. 
 
 YOUR boy's come home from school, 
 Mariar, a college graduate, 
 An' what he knows and means to do I 'low 
 
 is somethin' great; 
 But I have been observin' him ; and I ain't 
 
 much impressed 
 That when he's pressed the button the 
 
 world'll do the rest. 
 Fer thinkin' which I don't blame him, I 
 
 blame his pa and ma, 
 They've stuffed him with sech notions an' 
 
 made his word a law. 
 Course rockin' in affection's cradle's mighty 
 
 pleasant to us all, 
 [I only hope he won't rock out, — he'd be so 
 
 apt to feel the fall. 
 I only hope he won't rock out, yet I am free 
 
 to say 
 He's apt to git a jolt as '11 wake him up 
 
 some day ! 
 
 Your boy's not bad, Mariar, I hope you'll 
 
 not git mad 
 At a few plain truths about the peart, high- 
 
 steppin' lad: 
 He's jammed his head so full o' isms, 
 
 ologies, an' stuff 
 'At when he come to cram in sense there 
 
 wasn't room enuff. 
 You know as well, Mariar, as you know this 
 
 chair I've alius sat in, 
 That he'll ne'er keep books in Hebrew nor 
 
 buy nor sell in Latin ; 
 That the German name o' jimpson weed 
 
 ain't worth as much to him 
 As a knowledge of good English which is 
 
 in his case slim ; 
 That all he knows about the stars in 
 
 heavenly orbits fixed 
 Don't count for nothin' longside o' how his 
 
 spellin's mixed. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 335 
 
 It is a common thing, Mariar, this fault that 
 
 parents get in, 
 This educatin' young folks up till head ex- 
 pansion sets in ; 
 This givin' them an outside polish, which 
 
 strivin' to attain, 
 Has led in no few instances to softenin' of 
 
 the brain. 
 The world ne'er stopped on their account 
 
 and ne'er would it, I ween, 
 If half its pampered youth was taken down 
 
 a notch or two while green ; 
 And mayhap such a course pursued with 
 
 them a spell, 
 'Ud work a revolution, tho' it's pretty hard 
 
 to tell. 
 
 I wouldn't have you think, Mariar, that I'm 
 
 set agin a college ; 
 There's nothin' that we need and lack so 
 
 much as knowledge. 
 But we cannot have it all nor even have the 
 
 heft, 
 
 And what most we want to learn is to keep 
 from gittin' left ! 
 
 Then lend your ears my student friends to 
 
 what I have to say, 
 And heed it, too, perhaps it may come 
 
 handy in its way : 
 Remember my life's e'en most lived while 
 
 yours is jest begun, 
 And you ain't s'posed to be so sure not 
 
 ever'thing's for fun. 
 
 If you will take advices which I have alius 
 
 given, 
 The first thing you will learn is how to 
 
 make a hones' livin' ; 
 And havin' got the infermation you need 
 
 for ever' day 
 Then you can hustle to and git whatever 
 
 else'll pay. 
 
 — Emily F. Smith. 
 
 10& *£& (5* 
 
 CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 WE are the little flowers, coming with 
 the spring; 
 If you listen closely, sometimes you'll hear 
 us sing. 
 
 The Honeysuckle — Red: 
 
 I am the honeysuckle, with my drooping 
 
 head; 
 And early in the springtime I don my dress 
 
 of red. 
 I grow in quiet woodlands, beneath some 
 
 budding tree; 
 So when you take a ramble, — just look for 
 
 me. 
 
 The Dandelion — Yellow: 
 
 I am the dandelion, yellow, as you see, 
 
 And when the children see me they shout 
 
 for glee. 
 I grow by every wayside, and when I've 
 
 had my day, 
 I spread my wings so silvery, — and fly 
 
 away. 
 
 The Forget-me-not — Blue: 
 
 When God made all the flowers, He gave 
 each one a name, 
 
 And, when the others all had gone, a little 
 blue one came 
 
 And said in trembling whisper: "My name 
 has been forgot." 
 
 Then the good Father called her, "Forget- 
 me-not." 
 
536 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The Fern — Green: 
 
 A fern, the people call me, I'm always 
 
 clothed in green, 
 I live in every forest; you've seen me oft, 
 
 I ween. 
 Sometimes I leave the shadow, to grow 
 
 beside the way 
 
 You'll see me as you pass, — some nice, 
 fine day. 
 
 Chorus. 
 We are the little flowers, coming with the 
 
 spring; 
 If you listen closely, sometimes you'll hear 
 
 us sing. 
 
 SAY there ! P'r'aps 
 Some on you chaps 
 Might know Jim Wild ? 
 Well, no offense: 
 Thar ain't no sense 
 In gittin' riled! 
 
 Jim was my chum 
 
 Up on the Bar; 
 That's why I come 
 
 Down from up thar, 
 Lookin' for Jim. 
 Thank ye, oir! you 
 Ain't of that crew — 
 
 Blest if you are! 
 
 Money? — not much; 
 
 That ain't my kind; 
 I ain't no such. 
 Rum ? — I don't mind, 
 
 Seein' it's you. 
 
 Well, this yer Jim, 
 Did you know him? — 
 Jess 'bout your size ; 
 Same kind of eyes? — 
 Well, that is strange ; 
 Why, it's two year 
 Since he came here, 
 Sick, for a change. 
 
 Well, here's to us ; 
 Eh? 
 
 t&& t^» ^* 
 
 JIM. 
 
 The deuce you say ! 
 
 Dead?— 
 That little cuss ? 
 
 What makes you star' — 
 
 You over thar? 
 
 Can't a man drop 
 
 'S glass in yer shop 
 
 But you must rar'? 
 It wouldn't take 
 Denied much to break 
 
 You and your bar. 
 
 Dead! 
 Poor — little — Jim ! 
 — Why, there was me, 
 Jones, and Bob Lee, 
 Harry and Ben — 
 No-account men; 
 Then to take him ! 
 Well; thar — Good-bye — 
 
 No more, sir — I — 
 
 Eh? 
 What's that you say ? — 
 Why dern it! — sho! 
 No? Yes! By Jo! 
 
 Sold! 
 Sold! Why, you limb, 
 You ornery, 
 Derned old 
 Long-legged Jim! 
 
 — Bret Harte. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 337 
 
 JOE. 
 
 WE don't take vagrants in, sir, 
 And I am alone to-day, 
 Leastwise, I could call the good man — 
 He's not so far away. 
 
 You are welcome to a breakfast — 
 I'll bring you some bread and tea; 
 
 You might sit on the old stone yonder, 
 Under the chestnut tree. 
 
 You're traveling, stranger? Mebbe 
 You've got some notions to sell? 
 
 We hev a sight of peddlers, 
 But we allers treat them well, 
 
 For they, poor souls, are trying, 
 
 Like the rest of us to live ; 
 And its not like tramping the country 
 
 And calling on folks to give. 
 
 Not that I meant a word, sir — 
 No offence in the world to you ; 
 
 I think, now I look at it closer, 
 Your coat is an army blue. 
 
 Don't say ? Under Sherman, were you ? 
 
 That was — how many years ago? 
 I had a boy at Shiloh, 
 
 Kearney — a sergeant — Joe ! 
 
 Joe Kearney, you might a' met him? • 
 But in course you were miles apart, 
 
 He was a tall, straight boy, sir, 
 The pride of his mother's heart. 
 
 We were off to Kittery, then, sir, 
 Small farmers in dear old Maine ; 
 
 It's a long stretch from there to Kansas, 
 But I couldn't go back again. 
 
 He was all we had, was Joseph ; 
 
 He and my old man and me 
 Had sort o' growed together, 
 
 And were happy as we could be. 
 
 I wasn't a-looking for trouble 
 
 When the terrible war begun, 
 And I wrestled for grace to be able 
 
 To give up our only son. 
 
 Well, well, 'taint no use o' talking, 
 
 My old man said, said he: 
 "The Lord loves a willing giver;" 
 
 And that's what I tried to be. 
 
 Well, the heart and the flesh are rebels, 
 And hev to be fought with grace 
 
 But I'd give my life — yes, willin' — 
 To look on my dead boy's face. 
 
 Take care! you are spillin' your tea, sir, 
 Poor soul! don't cry; I'm sure 
 
 You've had a good mother some time — 
 Your wounds, were they hard to cure? 
 
 Andersonville ! God help you ! 
 
 Hunted by dogs, did you say? 
 Hospital ! crazy, seven years, sir i 
 
 I wonder you're living to-day. 
 
 I'm thankful my Joe was shot, sir, 
 "How do you know that he died?" 
 
 'Twas certified, sir, by the surgeon, 
 Here's the letter, and — "mebbe he lied." 
 
 Well, I never ! you shake like the ager, 
 My Joe ! there's his name and the date ; 
 
 "Joe Kearney, 7th Maine, sir, a sergeant — 
 Lies here in a critical state — 
 
 "Just died — will be buried to-morrow — 
 Can't wait for his parents to come." 
 
 Well, I thought God had left us that hour, 
 As for John, my poor man, he was dumb. 
 
 Didn't speak for a month to his neighbors, 
 Scarce spoke in a week, sir, to me; 
 
 Never been the same man since that Mon- 
 day 
 They brought us this letter you see. 
 
338 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And you were from Maine ! from old Kit- 
 tery ? 
 
 What time in the year did you go? 
 I just disremember the fellows 
 
 That marched out of town with our Joe. 
 
 Lord love ye ! come into the house, sir ! 
 It's getting too warm out o' door. 
 
 If I'd known you'd been gone for a soger, 
 I'd taken you here afore. 
 
 Now make yourself easy. We're humbler, 
 
 We Kansas folks don't go for show — 
 Set here — it's Joe's chair — take your hat 
 off. 
 "Call father !" My God ! you are Joe ! 
 — Alice Robbins. 
 
 t2& *2fc *5* 
 
 THE COMING MILLIONS. 
 
 JIM CROKER lived far in the woods, 
 a solitary place. 
 Where the bushes grew, like whiskers, on 
 
 his unrazored face; 
 And the black bear was his brother and the 
 
 catamount his chum, 
 And Jim he lived and waited for the mil- 
 lions yet to come. 
 
 Jim Croker made a clearing, and he sowed 
 it down to wheat, 
 
 And he filled his lawn with cabbage and 
 he planted it with beet, 
 
 And it blossomed with potatoes, and with 
 peach and pear and plum, 
 
 And Jim he lived and waited for the mil- 
 lions yet to come. 
 
 Then Jim he took his ancient axe and 
 
 cleared a forest street, 
 While he lived on bear and succotash and 
 
 young opossum meat. 
 And his rhythmic axe strokes sounded and 
 
 the woods no more were dumb, 
 While he cleared a crooked highway for the 
 
 millions yet to come. 
 
 Then they came like aimless stragglers, 
 they came from far and near, 
 
 A little log house settlement grew round 
 the pioneer; 
 
 And the sound of saw and broadaxe made 
 
 a glad industrial hum.' 
 Jim said : "The coming millions, they have 
 
 just begun to come." 
 
 And a little crooked railway wound round 
 
 mountain, hill and lake, 
 Crawling toward the forest village like an 
 
 undulating snake; 
 And one morn the locomotive puffed into 
 
 the wilderness, 
 And Jim said: "The coming millions, they 
 
 are coming by express." 
 
 And the village grew and prospered, but 
 Jim Croker's hair was grayer; 
 
 When they got a city charter, and old Jim 
 was chosen Mayor; 
 
 But Jim declined the honor, and moved his 
 household goods 
 
 Far away into the forest, to the old prime- 
 val woods. 
 
 Far and far into the forest moved the griz- 
 zled pioneer, 
 
 There he reared his hut and murmured, "I 
 will build a city here." 
 
 And he hears the woodfox barking, and 
 he hears the partridge drum, 
 
 And the old man sits and listens for the 
 millions yet to come. 
 
 — S. W.Foss. 
 
MISCELLAXEOUS. 
 
 339 
 
 KEEP A STIFF UPPER LIP. 
 
 THE summer wind is sniffin' round the 
 bloomin' locus' trees, 
 And the clover in the pastur' is a big day 
 
 for the bees, 
 And they been a-swiggin' honey, above- 
 board and on the sly, 
 Till they stutter in their buzzin' and stag- 
 ger as they fly. 
 
 They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's 
 
 out to-day, 
 And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared 
 
 away, 
 And the woods is all the greener, and the 
 
 grass is greener, still; 
 It may rain again to-morrow, but I don't 
 
 think it will. 
 
 Some say the crops is ruined, and the corn's 
 
 drownded out, 
 And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, 
 
 without doubt; 
 But the kind Providence that has never 
 
 failed as yet, 
 Will be on hand onc't more at the 'leventh 
 
 hour, I bet! 
 
 Does the medder-lark complain, as he 
 
 swims high and dry, 
 Through the waves of the wind and the 
 
 blue of the sky? 
 
 Does the quail set up and whistle in a dis- 
 appointed way, 
 
 Er hang his head in silence and sorrow all 
 the day? 
 
 Is the chipmunk's health a failure? Does 
 he walk or does he run? 
 
 Don't the buzzards ooze around up there, 
 just like they've alius done? 
 
 Is there anything the matter with the roos- 
 ter's lungs or voice ? 
 
 Ort a mortal be complainin' when dumb an- 
 imals rejoice? 
 
 Then let us, one and all, be contented with 
 our lot; 
 
 The June is here this morning and the sun 
 is shining hot. 
 
 Oh, let us fill our hearts with the glory of 
 the day, 
 
 And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sor- 
 row far away ! 
 
 i 
 Whatever be our station, with Providence 
 
 for guide, 
 
 Such fine circumstances ort to make us sat- 
 isfied ; 
 
 For the world is full of roses, and the roses 
 full of dew, 
 
 And the dew is full of heavenly love that 
 drips for me and you. 
 
 — James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 G 
 
 OT one? Don't say so! 
 vou get? 
 
 «5* t$* ^5* 
 
 THE BEST SEWING-MACHINE 
 
 Which did 
 
 One of the kind to open and shut ? 
 
 Own or hire it? How much did you 
 
 pay? 
 Does it go with a crank or a treadle? S-a-y. 
 I'm a single man, and somewhat green; 
 Tell me about your sewing-machine." 
 
 "Listen, my boy, and hear all about it : 
 I don't know what I could do without it ; 
 I've owned one now for more than a year, 
 And like it so well that I call it 'my dear ;' 
 'Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen, 
 This wonderful family sewing-machine. 
 
 "It's none of your angular Wheeler things, 
 
310 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings; 
 Its work would bother a hundred of his, 
 And worth a thousand ! Indeed it is ; 
 And has a way — you need not stare — 
 Of combing and braiding its own back hair ! 
 
 "Mine is not one of those stupid affairs 
 That stands in a corner with what-nots and 
 
 chairs 
 And makes that dismal, heachy noise 
 Which all the comfort of sewing destroys ; 
 No rigid contrivance of lumber and steel, 
 But one with a natural spring in the heel. 
 
 "Mine is one of the kind to love, 
 And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove ; 
 Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot, 
 And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot, 
 And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, 
 
 and loops, 
 With any indefinite number of hoops. 
 
 "None of your patent machines for me, 
 Unless Dame Nature's the patentee ; 
 I like the sort that can laugh and talk, 
 And take my arm for an evening walk ; 
 
 That will do whatever the owner may 
 
 choose, 
 With the slightest perceptible turn of the 
 
 screws ; 
 
 "One that can dance, and — possibly — flirt ; 
 And make a pudding as well as a shirt ; 
 One that can sing without dropping a stitch, 
 And play the housewife, lady, or witch ; 
 Ready to give the sagest advice, 
 Or to do up your collars and things so nice. 
 
 "What do you think of my machine? 
 A'n't it the best thatever was seen? 
 'Tisn't a clumsy, mechanical toy, 
 But flesh and blood ! Hear that, my boy ? 
 With a turn for gossip and household 
 
 affairs, 
 Which include, you know, the sewing of 
 
 tears. 
 
 "Tut, tut, don't talk. I see it all — 
 
 You needn't keep winking so hard at the 
 
 wall; 
 I know what your fidgety fumblings mean ; 
 You would like, yourself a sewing-machine ! 
 Well, get one, then, — of the same design, — 
 There were plenty left where I got mine !" 
 
 
 CABIN PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 JES' turn de back-log, ober, dar — an' pull 
 your stoo'es up nigher, 
 An' watch dat 'possum cookin' in de skillet 
 
 by de fire : 
 Lemme spread my legs out on de bricks to 
 
 make my feelin's flow, 
 An' I'll grin' you out a fac' or two, to take 
 befo' you go. 
 
 Now, in dese busy wukin' days, dey's 
 changed de Scripter fashions, 
 
 An' you needn't look to mirakuls to furnish 
 you wid rations ; 
 
 Now, when you's wantin' loaves o' bread, 
 
 you got to go and fetch 'em, 
 An' ef you's wantin' fishes, you mus' dig 
 
 your wums an' ketch 'em ; 
 For you kin put it down as sartin dat the 
 
 time is long gone by, 
 When sassages an' 'taters use to rain fum 
 
 out de sky ! 
 
 Ef yo think about it keerfully, an' put it to 
 
 the tes', 
 You'll diskiver dat de safes' plan is gin'ully 
 
 de bes' : 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 341 
 
 Ef you stumble on a hornet's nes' an' make 
 
 de critters scatter, 
 You needn't stan' dar like a fool an' argefy 
 
 de matter ; 
 An' when de yaller fever comes an' settles 
 
 all aroun', 
 Tis better dan de karanteen to shuffle out o' 
 
 town! 
 
 Dar's heap o' dreadful music in de very 
 
 fines' fiddle; 
 A ripe an' meller apple may be rotten in de 
 
 middle ; 
 De wises' lookin' trabeler may be de bigges' 
 
 fool; 
 Dar's a lot o' solid kickin' in the humbles' 
 
 kind o' mule ; 
 De preacher ain't de holies' dat war's de 
 
 meekes' look, 
 An' does de loudes' bangin' on the kiver ob 
 
 de book ! 
 
 De people pays deir bigges' bills in buyin' 
 lots an' lan's ; 
 
 Dey scatter all deir picayunes aroun' de 
 peanut Stan's; 
 
 De twenties an' de fifties goes in payin' orf 
 deir rents, 
 
 But Heben an' de organ grinder gits de cop- 
 per cents. 
 
 I neber likes de cullud man dat thinks too 
 much o' eatin'; 
 
 t£*» (^5* <^» 
 
 But frolics froo de wukin' days, and snoozes 
 
 at de meetin' ; 
 Dat jines de Temp'ance 'Ciety, an' keeps a 
 
 gittiu tight,' 
 An' pulls his water-millions in de middle 
 
 ob de night ! 
 
 Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets 
 in deir han's, 
 
 Perradin' froo de city to de music ob de 
 ban's, 
 
 Had better drop deir guns, an' go to 
 marchin' wid deir hoes 
 
 An' git a honest libbin' as dey chop de cot- 
 ton-rows, 
 
 Or de State may put 'em arter while to 
 drillin' in de ditches, 
 
 Wid more'n a single stripe a-runnin' 'cross 
 deir breeches. 
 
 Well, you think dat doin' nuffin' 'tall is 
 
 mighty so' an' nice, 
 But it busted up de renters in de lubly 
 
 Paradise ! 
 You see, dey bofe was human bein's jes' 
 
 like me and' you, 
 An' dey couldn't reggerlate deirselves wid 
 
 not a thing to do ; 
 Wid plenty wuk befo' 'em, an' a cotton crop 
 
 to make, 
 Dey'd nebber thought o' loafin' roun' an' 
 
 chattin' wid de snake. 
 
 MR. MEEK'S DINNER. 
 
 i i T WONDER, James," said Mrs. Meek, 
 1 doubtfully, to her husband one morn- 
 ing, "if you could get your own dinner to- 
 night? You see, I've had to let the servant 
 go ort her holidays for a day or two, and 
 they want me desperately at the Woman's 
 Aid and Relief Bazaar, to help them with 
 their high tea from 4 130 to 8 :3c If you 
 thought you could manage by yourself — " 
 
 "I'll try to survive it," observed Mr. 
 Meek, good-naturedly. "I don't fancy it 
 will prove fatal." 
 
 "I'll get a roast and cook it this morn- 
 ing," went on Mrs. Meek, cheerfully, "and 
 you can have it cold for dinner." 
 
 "Thank you," replied Mr. Meek, "you'll 
 do nothing of the kind. I fancy I haven't 
 gone camping pretty much every year of 
 
342 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 my life for nothing. I suspect I can man- 
 age a hot dinner about as well as most 
 women." 
 
 Mrs. Meek had her doubts, and, unlike 
 most wives, expressed them. 
 
 Mr. Meek viewed his wife's doubts with 
 supreme contempt, and, unlike most hus- 
 bands, expressed it. 
 
 Thus it finally resulted that Mrs. Meek 
 abandoned all idea of preparing Mr. Meek's 
 dinner for him and betook herself to the 
 Bazaar. So it resulted furthermore, that 
 Mr. Meek left his office about four o'clock 
 that afternoon, and proceeded to collect on 
 his way home the necessary supplies for a 
 dainty little dinner. 
 
 An alluring display of chickens was the 
 first thing to catch his eye, and he was just 
 on the point of securing one of them when, 
 by good luck, or more probably through 
 the natural sagacity of the man, he recol- 
 lected that — well, that you don't, as a rule, 
 cook chickens as they are. In the mo- 
 mentary reaction that followed this feat of 
 memory he bought a couple of mutton chops 
 and three tomatoes. 
 
 "I'll have a good, plain, old-fashioned 
 English dinner," thought he, as he hurried 
 past the deceitful chickens with something 
 almost akin to reproach. "None of your 
 finiky poultry dinners for me!" 
 
 "By Jove !" he exclaimed a moment later, 
 "I'll have an apple pudding and some oyster 
 soup to begin on." 
 
 He was so tickled with this idea that he 
 promptly rushed into a grocery shop and 
 purchased half a peck of their best eating 
 apples and then hurried home without a 
 thought of the cab he was to order for his 
 wife at 8 :30 sharp. 
 
 By five o'clock he had the fire going 
 beautifully, and everything ready for a 
 start. By six o'clock he was just beginning 
 to enjoy the thing; the tomatoes were stew- 
 
 ing divinely, the potatoes were boiling to 
 their heart's content, and the milk for the 
 oyster soup was simmering contentedly on 
 the back of the stove. The oysters, by- 
 the-by, had not yet arrived. 
 
 "Dear me," thought the ambitious gen- 
 tleman, "I wish I had thought of it in time, 
 and I'd have had some oyster patties for a 
 sort of final dessert. Hello, what's this? 
 If that everlasting pig-headed woman 
 hasn't left me some cold ham and a custard 
 pie ! By the Lord Harry, for two cents I'd 
 throw the whole thing into the back yard !" 
 
 The natural docility of his nature, how- 
 ever, prevailed, and he left the obnoxious 
 viands unmolested, and proceeded with his 
 dinner. At 6:30 he put the chops on to 
 broil, "as in the good old days of yore" — 
 this poetic allusion to the style of cooking 
 being occasioned by one of them accident- 
 ally dropping into the fire, whence he res- 
 cued it with great presence of mind by the 
 joint assistance of the stove lifter and one 
 of the best table napkins. By the time the 
 chop was thus rescued both it and the table 
 napkin were fairly well done — to say noth- 
 ing stronger. This trifling difficulty he got 
 over by putting the erring chop on the win- 
 dow-sill to cool, and the napkin into the 
 fire — to do the other thing. 
 
 This accomplished, and with one chop 
 gently cooking on the gridiron and the 
 other one cooling on the window-sill, he 
 started to construct the paste for his apple 
 pudding. This proved most fascinating. 
 He placed a large quantity of flour in a 
 small bowl, emptied a jug of water on top 
 of it, added butter to taste, and proceeded 
 to mould it deftly into shape, as he had 
 often seen his wife do. The flour and 
 water promptly forsook the bowl and be- 
 took themselves to his hands. Then the 
 milk for the soup began to burn, just as 
 the potatoes boiled dry. He rushed to the 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 343 
 
 rescue and left the major portion of the 
 paste fairly evenly divided between the 
 handles of the two saucepans and the stove 
 lifter. At this juncture the tomatoes start- 
 ed to see if they couldn't surpass the milk 
 in burning. They succeeded. The cat, 
 which was accustomed to a 6:30 dinner, 
 walked off with the chop on the window 
 sill, while the chop on the fire grew beauti- 
 fully black on the "down side." So many 
 things were now burning all at the same 
 time that Mr. Meek gave up all hope of 
 trying to discover just which one was burn- 
 ing most. "Let the plaguy things burn till 
 they're sick of it !" was the extremely broad- 
 minded way in which he summed up the 
 situation. With the astuteness that char- 
 acterized him as distinguished from his fel- 
 low men, he at once gave up all efforts to 
 track the truant paste, and simply popped 
 his apples into the oven to bake. 
 
 It was now about 7:30, and the fire was 
 getting hotter than pretty much anything 
 on earth unless, perhaps, it was Mr. Meek. 
 He turned all the dampers, opened all the 
 doors, and took off all the lids. This re- 
 sulted most satisfactorily, and the fire be- 
 gan to cool. It didn't stop. 
 
 It got, if anything, a little low. After 
 that it got very lcjw. Then it went out. 
 He rushed for a kindling, and nearly took 
 his head off on a clothes-line. Just as he 
 had got nicely through expressing his views 
 on clothes-lines in general, and that clothes- 
 line in particular, he went about twice as 
 far towards taking his head off on the same 
 clothes-line on his way back. 
 
 The gentlest of natures when roused is 
 often the most terrible. Mr. Meek became 
 very terrible. He used up enough kindling, 
 profanity and coal oil to have ignited the 
 pyramids of Egypt. He stamped and 
 shoved, and poked and banged, and howled 
 and shook till even the cat — and it had had 
 
 its dinner — was displeased with him, and 
 departed to the outer kitchen to try the 
 oysters, which the dilatory grocer had just 
 deposited on the table without waiting to 
 parley with Mr. Meek. He was a wise 
 grocer and had heard enough. 
 
 When about five minutes later Mr. Meek 
 discovered that the cat had found the 
 oysters to its taste, he became even less 
 calm. Had the cat been around (but, like 
 the grocer, it had heard enough, and taken 
 an unobtrusive departure) it is highly prob- 
 able that a majority of its nine lives would 
 have come to an abrupt termination. 
 
 At this stage, to console the unfortunate 
 man, the fire began to go again. Once 
 started it didn't stop. In about five minutes 
 it had burnt up what remained of pretty 
 much everything except a large pot of green 
 tea and a small portion of Mr. Meek. The 
 chop that the cat hadn't eaten was especially 
 well done. It could be quite safely left on 
 the window sill with a whole legion of cats 
 around it. Mr. Meek, however, simply left 
 it in the coal bin. In point of either color 
 or hardness it would have been difficult to 
 have found a more fitting resting place 
 for it. 
 
 Then there came over Mr. Meek's face 
 a terrible expression. He brought in a pail 
 (it was the scrubbing pail which he had 
 mistaken for the scrap pail, but no matter) 
 and poured the soup carefully into it, throw- 
 ing the pan "about five feet, into the sink; 
 next he scraped the potatoes into the same 
 pail, and again another pan followed the 
 course of the first in getting to the sink; 
 then he poured the tomatoes on top of the 
 potatoes, and still a third pan got to the 
 sink with unusual rapidity. It cannot be 
 definitely stated whether or not Mr. Meek, 
 in doing this, was actuated by the desire to 
 prepare some famous hunter's dish relished 
 in the dear old camping days gone by, but 
 
344 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 certain it is, no sooner did he get the toma- 
 toes nicely on top of the potatoes than he 
 took the whole thing and tossed it, pail and 
 all, into the outer lane. 
 
 This accomplished, he proceeded to make 
 a meal off the cold ham and some bread 
 and butter — the cooking butter, of course. 
 
 Just as he was finishing, Mrs. Meek re- 
 turned. "Why, James," she cried, cheer- 
 fully, "you never sent the cab for me and 
 I waited nearly an hour." 
 
 "No," said her husband, calmly. "I've 
 been terribly busy. Men from New York 
 — just got home a little while ago. This 
 is a very good ham — a shade overdone, 
 though, isn't it?" 
 
 "Perhaps a shade less wouldn't have 
 hurt it. Let me get you a piece of pie ?" 
 
 "No, thank you! No cold pie for me 
 when there're hot apples in the oven. I'll 
 tell you what you might do; you might 
 bring 'em in if you're not too tired." 
 
 Mrs. Meek departed on her mission. In 
 a few moments she reappeared, and, with- 
 out moving a muscle, placed the plate of 
 baked apples before her lord and master. 
 They were about the size of walnuts and 
 the color of ebony. Judging by the way 
 they rattled on the plate they were rather 
 harder than flint. 
 
 Mr. Meek rose with an awful look in 
 his eye. 
 
 "I'm afraid," observed his wife, "they're 
 like the ham — just a shade overdone." 
 
 "If ever I catch that cat," remarked Mr. 
 Meek as that sleek feline purred past him 
 with a playful frisk of his tail, "I'll break 
 every bone in its body" — only he described 
 its body with sundry adjectives that were 
 very strange to the ears of Mrs. Meek. At 
 least, so she said when she described the 
 occurrence to her bosom friend, Mrs. Mug- 
 gins, next day. 
 
 ^S tcnl t5* 
 
 OVER THE TELEPHONE. 
 
 I CONSIDER that a conversation by tele- 
 phone — when you are simply sitting by 
 and not taking any part in that conversation 
 
 is one of the solemnest curiosities of this 
 
 modern life. 
 
 Yesterday I was writing a deep article 
 on a sublime philosophical subject while 
 such a conversation was going on in the 
 next room. I notice that one can always 
 write best when somebody is talking 
 through a telephone close by. Well, the 
 thing began in this way. A member of 
 our household came in and asked me to 
 have our house put into communication 
 with Mr. Bagley's down town. I have 
 observed, in many cities, that the gentle 
 sex always shrink from calling up the Cen- 
 tral Office themselves. I don't know why, 
 
 but they do. So I rang the bell, and this 
 talk ensued: 
 
 Central office — "What-number-do-you- 
 want ?" 
 
 I.— "Main 24-68." 
 
 C. O.— "Main 2-4-6-3 ?" 
 
 I.— "No, 2-4-6-8." 
 
 Then I heard a k-look, k-look, k'look — 
 klook-klook-klook-look-look ! Then a hor- 
 rible "gritting" of teeth, and finally a pip- 
 ing voice : 
 
 "Hello?" (rising inflection). 
 
 I.— "Hello, is this Mr. Bagley's?" 
 
 "Yes, did you wish to speak to me?" 
 
 Without answering, I handed the receiver 
 to the applicant, and sat down. Then fol- 
 lowed the queerest of all things in the world 
 — a conversation with only one end to it. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 315 
 
 You hear questions asked; you don't hear 
 the answer. You hear invitations given ; 
 you hear no thanks in return. You have 
 listening pauses of dead silence, followed 
 by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable 
 exclamations of glad surprise, or sorrow or 
 dismay. You can't make head or tail out of 
 the talk, because you never hear anything 
 that the person at the other end of the wire 
 says. Well, I heard the following series of 
 remarkable observations, all from the one 
 tongue, and all shouted, — for you can't ever 
 persuade the gentle sex to speak gently into 
 a telephone : 
 
 "Hello, is that you, Daisy?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Yes. Why, how did that happen?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Oh, no, I don't think it was." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "No! Oh, no, I didn't mean that. I 
 did think of getting it, but I don't believe 
 it will stay in style, and — what? — and 
 Charlie just hates that shade of blue, any- 
 way." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "You wouldn't let him dictate to you, at 
 least before you were married?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Why, my dear, how childish ! You 
 don't suppose I'd let him afterwards, do 
 you?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "I turned it over with a back stitch on 
 the selvage edge." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Yes, I like that way, too; but I think 
 it better to baste it on with valenciennes, or 
 something of that kind. It gives such an 
 air." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Yes, you know he did pay some attention 
 to Celia." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Why, she threw herself right at his 
 head." - 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "And he told me he always admired me." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Well, he said it seemed as if he never 
 could get anybody to introduce him." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Perhaps so ; I generally use a hairpin." 
 
 "What did you say?" (Aside) "Chil- 
 dren, do be quiet !" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Oh! B flat! Dear me, I thought you 
 said it was the cat !" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Since when?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Why, I never heard of it." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "You astound me! It seems utterly im- 
 possible !" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Who did?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Goodness gracious !" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Well, what is the world coming to? 
 Was it right in church?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "And was her mother there?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Why, Daisy, I should have died of hu- 
 miliation ! What did they do ?" 
 
 Long pause. 
 
 "I can't be perfectly sure, because I 
 haven't the notes by me; but I think it 
 goes something like this : To-tolly-loll-loll- 
 lee-ly-li-i-do ! And then repeat, you know." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Yes, I think it is very sweet — and very 
 
346 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 solemn and impressive, if you get the 
 andantino and the pianissimo right." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Did he really say that?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Yes, I do care for him — what? — but 
 mind you don't tell him I don't want him 
 to know it." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Oh, not in the least — go right on. 
 Papa's here, writing, — it doesn't bother 
 him." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Very well, I'll come if I can." (Aside) 
 "Dear me, papa, how it does tire a person's 
 arm to hold this thing up so long ! I wish 
 she'd " 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Oh, no, not at all; I like to talk — but 
 I'm afraid I'm keeping you from your af- 
 fairs." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Visitors?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "No, we never use butter on them." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Yes, that is a very good way; but all 
 the cook-books say they are very unhealthy 
 when they are out of season. And papa 
 
 doesn't like them, anyway, — especially 
 canned." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Yes, I'm going to the concert with him 
 to-night." 
 
 "Engaged ? why, certainly not." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "You know, dear, you'd be the very first 
 one I'd tell." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "No, we really are not engaged." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Must you go? Well, good-bye." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Yes, I think so. Good-bye." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Four o'clock, then — I'll be ready. Can 
 Charlie meet us then?" 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Oh, that's good. Good-bye." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Thank you ever so much. Good-bye." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 "Oh, not at all ! Just as fresh — which ?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm glad to hear that. Good-bye." 
 
 (Hangs up the receiver and says: "Oh, 
 it does tire a person's arm so.") 
 
 A man delivers a single brutal "Good- 
 bye," and that is the end of it. Not so with 
 the gentle sex — I say it in their praise, they 
 cannot abide abruptness. 
 
 (,?* t5* <5* 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER'S UNIFORM. 
 
 MY papa's all dressed up to-day, 
 He never looked so fine, 
 I thought when I first looked at him, 
 My papa wasn't mine. 
 
 He's got a beautiful new suit — 
 
 The old one was so old — 
 It's blue, with buttons, O, so bright, 
 
 I guess they must be gold. 
 
 And papa's sort o' glad and sort 
 O' sad — I wonder why? 
 
 And every time she looks at him 
 It makes my mamma, cry. 
 
 Who's Uncle Sam? My papa says 
 That he belongs to him; 
 
 But papa's joking, 'cause he knows 
 My uncle's name is Jim, 
 
"WHEN - GRANDMA DANCED THE MINUET.' 
 
V'4l R 
 
 
 PflH 
 
 
 1^ W 
 
 JPvX 
 
 -*^"^>- dEW I 
 
 
 ^t. 
 
 * ■ 
 
 i 4U r V 
 
 
 ^J M 
 
 1 •J^m'O' fSm -J£ "iw. 
 
 HE^K^^^^^^^E^ i Ev 
 
 
 *^» -—"MOM 
 
 
 
 ^4L-~*^k 
 
 
 ■T 1 
 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 3A9 
 
 My papa just belongs to me 
 And mamma. And I guess 
 
 The folks are blind who cannot see 
 His buttons, marked U. S. 
 
 U. S. spells us. He's ours — and yet 
 My mamma can't help cry, 
 
 And papa tries to smile at me 
 And can't. I wonder why? 
 
 tzfr t5* ^* 
 
 THE CLOSING YEAR. 
 
 ? T* IS midnight's holy hour, — and silence 
 
 1 now 
 
 Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er 
 The still and pulseless world. Hark! on 
 
 the winds 
 The bell's deep tones are swelling, — 'tis the 
 
 knell 
 Of the departed year. No funeral train 
 Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and 
 
 wood, 
 With melancholy light, the moon-beams 
 
 rest 
 Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is 
 
 stirred 
 As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud 
 That floats so still and placidly through 
 
 heaven, 
 The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, — 
 Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's 
 
 solemn form, 
 And Winter with its aged locks, — and 
 
 breathe, 
 In mournful cadences that come abroad 
 Like the far wind-harp's wild and touch- 
 ing wail, 
 A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, 
 Gone from the Earth forever. 
 
 'Tis a time 
 For memory and for tears. Within the 
 
 deep, 
 Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, 
 Whose tones are like the wizard voice of 
 
 Time 
 Heard from the tomb of ages, points its 
 
 cold 
 
 And solemn finger to the beautiful 
 And holy visions that have passed away, 
 And left no shadow of their loveliness 
 On the dead waste of life. That spectre 
 
 lifts 
 The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, 
 And, bending mournfully above the pale, 
 Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters 
 
 dead flowers 
 O'er what has passed to nothingness. 
 
 The year 
 Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious 
 
 throng 
 Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each 
 
 brow, 
 Its shadow in each . heart. In its swift 
 
 course, 
 It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful, — 
 And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
 Upon the strong man, — and the haughty 
 
 form 
 Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 
 It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged 
 The bright and joyous, — and the tearful 
 
 wail 
 Of stricken ones, is heard where erst the 
 
 song 
 And reckless shout resounded 
 
 It passed o'er 
 The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, 
 
 and shield 
 Flashed in the light of mid-day, — and the 
 
 strength 
 Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 
 
350 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Green from the soil of carnage, waves 
 
 above 
 The crushed and moldering skeleton. It 
 
 came, 
 And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; 
 Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, 
 It heralded its millions to their home 
 In the dim land of dreams. 
 
 Remorseless Time! 
 Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — 
 
 what power 
 Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
 His iron heart to pity? On, still on, 
 He presses, and forever. The proud bird, 
 The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
 Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or 
 
 brave 
 The fury of the northern Hurricane, 
 And bathe his plumage in the thunder's 
 
 home, 
 Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and 
 
 sinks down 
 To rest upon his mountain crag, — but 
 
 Time 
 Knows not the weight of sleep or weari- 
 ness, 
 And night's deep darkness has no chain to 
 
 bind 
 His rushing pinions. 
 
 Revolutions sweep 
 O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the 
 
 breast 
 Of dreaming sorrow, — cities rise and sink 
 Like bubbles on the water, — fiery isles 
 Spring blazing from the Ocean, and go 
 
 back 
 To their mysterious caverns, — Mountains 
 
 rear 
 To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, 
 
 and bow 
 Their tall heads to the plain, — new Em- 
 pires rise, 
 Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, 
 And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, 
 Startling the nations, — and the very stars, 
 Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, 
 Glitter a while in their eternal depths, 
 And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, 
 Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass 
 
 away 
 To darkle in the trackless void, — Yet, 
 
 Time, 
 Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce 
 
 career, 
 Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
 Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his 
 
 path, 
 To sit and muse like other conquerors 
 Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 
 — George D. Prentice. 
 
A love of nature is inherent in all, and the selections in this department will be found particu- 
 larly adapted to the wishes of children, young and old, who are always 
 interested in the affairs of Mother Nature. 
 
 JJ -J* J* 
 
 EASTER FLOWERS. 
 
 M 
 
 ESSAGES of God's dear love 
 Do these flowers bear ; 
 He who with gracious hand 
 
 Gives these colors rare, 
 Will remember you and me 
 With as true a care. 
 
 So I bring love's offering 
 
 On this Easter Day, 
 Flowers fair that to each heart 
 
 Softly seem to say: 
 
 "Death no more can over you 
 Hold eternal sway." 
 
 As the tender plants escaped 
 
 From the pris'ning mold, 
 So has Christ death's bondage burst, 
 
 Death so grim and cold. 
 This I think the message true 
 
 That these blossoms hold. 
 
 — Clara J. Denton. 
 
 (5* t5* »5* 
 
 A LITTLE BOY'S "ESSAY ON KATS." 
 
 (Regardless of method, and original in spelling.) 
 
 AKAT is an animile. Ov coarse it iz. 
 Any student of Grammur nose that. 
 Sum kats don't yuze good Grammur. 
 Thare ar tu kinds ov kats, maskuline, and 
 the uther kind. Yu no what that iz. 
 Thare ar black kats, white kats, malteze 
 kats, awlso mixed culurs ov boath jenders. 
 Moast awl kan fite. Sumtimes thay get 
 beet. Usuly thay doant. Thay ar yuzed 
 for doughmestick purr-pussies, except the 
 Kat of Nign Tales. 
 
 When sircumstances are bad, kats hav 
 two liv on Ratts and Katnipp. Sum fokes 
 yews katnipp as a bevurij. Eye doant. 
 Kats have fasillytiz for mewzik. 
 
 Eye saw nign kats under mie windur 
 
 wun nite. Eye thawt thay wur the nign 
 mewses. Eye gess thay war. It sounded 
 sow. Once in a while thay wood taik a 
 rest. A rest denoats a mewzical silents. 
 Thay wur quarter-rests, I guess. Eye tried 
 to taik a rest, but Eye coodn't. Finully, 
 eye through the water-pitchur out the win- 
 dur. That had sum effekt. It broak the 
 pitchur. Eye must hav lade awaik thurtie 
 or fortie owrz, when the klok struk wun. 
 Eye hoaped it wuld skair them aweigh, 
 but it didn't. Eye through a chare at them. 
 Eye gess it hit 'em all, and kind ov en- 
 kurijed them. Thay went and browt a lot 
 ov moar kats, eye gess. Sow eye laiy in 
 bed, waiting for mornin to kum. It wuz 
 
 351 
 
352 
 
 LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 
 
 geting coled, and a happy thawt struck me. 
 Eye put down the windur. Eye awlso re- 
 tired tu a room on the opozit sighed ov the 
 hows, up stares. Finally eye saw a goast. 
 It wuz a white kat, with a black i, siting in 
 the windur. Then eye went two slepe. In 
 the morning eye got up, and what dew yew 
 sopohs eye saw ? Why, eye saw a chare and 
 
 a lot uv water-pitchur outsighed the win- 
 dur. What puzuls owr hole family iz how 
 it caim thare. Doant yew evur tell. Lizzy 
 Taylor found a kitun undur her desk the 
 uthur day. I wundur if sum teecher put it 
 thare to skair her. She didn't faint, thoh, 
 and neethur did the kitun. 
 
 t5* <5* *5* 
 
 "IF I WERE A FLOWER." 
 
 IF I were a flower, fair, 
 I would try to bloom 
 At Easter-tide, and scatter 
 Sweetest of perfume. 
 
 For on the Easter morning, 
 Night was turned to Day, 
 
 When the angels from the tomb 
 Rolled the stone away. 
 
 And now, we fear no longer 
 
 Death and all its tears, 
 We shall with the Savior live 
 
 Through the countless years. 
 
 So, if I were a flower, 
 I would for Easter grow, 
 
 And that life must conquer death, 
 Would my beauty show. 
 
 — Clara J. Denton. 
 
 £& (5* *5* 
 
 A BIRD STORY. 
 
 (For Christian Endeavor entertainment.) 
 
 FOUR little birds in a nest too small, 
 Only one mamma to care for all ; 
 'Twas twitter and chirp the livelong day, 
 No wonder the mammas soon grew gray. 
 
 Papa-bird was a dashing fellow, 
 Coat of black with a flash of yellow ; 
 Never a bird in the early spring 
 Could rival him when he chose to sing. 
 
 He helped the mamma-bird hang the nest 
 Where the winds would rock it the very 
 
 best, 
 And while she sat on her eggs all day, 
 He'd cheer her up with a roundelay. 
 
 But when from each egg in the swinging 
 
 bed, 
 A little birdie popped its head, 
 
 He said to his wife, "I've done my share 
 Of household duties; they're now your 
 care." 
 
 Then off he'd go to a concert fine 
 In the apple trees and bright sunshine, 
 Without a thought of the stupid way 
 His poor little wife must pass her day. 
 
 At last the mamma-bird fell ill, 
 And the papa was forced, against his will, 
 To take her place with the birdies small, 
 Ready to answer their chirp and call. 
 
 Sorry day for the wretched fellow, 
 Dressed so gay with a scarf of yellow ! 
 Shut in the house from morning till night, 
 Was ever a bird in such a plight? 
 
LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 
 
 353 
 
 Tie on a hood, or fasten a shoe, 
 Or mend a dolly as good as new, 
 Or tell a story over again, 
 Or kiss the finger that had a pain. 
 
 Or settle dispute of which and who, 
 Or sew on a button to baby's shoe — 
 These were a part of the calls he had 
 In that single day to drive him mad. 
 
 At even he said, "Another day 
 
 Would turn my goldenest plume to gray; 
 
 Or else, in a fit of grim despair, 
 I'd fling these children into the air !" 
 
 Have I mixed up birds with human folks? 
 And homes with nests in the lofty oaks? 
 The story is true, and I overheard 
 Those very words of the papa-bird; 
 
 But who he was, and where he did dwell, 
 I'll never, no never, no never tell ! 
 The truth for once is truth for aye, 
 And this is the reason mammas grow gray. 
 — Mrs. Maggie B. Peeke. 
 
 BOB-O'-LINK. 
 
 MERRILY swinging on brier and weed, 
 Near to the nest of his little dame, 
 Over the mountain-side or mead, 
 
 Robert of Lincoln is telling his name ; 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
 Hidden among the summer flowers, 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, 
 
 Wearing a bright black wedding coat; 
 White are his shoulders and white his crest, 
 Hear him call in his merry note ; 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink, 
 Look what a nice new coat is mine, 
 Sure there was never a bird so fine, 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 
 
 Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
 Passing at home a patient life, 
 
 Broods in the grass while her husband 
 sings, 
 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 
 Thieves and robbers, while I am here. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Modest and shy as a nun is she, 
 
 One weak chirp is her only note, 
 Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
 Pouring boasts from his little throat ; 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 Never was I afraid of man; 
 Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 
 
 Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! 
 There as the mother sits all day, 
 
 Robert is singing with all his might ; 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
 Keeping house while I frolic about. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Soon as the little ones chip the shell 
 Six wide mouths are open for food ; 
 Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
 Gathering seed for the hungry brood 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 This new life is likely to be 
 Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
354 
 
 LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln at last is made 
 
 Sober with work and silent with care 
 Off is his holiday garment laid, 
 Half forgotten, that merry air, 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 Nobody knows but my mate and I 
 Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Summer wanes; the children are grown; 
 
 Fun and frolic no more he knows ; 
 Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; 
 Off he flies, and we sing as he goes ; 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
 Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 — William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 tS* t5* &3* 
 
 FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 A 
 
 LOVELY little flow'ret 
 
 Blooms on our meadow green ; 
 Its eye, just like the heaven, 
 So blue and clear, is seen. 
 Although you hear no voices 
 
 In that far lonely spot, 
 The flower is something saying: 
 It says, "Forget me not !" 
 
 So, when I see two dear eyes 
 
 So shining and so blue, 
 I think of our green meadow 
 
 And of my flow'ret too. 
 My heart then something sayeth- 
 
 Oh, can you tell me what? 
 All timidly and softly 
 
 It says, "Forget me not !" 
 
 ^w ^» ^* 
 
 A SERMON IN FLOWERS. 
 
 JUST beyond this field of clover, in a 
 pasture rough and rocky, 
 Where the golden-rod and thistles and the 
 trailing woodbine grow, 
 There, one day, I heard this sermon, most 
 pathetically simple, 
 Yet so fraught with truth and wisdom 
 that it set my heart aglow : 
 
 "I am just a little flower, — just the plainest, 
 wildest flower, 
 Growing here upon a rock, with very lit- 
 tle soil or shade; 
 I am stunted, pale and crooked, — quite un- 
 like my brothers yonder, 
 With their tall, green stalks and yellow 
 plumes that never droop nor fade. 
 
 "But I care not; He who planted knew just 
 how much soil and sunshine, 
 How much rain and wind were needful to 
 unfold the flower He planted, 
 So He gave them, and I grew, to tell my 
 story with its lesson ; 
 What am I, that I should murmur at His 
 wise and just command? 
 
 "Quite enough for me to know that I am 
 just as He designed me ; 
 So I never lose my joy in sighs for what 
 I might have been; 
 God looks down in love and mercy — I look 
 up in perfect trusting, 
 And I love the earth and air, the pain as 
 well as joy therein." 
 
LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 
 
 355 
 
 Man may sing a song most sweetly, which 
 his inmost soul despises ; 
 He may preach a sermon boldly, which 
 his heart has never known ; 
 All have sinned — and this sad knowledge 
 makes us loth to look for guidance 
 To ourselves or to our brothers — and we 
 cannot walk alone. 
 
 But a bird can thrill a message, or a 
 thunder-burst proclaim it, 
 Far beyond the faintest shade of doubt, 
 with meaning, full and broad ; 
 And the modest little wild flowers, though 
 we crush them with our footsteps, 
 Bruised and dying, preach their sermon, 
 and we know it comes from God. 
 — Addie F. Davis. 
 
 t2& t&& ta& 
 
 AN APRIL WELCOME. 
 
 COME up, April, through the valley, 
 In your robes of beauty drest, 
 Come and wake your flowery children 
 
 From their wintry beds of rest ; 
 Come and overthrow them softly 
 
 With the sweet breath of the south ; 
 Drop upon them, warm and loving, 
 Tenderest kisses of your mouth. 
 
 Call the crowfoot and the crocus, 
 
 Call the pale anemone, 
 Call the violet and the daisy, 
 
 Clothed with careful modesty; 
 
 Seek the low and humble blossoms, 
 
 Of their beauties unaware, 
 Let the dandelion and fennel 
 
 Show their shining, yellow hair. 
 
 Bid the little homely sparrows 
 
 Chirping in the cold and rain, 
 Their important sweet complaining 
 
 Sing out from their hearts again ; 
 Bid them set themselves to nesting, 
 
 Cooing love in softest words, 
 Crowd their nest, all cold and empty, 
 
 Full of little callow birds. 
 
 — Phebe Cary. 
 
 %3™ <&* t&* 
 
 MORN ON THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 THERE is beauty in this world of ours 
 for him with eyes to see, 
 There are beauty smiles at harvest on the 
 
 prairies broad and free, 
 There is beauty in the forest, there is beauty 
 
 on the hills, 
 There is beauty in the mottled light that 
 
 gleams along the rills, 
 And a beauty out of heaven over all the 
 
 landscape spills 
 When the sun shines on the mountains in 
 
 the morning. 
 
 There is beauty where the ocean rolls ma- 
 jestic on the shore, 
 
 There is beauty in the moonlight as it 
 gleams the waters o'er, 
 
 There is beauty in the sunrise where the 
 clouds blush rosy red, 
 
 There is beauty in the sunset with its ban- 
 ners flung o'erhead, 
 
 And a beauty past expression o'er the 
 snowy peaks is shed 
 
 When the sun shines on the mountains in 
 the morning. 
 
 There is beauty when the green returns and 
 glistens in the showers, 
 
 There is beauty in the summer, as she gar- 
 lands earth with flowers, 
 
356 
 
 LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 
 
 There is beauty in the autumn, with the 
 mellow afterglow, 
 
 There is beauty in the winter, with this dia- 
 dem of snow, 
 
 But a beauty more enchanting than the sea- 
 sons ever know 
 
 Gilds the sunshine on the mountains in the 
 morning. 
 
 There is beauty in the rainbow as it gleams 
 
 above the storm, 
 There is beauty in the sculptor's vision 
 
 frozen into form, 
 There is beauty in the prophet's dream and 
 
 in the poet's thought, 
 There is beauty in the artist's rapture on the 
 
 canvas wrought, 
 
 But a beauty more divine than art can ever 
 
 tell is caught 
 From the sunshine on the mountains in the 
 
 morning. 
 
 Oh, the sunshine on the mountains ! How a 
 
 golden web is spun 
 O'er the topmost peaks that glisten from the 
 
 yet unrisen sun. 
 With their bases yet in shadow, but their 
 
 faces glowing bright, 
 With their foreheads turned to heaven and 
 
 their locks so snowy white, 
 They are high priests of the sunrise, they 
 
 are prophets of the light, 
 With the sunshine smiling o'er them in the 
 
 morning. 
 J* 
 
 A STRING OF BIRDS' EGGS. 
 
 (A short sermon 
 
 WHO knows Hebrew? Who knows 
 Greek? 
 Who the tongue the birdies speak? 
 Here's a set of meanings hid 
 As records on a pryamid. 
 What is meant by all these freckles, 
 Bluish blotches, brownish speckles? 
 
 These are words, in cipher printed, 
 On each egg-shell faintly tinted; 
 Changeless laws the birds must heed, 
 What if I should try to read ? 
 
 On the Oriole's, scratched and scarred, 
 
 This to trace I find not hard : 
 
 "Breasted bright as trumpet flower; 
 
 Builder of a swinging bower, 
 
 Airest dwelling ever seen 
 
 In the elm-trees' branches green; 
 
 Careless caroler shall be 
 
 The little bird that sleeps in me." 
 
 On the Blue Jay's greenish gray, 
 Dottings fine would seem to say : 
 
 on ornithology.) 
 
 "Chattering braggart, crested thief, 
 Jester to the woods in chief, 
 Dandy gay in brilliant blue, 
 Cruel glutton, coward, too, 
 Screaming, gleaming rogue shall be 
 The little bird that sleeps in me !" 
 
 On Bob Lincoln's browny-white 
 This is writ, if I read right : 
 "Gallant lover in the clover, 
 With his gladness bubbling over; 
 Waltzes warbling liquid notes, — 
 Yes, and one that hath two coats ! 
 Nimble, neat, and blithe shall be 
 The little bird that sleeps in me !" 
 
 On the King-bird's creamy-hued 
 Runs this legend : "Sulky, nude, 
 Tiny tyrant, winged with black, 
 Big of head and gray of back, 
 Teaser of the hawk and crow, 
 And of flies the deadly foe, — 
 Short and sharp of note shall be 
 The little bird that sleeps in me." 
 
LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 
 
 357 
 
 On the Mockbird's bluish green, 
 In spot and blot these words are seen: 
 "Prince of singers, sober clad, 
 Wildly merry, wildly sad, 
 
 Mocking all the feathered throng, 
 Bittering still each bird's own song,- 
 Madcap mocker he shall be, 
 The little bird that sleeps in me !" 
 
 ^* t5* t5& 
 
 HOPPER AND BEE. 
 
 A GRASSHOPPER met a bumblebee 
 In a field of sweet red clover. 
 "Oh, why this flurry and haste ?" cried he ; 
 "I've brought my fiddle along with me. 
 Let's dance till the summer's over!" 
 
 "I'm gathering stores for the winter time," 
 The bee cried over his shoulder. 
 
 "I like your fiddling, it is sublime ; 
 
 But, living here in this changeable clime, 
 I must think of days that are colder." 
 
 The grasshopper laughed in a mocking way, 
 
 As gayly he flourished his fiddle ; 
 A troop of butterflies, merry and gay, 
 Danced in a ring through the livelong day, 
 While the grasshopper stood in the mid- 
 dle. 
 
 The bumblebee, too, was fond of a dance, 
 
 And the day was hot for working, 
 But he never gave them a second glance 
 And hastened away (if near them by 
 chance), 
 For he knew the danger of shirking ! 
 
 He gathered his stores through the sunny 
 hours 
 
 And felt that his pleasures were coming ; 
 He felt that soon there would be no flowers, 
 He knew that in winter the cold sky lowers, 
 
 And he kept up a cheerful humming. 
 
 The cold winds came, and the days grew 
 dark, 
 
 And frozen were flower and berry ; 
 The fiddler and dancers lay stiff and stark 
 In lonely graves, with never a mark, 
 
 But the wise little bee made merry. 
 
358 
 
 LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 
 
 DAISIES. 
 
 OVER the shoulders and slopes of the 
 dune 
 I saw the white daisies go down to the 
 sea, 
 A host in the sunshine, an army in June, 
 The people God sends us to set our 
 hearts free. 
 
 The bobolinks rallied them up from the 
 dell, 
 The orioles whistled them out of the 
 wood: 
 And all of their singing was, "Earth, it 
 is well!" 
 And all of their dancing was, "Life, thou 
 
 art good!" 
 
 
 ONE DAY. 
 
 OCOME, sweet wind of the South, 
 In the arms of awakening spring ; 
 You have kissed the violet's mouth, 
 Ere she hid it, the sly little thing ; 
 You have kissed the blossoming violet's 
 mouth. 
 And her perfume kisses bring. 
 
 Oh, gay little dancing stream, 
 
 Whose waves with the sunbeams play; 
 From the land of a beautiful fairy's dream, 
 
 Did your silvery music stray — 
 From the land of a fairy's dream 
 To float to the earth and stay? 
 
 O, white clouds floating on high, 
 Far up in the heavenly blue — 
 
 The joyous blue of the sky, 
 
 The blossoming spring's own hue, 
 
 Bend tenderly out of the sweet blue sky, 
 For the flowers are calling you. 
 
 SEE the meadows white with daisies, 
 Hear the Bob o'Lincoln's song, 
 While he passes through the grasses, 
 While he sings the whole day long. 
 Daisies, daisies, daisies white, 
 Meadows white with daisies ; 
 Bob o', Bob o,' Bob o' bright, 
 Singing sweet June's praises. 
 
 A DAY IN JUNE. 
 
 See the meadows white with clover, 
 Hear our robin redbreast's song. 
 While he flashes through the ashes, 
 While he sings the boughs among. 
 
 Clover, clover, clover white, 
 
 Meadows white with clover; 
 
 Robin, robin, now it's night, 
 
 Day of June is over. 
 
 (,5* %2^ *&** 
 
 SONG OF THE GRASS BLADES. 
 
 PEEPING, peeping, here and there, 
 In lawns and meadows everywhere, 
 Coming up to find the spring 
 And hear the robin redbreast sing ; 
 Creeping under children's feet, 
 
 Glancing at the violets sweet ; 
 Growing into tiny bowers, 
 For the dainty meadow flowers : 
 We are small, but think a minute 
 Of a world with no grass in it. 
 
< 
 
 Clever Monologues 
 
 > 
 
 The selections in this department give the speaker unusual opportunities for a display of 
 elocutionary, vocal and dramatic powers. 
 
 SYLVY HOOK ON CLUBS AND SOCIETIES. 
 
 Scene. — An ordinary room; Sylvy discov- 
 ered sewing; knock at door; she opens it, 
 and addresses her supposed visitor; this 
 continues throughout the recitation, 
 which can be acted in full, or the move- 
 ments only assumed, as best suits the 
 speaker. 
 
 WHY, how do you do, Mis' Wise? 
 Come right in and set down. It's 
 a miser'ble day to be out, aint it? The 
 wind is real searchin' an' it aint let up 
 rainin' sense mornin'. Here, let me take 
 your umbrella and put it in the sink to drain. 
 
 You aint very zvell? Well, I thought you 
 looked kinder pindlin'. What's the mat- 
 ter? Haint been workin' too hard, have 
 you ? Oh, want to know ! been tryin' to im- 
 prove your mind by follerin' up lit'rary pur- 
 suits, eh ? Land knows I pity you, for that 
 does take hold of a body. 
 
 No, no, thank you, Mis' Wise, but nothin' 
 would indooce me to jine any society, new 
 or old, I aint tuff enough. What say? 
 You b'long to 'leven diffrunt ones? Well, 
 I don't wonder you've lost flesh! No, I 
 prob'ly shall never b'long to another so- 
 ciety, as long as I live ! I've jest resigned 
 from the only one I ever did b'long to. 
 
 Unpin your shawl and take your bunnit 
 off. You might as well spend the after- 
 noon, now that you're here. 
 
 It's real kind of you to want me to jine 
 your new society, but, as I said before, I 
 couldn't, nohow. What makes me so bitter 
 agin 'em? Why, don't you know the ex- 
 perience I've been through, this winter? 
 
 No? Well, I thought the hull town knew 
 it; for I expect I acted kinder hasty. It 
 runs in our family not to stand too much 
 naggin', 'specially on mother's side. I 
 shouldn't wonder if I took my disposition 
 from Aunt Silvy. She was kinder touchy, 
 when she thought she was bein' put on, and 
 I — but, land sake, what's the use of resur- 
 rectin' the dead, an' pickin' 'em to pieces. I 
 started in to tell you what made me appear 
 so sorter crabbed like 'bout clubs an' socie- 
 ties. 
 
 Well, one day, early in the fall, Mis' 
 Meachem came over and told me what a 
 good time they was a-havin' at a new secret 
 society that had jest been started, and how 
 she was President of it, and she said they 
 was improvin' their minds awful fast, be- 
 sides bein' pledged to stan' by each other 
 through thick an' thin. They had grand 
 good suppers and, once in two weeks, they 
 had entertainments, where they sung, spoke 
 pieces and had a real sociable, helpful time. 
 
 She run on so that I got real carried 
 away about it and asked her to take in my 
 name. I didn't know but what I should be 
 black-balled, for Loizy Lang never could 
 abide me sence I took the prize on riz bread, 
 at the fair, two years ago. Howsumever, 
 there wasn't a vote agin me, an' a few 
 weeks later, I was 'nitiated. I aint the one 
 as would tell secrets, if I did get mad, so I 
 aint goin' to say anythin' about the ins an' 
 outs of that society, only this much I am 
 free to say: They promise as solemn as 
 anythin' can be, to be like sisters to one 
 
 359 
 
360 
 
 CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 
 
 'nother, an' not say or do nothin' that would 
 wilfully hurt one 'nother's feelin's. 
 
 I'd been to several suppers, an' each time 
 they all said I carried the best cake, an' I 
 stayed an' washed the dishes every time I 
 went. 
 
 Well, one Monday, Charity Dean came 
 over an' said as how I was to be on the 
 program for next lit'rary meetin'. "Land 
 sake!" said I, "I can't sing, nor play the 
 pianner, or do nothin'. You must count 
 me out." "We won't do nothin' of the sort. 
 You kin speak a piece," says she. "Speak 
 a piece!" says I, "why I aint done sech a 
 thing as that sence I was knee high to a 
 toad." Then she said somethin' 'bout 
 shirkin', an' how that we was all sisters an' 
 well-disposed to one 'nother, an' finally I 
 consented to do my best. 
 
 I found an old scrap-book up in the attic 
 an' I picked out a piece of po'try that 
 sounded ruther elevatin', an' I tell you, Mis' 
 Wise, I worked like a nailer, for the next 
 fortnit. I'd ruther a-weeded the onion bed 
 (an' that's back-achin' work) a dozen times 
 than larnt that piece ; but I got it, word for 
 word. Then I took my old gray alapaca 
 and colored it blue. It looked real stylish, 
 'specially the bask. 
 
 Well ! when the evenin' came, I was on 
 hand as early as any of 'em. Malviny Sweet 
 sang a touchin' little song, and Mis' Salter's 
 oldest girl played a piece on the fiddle. 
 Funny thing for a girl to learn, aint it? I 
 suppose it was good, for they cheered her 
 back twice. I couldn't make out no tune to 
 it, and three or four times I thought she 
 was goin' to break down, for her hand 
 shook so. 
 
 Then they called on me, an' I picked up 
 my book an' started down the hall, deter- 
 mined to try an' please 'em; but I hadn't 
 got half way to the platform before I heard 
 some one say: "Ain't she a show!" I 
 
 dropped my handkerchief, an' when I 
 stooped to pick it up, Sally Rines said I 
 "waddled like a duck," an' Mis' Meachem, 
 who asked me to jine, said to Mis' Kindly, 
 loud enough for me to hear, that she didn't 
 think I would be willin' to make such a 
 fool of myself! Well, my face was as red 
 as fire by the time I took the stand, an' I 
 never was madder in my life, but I was 
 bound to speak that piece or perish in the 
 attempt ! 
 
 I started in an' spoke every verse. It was 
 a solemn kind of piece, about a boy who was 
 burned up on a ship ruther than leave the 
 spot where his father had told him to stay. 
 Nothin' very funny about that; but that 
 crowd giggled an' laffed as if I was a hull 
 minstrel show, makin' jokes for 'em. 
 After I got through, they cheered an' 
 stamped like mad. I didn't leave the plat- 
 form, so they thought I was goin' to speak 
 agin, so they quieted down, an' I says: 
 "Mis' President an' members of this society, 
 I'd like to say a few words that aint printed 
 in no book, so I didn't learn 'em. I bleeve 
 there is somethin' in your by-laws that 
 charges every sister to be true to one 
 'nother, an' if any one fails in her duty an' 
 wilfully injures the feelin's of a feller sis- 
 ter, a forfeit can be imposed on to her by the 
 said injured party. I've lived up to them 
 rules sence I jined this society, an' I aint 
 got very rich out of it neither. To be sure 
 I've had some good suppers, but I could 
 have cooked jest as good an' et 'em to home. 
 When I promised to speak a piece to-night 
 it wasn't for glory or money, but because 
 I wouldn't shirk my dooty. I heard Sister 
 
 B talk about my dress, an' Sister R 
 
 doesn't like the way I walk, while Sister 
 M hates to see me make a fool of my- 
 self. Now, accordin' to your statoots, I de- 
 mand that them sisters get up on this plat- 
 form an' entertain me. Let me see if they 
 
CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 
 
 361 
 
 can do any better than I've done. I s'pose 
 
 Sister B has forgot the time when we 
 
 was gals, an' she borrowed my red cash- 
 mere dress to wear to a dance at Gill's Cor- 
 ner. People are apt to forgit, as they git on 
 in years; an' I presume I didn't waddle 
 
 when Sister R asked me to run for a 
 
 doctor, the night her Johnnie had the croup ; 
 but we'll let these things pass; only, to be 
 fair an' square an' to live up to them by- 
 laws, Mis' President, I demand that those 
 sisters speak me a piece." 
 
 You don't bleeve I said it? Well, I did, 
 as true as my name is Sylvy Hook ! an' the 
 
 president had to ask 'em to do as I said, 
 but, of course, they wouldn't do it ; jest got 
 mad an' resigned. I did, too, so you see the 
 society aint as big as 'twas, but perhaps it'll 
 set 'em to thinkin' that by-laws is by-laws, 
 an' we're all human critters an' don't enjoy 
 bein' tromped on. 
 
 But, land sake ! it's five o'clock an' I want 
 to make some cream biscuits for supper. I 
 know you like 'em, so, if you'll jest excuse 
 me, I'll step out into the kitchen an' get 
 'em into the oven. Make yourself to home 
 now an' I'll be back in a few minutes. 
 
 — Belle Marshall Locke. 
 
 %£& t2& *£& 
 
 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 GOOD-MORNING, Doctor; how do 
 you do? I hain't quite so well as I 
 have been ; but I think I'm some better than 
 I was. I don't think that last medicine you 
 gin me did me much good. I had a terrible 
 time with the earache last night; my wife 
 got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap 
 into it, and that relieved it some; but I 
 didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly day- 
 light. For nearly a week, Doctor, I've had 
 the worst kind of a narvous headache; it 
 has been so bad sometimes that I thought 
 my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I 
 sometimes think that I'm the most afflicted- 
 est human that ever lived. 
 
 Since this cold weather sot in that 
 troublesome cough, that I have had every 
 winter for the last fifteen year, has began 
 to pester me agin. (Coughs.) Doctor, do 
 you think you can give me anything that 
 will relieve this desprit pain I have in my 
 side? 
 
 Then I have a crick at times in the back 
 of my neck, so that I can't turn my head 
 without turning the hull of my body. 
 (Coughs.) 
 
 Oh, dear! What shall I do? I have 
 consulted almost every doctor in the coun- 
 try, but they don't any of them seem to un- 
 derstand my case. I have tried everything 
 that I could think of; but I can't find any- 
 thing that does me the leastest good. 
 ( Coughs. ) 
 
 Oh, this cough — it will be the death of 
 me yet! You know I had my right hip 
 put out last fall at the rising of Deacon 
 Jones' saw-mill ; ' it's getting to be very 
 troublesome just before we have a change 
 of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in 
 my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crip- 
 pled up that I can hardly crawl around in 
 any fashion. 
 
 What do you think that old white mare 
 of ours did while I was out plowing last 
 week? Why, the weacked old critter, she 
 kept a backing and backing, ontil she 
 backed me right up agin the colter, and 
 knock'd a piece of skin off my shin nearly 
 so big. (Coughs.) 
 
 But I had a worse misfortune than that 
 the other day, Doctor. You see it was 
 washing-day — and my wife wanted me to 
 
362 
 
 CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 
 
 go out and bring in a little stove-wood — you 
 know we lost our help lately, and my wife 
 has to wash and tend to everything about 
 the house herself. 
 
 I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go 
 out — as it was a-raining at the time — but I 
 thought I'd risk it, anyhow. So I went 
 out, picked up a few chunks of stove-wood, 
 and was a-coming up the steps into the 
 house when my feet slipped from under me 
 and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been 
 
 shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, 
 broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my 
 upper lip and knocked out three of my front 
 teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of 
 it, as you may suppose, and my face ain't 
 well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, 
 'specially by the women folks. (Coughs.) 
 Oh, dear ! but that ain't all, Doctor ; I've got 
 fifteen corns on my toes — and I'm afeard 
 I'm a-going to have the "yeller janders." 
 ( Coughs. ) Dr. Valentine. 
 
 t£rl to* *£rl 
 
 RHOOMATIZ OR SUTHIN' 
 
 (A monologue.) 
 
 ELSE. 
 
 UGH! ugh— oh! 
 If I only could 
 Make this old leg go ! 
 What 't tiz — 
 Rhoomatiz, 
 Er suthin' else, — 
 Doctors now, they dun know ; 
 There, / do b'lieve 
 This ol' leg can go! 
 
 Now, ef Sally Ann 
 Sh'd stay 'way 
 Long nuf, 
 
 B'lieve I'd try, an' try. 
 All day. 
 
 There, 
 
 That aint so bad ! 
 ( Scat ! Sca-at ! 
 Con-found that cat 
 Hangin' roun' ! 
 Guess I'm narvus.) 
 H*uh — what's that soun'? 
 P'r'aps I'd best be settlin' down, 
 For — what if Sally Ann should 
 Come back 
 
 Suddin-like, an' see me 
 Gallavantin' roun', 
 An' sh'u'd say: 
 
 "Tim'thy Smith, 
 
 Ef you can walk 
 
 I guess you could 
 
 Chop wood!" 
 
 That way — 
 
 Tho' 'taint her way; 
 
 But — then — this here stitch 
 
 I' my side, 
 
 An' this pain — un hitch 
 
 In my back ! 
 
 Kin straighten up more'n I thought, tho' ! 
 
 So-o-o ! 
 
 Why e-e ? 
 
 Why, wouldn't it be a joke on me 
 
 Ef Sally Ann's right when 
 
 She laughs an' sez 
 
 That "a man's twict as like to set, 
 
 An' set, an' set, 
 
 Ez a hen " 
 
 She jes' said 't fur fun, tho'; 
 
 Talkin' o' some one else — not me! 
 
 She aint that kind — no-o ! 
 
 Huh, ho, oh — 
 
 There 'tis ag'in, 
 
 That pain ! 
 
 What? Come in! 
 Thought I heerd suthin', — 
 
CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 
 
 363 
 
 Nothin' but the win*,— 
 
 Guess it's blowin' up a rain! 
 
 Hope now Sally Ann won't git wet, 
 
 Er fret 
 
 Fur fear her ol', 
 
 Good-fur-nothin' man 
 
 'LI ketch col'— 
 
 Jes' like Sally Ann ! 
 
 Ye-es, jes' — like — Sally Ann! 
 
 'N mebby I haint bin 
 
 Won'er she don't git turb'l tired out 
 Workin' 
 
 Year out an' year in ! 
 Yes, an' gittin' thin, 
 An' peaked like. 
 
 This time 'tis some 'n drivin up, — 
 Brown ! Comin' here — 
 Hitchin' his horse? 
 Kinder queer ; he '11 think this queer, 
 Me standin' here, — 
 But I swan I don' keer 
 What he thinks or knows ! 
 Jes' — su'pose 
 (I'm puttin' it to m'self) 
 / had gi'n up too easy like! 
 Mebby the idee 
 Wouldn't strike er shock 
 Some folks as 'twould me! 
 Hum — well, — 
 
 Come in ! Don' wait t' knock ! 
 Ye-es, I'm up — tryin' my stren'th ; 
 Hope I'm feelin' pretty strong — cause- 
 Cause what? 
 
 You say "I'd be a poor lot 
 Without Sally Ann?" 
 Brown ! Man 
 
 Don't tell me! Where's m' hat? 
 Don' tell me — that — that — 
 Or I'll knock y' down. 
 
 Laughin' ? You "hed to"— the idee 
 Uv me 
 
 Knockin' uv you er enny one down ? 
 I wuz — never min' — what o' that — 
 
 I mean what o' her, Brown ? 
 
 Jes' "hurt— some?" 
 
 An' y'r wife thought seein' I wuz lame 
 
 Y'd better? So you come 
 
 T' carry me to Sally Ann ? 
 
 Thank — you — 
 
 We can go quicker that way. 
 
 But — SAY 
 
 Brown, ef Sally Ann once gits back here 
 
 She'll set, not me, in that there cheer 
 
 From then till nex' year ! 
 
 Y'r laughin' agin? 
 
 Aint hurt as bad's that? 
 
 That's good — good! 
 
 But I be Brown ! 
 
 To think I've sot there 
 
 An' let her split kin'lin wood, 
 
 An' do the chores, 
 
 When mabby I could — 
 
 I don' knozv's I could ; 
 
 But mebby 'f I'd thought I could, 
 
 / could — better'n she could! 
 
 Yes, yes ! Kind o' you to say 
 
 "Never min' that t' day"— 
 
 But / do, Brown! 
 
 Sho — oh — oh/ (bracing himself) 
 
 Never min' my leg — 
 
 Le's go ! le's go ! 
 
 A FORTNIGHT LATER. 
 
 Don' this seem good 
 
 To be back hum? 
 
 I vum, 
 
 It seems some like livin' ag'in 
 
 To see you, Sally Ann, here, 
 
 In that ol' cheer ! 
 
 O' course, Brown's folks can't be beat 
 
 Fer hospitality ! 
 
 Thet wife o' hisen's jist ez neat 
 
 'S you be ! 
 
 An' as pleasant-like tew ! 
 
 Don't al'ys go together, — 
 
 Mos' al'ys squally weather, 
 
364 
 
 CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 
 
 Ha, ha, where y' can almost eat 
 Off'n the floor!" 
 
 There, I mustn't talk any more 
 
 Jes' now; 
 
 You go on tellin' me how 
 
 To make bread; 
 
 When all's said 
 
 I orto know how ; 
 
 Watchin' of you do an' do, 
 
 I've sed to m'se'f 
 
 A hundred an' fifty times, I guess : 
 
 "Look there ! 
 
 Who'd think that sticky lot 
 
 O' water an' the rest, 
 
 She'd turn into the best 
 
 Bread ever any one see!" 
 
 Law me, 
 
 You'r laughin' at me 
 
 Jest as you did, — 
 
 D' you remember when, Sally Ann? 
 
 Wan't them apple trees pink that spring ? 
 
 An' how them birds did sing ! 
 
 An' how I watched from under that tree 
 
 Fur t' see 
 
 How that rich feller looked when he 
 
 Rode away 
 
 From your house that day. 
 
 Looked ? Well, I guess ! 
 
 He didn't see me, — 
 
 Nor nothin' ! 
 
 But I see him 
 
 From back o' a limb 
 
 Full o' flowers; 
 
 An' how them birds did sing — 
 
 Like — like anything! 
 
 He didn't notice 'em, — 
 
 They sung for me! 
 
 Them wuz happy hours, 
 
 Wa'n't they, Sally Ann ! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 There, she's laughin' agi'n, — 
 She's goin' to git well, I know. 
 Where's the water an' the flour — _ . 
 An', an' — the dish an' th' spoon — 
 B'lieve / could jump over the moon, 
 
 [Slaps his leg and attempts to jump. 
 Fur, rhoomatiz or whatever 'tiz, 
 This ol' leg can go! 
 
 — E. S. Stillwell. 
 
 i2rl t2^ <5* 
 
 AUNTY DOLEFUL CHEERS THE SICK. 
 
 HOW do you do, Cornelia? I heard 
 you were sick, and I stopped in to 
 cheer you up a little. My friends often 
 say : "It's such a comfort to see you, Aunty 
 Doleful. You have such a flow of conver- 
 sation and are so lively." Besides, I said 
 to myself as I came up the stairs : "Perhaps 
 this is the last time I'll ever see Cornelia 
 Jane alive." 
 
 You don't mean to die yet, eh? Well, 
 now, how do you know? You can't tell. 
 You think you're gettin' better, but there 
 was poor Mrs. Jones sitting up, and every 
 one saying how smart she was, and all of 
 
 a sudden she was taken with spasms in the 
 heart and went off like a flash. But you 
 must be careful and not get excited. Keep 
 quite calm, and don't fret about anything. 
 Of course, things can't go just as if you 
 was down-stairs ; and I wondered whether 
 you knew your little Billy was sailing about 
 in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your 
 little Sammy was letting your little Jimmy 
 adown from the veranda roof in a clothes 
 basket. 
 
 Goodness ! What's the matter ? I guess 
 Providence '11 take care of. 'em ; don't look 
 so. You thought Bridget was watchin' 
 
CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 
 
 365 
 
 them ? No ; I saw her talking to a man at 
 the gate. He looks to me like a burglar. 
 There was a family at Knob Hill last week 
 all killed for fifty dollars. Yes, indeed. 
 Now, don't fidget so ; it will be bad for the 
 baby. 
 
 Poor little dear! How sing'lar it is, to 
 be sure, that you can't tell whether a child 
 is blind, or deaf and dumb, or a cripple, at 
 that age. It might be all and you'd never 
 know it. Most of them that have their 
 senses make bad use of them, though ; that 
 ought to be your comfort, if it does turn 
 out to have anything dreadful the matter 
 with it. 
 
 How is Mr. Knobble? Well, but finds 
 it warm in town, eh ? Well, I should think 
 he would. They are dropping down by 
 hundreds there from sunstroke. You must 
 prepare your mind for anything. Then, a 
 trip on these railroad trains is just a-riskin' 
 
 your life every time you take one. Back 
 and forth as he is, it's just a-triflin' with 
 danger. Don't forget now, Cornelia, that 
 the doctor said you must keep calm. 
 
 Dear! dear! now to think what dreadful 
 things hang over us all the time ! Oh, 
 dear! Scarlet fever has broken out in the 
 village, Cornelia. Little Isaac Porter has 
 it, and I saw your Jimmy playing with him 
 last Saturday. 
 
 Well, I must be going now. I've got an- 
 other sick friend, and I shan't think my 
 duty done unless I cheer her up a little be- 
 fore I sleep. Good-bye. How pale you 
 lpok, Cornelia. I don't believe you have a 
 good doctor. Do send him away and get 
 somebody else. You don't look as well as 
 you did when I came in. 
 
 If anything happens send for me at once. 
 If I can't do anything else I can cheer you 
 up a little. 
 
 — Mary Kyle Dallas. 
 
 t5* *£• *5* 
 
 THE MASQUERADE. 
 
 (A dramatic monologue; to be given either as 
 conditions, or in full court costume, with 
 
 I FEEL like quite a gay young sport again 
 In this costume of which I was so vain ! 
 It fits to-night very snug in places ; 
 Ah, well, time changes both our forms and 
 faces. , 
 
 This is my first masquerade ball since — 
 Why will that one face come before me, 
 Flitting out and in among the throng 
 Like a will-o'-the-wisp ? 
 I was a gay young coxcomb then ; how 
 Years leave their gray shadow on one's 
 
 brow ! 
 Then I filled life's gleaming crystal glass 
 With pleasure, letting some golden chances 
 
 pass. 
 Butterflies and moths — disregarding sex — 
 
 an impersonation by suggesting the various 
 stage-setting and suitable properties.) 
 
 Will seek the flowers where radiance re- 
 flects. 
 
 When first I stood before my mirror and 
 this 
 
 Coat was new, with what fastidious ac- 
 curacy 
 
 I set my wig aright. 
 
 Each wave and puff must stand in certain 
 place, 
 
 To lend seductive charm to youthful face. 
 
 The lace that clung in snowy whiteness then 
 around my hands 
 
 Has yellowed with Time's passing sands. 
 
 Ha, Ha, I'll never forget Bronson that 
 night ; he was my guest ; 
 
 /\ 
 
366 
 
 CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 
 
 The costume that he wore, — that of a cow- 
 boy from the West. 
 
 He looked the part, and he used to blush 
 and start 
 
 At sound of certain steps outside the door ; 
 
 Blushed, but I could judge from nothing 
 more. 
 
 When ready, I in courtly guise, 
 He with a daring flash within his eyes, 
 Proposed I should teach him the new step 
 We were to dance that night in the minuet. 
 
 With what a lordly, overweening grace 
 I set for him the proper pace (imitating). 
 Just in the midst of outward glide, 
 My chamber door flung open wide, 
 Where, laughing fit to kill, 
 Stood my old black servant, Dill. 
 
 "Well done, Massa Don, 
 
 Youse'll win de prize if yo' keep on ! 
 
 Pomp said, 'tell young massa de carriage 
 wait, 
 
 And it am growin' berry late.' ' 
 
 "How do you like me, Dill ?" I cried, 
 
 (From boyhood I had been her pride.) 
 
 "Oh, Massa Don, you look — 
 
 Ho, ho ! jes' like a picture from a book. 
 
 Sho, honey, 'twould not poor old Dill sur- 
 prise, 
 
 If some young missy link likewise." 
 
 Then Bronson threw his cloak around his 
 form, 
 
 And I my mantle rich and warm — 
 
 Where has Tom put those roses (search- 
 ing) ? 
 
 She, too, was fond of crimson posies. 
 
 To-night I'll carry them in memory 
 
 Of when she was more than all the world 
 to me. 
 
 Bah ! Why do all these misty velvets and 
 laces 
 
 Remind me so of long gone faces ? 
 
 My hat (looking about), — ah, here it. is, — 
 A trifle worn and wrinkled like my phiz. 
 Gad ! I don't walk with quite the stride 
 I used to in those my days of pride. 
 
 The thoughts of music and the flowers 
 Turn back the pages of the hours. 
 There, a buckle's missing from my shoe ; 
 Tom doesn't watch things like he used to 
 do. 
 
 Nay; that reminds me. 'Twas midnight, — 
 Almost the hour to lift the masks, not quite. 
 We had flirted, chatted, danced, 
 Until she held me quite entranced. 
 Bronson had tried his best to cut me out, 
 Until I thought him quite a beastly lout. 
 'Twas she, I knew. No other feet 
 Could fit a number one complete ; 
 No other form so rounded quite, 
 As this, the sparkling queen of night. 
 I knew her, but would not betray, 
 For I, too, had a part to play. 
 I'd loved her years ; had promised long 
 That from this night she would to me be- 
 long. 
 
 'Twas by the fountain where flowers sweet, 
 Made dream of love the more complete. 
 I held her hand, then sinking on my knee, 
 Spoke, while my heart thrilled tenderly : 
 
 "Hortense, I love you madly, will you " 
 
 Then pierced the silence through and 
 
 through, 
 The call, "Masks off, the hour has come !" 
 Then — well, I was stricken dumb ! 
 For there before me, wreathed in smiles, 
 Sat the old, frisky, widow Miles. 
 Fifty if ever she had seen a day, 
 Married when I was a child at play. 
 And Hortense? — well, she is Bronson's 
 
 wife, 
 A social queen in gay, high life. 
 
 Just a glance at the evening news (taking 
 up paper), 
 
CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 
 
 367 
 
 Politics will crush, perchance, love's muse. 
 Heavens ! Why, what's this I see ? 
 "To-night, at a masquerade, Mrs. Keene 
 Will introduce an old-time social queen, 
 Mrs. Bronson, wife of the late well-known 
 
 man 
 Who made his millions in the mine Volan." 
 
 Free ! Hortense, do you think my face 
 Looks too old to enter the race ? 
 I'll not count years by cycle of time, 
 But, by my heart's wild, maddening chime. 
 My roses ! For her? Yes. Au-revoir ! 
 — Mrs. Franklin Hall. 
 
 <5* t5* ^* 
 
 A PRIVATE REHEARSAL. 
 
 (A monologue.) 
 
 Scene. — A room, with door center and side 
 exit; furnished with table, desk, screen, 
 easy chair, couch, chairs, bric-a-brac, etc. 
 Mrs. Lovely discovered at left of table, 
 sewing on gentleman's coat. 
 
 THERE, the buttons are all on, the collar 
 sponged and the coat looks as good as 
 new. Dear old Hal ! how happy I am when 
 I can do anything for his comfort. Poor 
 boy, I'm afraid he works very hard. I 
 noticed this morning that he was looking 
 pale and tired. No wonder, for he has been 
 writing every evening for a week — extra 
 copying, he says. Mr. Grindem is a regular 
 old miser anyway — I've often heard papa 
 say that— and he makes a drudge of Hal, 
 just because he is so good-natured. But it's 
 no use talking, he says he shall never be 
 thoroughly happy until he can give me as 
 good a home as he took me from. 
 
 What nonsense ! {Rises, arranges pillows 
 on couch, folds afghan, etc.) when I like 
 this cosy little flat twice as well as papa's 
 grand, old house. Dearie me ! he has never 
 forgiven me for marrying a poor man and 
 he says the time will surely come when I 
 shall beg to return to him. {Takes photo 
 from desk and looks at it.) Leave Harry! 
 that makes me smile. If papa only knew 
 him; but men can't get acquainted — es- 
 
 pecially a young man and an elderly one. 
 It takes a woman to find the best side of a 
 man's nature, and I know that I have mar- 
 ried a saint. I feel rather guilty to think 
 I have a secret. {Seats herself at right of 
 table.) I little thought, when I was at 
 Madam Lamont's, and took an extra course 
 in painting, that I'd ever really earn money 
 with my brush ; but I did — twenty-five dol- 
 lars, at Christmas. It was great fun — just 
 like a bit' of masquerading — when I put on 
 the plainest little hat I had, and a veil, so 
 thick no one could know me, and walked 
 into Dayton's Art Store and showed them a 
 sample of my work. How my heart did 
 beat, when the man adjusted his glasses, so, 
 and looking at my little placque, in this way, 
 said : "Ahem ! it is very fair, miss." And 
 when he gave me an order, I could have 
 screamed with delight! But the very fun- 
 niest thing of it all was when Harry brought 
 me one of my own frames {taking frame 
 from table) for a Christmas gift. How my 
 cheeks burned when he said : "It was such 
 a dainty little thing, I knew you would like 
 it." I could hardly resist throwing my 
 arms around his neck and crying: "I did 
 it!" but that would never do, for I wanted 
 to earn money enough to buy him an easy- 
 chair for his birth-day gift. {Goes to easy- 
 
368 
 
 CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 
 
 chair left, arranges tidy on it.) I do hope 
 he will like it. When the man brought it 
 this morning he said : "The springs -are 
 good, ma'am, and the arms are wide." I 
 tried to look dignified, but it was a failure 
 and I burst out laughing. I can't appear 
 like an old married woman, if I try, besides 
 what's the fun in being a three-months' 
 bride, if you can't act a bit foolish? Well, 
 I might as well hang the coat away and find 
 something to busy myself about until Hal 
 comes home. I told him I was going to 
 spend the day with Dollie Wells, but I be- 
 lieve I won't, for she does nothing but talk 
 about her lover, and won't give me a chance 
 to speak of Harry. ( Takes coat from chair 
 and starts to go; as she throws it over her 
 arm, discovers something protruding from 
 pocket.) Oh, he's always stuffing his 
 pockets full ! Never got over the school- 
 boy fashion, I suppose. {Takes out pack- 
 age.) What is this, I wonder. A box of 
 candy, that he forgot to give me, I suppose. 
 (Unties package.) The dear, thoughtful 
 fellow! Why no, it's a box of grease- 
 paints ! What in the world does he want 
 with these ? Probably he got them for some 
 of the boys at the office. Arn't they funny 
 little things, these sticks. But they do make 
 a plain woman look just lovely under the 
 glare of the foot-lights. I remember at 
 school when we played "Cricket on the 
 Hearth," Dorothy Freeman played Dot. She 
 isn't a bit pretty; but after she was "made 
 up," as they call it, she was too sweet for 
 anything. (Takes hand-mirror from table 
 and looks at herself.) Wonder how I 
 should look. Let' s see — this is for the lips. 
 (Touches lips with grease-paint.) There! 
 that's a rose-bud mouth! Why couldn't 
 people have naturally such a sweet little 
 pucker (makes up eyebrows), and there's a 
 pair of arched brows (rouges cheeks), and 
 those cheeks are glowing with blushes. 
 
 (Rises.) Now I could float into a room and 
 meet my lover, with all the grace of a stage- 
 heroine. Something like this: "Charence! 
 so you have returned!" and then he says 
 something too awfully sweet and I should 
 say: "Spare my blushes!" but with that 
 stuff on my cheeks there would be a never- 
 fading glow. (Goes to table.) What a 
 dear little puff! (Powders face.) It's a 
 positive luxury to feel that on your face. 
 (Looks in mirror.) And now my roses 
 have gone, "buried under the snow," so to 
 speak, and I am as pale as the actress I saw 
 the other night. Oh, she was positively 
 ghastly, when she found her husband was 
 false. What a dreadful thing that would be 
 in real life ! I am sure it would kill me. 
 (Starts up.) What's that noise? (Tip- 
 toes to door, center, and listens.) Why, it's 
 Harry returned! What in the world 
 brought him home so soon! (Listens.) 
 Some one is with him, too! (Starts to 
 enter. ) Stop ! I can't show myself with 
 my face like this. I wonder who it can be. 
 Never mind, it won't matter if I don't go in. 
 
 Hal thinks I'm away and (Listens.) 
 
 What's he saying ? (Repeats.) "Now she's 
 gone, I'll have a chance?" Have a chance 
 for what? (Listens again, and repeats.) 
 "Be seated, Nell, and listen?" Nell! who's 
 Nell? (Listens again, repeating his words.) 
 "You shall not leave me until I have told 
 yon of my love?" Good heavens ! my — my 
 husband speaking like that to a woman ! 
 (Listens again.) Now he is talking so low 
 I cannot hear a word. Oh, my heart is 
 throbbing so! (Listens again.) Not a 
 word ! Probably he has her in his arms, her 
 head on his shoulder — oh, I shall die ! Ah ! 
 he is speaking again! (Listens and again 
 repeats.) "I will burst these bonds and you 
 shall yet be mine?" Oh! Oh! (Staggers 
 down stage.) I cannot listen — I have heard 
 enough ! The traitor ! He will burst these 
 
CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 
 
 369 
 
 bonds ! Does he mean to murder me ? 
 ( Throws herself into chair left of table and 
 hides her face in her hands, sobbing.) And 
 to think I — I — trusted him so ! thought him 
 so perfect (rising) ! But I will not remain 
 another hour in his house ! Papa was right ! 
 The time has come when I am glad to re- 
 turn to him. The cruel, perfidious wretch ! 
 I will write a note and leave it on his desk, 
 saying I heard his little interview with Nell, 
 and preferred to "burst the bonds" myself ! 
 Oh, the misery an hour ran bring! This 
 morning I was so light-hearted and happy, 
 and now — now my heart is breaking ! 
 (Seats herself at desk, picks up leuer lying 
 on desk.) I wonder who his correspondents 
 are. Possibly this is from that — that wo- 
 man! We will see! (Opens letter and 
 reads. ) 
 
 "Dear Mr. Henshaw : Your little Com- 
 edy is just what our Club needs and has 
 been accepted. Enclosed find check for 
 same. We remember your talent as an 
 amateur actor and if you will consent to fill 
 the role of Ralph, we will make it an object 
 for you to do so. My daughter, Sue, will 
 essay the part of Nell. I shall be most hap- 
 py to recommend your dramatic writings 
 to Catchem & Buyem and predict a brilliant 
 future for you as a play-wright. 
 Yours Truly, 
 
 James H. Underwood. 
 
 President of Wonolancet Club." 
 
 (Breathlessly.) Harry a writer of plays ! 
 Sue Underwood to play the part of Nell ! 
 
 Why, that's the name of (Points to 
 
 door, rising. ) What an impulsive little fool 
 I've been ! That explains the grease-paints ! 
 So he has been having a private rehearsal ! 
 Has been thinking to surprise me with his 
 success and the money it will bring. I re- 
 member he told me last night, I was to have 
 that lovely blue silk at Stylem's soon, and I 
 laughed at the extravagant idea. To think 
 he has been working like this for me and I 
 — I — was about to leave him! (Comes 
 doivn.) But he shall never know what a 
 little fool I have been, never ! Oh, I'm so 
 happy, I can scarcely restrain myself; but 
 I must be cautious, or he will hear me ! I'll 
 just run softly up to my room, wash this 
 mask off, slip on my things and come in at 
 the front door, so he will think I have just 
 returned ; and then I'll put my arms around 
 his neck and tell him he's the dearest fellow 
 in the world ! (Listens at door again.) He 
 is still at it, the dear boy ! (Shakes finger 
 at door.) Talk away! Make love to your 
 imaginary Nell ! ( Tip toes tip left, turns 
 at door.) But when the real part of it is 
 acted I'll be there ! [Exit. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 •£& t£* «5* 
 
 BARCAROLLE. 
 
 (A rhythmical monologue to be given to the accompaniment of the well-known Barcarolle.) 
 
 While night and fall of ripples, all 
 Make music more than musical. 
 
 THE gondolier, in music clear, 
 His lady-love is serenading 
 From his gondola, while his softiguitar 
 
 In tinkling sweetness is persuading 
 The sleeping maiden, with visions laden, 
 To quickly rise and hear his sighs, 
 
 Awake, my love ! though stars above 
 
 In witchery are peeping, 
 Far more I prize the starry eyes 
 
 That now are veiled in sleeping. 
 
370 
 
 CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 
 
 And while he sings, how sweetly rings 
 
 The melody ; now rises firmer 
 The barcarolle ; and now a lull 
 
 As soft as an Aeolian murmur; 
 Now madly sighing with love, now dying, 
 And soft and low and sweet and slow, 
 And low again ; 'tis almost pain 
 To hear the gondolier's refrain, 
 
 Awake, my love ! though stars above 
 *. In witchery are peeping, 
 
 Far more I prize the starry eyes 
 That now are veiled in sleeping. 
 
 She wakes, she hears ; her ravished ears 
 
 Are drinking all her lover's praises ; 
 They send a start to her vain heart ; 
 
 With noiseless steps she steals, and raises 
 The curtain slyly, and peeping shyly, 
 The teasing sprite hides with delight, 
 Smiles at the strain with mock disdain, 
 And pouts her lips and smiles again. 
 
 Awake, my love ! though stars above 
 
 In witchery are peeping, 
 Far more I prize the starry eyes 
 That now are veiled in sleeping. 
 — Ben Wood Davis. 
 
 £m t£& *0& 
 
 MARK TWAIN'S 
 
 JOHN JAMES GODFREY was hired 
 by the Hayblossom Mining Company 
 in California to do some blasting for them — 
 the "Incorporated Company of Mean Men," 
 the boys used to call it. Well, one day he 
 drilled a hole about four feet deep and put 
 in an awful blast of powder, and was stand- 
 ing over it ramming it down with an iron 
 crowbar about nine feet long, when the 
 blamed thing struck a spark and fired the 
 powder, and scat ! away John Godfrey 
 whizzed like a sky-rocket, him and his 
 crowbar! Well, sir, he kept on going up 
 in the air higher and higher, till he didn't 
 look any bigger than a boy — and he kept 
 going on up higher and higher till he didn't 
 look any bigger than a doll — and he kept 
 on going up higher and higher till he didn't 
 look any bigger than a small bee — and then 
 
 MINING STORY. 
 
 he went out of sight. Presently he came 
 in sight again, looking like a little small 
 bee — and he came along down further and 
 further, till he looked as big as a doll again 
 — and down further and further till he was 
 as big as a boy again — and further and 
 further, till he was a full-sized man once 
 more, and then him and his crowbar came 
 a-whizzing down and lit right exactly in 
 the same old tracks and went to r-ramming 
 down, and r-ramming down, and r-ram- 
 ming down again, just the same as if noth- 
 ing had happened! Now, do you know, 
 that poor fellow was gone but fifteen min- 
 utes, and yet that Incorporated Company 
 of Mean Men docked him for the fif- 
 teen minutes lost time while he was 
 gone up in the air! 
 
((<?* <i5* V?* V?* ^* ■ 
 
 fe5* t$T t5* (<?• e5* i ^ 
 
 Trn^y 
 
 Tote 
 
 The selections in this department have been made lo meet the needs of very little children 
 who want recitations that are short and pleasing. 
 
 t^* c^W ta& 
 
 CHILDREN'S ALPHABET. 
 
 This is very pretty when each little one holds or raises above her head as she speaks, a capital 
 letter covered with evergreens or flowers. 
 
 A is the alphabet that little folks learn ; 
 
 B is for books, coming next in their turn ; 
 
 C is for clock, making time in its flight ; 
 
 D is for desk, where we study and write ; 
 
 E is for early ones, who are prompt at 
 the call ; 
 
 F is for friendship, which we cherish for 
 all; 
 
 G is for goodness, may each have a share ; 
 
 H is for honesty — we hope it's not rare ; 
 
 I is for idleness, we fight every day ; 
 
 J is for judgment, which governs our 
 way ; 
 
 K is for kindness towards schoolmates 
 and friends ; 
 
 L is for love, which our pathway attends ; 
 
 M is for music — which brightens our 
 way; 
 
 <£ <£ J8 
 
 N is for noon, the time we can play ; 
 
 O is for order, it's rules we'll not break ; 
 
 P is the progress, we hope we shall make ; 
 
 Q is the question, to which answer we 
 find; 
 
 R is the rule which we ever will mind ; 
 
 S is the school, which we love every 
 day; 
 
 T is for truth, which shall guide all we 
 say; 
 
 U is for union, in all that is right ; 
 
 V is for virtue, may it ever be bright ; 
 W is for welcome, which all our friends 
 
 claim ; 
 
 X is this cross with our fingers we frame ; 
 
 Y is our youth, the time to improve ; 
 Z is for zealous, in work that we love. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS BALL. 
 
 THE fiddlers were scraping so cheerily, 
 O, 
 With a one, two, three, and a one, two, 
 three, 
 And the children were dancing so merrily, 
 O, 
 All under the shade of the Christmas-tree. 
 
 O, bonny the fruit on its branches which 
 grows ! 
 And the mistletoe bough from the ceiling 
 hung! 
 
 The fiddlers they rosined their squeaking 
 bows, 
 And the brave little lads their partners 
 swung. 
 
 Oh, the fiddlers they played such a merry 
 tune, 
 With a one, two, three, and a one, two, 
 three, 
 And the children they blossomed like roses 
 in June, 
 
 37T 
 
372 
 
 TINY TOTS. 
 
 All under the boughs of the Christmas- 
 tree. 
 
 And the fiddlers were scraping so merrily, 
 O, 
 With a one, two, three, and a one, two, 
 three, 
 And the children were dancing so cheerily, 
 O, 
 All under the shade of the Christmas-tree. 
 
 When, all of' a sudden, a fairy-land crew 
 Came whirling airily into the room, 
 
 As light as the fluffy balls, they flew, 
 
 Which fly from the purple thistle-bloom. 
 
 There were little girl-fairies in cobweb 
 
 frocks 
 
 All spun by spiders from golden threads, 
 
 With butterfly-wings and glistening locks, 
 
 And strings of dewdrops encircling their 
 
 heads ! 
 
 There were little boy- fairies in jeweled 
 coats 
 
 Of pansy-velvet, of cost untold, 
 With chains of daisies around their throats, 
 And their heads all powdered with lily 
 gold ! 
 
 The fiddlers they laughed till they scarce 
 
 could see, 
 
 And then they fiddled so cheerily, O, 
 
 And the fairies and children around the 
 
 tree, 
 
 They all went tripping so merrily, O. 
 
 The fiddlers they boxed up their fiddles all ; 
 
 The fairies they silently flew away; 
 But every child at the Christmas ball, 
 
 Had danced with a fairy first, they say. 
 
 So they told their mothers — and did not you 
 
 Ever have such a lovely time at your play, 
 
 My boy and my girl, that it seemed quite 
 
 true 
 
 That you'd played with a fairy all the 
 
 day? 
 
 tffto i3R <5* 
 
 THE BABIES' BEDTIME. 
 
 SWEET are children in the morning, in 
 the afternoon or night, 
 In their dainty frocks of red and blue or 
 
 gowns of simple white, 
 In their play up in the playroom, in the yard 
 
 or on the lawn, 
 But they're sweetest when it's bedtime and 
 they get their "nighties" on. 
 
 Little ghosts of white a-romping o'er the 
 
 bed and through the room ; 
 In the season of a lifetime they're the rosy 
 
 month of June. 
 Little ghosts of white a-marching to the 
 
 music of their laugh, 
 And the one whoe'er would miss it sees in 
 
 life its minor half. 
 
 Little curls a-dangling, frowsy, to the heads 
 
 a fitting wreath, 
 Little gowns a-hanging loosely and the 
 
 peeping feet beneath. 
 Merry monarchs of the household and their 
 
 love as is the fawn, 
 And they're sweetest when it's bedtime and 
 
 they've got their "nighties" on. 
 
 Oh, the clear notes of their laughter, and 
 
 the patter of their feet, 
 As they romp and chase each other in the 
 
 game of hide and seek, 
 Gives a hint of faint suspicion of the world 
 
 that is to be, 
 For the Master taught us, saying, "Suffer 
 
 these to come to me !" 
 
TINY TOTS. 
 
 373 
 
 Soon fatigue o'ercomes the players, and the 
 
 white brigade is still, 
 And the "Now I lay me" whispered with a 
 
 pleading and a will ! 
 Oh, the wee tots are in slumber, and their 
 
 dreams are in repose, 
 For the clearness of a conscience rivals 
 
 beauties of the rose. 
 
 And the white, up turned, sweet visage adds 
 to innocence the charm 
 
 Of the soul reposing trust upon the guar- 
 dian angel's arm ; 
 
 Oh, the sweetest scented nectar flowing 
 from this life is gone 
 
 If you cannot see the babies when they get 
 their "nighties" on ! 
 
 ^* ^w t5* 
 
 PARTNERSHIP. 
 
 (The speaker should hold a kitten in her arms, and appear to address the mother cat.) 
 
 YOU needn't be looking around at me so, 
 She's my kitten as much as your kit- 
 ten, you know, 
 And I'll take her wherever I wish her to go ! 
 
 You know very well that, the day she was 
 
 found, 
 If I hadn't cried, she'd surely been 
 
 drowned ; 
 And you ought to be thankful she's here 
 
 safe and sound ! 
 
 She is only crying 'cause she's a goose. 
 I'm not squeezing her, look now, my arms 
 
 are quite loose, 
 And she may as well hush, for it's not any 
 
 use. 
 
 And you may as well get right down and go 
 
 'way; 
 You're not in the thing we're going to play ; 
 And remember, it isn't your half of the day. 
 
 You're forgetting the bargain we made, and 
 
 so soon ! 
 In the morning she's mine, and yours all 
 
 afternoon ; 
 And you couldn't teach her to eat with a 
 
 spoon. 
 
 So don't let me hear one single mew ! 
 
 Do you know what will happen right off 
 
 if you do? 
 She'll be my kitten mornings and afternoons 
 
 too. 
 
 — Margaret Vandegrift. 
 
 t&& t(5* (5* 
 
 MY DEAR TRUE-LOVE. 
 
 (For a little boy, 
 
 THE stars are very beautiful 
 Up in the far-off skies ; 
 But, oh ! more beautiful to me 
 
 Are my own true-love's eyes. 
 The songs the little birdies sing, 
 When morning things rejoice, 
 Are very sweet, but far more sweet 
 Is my dear true-love's voice. 
 
 on Saint Valentine's Day.) 
 
 I like to feel upon my cheek 
 
 The gentle summer air, 
 'But better far I like to feel 
 
 My true-love's kisses there. 
 I love my true-love more, — yes, more 
 
 Than wind, or song, or star ; 
 My true-love? Who is my true-love? 
 
 My own sweet, good mamma ! 
 
37-A 
 
 TINY TOTS. 
 
 ADAM never knew what 'twas to be a 
 boy, 
 To wheedle pennies from a doting sire, 
 With which to barter for some pleasing toy, 
 Or calm the rising of a strong desire 
 
 To suck an orange. Nor did he 
 
 E'er cast the shuttlecock to battledoor ; 
 
 Nor were his trousers ever out at knee, 
 From playing marbles on the kitchen 
 floor. 
 
 He never skated o'er the frozen rill, 
 
 When winter's covering o'er the earth 
 was spread; 
 
 Nor ever glided down the slippery hill, 
 With pretty girls upon his trusty sled. 
 
 He never swung upon his father's gate, 
 Or slept in sunshine on the cellar door, 
 
 Nor roasted chestnuts at the kitchen grate, 
 Nor spun his humming top upon the floor. 
 
 He ne'er amused himself with rows of 
 bricks, 
 
 So set, if one fall, all come down; 
 Nor gazed delighted at the funny tricks 
 
 Of harlequin or traveling circus clown. 
 
 POOR ADAM! 
 
 By gradual growth he never reached the 
 
 age 
 When cruel Cupid first invokes his art, 
 And stamps love's glowing lesson, page by 
 
 page, 
 Upon the tablets of a youngling's heart. 
 
 He never wandered forth on moonlight 
 nights, 
 With her he loved above all earthly 
 things ; 
 Nor tried to mount old Pindar's rocky 
 heights, 
 Because he fancied love had lent him 
 wings. 
 
 He never tripped it o'er the ball-room floor, 
 Where love and music intertwine their 
 charms, 
 
 Nor wandered listless by the sandy shore, 
 Debarred the pleasure of his lady's arms. 
 
 For Adam — so at least it has been said 
 By many an ancient and a modern sage — 
 
 Before a moment of his life had fled, 
 Was fully thirty years of age! 
 
 t&& t&& c?* 
 
 RUNNING A RACE. 
 
 A LITTLE tear and a little smile set out 
 to run a race ; 
 We watched them closely all the while ; 
 their course was baby's face. 
 
 The little tear he got the start ; we really 
 feared he'd win : 
 
 He ran so fast and made a dart straight for 
 the dimpled chin. 
 
 But somehow, — it was very queer; we 
 watched them all the while, — 
 
 The little shining, fretful tear, got beaten 
 by the smile. 
 
 s5* t.5* e5* 
 
 D 
 
 EAR little Wora, dimpled and fair, 
 Under the mistletoe standing there. 
 
 WHERE HE DID IT. 
 
 In a moment he grasped the opportunity. 
 
 No one was near, no one could see ; 
 
 Under the mistletoe, under the rose ; 
 Under the mistletoe, under the nose. 
 
TINT TOTS. 
 
 375 
 
 MOTION SONG WITH THE HANDS 
 
 THIS is the left 
 This is the right, 
 I put them together 
 And clap with my might. 
 
 With my right toward the east, 
 And my left toward the west, 
 
 You'll know where sun rises, 
 And where it goes to rest. 
 
 North to the front of me, 
 South in the back must be, 
 Now I do know, 
 In which way I go, 
 
 North or East, 
 South or West, 
 
 And to the place 
 I like the best. 
 
 t0& (5* W* 
 
 IN LIQUOR. 
 
 ONCE a poor little mouse had a fall, 
 And it fell in a gallon of wine ; 
 "Here," it cried to a cat: "Help me out! 
 You may eat me the first time you dine." 
 
 So the pussy complied ; but the fumes 
 Brought a sneeze that she couldn't con- 
 trol, 
 While the gay little mouse, with a laugh, 
 Cut a very straight line to a hole. 
 
 When the Tabby was done with her sneeze, 
 She exclaimed to the mouse unafraid : 
 "Now come out, for I want a good meal ; 
 Don't go back on the bargain we made." 
 
 Then the mouse laid her thumb on her 
 
 nose, 
 And she said with a comical glow : 
 "I'm aware of the promise I gave; 
 But I then was in liquor, you know." 
 
 ^* t&& && 
 
 THE BITTERNESS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 WHEN I get settled after tea 
 With some big, bully book, 
 Ma, she'll commence t' watch the clock ; 
 
 You'd oughter see her look ! 
 An' jes' when I get down t' where 
 
 The hero begs for bread, 
 Ma's jes' as sure as fate to say, 
 "It's time t' go t' bed." 
 
 Or, ef pa knows a funny yarn 
 
 What ain't- fer me t' hear 
 An' gets so wrapped up tellin' ma 
 
 He clean fergets I'm near, 
 You'd better guess she shuts him up; 
 
 She kinder shakes her head, 
 Looks solemnlike at me an' says, 
 
 "It's time t' go t' bed." 
 
 An' when they's company at night, 
 
 Don't I wish I could stay 
 Down stairs t' watch the big folks an' 
 
 T' hear the things they say ! 
 But 'tain't no use a-wishin' things, 
 
 Fer ma comes out ahead 
 An' says t' me afore them all, 
 
 "It's time t' go t' bed." 
 
 I'd like t' be an angel in 
 
 A thing what's long an' white 
 An' fly around when other folks 
 
 Was sound asleep at night. 
 But like as not ma, she'd wake up, 
 
 Not knowin' I was dead, 
 An' pull me in the house an' say, 
 
 "It's time t' go t' bed." 
 
376 
 
 TINY TOTS. 
 
 THREE FOR "THE TOTS." 
 
 1 NEVER made a speech before, 
 And cannot say I shall make more ; 
 But if you'll let me look at you, 
 And say to all, "How do you do?" 
 I'm sure I'll let you look at me — 
 It won't take long, I am so "wee." 
 But then I won't be always small ; 
 And now I'll throw a kiss to all ! 
 And if I live I'll speak next year 
 With stronger voice, and have no fear. 
 
 They thought I couldn't make a speech, 
 I'm such a little tot. 
 
 I'll show them whether I can do 
 A thing or two, or not. 
 
 Don't be afraid to fight the wrong, 
 Or stand up for the right ; 
 
 And when you've nothing else to say, 
 Be sure you say — "Good-night." 
 
 I've got three kisses sweet to give ; 
 
 There's one for mother, kind and true, 
 And one for father, while I live, 
 
 And all the rest I give to you ! 
 
 [Kisses hand to audience and retires. 
 
 (,5* *(?• ty* 
 
 MINNIE HAD A LITTLE LAMB. 
 
 M : 
 
 INNIE had a little lamb, 
 A tender little elf; 
 She roasted it and basted it 
 And laid it on the shelf. 
 
 She set it on the table 
 
 And heartily did eat 
 And thought that pretty little lamb 
 
 A glorious kind of meat. 
 
 But morning, noon and evening 
 She wearied of the roast, 
 
 So minced and buttered some of it 
 And spread it on some toast. 
 
 And then she broiled a little piece, 
 And then a stew made she, 
 
 And next that frisky lamb appeared 
 As "Monsieur Fricassee." 
 
 But to assume a giddy guise 
 In that old lamb was rash; 
 He humbly ended his career 
 ' As plain plebeian hash. 
 
 •^w ^w xa& 
 
 IN MANY LANDS. 
 
 THE bonny babe, tossed blithely to and 
 fro, 
 Rests on Amanda's apron white as snow 
 In Lapland. 
 
 Full well he fares, no epicure is he, 
 Upon a diet that would frighten me 
 In Papland. 
 
 Anon he is an urchin, and must learn 
 "Globes" with "geography," and take his 
 turn 
 
 In Mapland. 
 
 If he is idle, and his books will flout, 
 
 There is a ruler, and he'll have a bout 
 
 In Rapland. 
 
 Or, it may be, his fate is harder yet, 
 And he will spend a time he won't forget 
 In Strapland. 
 
 But like the longest lane, the laggard day 
 Will end at last, and Tom will sn e away 
 In Napland. 
 
TINY TOTS. 
 
 377 
 
 EASTER MORNING. 
 
 One Voice. 
 
 SNOWDROPS ! lift your timid heads,— 
 All the earth is waking ; 
 Field and forest, brown and dead, 
 Into life are breaking. 
 Several Voices. 
 
 Snowdrops, rise and tell the story, 
 How He rose, the Lord of glory. 
 One Voice. 
 
 Lilies ! lilies ! Easter calls : 
 
 Rise to meet the dawning 
 Of the blessed light that falls 
 Through the Easter morning. 
 
 Several Voices. 
 
 Ring your bells and tell the story, 
 How He rose, the Lord of glory. 
 
 One Voice. 
 
 Waken, sleeping butterflies! 
 
 Burst your narrow prison ; 
 Spread your golden wings and rise, 
 
 For the Lord is risen. 
 
 Several Voices. 
 
 Spread your wings and tell the story- 
 How He rose, the Lord of glory ! 
 
 — Mary A. Lathbury. 
 
 e5* e5* *5* 
 
 A SMALL BOY'S ADVICE. 
 
 MAYBE you'll smile because I try 
 About reform to speak; 
 Because I'm only three feet high, 
 And have a voice so weak. 
 
 But boys like me, make men like you 
 And now you have a chance 
 
 To teach us to be brave and true, 
 And vote for Temperance. 
 
 Don't drink that "for your stomach's 
 sake," 
 
 That poisons all your breath, 
 But hate that cup, and never take, 
 
 That's filled with sin and death. 
 
 Then, by-and-by, when you have done 
 
 The work God called you to, 
 We'll take it, where you lay it down, 
 
 And help to carry it through. 
 
 THE BOY AND THE BOOT. 
 
 BOTHER!" was all that John Clatter- 
 by said; 
 His breath came quick and his cheeks were 
 
 red; 
 He flourished his elbows and looked ab- 
 surd 
 While, over and over, his "Bother!" I 
 heard. 
 
 Harder and harder he tugged and worked ; 
 Vainly and savagely still he jerked; 
 The boot, half on, would dwaddle and flap, 
 "Bother!" and then he burst the strap. 
 
 Redder than ever his hot cheek flamed; 
 Louder than ever he fumed and blamed ; 
 He wiggled his heel and he tugged at the 
 
 leather 
 Till his knees and his chin came bumping 
 
 together. 
 
 "My boy," said I, in a voice like a flute, 
 "Why not first try your troublesome boot 
 
 On 
 
 goose 
 
 the other foot?" "I'm a 
 laughed John, 
 As he stood, in a flash, with his two boots 
 on. 
 
378 
 
 TINY TOTS. 
 
 In half the affairs of this every-day life 
 (As that same day I said to my wife), 
 
 Our troubles come from trying to put 
 The left-hand boot on the right-hand foot. 
 
 t5* t5* ^* 
 
 MY LITTLE SISTER. 
 
 WHO comes to meet me, running out 
 To smile away all care and doubt, 
 And takes me by the hand, and talks 
 Her childish prattle as she walks, 
 And makes me feel as if life's yoke 
 Were really nothing but a joke? 
 My little sister. 
 
 Whose deepest griefs can pass away 
 As quick as darkness yields to day, 
 And leaves the little face as bright 
 As sunbeams in the morning light? 
 She leaves me nothing else to do 
 But just to be light-hearted too, — 
 My little sister. 
 
 And when I'm tired, and feeling blue, 
 And ugly, and disgusted, too, 
 And when I even doubt if I 
 Can claim a friend by any tie, 
 
 I know, though others distant be, 
 There's one small girl sticks up for me, — 
 My little sister. 
 
 And sometimes, when I may have slipped 
 Some wrong have done, some good have 
 
 skipped, 
 When I some bitter pill must take 
 In payment for my own mistake, 
 When others slight, and others blame, 
 Who comes to kiss me just the same? 
 My little sister. 
 
 I see her oft when I'm not there, 
 And offer up a silent prayer; 
 May grief and sorrow never chase 
 The sunshine from that little face. 
 May she ne'er grow to love me less — 
 May Heaven keep, and guard, and bless 
 My little sister. 
 
 t&*t t5* ^" 
 
 A BOY'S WISH. 
 
 WHEN winter comes, the people say, 
 "Oh, shut the door!" And when, 
 As sometimes happens, I forget, 
 They call me back again. 
 
 It takes till summer-time to learn; 
 And then things change about, 
 
 And "Leave it open!" is the cry 
 When I go in or out. 
 
 I try to be a pleasant boy, 
 
 And do just as I ought, 
 But when things are so hard to 
 
 I wish they might stay taught ! 
 
 learn, 
 
 ^5* &5* e5* 
 
 THEIR PREFERENCES. 
 
 THREE maidens talked, as maidens will, 
 Of what gives life its zest. 
 Said one, a buxom country girl, 
 "The mountain air is best." 
 
 The second, clad in yachting suit 
 All white beyond compare, 
 
 Did thereupon exulting cry: 
 "Give me the ocean air !" 
 
 Then one, in swinging hammock posed, 
 Half opened her eyes divine 
 
 And languorously said : "I'll take 
 The millionaire for mine." 
 
The selections in this department include a variety of subjects, all of which afford an op- 
 portunity for a fine display of descriptive power on the part of the speaker. 
 
 GOING HOME TO-DAY. 
 
 M 
 
 Y business on the jury's done — the 
 quibblin' all is through — 
 I've watched the lawyers, right and left, 
 
 and give my verdict true ; 
 I stuck so long unto my chair I thought I 
 
 would grow in; 
 And if I do not know myself, they'll get me 
 
 there, again. 
 But now the court's adjourned for good, 
 
 and I have got my pay ; 
 I'm loose at last, and thank the Lord, I'm 
 
 goin' home to-day 
 
 I've somehow felt uneasy like since first day 
 I come down; 
 
 It's an awkward game to play the gentle- 
 man in town; 
 
 And this 'ere Sunday suit of mine, on Sun- 
 day rightly sets, 
 
 But when I wear the stuff a week, it some- 
 how galls and frets, 
 
 I'd rather wear my homespun rig of pepper- 
 salt and gray — 
 
 I'll have it on in half a jiff when I get home 
 to-day. 
 
 I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well 
 
 as any one, 
 As well as any woman could — to see that 
 
 things were done ; 
 For though Melinda, when I'm there, won't 
 
 set her foot outdoors, 
 She's very careful when I'm gone to 'tend 
 
 to all the chores. 
 But nothing prospers half so well when I 
 
 go off to stay, 
 
 And I will put things into shape when I get 
 home to-day. 
 
 The mornin' that I come away we had a 
 
 little bout ; 
 I coolly took my hat and left before the 
 
 show was out, 
 For what I said was naught whereat she 
 
 ought to take offense ; 
 And she was always quick at words and 
 
 ready to commence;. 
 But then, she's first one to give up when 
 
 she has had her say; 
 And she will meet me with a kiss when I 
 
 go home to-day. 
 
 My little boy — I'll give 'em leave to match 
 him, if they can — 
 
 It's fun to see him strut about and try to 
 be a man ! 
 
 The gamest, cheeriest little chap you'd ever 
 want to see ! 
 
 And then they laugh because I think the 
 child resembles me. 
 
 The little rogue! he goes for me like rob- 
 bers for their prey. 
 
 He'll turn my pockets inside out when I get 
 home to-day. 
 
 My little girl — I can't contrive how it 
 
 should happen thus — 
 That God should pick that sweet bouquet 
 
 and fling it down to us ! 
 My wife, she says that han'some face will 
 
 some day make a stir ; 
 And then I laugh because she thinks the 
 
 child resembles her. 
 
 379 
 
380 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 She'll meet me half way down the hill and 
 
 kiss me any way ; 
 And light my heart up with her smiles when 
 
 I get home to-day ! 
 
 If there's a heaven upon the earth a fellow 
 
 knows it when 
 He's been away from home a week, and 
 
 then gets back again. 
 
 t5* *5* <5* 
 
 If there's a heaven above the earth there 
 
 often, I'll be bound, 
 Some homesick fellow meets his folks and 
 
 hugs 'em all around. 
 But let my creed be right or wrong, or be it 
 
 as it may. 
 My heaven is just ahead of me — I'm goin' 
 
 home to-day. 
 
 — Will Carleton. 
 
 MAKING SUCCESS. 
 
 POETS may be born, but success is 
 made ; therefore let me beg of you, in 
 the outset of your career, to dismiss from 
 your minds all ideas of succeeding by luck. 
 
 There is no more common thought among 
 young people than that foolish one that by 
 and by something will turn up by which 
 they will suddenly achieve fame or fortune. 
 Luck is an ignis fatuns. You may follow it 
 to ruin, but not to success. The great Na- 
 poleon, who believed in his destiny, fol- 
 lowed it until he saw his star go down in 
 blackest night, when the Old Guard per- 
 ished around him, and Waterloo was lost. 
 A pound of pluck is worth a ton of luck. 
 
 Young men talk of trusting to the spur 
 of the occasion. That trust is vain. Oc- 
 casion cannot make spurs. If you expect to 
 wear spurs, you must win them. If you 
 wish to use them, you must buckle them to 
 your own heels before you go into the fight. 
 Any success you may achieve is not worth 
 having unless you fight for it. Whatever 
 you win in life you must conquer by your 
 own efforts, and then it is yours — a part of 
 yourself. 
 
 Again : in order to have any success in 
 life, or any worthy success, you must re- 
 solve to carry into your work a fulness of 
 knowledge — not merely a sufficiency, but 
 more than a sufficiency. Be fit for more 
 than the thing you are now doing. Let 
 
 every one know that you have a reserve in 
 yourself; that you have more power than 
 you are now using. If you are not too large 
 for the place you occupy, you are too small 
 for it. How full our country is of bright 
 examples, not only of those who occupy 
 some proud eminence in public life, but in 
 every place you may find men going on with 
 steady nerve, attracting the attention of 
 their fellow-citizens, and carving out for 
 themselves names and fortunes from small 
 and humble beginnings and in the face of 
 formidable obstacles. 
 
 Let not poverty stand as an obstacle in 
 your way. Poverty is uncomfortable, as I 
 can testify; but nine times out of ten the 
 best thing that can happen to a young man 
 is to be tossed overboard, and compelled to 
 sink or swim for himself. In all my ac- 
 quaintance, I have never known one to be 
 drowned who was worth the saving. This 
 would not be wholly true in any country but 
 one of political equality like ours. 
 
 The reason is this : In the aristocracies of 
 the Old World, wealth and society are built 
 up like the strata of rock which compose 
 the crust of the earth. If a boy be born in 
 the lowest stratum of life, it is almost im- 
 possible for him to rise through this hard 
 crust into the higher ranks ; but in this coun- 
 try it is not so. The strata of our society 
 resemble rather the ocean, where every 
 
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DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 383 
 
 drop, even the lowest, is free to mingle with 
 all others, and may shine at last on the crest 
 of the highest wave. This is the glory of 
 our country, and you need not fear that 
 there are any obstacles which will prove too 
 great for any brave heart. 
 
 In giving you being, God locked up in 
 your nature certain forces and capabilities. 
 What will you do with them ? Look at the 
 mechanism of a clock. Take off the pen- 
 dulum and ratchet, and the wheels go rat- 
 tling down and all its force is expended in 
 a moment ; but properly balanced and regu- 
 lated, it will go on, letting out its force 
 tick by tick, measuring hours and days, and 
 
 doing faithfully the service for which it was 
 designed. I implore you to cherish and 
 guard and use well the forces that God has 
 given to you. You may let them run down 
 in a year, if you will. Take off the strong 
 curb of discipline and morality, and you will 
 be an old man before your twenties are 
 passed. Preserve these forces. Do not 
 burn them out with brandy, or waste them 
 in idleness and crime. Do not destroy 
 them. Do not use them unworthily. Save 
 and protect them, that they may save for 
 you fortune and fame. Honestly resolve 
 to do this, and you will be an honor to your- 
 self and to your country. 
 
 — James A. Garfield. 
 
 (5* 10* tS* 
 
 WILLIE'S SIGNAL FOR JESUS. 
 
 AT twilight, in old Hospital St. Luke, 
 The smiling eyes that watched grew 
 wet with crying, 
 And kind lips kissed away, with love's re- 
 buke, 
 The cruel anguish of the sick and dying. 
 
 In the fourth ward a boy with broken 
 bones 
 Lay dreaming what the morrow should 
 betide him, 
 And sobbed and talked by turns, in falter- 
 ing tones, 
 With little Susie in the cot beside him. 
 
 For he had borne the knife that day, and 
 strain 
 On his weak limbs of surgeon's cord and 
 splinter, 
 Till he had fainted with the weight of pain, 
 Too great for one just through his sev- 
 enth winter. 
 
 And oh ! to wait the rest ! — 'twas worse, he 
 said, 
 
 . To lie and tremble at the doctor's warn- 
 ing. 
 "I think 'twere better, Susie, to be dead, 
 Than bear the hurt that's coming in the 
 morning. 
 
 "They say that every night the loving Lord 
 Comes here for some of us, in watch or 
 slumber, 
 And I have prayed that when he walks this 
 ward 
 To-night, he'll take me, too, among the 
 number. 
 
 "I hope he'll know I want him, and I've 
 planned, 
 For fear I may be dreaming when he 
 sees us,. 
 Above the bed-clothes — so — to prop my 
 hand, 
 And hold it there, to be a sign for Jesus." 
 
 At midnight, in old Hospital St. Luke, 
 While .lamps burned low o'er lives yet 
 lower burning, 
 
384 
 
 And angel Sleep, aloof at Pain's rebuke, 
 Tempted pale eyelids, going and return- 
 ing— 
 
 Who saw the Son of God, with countenance 
 bland, 
 In pity sweet His glory all concealing, 
 Come at the beckoning of that lifted hand, 
 And smile His answers to its mute ap- 
 pealing ? 
 
 The arm grew weak that held it. Faith's 
 
 good will 
 Stayed up the tiny sign of supplication 
 Full long, and then it quivered — and grew 
 
 still ; 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 It pointed up, from sorrow to salvation. 
 
 'Tis morn at last. The nurses come again 
 And see that childlike token where it 
 lingers, 
 
 Erect and cold, above the counterpane, 
 With resignation in its helpless fingers. 
 
 From sights of fear and sounds of parting 
 hope, 
 And curses wrung from sufferers unfor- 
 given, 
 The soul of wounded Willie had gone up, 
 Led by that small up-lifted hand to 
 Heaven. 
 
 
 THE LITTLE GERMAN MOTHER. 
 
 WE were at a railroad junction one 
 night last week waiting a few 
 hours for a train, in the waiting room, in 
 the only rocking chair, trying to talk a 
 brown-eyed boy to sleep, who talks a good 
 deal when he wants to keep awake. Pres- 
 ently a freight train arrived, and a beautiful 
 little woman came in escorted by a great big 
 German, and they talked in German, he 
 giving her, evidently, lots of information 
 about the route she was going, and telling 
 her about her tickets and her baggage 
 check, and occasionally patting her on the 
 arm. 
 
 At first Our United States baby, who did 
 not understand German, was tickled to hear 
 them talk, and he "snickered" at the pecu- 
 liar sound of the language that was being 
 spoken. The great big man put his hand 
 upon the old lady's cheek and said some- 
 thing encouraging, and a great big tear 
 came to her eye, and she looked as happy as 
 a queen. The little brown eyes of the boy 
 opened pretty big, and his face sobered 
 
 down from its laugh, and he said: "Papa, 
 is it his mother?" 
 
 We knew it was, but how should a four- 
 year-old sleepy baby, that couldn't under- 
 stand German, tell that the lady was the big 
 man's mother, and we asked him how he 
 knew, and he said: "O, the big man was 
 so kind to her." The big man bustled out, 
 we gave the rocking chair to the little old 
 mother, and presently the man came in with 
 the baggageman, and to him he spoke Eng- 
 lish. 
 
 He said: "This is my mother, and she 
 does not speak English. She is going to 
 Iowa, and I have got to go back on the 
 next train, but I want you to attend to her 
 baggage, and see her on the right car, the 
 rear car, with a good seat near the center, 
 and tell the conductor she is my mother, 
 and here's a dollar for you, and I will do 
 as much for your mother some time." 
 
 The baggageman grasped the dollar with 
 one hand, grasped the big man's hand with 
 the other, and looked at the little German 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 385 
 
 with an expression that showed that he had 
 a mother, too, and we almost knew the old 
 lady was well treated. Then we put the 
 sleeping mind-reader on a bench and went 
 out on the platform and got acquainted 
 with the big German, and he talked of 
 horse trading, buying and selling, and 
 everything that showed he was a live busi- 
 ness man, ready for any speculation, from 
 buying a yearling colt to a crop of hops or 
 barley, and that his life was a very busy 
 one and at times full of hard work, disap- 
 
 pointment and hard roads, but with all his 
 hurry and excitement he was kind to his 
 mother, and we loved him just a little, and 
 when after a few minutes- talk about busi- 
 ness he said : "You must excuse me. I must 
 go in the depot and see if my mother wants 
 anything," we felt like taking his fat red 
 hand and kissing it. O, the love of a 
 mother is the same in any language, and 
 it is good in all languages. The world 
 would be poor without it. 
 
 — R. J. Burdette. 
 
 t&M (£* fc?W 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 IN vain the cords and axes were pre- 
 pared, 
 For now the audacious seas insult the yard ; 
 High o'er the ship they throw a horrid 
 
 shade, 
 And o'er her burst in terrible cascade. 
 Uplifted on the surge, to Heaven she flies, 
 Her shattered top half buried in the skies, 
 Then headlong plunging thunders on the 
 
 ground ; 
 Earth groans ! air trembles ! and the deeps 
 
 resound ! 
 Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels, 
 And quivering with the wound in torment 
 
 reels. 
 So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes, 
 The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's 
 
 blows. 
 Again she plunges! hark, a second shock 
 Tears her strong bottom on the marble 
 
 rock; 
 Down on the vale of death, with dismal 
 
 cries, 
 The fated victims, shuddering, roll their 
 
 eyes 
 In wild despair; while yet another stroke, 
 With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak ; 
 Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell 
 
 The lurking demons of destruction dwell, 
 At length asunder torn, her frame divides, 
 And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides, 
 
 O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art 
 To wake to sympathy the feeling heart ; 
 Like him the smooth and mournful verse to 
 
 dress 
 In all the pomp of exquisite distress 
 Then too severely taught by cruel fate, 
 To share in all the perils I relate, 
 Then might I with unrivaled strains deplore 
 The impervious horrors of a leeward shore ! 
 As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast 
 
 hung, 
 Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung ; 
 Some, struggling, on a broken crag were 
 
 cast, 
 And there by oozy tangles grappled fast. 
 Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows' 
 
 rage, 
 Unequal combat with their fate to wage ; 
 Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego 
 Their slippery hold, and sink to shades 
 
 below. 
 Some, from the main yard arm impetuous 
 
 thrown 
 On marble ridges, die without a groan. 
 Three with Palemon on their skill depend, 
 
386 
 
 DE SCRIPT I YE RECITATIONS, 
 
 And from the wreck on oars and rafts de- 
 scend. 
 
 Now on the mountain wave on high they 
 ride, 
 
 Then downward plunge beneath the involv- 
 ing tide, 
 
 Till one, who seems in agony to strive, 
 The whirling breakers heave on shore alive ; 
 The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, 
 And pressed the stony beach, a lifeless 
 crew! 
 
 — William Falconer. 
 
 t£fr t£*l tSrt 
 
 THE LAST OF THE CHOIR. 
 
 THERE was a gathering a short time 
 ago at a neat house in an Ohio vil- 
 lage of about a hundred people. The mis- 
 tress of the house was in the parlor, and one 
 by one they went to her side, but she did 
 not speak or lift her hands. They were 
 toil-worn hands, that for forty years had 
 done daily work for the children, but she 
 wore a new dress now, and the work was 
 ended. 
 
 Thirty-five years ago, when the church 
 choir met for practice, she played the melo- 
 deon, while they sang "Ware" and "Shir- 
 land" and "Dundee." But the choir was 
 gone, save two ladies who stood near her 
 holding an old singing-book. There was 
 a piano near, but it was closed. 
 
 A minister, younger than the book they 
 held, read how "Man is born unto trouble, 
 as the sparks fly upward," and closing, 
 looked at the two ladies. Many a time since 
 the treble was fifteen and the alto thirteen 
 they had sung for their silent friends. The 
 treble breathed a low note, that only the 
 alto heard ; and then the listeners heard an 
 old melody, with the words : 
 
 "There is a land mine eye hath seen 
 In visions of enraptured thought, 
 
 So bright that all which spreads between 
 Is with its radiant glory fraught." 
 
 Out in the rooms beyond all was so still 
 that every one could hear the voices as they 
 sang the assurance that — 
 
 "The wanderer there a home may find 
 Within the paradise of God." 
 The voice of prayer rose for comfort and 
 endurance, a pleading voice in behalf of the 
 household, and again he looked toward the 
 two with the old book. They held it open, 
 but they were not looking at it; they did 
 not appear to think of it. They were re- 
 viewing the years in the moment when they 
 lifted up their voices in the words : 
 "If through unruffled seas 
 Toward heaven we calmly sail, 
 With grateful hearts — " 
 How strong their faith ! 
 
 "—0 God, to thee 
 We'll own the favoring gale !" 
 
 The audience, thinking only of the needs 
 of their hearts, noticed not the useless book. 
 "But should the surges rise," 
 
 They sang faintly now, for the surges 
 had been over them. The alto bent over a 
 dying husband, and had buried him in a disr 
 tant city. Like a bolt from a clear sky came 
 the death of her manly boy one evening 
 when he had just left her side. 
 
 Waves of trouble had come upon the 
 treble; fair young children had been taken 
 from her embrace — sons and daughters had 
 been swept away. 
 
 The voices faded away, but gained again 
 with the line: 
 
 "And rest delay to come," 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 387 
 
 Rest! Their hearts were aching and 
 tired. A young lady near the door feared 
 they might break down; but her neighbor, 
 who was old, could have told her the old 
 choir were never known to break down. 
 Ah, no ! The voices are full of hope again 
 as they sing : 
 
 . "Blest be the sorrow, kind the storm, 
 That drives us nearer home." 
 
 Home ! The voices, blended by long prac- 
 tice, lingered till they died in faint harmony 
 at last on the word. 
 
 . In the evening the two singers sat by the 
 open fire. Again, as in childhood, they 
 lived on the same street. 
 
 "We did not need a book to-day," said 
 the alto. "It would be impossible to forget 
 the songs we learned when we were 
 young." 
 
 "Do you know," responded the treble, 
 "that as we sing those pieces I hear the 
 voices of those who used to be in the choir 
 with us ? Sometimes I hear the tenor voice 
 of the leader, then the voice of the bass who 
 used to make us laugh so when we ought 
 not ; then the voice of the girl who sang 
 with me, and then I hear all of them, and 
 see their faces. They are all young. We 
 only are old; but we shall soon rejoin the 
 choir." 
 
 ^* t&& t&& 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE "HESPERUS." 
 
 IT was the schooner "Hesperus" 
 That sailed the wintry sea; 
 And the skipper had taken his little daugh- 
 ter, 
 To bear him company. 
 
 Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 
 Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
 
 And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds 
 That ope in the month of May. 
 
 The skipper he stood beside the helm 
 
 His pipe was in his mouth — 
 And he watched how the veering flaw did 
 blow 
 
 The smoke now west, now south. 
 
 Then up and spake an old sailor 
 Who had sailed the Spanish main; 
 
 "I pray thee put into yonder port, 
 For I fear a hurricane. 
 
 "Last night the moon had a golden ring 
 And to-night no moon we see !" 
 
 The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
 And a scornful laugh laughed he. 
 
 Colder and louder blew the wind 
 
 A gale from the northeast ; 
 The snow fell in the hissing brine, 
 
 And the billows frothed like yeast. 
 
 Down came the storm and smote amain 
 
 The vessel in its strength; 
 She shuddered and paused, like a frighted 
 steed, 
 
 Then leaped her cable's length. 
 
 "Come hither, come hither, my little daugh- 
 ter, 
 
 And do not tremble so ; 
 For I can weather the roughest gale 
 
 That ever wind did blow." 
 
 He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, 
 
 Against the stinging blast ; 
 He cut a rope from a broken spar, 
 
 And bound her to the mast. 
 
 "O father, I hear the church bells ring! 
 
 O say, what may it be?" 
 " 'Tis a fog bell on a rock bound coast," 
 
 And he steer'd for the open sea. 
 
388 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 "O father, I hear the sound of guns ! 
 
 O say, what may it be?'' 
 "Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
 
 In such an angry sea!" 
 
 "O father, I see a gleaming light! 
 
 O say, what may it be !" 
 But the father answer'd never a word — 
 
 A frozen corpse was he ! 
 
 Lash'd to the helm all stiff and stark, 
 
 With his face to the skies, 
 The lantern gleam'd thro? the gleaming 
 snow 
 
 On his fixed and glassy eyes. 
 
 Then the maiden clasp'd her hands and 
 prayed 
 That saved she might be; 
 And she thought of Christ, who still'd the 
 waves 
 On the lake of Galilee. 
 
 And fast through the midnight dark and 
 drear, 
 
 Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
 Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept, 
 
 Toward the reef of Norman's Woe. 
 
 And ever, the fitful gusts between, 
 A sound came from the land; 
 
 It was the sound of the trampling surf 
 On the rocks, and the hard sea sand. 
 
 The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
 
 She drifted a dreary wreck, 
 And a whooping billow swept the crew, 
 
 Like icicles from her deck. 
 
 She struck, where the white and fleecy 
 waves 
 
 Look'd soft as carded wool ; 
 But the cruel rocks they gored her side 
 
 Like the horns of an angry bull. 
 
 Her rattling shrouds, all sheath'd in ice, 
 With the masts, went by the board ; 
 
 Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank — 
 "Ho ! ho !" the breakers roar'd. 
 
 At daybreak, on the bleak sea beach, 
 
 A fisherman stood aghast, 
 To see the form of a maiden fair 
 
 Lash'd close to a drifting mast. 
 
 The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 
 
 The salt tears in her eyes ; 
 And he saw her hair, like the brown sea 
 weed 
 
 On the billows fall and rise. 
 
 Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
 In the midnight and the snow; 
 
 Christ save us all from a death like this, 
 On the reef of Norman's Woe. 
 
 — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 %5* «5* «?• 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN GLADIATOR. 
 
 STILLNESS reigned in the vast am- 
 phitheater, and from the countless 
 thousands that thronged the spacious in- 
 closure not a breath was heard. Every 
 tongue was mute with suspense, and every 
 eye strained with anxiety toward the 
 gloomy portal where the gladiator was mo- 
 mentarily expected to enter. At length the 
 trumpet sounded and they led him forth 
 
 into the broad arena. There was no mark 
 of fear upon his manly countenance, as with 
 majestic step and fearless eye he entered. 
 He stood there, like another Apollo, firm 
 and unbending as the rigid oak. His fine 
 proportioned form was matchless, and his 
 turgid muscles spoke his giant strength. 
 
 "I am here," he cried, as his proud lip 
 curled in scorn, "to glut the savage eye of 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 389 
 
 Rome's proud populace! Aye, like a dog 
 you throw me to a beast; and what is my 
 offense? Why, forsooth, I am a Christian. 
 But know, ye cannot fright my soul, for it 
 is based upon a foundation stronger than 
 the adamantine rock. Know ye, whose 
 hearts are harder than the flinty stone, my 
 heart quakes not with fear; and here I 
 aver, I would not change conditions with 
 the blood-stained Nero, crowned though he 
 be, not for the wealth of Rome. Blow ye 
 your trumpet — I am ready !" 
 
 The trumpet sounded, and a long, low 
 growl was heard to proceed from the cage 
 of a half-famished Numidian lion, situated 
 at the farthest end of the arena. The growl 
 deepened into a roar of tremendous volume, 
 which shook the enormous edifice to its very 
 center. At that moment the door was 
 thrown open, and the huge monster of the 
 forest sprang from his den with one mighty 
 bound to the opposite side of the arena. His 
 eyes blazed with the brilliancy of fire as he 
 slowly drew his length along the sand and 
 prepared to make a spring upon his formid- 
 able antagonist. The gladiator's eye quailed 
 not ; his lip paled not ; but he stood immov- 
 able as a statue, waiting the approach of 
 his wary foe. 
 
 At length the lion crouched himself into 
 an attitude for springing, and with the 
 quickness of lightning leaped full at the 
 throat of the gladiator. But he was pre- 
 pared for him, and bounding lightly on one 
 side, his falchion flashed for a moment over 
 his head, and in the next it was deeply dyed 
 in the purple blood of the monster. A roar 
 of redoubled fury again resounded through 
 the spacious amphitheater as the enraged 
 animal, mad with the anguish from the 
 wound he had just received, wheeled hastily 
 round and sprang a second time at the Naz- 
 arene. 
 
 Again was the falchion of the cool and 
 intrepid gladiator deeply planted in the 
 breast of his terrible adversary ; but so sud- 
 den had been the second attack, that it was 
 impossible to avoid the full impetus of his 
 ' bound, and he staggered and fell upon his 
 knee. The monster's paw was upon his 
 shoulder, and he felt its hot fiery breath 
 upon his cheek, as it rushed through his 
 wide distended nostrils. The Nazarene 
 drew a short dagger from his girdle, and 
 endeavored to regain his feet. But his foe, 
 aware of his design, precipitated himself 
 upon him threw him with violence to the 
 ground. 
 
 The excitement of the populace was now 
 wrought up to a high pitch, and they waited 
 the result with breathless suspense. A low 
 growl of satisfaction now announced the 
 noble animal's triumph, as he sprang 
 fiercely upon his prostrate enemy. But it 
 was of short duration; the dagger of the 
 gladiator pierced his vitals, and together 
 they rolled over and over, across the broad 
 arena. Again the dagger drank deep of the 
 monster's blood, and again a roar of an- 
 guish reverberated through the stately edi- 
 fice. 
 
 The Nazarene, now watching his oppor- 
 tunity, sprang with the velocity of thought 
 from the terrific embrace of his enfeebled 
 antagonist, and regaining his falchion, 
 which had fallen to the ground in the strug- 
 gle, he buried it deep in the heart of the 
 infuriated beast. The noDie king of the for- 
 est, faint from the loss of blood, concen- 
 trated all his remaining strength in one 
 mighty bound ; but it was too late ; the last 
 blow had been driven home to the center of 
 life, and his huge form fell with a mighty 
 crash upon the arena, amid the thundering 
 acclamations of the populace. 
 
390 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 jr-pi 
 
 IN THE AMEN CORNER 
 
 'WAS a stylish congregation, that of 
 Theophrastus Brown, 
 And its organ was the finest and the biggest 
 
 in the town, 
 And the chorus, all the papers favorably 
 
 commented on it, 
 For 'twas said each female member had a 
 
 forty-dollar bonnet. 
 
 Now in the "amen corner" of the church sat 
 
 Brother Eyer, 
 Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing 
 
 with the choir; 
 He was poor, but genteel-looking, and his 
 
 heart as snow was white, 
 And his old face beamed with sweetness 
 
 when he sang with all his might. 
 
 His voice was cracked and broken, age had 
 touched his vocal chords, 
 
 And nearly every Sunday he would mispro- 
 nounce the words 
 
 Of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was 
 old and nearly blind, 
 
 And the choir rattling onward always left 
 him far behind. 
 
 The chorus stormed and blustered, Brother 
 Eyer sang too slow, 
 
 And then he used the tunes in vogue a hun- 
 dred years ago ; 
 
 At last the storm-cloud burst, and the 
 church was told, in fine, 
 
 That the brother must stop singing, or the 
 choir would resign. 
 
 Then the pastor called together in the lec- 
 ture-room one day 
 
 Seven influential members who subscribe 
 more than they pay, 
 
 And having asked God's guidance in a 
 printed prayer or two, 
 
 They put their heads together to determine 
 what to do. 
 
 They debated, thought, suggested till at last 
 
 "dear Brother York," 
 Who last winter made a million on a sudden 
 
 rise in pork, 
 Rose and moved that a committee wait at 
 
 once on Brother Eyer, 
 And proceed to rake him lively for "dis- 
 
 turbin' of the choir." 
 
 Said he: "In that 'ere organ I've invested 
 quite a pile, 
 
 And we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the 
 latest style; 
 
 Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hard- 
 est thing 
 
 For to make God understand him when the 
 brother tries to sing. 
 
 "We've got the biggest organ, the best- 
 dressed choir in town, 
 
 We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor 
 Brother Brown; 
 
 But if we must humor ignorance because 
 it's blind and old, — 
 
 If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek an- 
 other fold." 
 
 Of course the motion carried, and one day 
 
 a coach and four, 
 With the latest style of driver, rattled up to 
 
 Eyer's door; 
 And the sleek, well-dressed committee, 
 
 Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb, 
 As they crossed the humble portal took good 
 
 care to miss the jamb. 
 
 They found the choir's great trouble sitting 
 
 in his old arm-chair, 
 And the summer's golden sunbeams lay 
 
 upon his thin white hair ; 
 He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a voice 
 
 both cracked and low, 
 But the angels understood him, 'twas all he 
 
 cared to know. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 391 
 
 Said York: "We're here, dear brother, 
 
 with the vestry's approbation, 
 To discuss a little matter that affects the 
 
 congregation ;" 
 "And the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving 
 
 Brother York a nudge, 
 "And the choir too!" he echoed with the 
 
 graveness of a judge. 
 
 "It was the understanding when we bar- 
 gained for the chorus 
 
 That it was to relieve us, that is, do the 
 singing for us ; 
 
 If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, 
 dear brother, 
 
 It will leave our congregation and be gob- 
 bled by another. 
 
 "We don't want any singing except that 
 what we've bought ! 
 
 The latest tunes are all the rage; the old 
 ones stand for naught ; 
 
 And so we have decided — are you listen- 
 ing Brother Eyer? — 
 
 That you'll have to stop your singin', for it 
 flurrytates the choir." 
 
 The old man slowly raised his head, a sign 
 
 that he did hear, 
 And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter 
 
 of a tear ; 
 His feeble hands pushed back the locks 
 
 white as the silky snow, 
 As he answered the committee in a voice 
 
 both sweet and low : 
 
 "I've sung the psalms of David for nearly 
 
 eighty years, 
 They've been my staff and comfort and 
 
 calmed life's many fears ; 
 I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm 
 
 doing wrong; 
 But when my heart is filled with praise, I 
 
 can't keep back a song. 
 
 "I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking 
 at my feet, 
 
 In the far-off heavenly temple, where the 
 Master I shall greet, — 
 
 Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs 
 of God up higher, 
 
 If the angel band will church me for dis- 
 turbing heaven's choir." 
 
 A silence filled the little room ; the old man 
 
 bowed his head ; 
 The carriage rattled on again, but Brother 
 
 Eyer was dead! 
 Yes, dead ! his hand had raised the veil the 
 
 future hangs before us, 
 And the Master dear had called him to the 
 
 everlasting chorus. 
 
 The choir missed him for awhile, but he 
 
 was soon forgot, 
 A few church-goers watched the door ; the 
 
 old man entered not. 
 Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he 
 
 sings his heart's desires, 
 Where there are no church committees and 
 
 no fashionable choirs. 
 
 Jt & 
 
 THE DYING SOLDIER. 
 
 IT was the evening after a great battle. All 
 day long the din of strife had echoed 
 far, and thickly strewn lay the shattered 
 forms of those so lately erect and exultant 
 in the flush and strength of manhood. 
 Among the many who bowed to the con- 
 
 queror, Death, that night was a noble youth 
 in the freshness of his early life. The 
 strong limbs lay listless and the dark hair 
 was matted with gore on the pale, broad 
 forehead. His eyes were closed. As one 
 who ministered to the sufferer bent over 
 
392 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 him, he, at first, thought him dead ; but the 
 white lips moved, and slowly, in weak tones, 
 he repeated : 
 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep ; 
 I pray the Lord my soul to keep ; 
 If I should die before I wake, 
 I pray the Lord my soul to take ; 
 And this I ask for Jesus' sake." 
 
 As he finished, he opened his eyes, and 
 meeting the pitying gaze of a brother sol- 
 dier, he exclaimed, "My mother taught me 
 that when I was a little boy, and I have said 
 it every night since I can remember. Be- 
 fore the morning dawns I believe God will 
 take my soul for Jesus' sake ; but before I 
 die I want to send a message to my mother." 
 
 He was carried to a temporary hospital 
 and a letter was written to his mother which 
 he dictated. It was full of Christian faith 
 
 and filial love. His end was calm and peace- 
 ful. Just as the sun arose his spirit went 
 home, his last articulate words being : 
 
 " I pray the Lord my soul to take ; 
 And this I ask for Jesus' sake." 
 
 So died the noble volunteer. The prayer 
 of childhood was the prayer of manhood. 
 He learned it at his mother's knee in his far 
 distant Northern home, and he whispered it, 
 in dying, when his young life ebbed away 
 on a Southern battle-field. It was his 
 nightly petition in life, and the angel who 
 bore his spirit home to heaven, bore the 
 sweet prayer his soul loved so well. 
 
 God bless the saintly words, alike loved 
 and repeated by high and low, rich and poor, 
 wise and ignorant, old and young, only sec- 
 ond to our Lord's Prayer in beauty and 
 simplicity. Happy the soul that can repeat 
 it with the holy fervor of our dying soldier. 
 
 (5* &9* $5* 
 
 MY FIRST RECITATION. 
 
 1WAS seized with an ambition to appear 
 in public once, 
 I would study elocution and in public would 
 
 recite ; 
 So I bought a recitation and I read it night 
 
 and day, 
 Until without a single break, I every word 
 could say. 
 
 I bought a book on action, and studied ease 
 and grace, 
 
 And practiced well, before the glass, each 
 tragical grimace, 
 
 For I was of a somber turn and loved dra- 
 matic rhyme, 
 
 Of haunted towers, and lovers' sighs, and 
 deeds of horrid crime. 
 
 I joined a concert company, and had my 
 name put down, 
 
 And thought my first appearance was the 
 
 talk of half the town ; 
 The piece I had selected was a splendid one 
 
 to "go," 
 I had heard it oft recited by a fellow that I 
 
 know. 
 
 And when you hear the title, I am sure 
 you'll say "that's good," 
 
 'Twas the most dramatic poem ever writ- 
 ten by Tom Hood ; 
 
 I had seen the ladies clap their hands, and 
 give a little scream — «\ 
 
 Now, can't you guess the title? It was 
 "Eugene Aram's Dream!" 
 
 The spacious hall was crowded with an 
 
 audience most select, 
 And some most distinguished visitors 
 
 whom we did not expect — 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 393 
 
 And one, I must confess it, the adored one 
 
 of my heart, 
 It was for her I tried to shine in this most 
 
 tragic part. 
 
 There was carpet on the platform, and 
 banners trailed the ground, 
 
 And a scented water fountain threw its per- 
 fumed spray around; 
 
 And plants of tropic beauty in pots were 
 blooming there, 
 
 You scarcely could imagine a scene more 
 wondrous fair. 
 
 I looked at my adored one, with the glor- 
 ious hazel eyes, 
 
 And felt that her applause would be an all- 
 sufficient prize. 
 
 First a grand piano solo, then a chorus by 
 the choir — 
 
 I always had a notion that sweet music 
 could inspire, 
 
 And give a soldier courage; but the more 
 I now reflect, 
 
 I am quite sure that the music had an op- 
 posite effect, 
 
 For although my head was burning I was 
 trembling like a leaf ; 
 
 Then I thought the songs might soothe me, 
 but the songs were all too brief. 
 
 When I looked upon the programme, and 
 
 had marked off every name, 
 It seemed as if my time t' appear like a 
 
 flash of lightning came. 
 I tried to feel collected, and as if I didn't 
 
 care, 
 But I felt my face was burning right away 
 
 into my hair. 
 
 I stood just behind the platform, trying 
 
 vainly to keep cool, 
 And whispering softly to myself, "Be calm, 
 
 don't be a fool !" 
 
 When, smiling, our conductor round the 
 corner popped his head, 
 
 "Come, look sharp, Mr. Whiffim, the plat- 
 form waits !" he said. 
 
 Then I rushed upon the platform, nearly 
 
 falling on my face, 
 And stood before the audience, glaring 
 
 wildly into space. 
 When I saw the upturned faces, I'd have 
 
 given the world to say, 
 "Please don't stare at me so rudely ! Oh, 
 
 do look the other way !" 
 
 Where were all my tragic actions, which 
 
 their feelings must have stirred? 
 And, O horror ! more important, where, oh 
 
 where, was the first word ! 
 Vainly stared I at the ceiling, vainly 
 
 stared I at the floor ; 
 Yes, the words were quite forgotten, I had 
 
 known so well before. 
 
 And I saw my own adored one hide her face 
 
 behind her fan, 
 And a stout old lady murmured, "Dear me, 
 
 what can ail the man?" 
 Then suddenly I remembered part of that 
 
 most tragic rhyme, 
 And I waved my arms and shouted, "In 
 
 the prime of summer time." 
 
 Why the audience laughed I know not, but 
 
 they did and I got mad, 
 It was not a comic poem, and to laugh was 
 
 much too bad; 
 Then I thought about my action, when 
 
 "some moody turns he took," 
 And I tramped along the platform till the 
 
 very rafters shook. 
 
 Then I reached the thrilling portion where 
 
 the ladies ought to scream, 
 Then I said, "My lad, remember, this is 
 
 nothing but a dream." 
 
394 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 But to me it was a nightmare, awful, but, 
 
 alas ! too true ; 
 How I wished the creaking platform would 
 
 but break and let me through ! 
 
 Oh ! but for one drink of water, one to cool 
 
 my burning tongue. 
 Then I stooped to lift the body, then again 
 
 I upward sprung; 
 I had clasped a splendid rose-bush, on my 
 
 shoulder held it tight, 
 Then I plunged into the audience, scattering 
 
 it wildly left and right. 
 
 And I dropped the splendid rose-bush on 
 
 a stout old lady's lap, 
 And the branches got entangled with the 
 
 ribbons of her cap. 
 Then I pulled it, waved it wildly, like a 
 
 palm-branch high in air, 
 Wig and cap hung in the branches — the 
 
 old lady's head was bare. 
 
 Wildly then I flung it from me, flung it ere 
 
 I turned and fled, 
 And it struck the portly rector, struck him 
 
 on his shiny head. 
 Then the fierce mustachioed captain seized 
 
 me with an angry shout, 
 Lifted me by the coat collar, and, yes, really 
 
 kicked me out. 
 
 Angelina, my adored one, passes me and 
 
 does not bow, 
 Angelina goes out walking with another 
 
 young man now. 
 How I hate my wild ambition! I detest 
 
 dramatic rhyme, 
 And the art of elocution I would punish as 
 
 a crime. 
 For reciting may be pleasant if you don't 
 
 aspire too high, 
 But before you say it's easy, do as I did — 
 
 go and try. 
 
 — W. A. Eaton. 
 
 t5* t2& t£* 
 
 WHY HE WOULDN'T SELL THE FARM. 
 
 HERE, John! you drive the cows up 
 while your mar brings out the pails ; 
 But don't ye let me ketch yer ahangin' 
 
 onter them cows' tails, 
 An' chasin' them across that lot at sich a 
 
 tarin' rate; 
 An' John, when you cum out, be sure and 
 shet that pastur gate. 
 
 It's strange that boy will never lam to 
 notice what I say, 
 
 I'm 'fraid that he'll git to rulin' me, if 
 things goes on this way ; 
 
 But boys is boys, and will be boys, till ther 
 grown up to men, 
 
 An' John's about as good a lad as the aver- 
 age of 'em. 
 
 I'll tell ye, stranger, how it is : I feel a heap 
 o' pride 
 
 In that boy — he's our only one sence little 
 
 Neddy died ; 
 Don't mind me, sir, I'm growin' old, my 
 
 eyesight's gettin' dim ; 
 But 't seems sumhow a kind o' mist cums 
 
 long o' thoughts of him. 
 
 Jes' set down on the doorstep, Squar, an' 
 
 make yerself to hum ; 
 While Johnny's bringin' up the cows I'll 
 
 tell ye how it cum 
 That all our boys ha' left us, 'ceptin' 
 
 Johnny there, 
 An' I reckon, stranger, countin' all, we've 
 
 had about our share. 
 
 Thar was our first boy, Benjamin, the old- 
 est of them all, 
 
 He was the smartest little chap, so clipper, 
 peart and small ; 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 395 
 
 He cum to us one sun-bright morn, as 
 
 merry as a lark, 
 It would ha' done your soul good, Squar, 
 
 to a seen the little spark. 
 
 An' thar was Tom, "a hansum boy," his 
 
 mother alius said, 
 He took to books, and larned so spry, we 
 
 put the sprig ahead — 
 His skoolin' cleaned the little pile we'd 
 
 laid by in the chest, 
 But I's bound to give the boy a chance to do 
 
 his level best. 
 
 Our third one's name was Samuel ; he 
 
 growed up here to hum, 
 An' worked with me upon the farm till he 
 
 was twenty-one. 
 Fur Benjamin had larned a trade — He 
 
 didn't take to work ; 
 Tom, mixin' up in politics, got 'lected 
 
 County Clerk. 
 
 We ken all remember, stranger, the year o' 
 
 sixty-one, 
 When the spark that teched the powder off 
 
 in that Confed'rat gun 
 Flashed like a streak o' lightning up acrost 
 
 from east to west, 
 An' left a spot that burned like fire in every 
 
 patriot's breast. 
 
 An' I tell you what it was, Squar, my boys 
 
 cum up to the scratch. 
 They all had a share o' the old man's grit, 
 
 with enough of their own to match. 
 They showed their colors, an' set ther flint, 
 
 their names went down on the roll, 
 An' Benjamin, Thomas an' Sam was 
 
 pledged to preserve the old flag whole. 
 
 They all cum hum together at the last, 
 rigged up in their soldier clothes ; 
 
 It made my old heart thump, thump with 
 pride, an' ther mother's spirits rose, 
 
 Fur she'd been "down in the mouth" sum- 
 what sense she'd heard what the boys 
 had done, 
 
 Fur it took all three, an' it's hard enough 
 fur a mother to give up one. 
 
 But ther warnt a drop of coward's blood 
 
 in her veins, I ken tell you first, 
 Fur she'd send the boys, an' the old man, 
 
 too, ef the worst had cum to worst ; 
 I shall never furgit the last night, Squar, 
 
 when we all kneeled down to pray, 
 How she give 'em, one by one, to God, in 
 
 the hush of the twilight gray. 
 
 An' when the morning broke so clear — 
 
 not a cloud was in the sky — 
 The boys cum in with sober looks to bid us 
 
 their last good-by; 
 I didn't spect she would stand it all, with 
 
 her face so firm an' calm, 
 But she didn't break nor give in a peg till 
 
 she cum to kissin' Sam, 
 
 An' then it all cum out at onct, like a 
 
 storm from a thunder cloud, — 
 She jest set down on the kitchen floor, 
 
 broke out with a sob so loud 
 Thet Sam give up, and the boys cum back, 
 
 and they all got down by her there ; 
 An' I'm thinkin' 'twould a made an angel 
 
 cry to hev seen that partin', Squar ! 
 
 I think she had a forewarnin', fur when 
 they brought back poor Sam, 
 
 She sot down by his coffin there, with her 
 face so white and calm, 
 
 Thet the neighbors who cum a pourin' in 
 to see our soldier dead, 
 
 Went out with a hush on ther tremblin' 
 lips, an' the words in ther hearts un- 
 said. 
 
 Stranger, perhaps you heard of Sam, how 
 he broke through thet Secesh line. 
 
396 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 An' planted the old flag high an' dry, where 
 its dear old stars could shine ; 
 
 An' after our soldiers won the day, an' a 
 gatherin' up the dead, 
 
 They found our boy with his brave heart 
 still, and the flag above his head. 
 
 An' Tom was shot at Gettysburg, in the 
 
 thickest of the fray — 
 They say thet he led his gallant boys like a 
 
 hero thro' thet day ; 
 But they brought him back with his clear 
 
 voice hushed in the silent sleep of death, 
 An' another grave grew grassy green 
 
 'neath the kiss of the Summer's breath. 
 
 An' Benjamin, he cum hum at last; but it 
 
 made my old eyes ache 
 To see him lay with thet patient look, when 
 
 it seemed thet his heart must break 
 With his pain and wounds, but he lingered 
 
 on till the flowers died away, 
 
 An' then he laid him down to rest, in the 
 close of the autumn day. 
 
 Will I sell the old farm, stranger, the house 
 
 where my boys were born? 
 Jes' look down through the orchard, Squar, 
 
 beyond thet field of corn — 
 Ken ye see them four white marble stuns 
 
 gleam out through the orchard glade? 
 Wall, all thet is left of our boys on earth 
 
 rests unner them old trees' shade. 
 
 But there cums John with the cows, ye see, 
 
 an' it's 'bout my milkin' time; 
 If ye happen along this way agin, jes' drop 
 
 in at any time. 
 Oh, ye axed if I'd eny notion the old farm 
 
 would ever be sold; 
 Wall! may be, Squar, but I'll tell ye plain, 
 
 'twill be when the old man's cold. 
 
 w* t3* ^* 
 
 THE DRUMMER BOY'S BURIAL. 
 
 Death had touched him very gently, and he 
 
 lay as if in sleep ; 
 E'en his mother scarce had shuddered at 
 
 that slumber calm and deep. 
 
 ALL day long the storm of battle through 
 the startled valley swept ; 
 All night long the stars in heaven o'er the 
 slain sad vigils kept. 
 
 O, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming 
 
 whitely through the night, 
 O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim 
 
 sepulchral light. 
 
 One by one the pale stars faded, and at 
 
 length the morning broke 
 Once again the night dropped round them — 
 
 night so holy and so calm 
 That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like 
 
 the sound of prayer or psalm. 
 
 On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart 
 
 from all the rest, 
 Lay a fair young boy, with small hands 
 
 meekly folded on his breast. 
 
 For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a 
 
 radiance to the face, 
 And the hand of cunning sculptor could 
 
 have added naught of grace 
 
 To the marble limbs so perfect in their pas- 
 sionless repose, 
 
 Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, 
 unpitying foes. 
 
 And the broken drum beside him all his 
 life's short story told : 
 
 How he did his duty bravely till the death- 
 tide o'er him rolled. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 397 
 
 Midnight came with ebon garments and a 
 
 diadem of stars, 
 While right upward in the zenith hung the 
 
 fiery planet Mars. 
 
 Hark ! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of 
 
 voices whispering low, 
 Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the 
 
 brooklet's murmuring flow? 
 
 Clinging closely to each other, striving ne'er 
 
 to look around, 
 As they passed with silent shudder the pale 
 
 corses on the ground, 
 
 Came two little maidens — sisters — with a 
 
 light and hasty tread, 
 And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, 
 
 half of dread. 
 
 And they did not pause nor falter till, with 
 
 throbbing hearts, they stood 
 Where the drummer-boy was lying in that 
 
 partial solitude. 
 
 They had brought some simple garments 
 from their wardrobe's scanty store, 
 
 And two heavy iron shovels in their slender 
 hands they bore. 
 
 Then they quickly knelt beside him, crush- 
 ing back the pitying tears, 
 
 For they had no time for weeping, nor for 
 any girlish fears. 
 
 And they robed the icy body, while no glow 
 
 of maiden shame 
 Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a 
 
 flush of lambent flame. 
 
 For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in 
 
 that hour of sorest need, 
 And they felt that death was holy, and it 
 
 sanctified the deed. 
 
 But they smiled and kissed each other when 
 their new, strange task was o'er, 
 
 And the form that lay before them its un- 
 wonted garments wore. 
 
 Then with slow and weary labor a small 
 
 grave they hollowed out, 
 And they lined it with the withered grass 
 
 and leaves that lay about. 
 
 But the day was slowly breaking ere their 
 
 holy work was done, 
 And in crimson pomp the morning heralded 
 
 again the sun. 
 
 Gently then those little maidens — they were 
 children of our foes — 
 
 Laid the body of our drummer boy to un- 
 disturbed repose. 
 
 <5* t5* &5* 
 
 GRANDMA'S KNITTING STORY. 
 
 THE supper is o'er, the hearth is swept, 
 And in the wood-fire's glow 
 The children cluster to hear a tale 
 Of that time so long ago, 
 
 When grandma's hair was golden brown, 
 And the warm blood came and went 
 
 O'er the face that could scarce have been 
 sweeter then 
 Than now in its rich content. 
 
 The face is wrinkled and careworn now, 
 
 And the golden hair is gray ; 
 But the light that shone in the young girl's 
 eyes 
 
 Never has gone away. 
 
 And her needles catch the firelight 
 
 As in and out they go, 
 With the clicking music that grandma 
 loves, 
 
 Shaping the stocking toe, 
 
398 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 And the waiting children love it, too, 
 For they know the stocking sor.g 
 
 Brings many a tale to grandma's mind 
 Which they shal 1 have ere long. 
 
 But it brings no story of olden time 
 To grandma's heart to-night, — 
 
 Only a refrain, quaint and short, 
 Is sung by the needles bright. 
 
 "Life is a stocking," grandma says, 
 
 "And yours is just begun; 
 But I am knitting the toe of mine, 
 
 And my work is almost done. 
 
 "With merry hearts we begin to knit, 
 And the ribbing is almost play ; 
 
 Some are gay-colored, and some are white, 
 And some are ashen-gray. 
 
 "But most are made of many hues, 
 With many a stitch set wrong ; 
 
 And many a row to be sadly ripped 
 Ere the whole is fair and strong. 
 
 "There are long, plain spaces, without a 
 break, 
 
 That in life are hard to bear ; 
 And many a weary tear is dropped 
 
 As we fashion the heel with care. 
 
 "But the saddest, happiest time is that 
 We count and yet would shun, 
 
 When our Heavenly Father breaks the 
 thread, 
 And says that our work is done." 
 
 The children came to say good-night, 
 With tears in their bright young eyes, 
 
 But in grandma's lap, with broken thread, 
 The finished stocking lies. 
 
 t5* t^ri t&& 
 
 GRANDMA'S WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 WHEN we were merry children, eyes 
 of blue and hair of gold, 
 We listened to a story by a sweet- faced lady 
 
 told; 
 Yes, in the twilight of her life, when she 
 
 was old and gray, 
 We loved to hear the story of Grandma's 
 wedding-day. 
 
 There was a lack of bridal gifts — no gold 
 
 and silver fine, 
 No jewels from across the sea, upon her 
 
 brow to shine; 
 A man in homespun clothes stood up and 
 
 gave the bride away — 
 For all was sweet simplicity on Grandma's 
 
 wedding-day. 
 
 There was no surpliced minister, no bell 
 above them hung, 
 
 They stood upon the forest sward, this 
 
 couple, fair and young; 
 And when the parson called them one and 
 
 wished them years of bliss, 
 The groom received his only gift — a soft 
 
 and holy kiss. 
 
 A cabin in the forest stood to welcome home 
 
 the pair, 
 And happy birds among the trees made 
 
 music on the air ; 
 She was the reigning backwoods belle — the 
 
 bride so fair and gay — 
 And that is why the birds were glad upon 
 
 her wedding-day. 
 
 Thus life began for Grandma, in the forest 
 
 dim and old, 
 And where she lived a city stands, with 
 
 stateliness untold; 
 
Photo by Byron, N. Y. 
 
 THE UNHAPPY HOME. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 401 
 
 She told us how the Indian came the set- 
 tler brave to fight, 
 
 And how she rocked the cradle to the wolf's 
 long howl at night. 
 
 The cradle was an oaken trough, un- 
 trimmed with costly lace, 
 
 But in it nestled, now and then, a bright, 
 cherubic face; 
 
 And Grandma was as happy then as though 
 a mansion grand 
 
 Above her rose like some. we see through- 
 out our lovely land. 
 
 I cherish now a lock of hair — 'tis not of sil- 
 ver gray, 
 
 She clipped it in the sunlight fair, though 
 years have passed away — 
 
 It is a tress of Grandma's hair, as bright as 
 when she stood, 
 
 And blushing took her bridal vows within 
 the pathless wood. 
 
 On yonder hill, this golden morn, she takes 
 
 her dreamless rest; 
 The wrinkled hands, so often kissed, lie 
 
 crossed upon her breast; 
 And gently on her finger, e'er we laid her 
 
 form away, 
 We placed the simple ring she wore upon 
 
 her wedding-day. 
 
 J8 
 
 THE DELINQUENT SUBSCRIBER. 
 
 WORN and weary, seedy and sad, an 
 editor sat him down 
 'Mid work and rubbish, paper and dust, 
 
 with many a wrinkled frown, 
 He sighed when he thought of his paper 
 
 bills, his rent, and board and wood, 
 And groaned when the copy fiend yelled out, 
 as he there in the doorway stood. 
 
 "What do people fancy," he said, "an editor 
 lives upon ? 
 
 Air and water, glory and debt, till his toil- 
 some life is done ? 
 
 I'll stop their papers, every one, till their 
 honest debts they pay, 
 
 And mark their names off the mailing book 
 for ever and ever aye. 
 
 "Take this copy, double lead, and mark 
 
 with a pencil blue, 
 And send to all who are in arrears, from ten 
 
 years down to two." 
 And then to the copy-hungry boy he handed 
 
 a penciled scrawl 
 Of hieroglyphics, straggling, wild, all 
 
 tangled, and lean and tall. 
 
 When scarce a fortnight had dragged its 
 length of tired-out hours away, 
 
 There came to the heart of the editor a glad- 
 some joy one day ; 
 
 'Twas only a letter from Gordon's Mill, in a 
 hand both weak and old, 
 
 But out of it fell a treasured coin of solid 
 beautiful gold ! 
 
 The letter claimed his interest then, and so 
 
 he slowly read 
 The scrawled, but simple and honest words, 
 
 and this is what they said : 
 "Dear Editor: I read the lines you marked 
 
 and sent to me, 
 So I send this piece of gold and ask if you 
 
 will agree 
 
 "To send my paper right along, and forget 
 
 the debt I owed, 
 For I've took your paper for twenty year, 
 
 and so far as e'er I know'd, 
 I never owed no man a cent till about four 
 
 years ago, 
 When my poor wife died, and the crops 
 
 was bad, and the fever laid me low. 
 
402 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 "And times hain't never been the same to lit- 
 tle Liz and me — 
 
 For we are all that's left behind — and since 
 my eyes can't see, 
 
 She always reads the paper, and it's been 
 our only cheer 
 
 And brought us all the news and fun we've 
 had for many a year. 
 
 "I'm gettin' old and feeble, now, and down 
 
 with the rheumatiz, 
 And there's the paper left to me; just that 
 
 and little Liz. 
 We couldn't bear to lose it now, it's been 
 
 with us so long, 
 Till its very name is music, like an old time 
 
 happy song. 
 
 "This twenty-dollar piece of gold will pay 
 
 for all I owe, 
 And what is over and above, just keep, and 
 
 let it go 
 Toward paying for the paper till a brighter, 
 
 better day ; 
 And send to Liz, she'll need it then, when I 
 
 am called away." 
 
 Glad and thankful the editor was, as he 
 
 knew that there was one" 
 Who loved and could appreciate the work 
 
 that he had done. 
 He felt that life was not in vain, and smiled 
 
 through happy tears ; 
 And then on the mailing book he wrote: 
 
 "Paid up for twenty years." 
 
 . — Margaret A. Oldham. 
 
 kct* t2& t2& 
 
 A TRAGEDY OF THE PLAINS. 
 
 WHAT is that? Look closer and you 
 will see that it is a gaunt, grim wolf, 
 creeping out of the little grove of cotton- 
 woods towards a buffalo calf gamboling 
 about its mother. 
 
 Raise your eyes a little more, and you 
 will see that the prairie beyond is alive with 
 buffalo. Count them! You might as well 
 try to count the leaves on a giant maple ! 
 They are moving foot by foot as they crop 
 the juicy grass, and living waves rise and 
 fall as the herd slowly sweeps on. Afar 
 out to the right and left, mere specks on 
 the plain, are the flankers — brave old buf- 
 faloes which catch a bite of grass and then 
 sniff the air and scan the horizon for inti- 
 mation of danger. They are the sentinels 
 of the herd, and right well can they be 
 trusted. 
 
 The wolf creeps nearer! All the after- 
 noon the herd has fed in peace, and as it 
 now moves toward the distant river it is all 
 unconscious that danger is near. Look you 
 
 well and watch the wolf for you are going 
 to see such a sight as not one man in ten 
 thousand has ever beheld. 
 
 Creep — crawl — skulk — now behind a 
 knoll, now drawing himself over the grass, 
 now raising his head above a thistle to 
 mark the locality of his victim. It is a lone, 
 shambling, skulking wolf, lame and spite- 
 ful and treacherous. Wounded or ailing, he 
 has been left alone to get on as best he may, 
 and his green eyes light up with fiercer 
 blaze as he draws nearer and nearer to his 
 unconscious prey. 
 
 There ! No, he is yet too far away. 
 Creep, creep, creep ! Now he is twenty feet 
 away — now fifteen — now ten. He hugs the 
 earth, gathers his feet under him, then 
 leaps through the air as if shot from a gun. 
 He is rolling the calf over and over on the 
 grass in three seconds after he springs. 
 Now watch! 
 
 A cry of pain from the calf — a furious 
 bellow from the mother as she wheels and 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 403 
 
 charges the wolf — a startled movement 
 from a dozen of the nearest animals, 
 and a rush begins. The one wolf is magni- 
 fied into a hundred, the hundred into a thou- 
 sand. Short, sharp bellows, snorts of alarm, 
 a rush, and in fifty seconds after the wolf 
 has wet his fangs with blood that living 
 mass is in motion to get away from an un- 
 known terror. The waves rise higher and 
 higher as the confusion spreads. One in- 
 stant it seems as if ten thousand solid acres 
 of prairie were moving bodily away ; again 
 waves rise and fall as the cowards behind 
 rush upon those in front who wait to sniff 
 the air and learn the danger. In one min- 
 ute the alarm runs down the herd to the 
 leaders — further than the eye can see, and 
 the entire herd if off at a mad gallop, heads 
 down, eyes rolling, and no thought but that 
 of escape. If Lake Erie were to dash itself 
 against a wall the shock would be no greater 
 than the awful crash with which this mass 
 of rattling hoofs, sharp horns and hairy 
 bodies would meet it. The clatter of hoofs 
 and rattle of horns would drown the noise 
 of a brigade of cavalry dashing over a 
 stone-paved road. 
 
 Ride out on their trail. Here where the 
 stampede began the ground is torn and 
 furrowed as if a thousand cannon had been 
 firing solid shot at targets. Here and there 
 are calves which have been gored or 
 crushed, here and there older animals with 
 broken legs and disabling wounds. Here, 
 where the herd was fairly off, you might 
 as well hunt for a gold dollar as a blade of 
 grass. You look for three miles as you look 
 across it. It is a trail of dirt and dust and 
 ruts and furrows, where half an hour ago 
 was a carpet of green grass and smiling 
 flowers. The most dreadful cyclone known 
 to man could not have left more horrible 
 scars behind. 
 
 Miles- away, on the bank of a winding, 
 
 growling river, are three white-topped emi- 
 grant wagons. A camp-fire blazes up to 
 boil the kettles; men, women and children 
 stand about, peering over the setting sun 
 at the distant mountains and glad that their 
 journey is almost done. Butterflies come 
 and go on lazy wing, the crickets chirp 
 cheerily in the grass, and the eagles sailing 
 in the blue evening air have no warning to 
 give. 
 
 Hark! Is that thunder? 
 
 Men and women turn in their tracks as 
 they look in vain for a cloud in the sky. 
 That rumble comes again as they look into 
 each other's faces. It grows loifder as 
 women turn pale and men reach for their 
 trusty rifles. The ground trembles, and 
 afar off comes a din which strikes terror to 
 the heart. "Indians!" they whisper. No! 
 A thousand times better for them if the 
 savage Pawnee dared ride down where 
 those long-barreled rifles could speak in 
 defence of a peaceful camp. 
 
 "A stampede of buffaloes !" gasps one of 
 the men as he catches sight of the advance 
 guard under the awful cloud of dust. Rifles 
 are held ready for a shot, and the children 
 climb up on the heavy wagon wheels to see 
 the strange procession gallop past. 
 
 Here they come ! Crack ! crack ! crack ! 
 from three rifles, and a shout as each bullet 
 tells. Next instant a shaggy head, followed 
 by a dust-covered body, rushes through the 
 camp. Then another and another. The 
 men shout and wave their hands; the 
 women and children turn paler yet. 
 
 The roar and din shut out every other 
 sound, and the wagons jar and tremble with 
 the concussion. Now another shaggy head 
 — another — half a dozen — a score — a hun- 
 dred — a great living wave which sweeps 
 along with the power of a tornado, followed 
 by others more fierce and strong, and the 
 camp is blotted off the face of the earth as 
 
404 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 completely as by the power of Heaven. 
 Nothing to be seen, no shout to be heard. 
 Wave followed wave across the spot, over 
 the bank, into the stream and across, and 
 when the last of the herd has passed, the 
 
 keenest hunter can find on that spot nothing 
 of wood or iron or cloth or bone or flesh 
 to prove that a dozen men, women and 
 children were there wiped out of ex- 
 istence. 
 
 t&rl to* t5* 
 
 THE MIGHT OF LOVE. 
 
 THERE is work, good man, for you to- 
 day!" 
 So the wife of Jamie cried, 
 "For a ship at Garl'ston, on Solway, 
 Is beached, and her coal's to be got away 
 At the ebbing time of tide." 
 
 "And, lassie, would you have me start, 
 
 And make for Solway sands? 
 You know that I, for my poor part, 
 To help me, have nor horse nor cart — 
 
 I have only just my hands !" 
 
 "But, Jamie, be not, till ye try, 
 
 Of honest chances baulked; 
 For, mind ye, man, I'll prophesy 
 That while the old ship's high and dry 
 
 Her master'll have her caulked." 
 
 And far and near the men were pressed, 
 As the wife saw in her dreams. 
 
 "Aye," Jamie said, "she knew the best," 
 
 As he went under with the rest 
 To caulk the open seams. 
 
 And while the outward-flowing tide 
 
 Moaned like a dirge of woe, 
 The ship's mate from the beach-belt cried: 
 "Her hull is heeling toward the side 
 
 Where the men are at work below !" 
 
 And the cartmen, wild and open-eyed, 
 
 Made for the Solway sands — 
 Men heaving men like coals aside, 
 For now it was the master cried : 
 "Run for your lives, all hands !" 
 
 Like dead leaves in the sudden swell 
 
 Of the storm, upon that shout, 
 Brown hands went fluttering up and fell, 
 As, grazed by the sinking planks, pell-mell 
 The men came hurtling out! 
 
 Thank God, thank God, the peril's past ! 
 
 "No ! no !" with blanching lip, 
 The master cries. "One man, the last, 
 Is caught, drawn in, and grappled fast 
 
 Betwixt the sands and the ship !" 
 
 "Back, back, all hands ! Get what you can — 
 
 Or pick, or oar, or stave." 
 This way and that they breathless ran, 
 And came and fell to, every man, 
 
 To dig him out of his grave ! 
 
 "Too slow ! too slow ! the weight will kill ! 
 
 Up, make your hawsers fast !" 
 Then every man took hold with a will — 
 A long pull and a strong pull — still 
 
 With never a stir o' the mast! 
 
 "Out with the cargo!" Then they go 
 
 At it with might and main. 
 "Back to the sands ! too slow, too slow ! 
 He's dying, dying! yet, heave, ho! 
 
 Heave ho! there, once again!" 
 
 And now on the beach at Garl'ston stood 
 
 A woman whose pale brow wore 
 Its love like a queenly crown ; and the blood 
 Ran curdled and cold as she watched the 
 flood 
 That was racing in to the shore. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 405 
 
 On, on it trampled, stride by stride. 
 
 It was death to stand and wait ; 
 And all that were free threw picks aside, 
 And came up dripping out o' th' tide, 
 
 And left the doomed, to his fate. 
 
 But lo ! the great sea trembling stands ; 
 
 Then, crawling under the ship, 
 As if for the sake of the two white hands 
 
 Reaching over the wild, wet sands, 
 Slackened that terrible grip. 
 
 "Come to me, Jamie ! God grants the way," 
 
 She cries, "for lovers to meet." 
 And the sea, so cruel, grew kind, they say, 
 And, wrapping him tenderly round with 
 spray, 
 Laid him dead at her feet. 
 
 l2rl <2fr tc& 
 
 A TENEMENT HOUSE GUEST. 
 
 IN a tenement house, on west side of New 
 York City, lives Mrs. M'Ginnis, and she 
 earns her bread over a wash-tub. 
 
 She had just put her washing into the 
 boiler, and sat down to take an "aisy breath 
 or two," when she saw a curious appari- 
 tion in her doorway. It was the figure of 
 an old man, but so bent, so thin, so tattered, 
 so shaggy and unshorn, that, for an instant, 
 Mrs. M'Ginnis thought she confronted 
 something that was not of flesh and blood. 
 
 "And is it anything ye wahnt of me, me 
 gude man ?" 
 
 "Is she here?" 
 
 "Who, me gude man? Who do you 
 mane ?" 
 
 "Me little girl," he answered ; and the dim 
 old eyes began to brighten. 
 
 Then Mrs. M'Ginnis' eyes became ob- 
 scured. She thought her guest's mind was 
 wandering, and was touched. She was 
 frightened, too, but she spread her humble 
 board with the best she had, and urged him 
 to eat. Then she flew to summon her im- 
 mediate and intimate neighbors. This was 
 an event that called for outside counsel and 
 support. 
 
 Billy Blair, his mother's eldest, twenty 
 years old, and as big as any giant in the 
 "Pilgrim's Progress," was at home enjoy- 
 ing a holiday, because of a death in the firm 
 that employed him. Being the only repre- 
 
 sentative of male wisdom present, he as- 
 sumed control of the meeting without op- 
 position. 
 
 The old man, refreshed by food and rest, 
 rocked softly and began to talk. 
 
 "I wahnt to find me little girl." 
 
 "Who is yer little girl?" asked Billy. 
 "What's her name?" 
 
 "Her name ? It's Nora Grady, of course ; 
 and me own name, it's Thomas." 
 
 "When did yer little girl lave ye?" 
 
 "Whin did she lave me?" echoed the old 
 man. "Sure it's bin menny a long year ; but 
 I've got the figgers here, and a mark in the 
 paper for ivery year she's been gone," and 
 he fished from some invisible pocket among 
 his tatters a folded paper, as worn and soiled 
 as himself. 
 
 "It were in the year 1850 she sailed for 
 Ameriky," he said, looking intently at the 
 figures on the paper, "and she's been gone 
 all that time, has me little girl." 
 
 "And how old is she ?" asked Billy. 
 
 "Sixteen, — me little girl's sixteen, and she 
 had the purtiest face and curliest hair of 
 any lass in the country." 
 
 "But she's grown older, ye know, poor 
 mon ; she's an old woman now, surely," said 
 Mrs. Blair. 
 
 "No; she's me little girl," he answered, 
 with pitiful assurance in his voice. 
 
 "Does she expect ye?" asked Mrs. Nolan. 
 
406 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 "Naw," said the old man, with a childish 
 twinkle in his faded eyes, "naw ; it's a sur- 
 prise I'll give her. She'll be glad to see me ; 
 she'll be plazed at me bein' here, indade." 
 
 "When did ye last hear from her ?" asked 
 Mrs. M'Ginnis. 
 
 "In Siptimber, and here's the letter she 
 sent, wid her own name at the bottom." 
 
 Billy, the superior brain of the council, 
 took the letter and pored intently over .its 
 grimy surface, at last reaching the name at 
 the end. There it was, to be sure, as plain 
 
 as a stone wall, "Nora Grady, No. 167 
 
 Street, Jersey City." 
 
 "But what will Nora do wid ye, me mon, 
 if she hez nary a home of her own ?" asked 
 far-seeing Mrs. Blair. 
 
 "She writ me long ago that she had 
 money in the bank ; she'll be glad to see me, 
 I know," he answered, a look of trust in his 
 faded eyes. 
 
 His new friends soon set about improv- 
 ing his personal appearance. Billy made 
 some donations from his own limited ward- 
 robe, and the others supplied the remaining 
 deficiencies from stores as scanty. A bath 
 was administered, with Billy as chief opera- 
 tor and medical adviser, and a barber's ap- 
 prentice in the basement cheerfully added 
 his skill to complete the transformation. 
 
 These experiences exhausted the old man. 
 When he had been made over, externally, 
 he was too weak to sit up, and was trans- 
 ferred to Billy's bed, a decent but not dainty 
 couch. 
 
 Then Mrs. M'Ginnis went to Jersey City 
 in search of the "little girl," taking with her 
 the precious letter as evidence of the truth 
 of her story. How strange it was that these 
 men and women, who in the morning had 
 been unaware of his existence, were now 
 more interested in his fortunes than in any- 
 thing else in the world. 
 
 They tiptoed in and put of Mrs. Blair's 
 
 room, not wishing to disturb the sick guest. 
 Yet the old man was not asleep. His dim 
 eyes were fixed on the dull wall of Billy's 
 little room, though, in reality, they were 
 looking backward through the long years, 
 groping in the mists of memory for faces 
 and figures that had vanished from the 
 earth. Mrs. Blair came out with a cup in 
 her hand and tears in her eyes. 
 
 "I'm afraid he's sinking," she whispered 
 to the hushed group. "He hez no strength 
 at all." 
 
 The hours went by slowly, very slowly. 
 Nine, ten, at last eleven o'clock struck, and 
 still Mrs. M'Ginnis did not come, nor did 
 the "little girl." Suddenly every pulse 
 quickened, every eye dilated. They were 
 coming; the watchers heard the sound of 
 two pairs of feet on the stairs, and the 
 swish of women's garments. 
 
 The door opened, and Mrs. M'Ginnis en- 
 tered. Behind her came — not the "little 
 girl" who had so long held a place in the 
 old man's memory; not the curly-headed, 
 girlish Nora, but an old woman, bent and 
 broken by toil, with furrowed face and 
 rough, work-worn hands. 
 
 They had all known that she must look 
 like this. They had talked it over and pre- 
 pared themselves for it, yet the reality was 
 a shock to them. The weeping women 
 took her in their arms, and the men 
 shook her hand with a hearty "God bless 
 
 ye." 
 
 "Here's Nora, here's yer daughter," said 
 Mrs. M'Ginnis to the old man, as she led 
 Nora to the bedside. 
 
 He made no reply. She touched his hand 
 and bent over him, speaking softly : "Here's 
 your 'little girl.' " 
 
 His eyes lighted up with joy as they 
 wandered round the bleak room, passing by 
 Nora and looking out through the open 
 door. "Where? Where? I don't see me 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 407 
 
 little girl. Where is she?" he gasped, try- 
 ing to lift his head from the pillow. 
 
 "Feyther, feyther, don't you know me? 
 I'm Nora, feyther; don't you know me?" 
 said the woman, over whose seamed face 
 the tears were falling like rain. 
 
 "Nora's a little girl," he answered, 
 trembling, moving his shrunken head as 
 though trying to disperse the mists of mem- 
 ory. "She has bright eyes, and curly hair 
 as black as night." 
 
 They raised his head that he might see 
 Nora better. 
 
 "Feyther, feyther," she cried, stroking 
 his thin hands, "Feyther, I'm Nora, I'm 
 your little girl." 
 
 Something in her voice scattered the mists 
 that obscured him mind — some tone be- 
 
 longing to the little girl was still heard in 
 the voice of the woman, and his ear caught 
 it. The faded eyes became very bright, and 
 he reached out both hands with the glad 
 cry, — "Me little girl, me Nora!" and sud- 
 denly let them fall. 
 
 Bending close to his white face, they saw 
 that he was no longer with them. He had 
 gone into a new country, the beautiful new 
 country of our dreams, lighted thither by 
 the joy of sudden recognition. Love knows 
 neither age nor time. Others saw Nora as 
 an old woman ; but by the light of love, and 
 that other light which cometh from afar, he 
 saw a bright-faced little girl, and while his 
 glad eyes dwelt hungrily on hers, he de- 
 parted to the wonderful, new "Ameriky," 
 where the sun shall always shine. 
 
 O* v* *5* 
 
 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 GIRT round with rugged mountains 
 the fair Lake Constance lies ; 
 In her blue heart reflected, shine back the 
 
 starry skies; 
 And watching each white cloudlet float si- 
 lently and slow, 
 You think a piece of heaven lies on our 
 earth below! 
 
 Midnight is there ; and silence enthroned in 
 heaven, looks down 
 
 Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleep- 
 ing town; 
 
 For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the 
 Tyrol shore, 
 
 Has stood above Lake Constance a thou- 
 sand years and more. 
 
 Her battlements and towers, upon their 
 
 rocky steep, 
 Have cast their trembling shadows of ages 
 
 on the deep; 
 
 Mountain, and . lake, and valley, a sacred 
 
 legend know, 
 Of how the town was saved one night, 
 
 three hundred years ago. 
 
 Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol 
 maid had fled, 
 
 To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for 
 daily bread; 
 
 And every year that fleeted so silently and 
 fast, 
 
 Seemed to bear farther from her the mem- 
 ory of the past. 
 
 She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked 
 
 for rest or change ; 
 Her friends seemed no more new ones, their 
 
 speech seemed no more strange ; 
 And when she led her cattle to pasture every 
 
 day, 
 She ceased to look and wonder on which 
 
 side Bregenz lay. 
 
408 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 She spoke no more of Bregenz, with long- 
 ing and with tears ; 
 
 Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep 
 mist of years ; 
 
 She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war 
 or strife; 
 
 Each day she rose contented, to the calm 
 toils of life. 
 
 Yet, when her master's children would 
 
 clustering round her stand, 
 She sang them the old ballads of her own 
 
 native land; 
 And when at morn and evening she knelt 
 
 before God's throne, 
 The accents of her childhood rose to her 
 
 lips alone. 
 
 And so she dwelt; the valley more peace- 
 ful year by year ; 
 
 When suddenly strange portents of some 
 great deed seemed near. 
 
 The golden corn was bending upon its 
 fragile stalk, 
 
 While farmers, heedless of their fields, 
 paced up and down in talk. 
 
 The men seemed stern and altered, with 
 
 looks cast on the ground ; 
 With anxious faces, one by one, the women 
 
 gathered round; 
 All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was 
 
 put away; 
 The very children seemed afraid to go alone 
 
 to play. 
 
 One day, out in the meadow with strangers 
 
 from the town, 
 Some secret plan discussing, the men 
 
 walked up and down, 
 Yet now and then seemed watching a 
 
 strange uncertain gleam, 
 That looked like lances 'mid the trees that 
 
 stood below the stream. 
 
 At eye they all assembled, all care and 
 
 doubt were fled; 
 With jovial laugh they feasted, the board 
 
 was nobly spread. 
 The elder of the village rose up, his glass in 
 
 hand, 
 And cried, "We drink the downfall of an 
 
 accursed land ! 
 
 "The night is growing darker, ere one more 
 
 day is flown, 
 Bregenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz 
 
 shall be our own!" 
 The women shrank in terror (yet pride, too, 
 
 had her part), 
 But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within 
 
 her heart. 
 
 Before her, stood fair Bregenz, once more 
 her towers arose; 
 
 What were the friends beside her? Only 
 her country's foes L 
 
 The faces of her kinsfolk, the day of child- 
 hood flown, 
 
 The echoes of her mountains reclaimed 
 her as their own ! 
 
 Nothing she heard around her (though 
 
 shouts rang out again) ; 
 Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the 
 
 pasture and the plain; 
 Before her eyes one vision, and in her 
 
 heart one cry, 
 That said, "Go forth^ save Bregenz, and 
 
 then if need be, die !" 
 
 With trembling haste, and breathless, with 
 
 noiseless step she sped; 
 Horses and weary cattle were standing in 
 
 the shed; 
 She loosed the strong white charger, that 
 
 fed from out her hand, 
 She mounted and she turned his head 
 
 toward her native land. 
 
DESOMPTl VE RECITATIONS. 
 
 400 
 
 Out — out into the darkness — faster, and 
 
 still more fast; 
 The smooth grass flies behind her, the 
 
 chestnut wood is passed; 
 She looks up; clouds are heavy: Why is 
 
 her steed so slow? — 
 Scarcely the wind beside them, can pass 
 
 them as they go. 
 
 "Faster !" she cries. "Oh, faster !" Eleven 
 
 the church-bells chime ; 
 "O God," she cries, "help Bregenz, and 
 
 bring me there in time I" 
 But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing 
 
 of the kine, 
 Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing 
 
 of the Rhine. 
 
 Shall not the roaring waters their headlong 
 
 gallop check? 
 The steed draws back in terror, she leans 
 
 above his neck 
 To watch the flowing darkness, the bank 
 
 is high and steep, 
 One pause — he staggers forward, and 
 
 plunges in the deep. 
 
 She strives to pierce the darkness, and 
 
 looser throws the rein ; 
 Her steed must breast the waters that dash 
 
 above his mane. 
 How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles 
 
 through the foam, 
 And see — in the far distance, shine out the 
 
 lights of home ! 
 
 Up the steep bank he bears her, and now 
 
 they rush again 
 Towards the heights of Bregenz, that 
 
 tower above the plain. 
 They reach the gate of Bregenz, just as the 
 
 midnight rings, 
 And out come serf and soldier to meet the 
 
 news she brings. 
 
 Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight her battle- 
 ments are manned; 
 
 Defiance greets the army that marches on 
 the land. 
 
 And if to deeds heroic should endless fame 
 be paid, 
 
 Bregenz does well to honor the noble 
 Tyrol maid. 
 
 Three hundred years are vanished, and yet 
 upon the hill 
 
 An old stone gateway rises, to do her honor 
 still. 
 
 And there, when Bregenz women sit spin- 
 ning in the shade, 
 
 They see the quaint old carving, the 
 charger and the maid. 
 
 And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gate- 
 way, street, and tower, 
 
 The warder paces all night long, and calls 
 each passing hour; 
 
 "Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud and 
 then (O crown of fame!) 
 
 When midnight pauses in the skies he calls 
 the maiden's name. 
 
 to* to* to* 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST. 
 
 THE gret big church wuz crowded full 
 uv broadcloth an' uv silk, 
 An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our 
 
 ol' brindle's milk; 
 Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' 
 
 stovepipe hats were there, 
 An' doods 'ith thouserloons so tight they 
 couldn't kneel down in prayer. 
 
 The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he 
 
 slowly riz: 
 "Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith 
 
 roomatiz, 
 An' as we hev no substitoot, as Brother 
 
 Moore aint here, 
 Will some'un in the congregation be so 
 
 kind's to volunteer?" 
 
410 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of 
 low-toned, rowdy style, 
 
 Give an interductory hiccup, an' then stag- 
 gered up the aisle. 
 
 Then through thet holy atmosphere there 
 crep' a sense er sin, 
 
 An' through thet air of sanctity the odor uv 
 old gin. 
 
 Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth 
 
 all set on edge ; 
 "This man pur fanes the house er God ! 
 
 W'y, this is sacrilege!" 
 The tramp didn't hear a word he said, but 
 
 slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, 
 An' sprawled an' staggered up the steps, 
 
 an' gained the organ seat. 
 
 He then went pawin' through the keys, an' 
 
 soon there rose a strain 
 Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 
 
 'lectrify the brain ; 
 An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith 
 
 hands an' head an' knees, 
 He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop 
 
 upon the keys. 
 
 The organ roared, the music flood went 
 
 sweepin' high an' dry; 
 It swelled into the rafters an' bulged out 
 
 into the sky, 
 The ol' church shook an' staggered an' 
 
 seemed to reel an' sway, 
 An' the elder shouted "Glory !" and I yelled 
 
 out "Hooray!" 
 
 An' then he tried a tender strain thet melted 
 
 in our ears, 
 Thet brought up blessed memories and 
 
 drenched 'em down 'ith tears ; 
 An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens 'ith 
 
 Tabby on the mat, 
 Uv home an' luv an' baby-days an' mother 
 
 an' all that! 
 
 An' then he struck a streak uv hope — a song 
 
 from souls forgiven — 
 Thet burst from prison-bars uv sin an' 
 
 stormed the gates uv heaven; 
 The morning stars they sung together, — no 
 
 soul wuz left alone, — 
 We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God wuz 
 
 on his throne ! 
 
 An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness 
 
 come again, 
 An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv 
 
 all the homes uv men ; 
 No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs 
 
 of glad delight, 
 An' then — the tramp, he staggered down an' 
 
 reeled into the night! 
 
 But we knew he'd tol' his story, though he 
 
 never spoke a word. 
 An' it was the saddest story thet our ears 
 
 had ever heard; 
 He hed tol' his own life history, an' no eye 
 
 was dry thet day, 
 Wen the elder rose an' simply said : "My 
 
 brethren, let us pray." 
 
 t£nl t&* (5* 
 
 A NEWSBOY IN CHURCH. 
 
 WELL, ye see, I'd sold my papers, 
 Every bloomin', blessed one, 
 And was strollin' round the corner, 
 
 Just a prospectin' for fun. 
 I was loafin' by the railin' 
 Of that church you see right there, 
 
 With its crosses and its towers, 
 Kind o' settin' off the square. 
 
 And I got a sort o' lonesome, 
 
 For the gang — they weren't round, 
 
 When I heard a noise of music, 
 
 Seemed like comin' from the ground. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 411 
 
 It was nothin' but some singin', 
 
 But it sounded mighty fine ; 
 Course, I ain't no judge o' them things, 
 
 An' it's no affair o' mine. 
 Then it seemed to kind o' weaken 
 
 And I didn't hear it plain, 
 Till the band struck up a-whoopin', 
 
 And I heard it all again. 
 Well, there seemed to be a show there, 
 
 That I thought I'd like to see, 
 An' there was so many goin', 
 
 I jest says : "I'll bet it's free." 
 So I looks around the corner 
 
 An' I makes a careful search, 
 For I knew the kids 'ud "guy" me, 
 
 If they heard I'd been to church. 
 Well, there weren't a soul a-lookin' 
 
 So I up and walks right in, 
 An' I sat down in a corner 
 
 While they finished up their hymn. 
 
 Well, sir, blow me, if I ever 
 
 Was so taken all aback — 
 There was marching up the aisle a 
 
 Gang of kids, in white and black. 
 They were singin' just like angels, 
 
 And they looked so slick and nice 
 That I wondered where they got 'em ; 
 
 Were they always kept on ice. 
 And they wore a long, black cloak, sir, 
 
 Comin' to their very feet, 
 And an overall of white stuff, 
 
 Just like what is in a sheet. 
 Then some men came up behind them 
 
 Singin' loudly, as they came, 
 But, although the kids was weaker, 
 
 They all got there, just the same. 
 Then, behind the whole procession, 
 
 Came two men, 'most all in white, 
 And they wore some fancy biz'ness, 
 
 An' they looked just out o' sight. 
 But they didn't do no singin', 
 
 Jest kept still, and looked ahead. 
 
 An' sez I, I'll bet they're runnin' 
 
 All the show — that's what I said. 
 Then they all got up in front there, 
 
 And the music sounded grand, 
 But, to save my neck, I couldn't 
 
 Get a sight, sir, of the band. 
 I could hear it as distinctly, 
 
 So I guessed it must be near, 
 But I saw no men, nor nothin', 
 
 An' I thought it very queer. 
 
 Well, a man was standin' near me, 
 
 An' I touched him with my hand, 
 Then he looked aroun' and saw me, 
 
 An' sez I, "Say, where's the band?" 
 An' he looked at me a-grinnin', 
 
 Just as tho' I'd make a joke, — 
 That 'ere look he gave me made me 
 
 Kind o' sorry that I'd spoke. 
 Then he says : "Why, that's the organ, 
 
 All those pipes you see up there, 
 One man plays it with his fingers, 
 
 And another pumps the air." 
 Here the music stopped so sudden 
 
 That I 'most forgot myself ; 
 And I heard some man a-talkin' 
 
 From a book laid on a shelf. 
 Then they all got up and read some, 
 
 First the man, and then the crowd, 
 After that they knelt down softly, 
 
 And I see their heads were bowed, 
 So I bows my head down, too, sir, 
 
 And I listens t' every word ; 
 But I didn't understand them 
 
 Every time they said, "Good Lord." 
 Well, they kept that up some longer, 
 
 Till a plate came down the aisle, 
 And some people dropped in money 
 
 An' some others dropped a smile. 
 (I suppose they'd come on passes 
 
 For they were allowed to stay.) 
 So I gave 'em my four pennies, 
 
 That was all I had that day. 
 
412 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 
 
 Then a kid got up in front there 
 
 With a paper in his hand — 
 All the rest was sittin' quiet — 
 
 And the man tuned up the band, 
 Then that kid began a-singin' 
 
 Till I thought my heart 'ud break, 
 For my throat was full o' chokin' 
 
 And my hands began to shake. 
 Well, I never seen no angels, 
 
 And their songs I've never heard, 
 But I'll bet that there's no angel 
 
 Beats that kid — for he's a bird. 
 He was lookin' like a picture, 
 
 With his robes of white and black, 
 And I felt my tears a-comin', 
 
 For I couldn't keep 'em back, 
 And I wondered if he always 
 
 Was as good as he looked there, 
 Singin' all about the angels, 
 
 "Angels ever bright and fair." 
 Well, thinks I, I guess it's easy 
 
 To be good and sing so sweet, 
 But, you know, it's kind o' different 
 
 Sellin' papers on the street. 
 
 When the kid got through his singin' 
 
 I got up and made a sneak, 
 And I got outside the church there, 
 
 And, indeed, I couldn't speak. 
 Then I ran across the gang, sir, 
 
 They were hangin' round for me. 
 But I somehow didn't want them, 
 
 And just why, I couldn't see. 
 So I said I couldn't join 'em 
 
 'Cos I had another date, 
 And I went on walkin' homeward, 
 
 Like a kid without a mate. 
 And I sneaked in just as quiet 
 
 And I lay down on my bed, 
 Till I slept and got a-dreamin' 
 
 About angels overhead. 
 And they wore such shiny garments, 
 
 And they sang so sweet and fine, 
 And the one right in the middle 
 
 Was that singin' kid of mine. 
 Now, I kind o' want to know, sir 
 
 (So I'm asking you, ye see), 
 If them kids can all be angels, 
 
 Is there any show for me? 
 
aaVaaa 
 aaaaaa 
 
 ) Encores ( 
 
 s A'* s *Wfc1fe 
 
 'aaaaaa 
 
 aaaaaa 
 
 aaaaaa 
 
 This department is supplementary to all the other departments in this work, and contains 
 
 pieces suitable for recitation when a speaker has been 
 
 recalled by the audience. 
 
 10& £& t&& 
 
 MARK TWAIN AS A FARMER. 
 
 1HAVE been introduced to you as an 
 experienced agriculturist. I love the 
 farm. Adam loved the farm. Noah loved 
 his vineyards. Horace loved the farm, as 
 is shown by that great book, "What I Know- 
 About Farming." Washington, Webster 
 and Beecher were allured by the attractions 
 of agriculture. Some one said to Beecher : 
 "Keep your cows out of my shrubbery." 
 "Keep your shrubbery out of my cows," re- 
 plied Beecher. "It spoils the milk." Hogs 
 are hard animals to drive over a bridge. I 
 once saw a man carried several miles on 
 the back of a hog that turned back in op- 
 position to the solicitations of the driver on 
 approaching a bridge. I will tell you of a 
 safe way to get hogs over a bridge. Kill 
 them and draw them over in a wagon. Hogs 
 are fond of spring lambs and spring chick- 
 ens. Hogs will eat their own offspring if 
 no lambs or chickens are offered in the 
 market. 
 
 When a boy I was solicited to escort a 
 pig to a neighbor's farm. A strong rope 
 tied to the pig's leg was placed in my hand ; 
 I did not know before the speed and 
 strength of a pig. But they do not run the 
 way you want them to run. A pig can draw 
 a canal-boat with the tow-line tied to his 
 hind leg, but I would not insure the canal- 
 boat. Hogs are cleanly, orderly, silent and 
 not bent on mischief — when cut up and 
 salted and in a tight barrel, with a heavy 
 weight on the lid. This is all I know about 
 hogs. 
 
 I love cows. What is so meek and low-ly 
 as a mooley cow? City people are foolish 
 to be frightened at cows. I was never hurt 
 by a cow but once. He shook his head at 
 me from behind a strong gate. I felt the 
 security of my position and shied a pump- 
 kin at him. He came through the gate as 
 though it were a spider's web, and then I 
 was sorry I did it. This kind of a cow 
 should not be fooled with unless you are 
 tired of monotony. The poet loves to dwell 
 upon milkmaids, milking-time and lovers 
 sparking over the farmyard gate, but no 
 such poet could ever have milked a cow in 
 fly time. I cannot imagine a successful love 
 suit at such a season. I milked the cows 
 one night when the boys were off on a 
 Fourth of July. That is, I milked one and 
 one-half cows. 
 
 The last one was so busy knocking off 
 flies with her hind foot I thought I had 
 better not disturb her longer. A pail of 
 fresh milk kicked over a boy does not im- 
 prove his clothes or temper. Some say I 
 milked from the wrong side. I thought I 
 would be sure and be right, so I milked half 
 on one side and half on the other. I was on 
 the other side when she knocked off most 
 flies. Can any one tell me why a cow should 
 be permitted to dictate which side a man 
 shall milk from? I claim the right of my 
 choice at least half of the time. 
 
 Sheep are my special delight. How grace- 
 fully the lambs gambol over the green. I 
 trust you never gamble over the green. 
 
 413 
 
414 
 
 ENCORES. 
 
 Nothing so patient and modest as a sheep. 
 Some say a scamp is the black sheep of the 
 flock, but a black sheep is just as respectable 
 as any, and the color line should not thus 
 be drawn. I once fished on a bluff and cas- 
 ually discovered a sheep with large crooked 
 horns coming at me with head down and fire 
 in his eyes. The fish were not biting well, 
 so I left my sport and dodged behind a 
 stump. The sheep fell on the rocks below 
 and broke her neck. For this act I have 
 since been accused of non-protection in the 
 wool traffic. This reminds me of a com- 
 missioner of agriculture in old times who 
 purchased six hydraulic rams for the im- 
 provement of American flocks. Feather beds 
 are made from geese, but all woolen goods 
 and drums are made from sheepskins. 
 
 I take great pride in the horse. "He is 
 the noblest Roman of them all." I once led 
 Stephens' horse to water. How proudly he 
 arched his neck and tail. He was so fond 
 of me that he tried to embrace me with his 
 front feet. But I was so shy h'e turned 
 about and playfully knocked my hat off 
 with his heels. I told Stephens I thought 
 horses looked much better walking on four 
 feet than on two feet. A horse presses hard 
 when your toe is caught under the hoof. I 
 speak not from theory, but from actual ex- 
 perience. I went riding with Stephens' 
 horse and he shied and danced provoking- 
 ly. "Treat him kindly," said Stephens ; 
 "never beat a horse." By and by Stephens 
 thought he would get out and walk for ex- 
 ercise. "You may let him feel the lash 
 a little now," said Stephens. "A little dis- 
 cipline now will do him good." 
 
 Here is a composition I wrote on farming 
 when a boy : Farming is healthy work ; but 
 no man can run a farm and wear his best 
 clothes at the same time. Either the farm- 
 
 ing must cease while the new clothes con- 
 tinue or the new clothes must cease while 
 the farming continues. This shows that 
 farming is not so clean work as being a 
 congressman or schoolmaster, for these men 
 can wear good clothes if they can find 
 money to pay for them. Farmers get up 
 early in the morning. They say the early 
 bird catches the worm. If I was a bird, I 
 had rather get up late and eat cherries in 
 place of worms. Farmers don't paint their 
 wagons when they can help it, for they show 
 mud too quick. The color of their boots is 
 red, and don't look like other people's boots, 
 because they are twice as big. Farmers' 
 wives have a hard time cooking for hired 
 men, and the hired men find fault with the 
 farmers' wives' cooking. Why don't farm- 
 ers' wives let the hired men do< the cooking 
 while they do the finding fault? 
 
 Farmers don't get as rich as bank pres- 
 idents, but they get more exercise. Some 
 ask, "Why don't farmers run for Con- 
 gress?" They run so much keeping boys 
 out of their peach orchards and melon 
 patches they don't have any time to run 
 after anything else. If Congress should run 
 after farmers, one might be caught now 
 and then. Lawyers can beat farmers at 
 running for most anything. I know a farm- 
 er who tried to run a line fence according 
 to his notion. The other man objected and 
 hurt the farmer. The farmer hired a law- 
 yer to run his line fence, and now the lawyer 
 runs the farmer's farm and the farmer has 
 stopped running anything. Speaking of 
 running reminds me of our calf that ran 
 away to the woods. There were not enough 
 men in the county to catch that calf. We 
 turned the old cow loose in the woods, and 
 she caught the calf, proving the old saying 
 that it takes a cow to catch a thief. 
 
 — Samuel L. Clemens. 
 
ENCORES. 
 
 415 
 
 THE QUEER LITTLE HOUSE. 
 
 THERE'S a queer little house 
 And it stands in the sun. 
 When the good mother calls 
 
 The children all run. 
 While under her roof 
 
 They are cozy and warm, 
 Though the cold wind may whistle 
 And bluster and storm. 
 
 In the daytime, this queer 
 
 Little house moves away, 
 And the children run after it, 
 
 Happy and gay; 
 But it comes back at night, 
 
 And the children are fed, 
 And tucked up to sleep 
 
 In a soft feather-bed. 
 
 This queer little house 
 
 Has no windows nor doors — 
 The roof has no shingles, 
 
 The rooms have no floors — 
 No fireplace, chimney, 
 
 Nor stove can you see, 
 Yet the children are cozy 
 
 And warm as can be. 
 
 The story of this 
 
 Funny house is all true, 
 I have seen it myself, 
 
 And I think you have, too; 
 You can see it to-day, 
 
 If you watch the old hen, 
 When her downy wings cover 
 
 Her chickens again. 
 
 
 THE FOOLISH LITTLE MAIDEN. 
 
 A FOOLISH little maiden bought a fool- 
 ish little bonnet, 
 With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of 
 
 lace upon it; 
 And, that the other maidens of the little 
 
 town might know it, 
 She thought she'd go to meeting the next 
 Sunday just to show it. 
 
 But though the little bonnet was scarce 
 
 larger than a dime, 
 The getting of it settled proved to be a 
 
 work of time; 
 So when 'twas fairly tied, and the bells had 
 
 stopped their ringing, 
 And when she came to meeting, sure 
 
 enough, the folks were singing. 
 
 So this foolish little maiden stood and wait- 
 ed at the door ; 
 
 And she shook her ruffles out behind and 
 smoothed them down before. 
 
 "Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" sang the choir 
 
 above her head. 
 "Hardly knew you! Hardly knew you!" 
 
 were the words she thought they said. 
 
 This made the little maiden feel so very, 
 
 very cross, 
 That she gave her little mouth a twist, her 
 
 little head a toss ; 
 For she thought the very hymn they sang 
 
 was all about her bonnet, 
 With the ribbon, and the feather, and the 
 
 bit of lace upon it. 
 
 And she would not wait to listen to the 
 sermon or the prayer, 
 
 But pattered down the silent street, and 
 hurried down the stair, 
 
 Till she reached her little bureau, and in a 
 band-box on it, 
 
 Had hidden, safe from critic's eye, her fool- 
 ish little bonnet. 
 
416 
 
 ENCORES. 
 
 Which proves, my little maidens, that each 
 
 of you will find 
 In every Sabbath service but an echo of 
 
 your mind; 
 
 And the silly little head, that's filled with 
 
 silly little airs, 
 Will never get a blessing from sermon or 
 
 from prayers. 
 
 ARRAYED in snow-white pants and 
 vest 
 
 AIN'T HE CUTE. 
 
 I must confess I did not know 
 The meaning of that favorite word. 
 
 And other raiment fair to view, 
 I stood before my sweetheart Sue — 
 The charming creature I love best. 
 
 "Tell me, and does my costume suit?" 
 I asked that apple of my eye, 
 And then the charmer made reply — 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do look awful cute !" 
 
 Although I frequently had heard 
 My sweetheart vent her pleasure so, 
 
 But presently at window side 
 
 We stood and watched the passing 
 throng. 
 
 And soon a donkey passed along 
 With ears like sails extending wide. 
 And gazing at the doleful brute 
 
 My sweetheart gave a merry cry — 
 
 I quote her language with a sigh — 
 "Oh, Charlie, ain't he awful cute?" 
 
 NOW the Widow McGee, 
 And Larrie O'Dee, 
 Had two little cottages out on the green, 
 With just room enough for two pigpens be- 
 tween. 
 The widow was young and the widow was 
 
 fair, 
 With the brightest of eyes and the brownest 
 
 of hair; 
 And it frequently chanced when she came 
 
 in the morn 
 With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with 
 
 the corn. 
 And some of the ears that he tossed from his 
 
 hand, 
 In the pen of the widow were certain to 
 
 land. 
 
 ; One morning said he: 
 
 "Och! Misthress McGee, 
 It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' 
 two rigs, 
 
 tSfr *3* tc& 
 
 LARRIE O'DEE. 
 
 Wid a fancy purtition betwane our two 
 pigs!" 
 
 "Indade sur, it is!" answered Widow Mc- 
 Gee, 
 
 With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie 
 O'Dee. 
 "And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted 
 and mane, 
 
 Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near 
 
 That whinever one grunts the other can 
 hear. 
 
 And yit kape a cruel partition betwane." 
 
 "Shwate Widow McGee," 
 
 Answered Larrie O'Dee, 
 
 "If ye fale in your heart we are mane to 
 
 the pigs, 
 Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' 
 
 two rigs? 
 Och ! it made me heart ache whin I paped 
 through the cracks 
 
ENCORES. 
 
 417 
 
 Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez swingin' 
 
 yer axe; 
 An' a bobbin' yer head an' a sthompin' yer 
 
 fate, 
 Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a 
 
 bate, 
 A-sphlittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the 
 
 shtorm, 
 When one little shtove would kape us both 
 
 warm !" 
 
 "Now, piggy," said she, 
 "Larrie's courtin' o' me, 
 Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you ; 
 
 So now yez must tell me jisht what I must 
 
 do: 
 For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid 
 
 yer snout ; 
 But if I'm to say no, ye must kape your 
 
 nose out. 
 Now, Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a 
 
 pig 
 By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig !" 
 "Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered 
 
 he. 
 And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee. 
 
 W. W. Fink. 
 
 t?* t5* *i5* 
 
 ONLY NATION WITH A BIRTHDAY. 
 
 THE United States is the only country 
 with a known birthday. All the rest 
 began, they know not when, and grew into 
 power, they know not how. If there had 
 been no Independence Day, England and 
 America combined would not be so great as 
 
 each actually is. There is no "Republican," 
 no "Democrat," on the Fourth of July — all 
 are Americans. All feel that their country 
 is greater than party. 
 
 — James G. Blaine. 
 
 
 THE RAIL FENCE. 
 
 IN the merry days of boyhood when we 
 never knew a care 
 Greater than the mumps or measles or a 
 
 mother's cut of hair, 
 When a sore toe was a treasure and a stone 
 
 bruise on the heel 
 Filled the other boys with envy which they 
 
 tried not to conceal, 
 There were many treasured objects on the 
 
 farm we held most dear, 
 Orchard, fields, the creek we swam in and 
 
 the old spring cold and clear, 
 Over there the woods of hick'ry and of oak 
 
 so deep and dense, 
 Looming up behind the outlines of the old 
 
 rail fence. 
 
 On its rails the quail would whistle in the 
 
 early summer morn, 
 Calling to their hiding fellows in the field 
 
 of waving corn, 
 And the meadow larks and robins on the 
 
 stakes would sit and sing 
 Till the forest shades behind them with 
 
 their melody would ring. 
 There the catbird and the jaybird sat and 
 
 called each other names, 
 And the squirrels and the chipmunks 
 
 played the chase and catch me games, 
 And the garter snake was often in unpleas- 
 ant evidence 
 In the grasses in the corners of the old rail 
 
 fence. 
 
418 
 
 ENCORES. 
 
 As we grew to early manhood when we 
 thought the country girls 
 
 In the diadem of beauty were the very fair- 
 est pearls 
 
 Oft from spelling school or meeting or the 
 jolly shucking bee 
 
 Down the old lane we would wander with 
 a merry little "she." 
 
 On the plea of being tired (just the country 
 lover lie), 
 
 On a grassy seat we'd linger in the moon- 
 light, she and I, 
 
 And we'd paint a future picture touched 
 with colors most intense 
 
 As we sat there in the corner of the old 
 rail fence. 
 
 There one night in happy dreaming we 
 
 were sitting hand in hand, 
 Us so near the gates of heaven we could 
 
 almost hear the band, 
 When she heard a declaration whispered in 
 
 her lis'ning ear — 
 One she often since has told me she was 
 
 mighty glad to hear. 
 On my head there's now a desert fringed 
 
 with foliage of gray, 
 And there's many a thread of silver in her 
 
 dear old head to-day, 
 Yet the flame of love is burning in our 
 
 bosoms as intense 
 As it burned in the corner of that old rail 
 
 fence. 
 
 t5* t£fc t£fr 
 
 WHICH LOVED BEST? 
 
 I LOVE you, mother," said little Ben, 
 Then forgetting his work, his cap went 
 on. 
 And he was off to the garden swing, 
 And left her the water and wood to bring. 
 
 "I love you, mother," said rosy Nell — 
 "I love you better than tongue can tell ;" 
 Then she teased and pouted full half the 
 
 day, 
 Till her mother rejoiced when she went to 
 
 play. 
 "I love you, mother," said little Fan, 
 
 "To-day I'll help you all I can ; 
 
 How glad I am school doesn't keep;" 
 
 So she rocked the babe till it fell asleep. 
 
 Then, stepping softly, she fetched the 
 
 broom, 
 And swept the floor and tidied the room ; 
 Busy and happy all day was she, 
 Helpful and happy as child could be. 
 "I love you, mother," again they said 
 Three little children going to bed ; 
 Hew do you think that mother guessed 
 Which of them really loved her best ? 
 
 ^* ^» *£& 
 
 HER FIRST PARTY. 
 
 M 
 
 ISS Annabel McCarty 
 Was invited to a party, 
 "Your company from four to ten," the invi- 
 tation said; 
 And the maiden was delighted 
 To think she was invited 
 To sit up till the hour when the big folks 
 went to bed. 
 
 The crazy little midget 
 Ran and told her news to Bridget, 
 •Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, 
 
 to Annabel's delight, 
 And said, with accents hearty, 
 " 'Twill be the swatest party 
 If ye're there yerself, me darlint! 
 I wish it was to-night !" 
 
ENCORES. 
 
 419 
 
 The great display of frilling 
 
 Was positively killing; 
 
 And, oh, the little booties! and the lovely 
 
 sash so wide ! 
 And the gloves so very cunning! 
 She was altogether "stunning," 
 And the whole McCarty family regarded 
 
 her with pride. 
 
 They gave minute directions, 
 
 With copious interjections 
 
 Of "sit up straight !" and "don't do this or 
 that — 'twould be absurd!" 
 
 But, with their caressing, 
 
 And the agony of dressing, 
 
 Miss Annabel McCarty didn't hear a sin- 
 gle word. 
 
 There was music, there was dancing, 
 And the sight was most entrancing, 
 As if fairyland and floral band were hold- 
 ing jubilee; 
 
 There was laughing, there was pouting; 
 There was singing, there was shouting; 
 And young and old together made a carni- 
 val of glee. 
 
 Miss Annabel McCarty 
 
 Was the youngest at the party, 
 
 And every one remarked that she was beau- 
 tifully dressed ; 
 
 Like a doll she sat demurely 
 
 On a sofa, thinking surely 
 
 It would never do for her to run and frolic 
 with the rest. 
 
 The noise kept growing louder; 
 
 The naughty boys would crowd her; 
 
 "I think you're very rude, indeed !" the little 
 
 lady said ; 
 And then, without a warning, 
 Her home instructions scorningj 
 She screamed : "I want my supper — and I 
 
 want to go to bed !" 
 
 t2& 16& 10* 
 
 THE YOUNG SEAMSTRESS. 
 
 (For a girl 
 
 1AM learning how to sew, though I'm 
 such a little maid; 
 I push the needle in and out, and make 
 the stitches strong; 
 I'm sewing blocks of patchwork for my 
 dolly's pretty bed, 
 And mamma says the way I work it will 
 not take me long. 
 It's over and over — do you know 
 How over-and-over stitches go? 
 
 "I have begun a handkerchief. Mamma 
 
 turned in the edge, 
 And basted it with a pink thread to show 
 
 me where to sew ; 
 It has Greenaway children on it stepping 
 
 staidly by a hedge ; 
 
 of seven.) 
 
 I look at them when I get tired, or the 
 
 needle pricks, you know; 
 And that is the way I learn to hem 
 With hemming stitches — do you know 
 
 them? 
 
 "Next I shall learn to run, and darn, and 
 back-stitch, too, I guess. 
 It wouldn't take me long, I know, if 
 'twasn't for the thread; 
 But the knots keep coming, and besides — I 
 shall have to confess — 
 Sometimes I slip my thimble off, and use 
 my thumb instead ! 
 When your thread knots, what do you 
 
 do? 
 And does it turn all brownish, too? 
 
420 
 
 ENCORES. 
 
 "My papa, he's a great big man, as much 
 
 as six feet high; 
 He's more than forty, and his hair has 
 
 gray mixed with the black; 
 Well, he can't sew — he can't begin to sew 
 
 as well as I. 
 
 If he loses off a button, mamma has to 
 set it back! 
 You mustn't think me proud, you 
 
 know, 
 But I'm seven, and I can sew!" 
 
 (5* ^* o5* 
 
 BORROWING TROUBLE. 
 
 THERE'S many a trouble 
 Would break like a bubble, 
 And into the waters of Lethe depart, 
 Did we not rehearse it, 
 And tenderly nurse it, 
 And give it a permanent place in the heart. 
 
 There's many a sorrow 
 
 Would vanish to-morrow, 
 Were we but willing to furnish the wings ; 
 
 So sadly intruding, 
 
 And quietly brooding, 
 It hatches out all sorts of horrible things. 
 
 t&* t5* ^* 
 
 WHY BETTY DIDN'T LAUGH. 
 
 WHEN I was at the party," 
 Said Betty (aged just four), 
 "A little girl fell off her chair, 
 Right down upon the floor; 
 And all the other little girls 
 Began to laugh, but me — 
 / didn't laugh a single bit," 
 Said Betty, seriously. 
 
 "Why not ?" her mother asked her, 
 
 Full of delight to find 
 That Betty — bless her little heart ! — 
 
 Had been so sweetly kind. 
 'Why didn't you laugh, darling? 
 
 Or don't you like to tell?" 
 "I didn't laugh," said Betty, 
 
 "Cause it was me that fell!" 
 
 fSrl t0* *0* 
 
 IT'S MY NATURE. 
 
 AN aged colored man rose to a standing 
 position and a point of order the other 
 night with a tremulous voice and a feeble 
 mien, and combated a sentiment adverse to 
 the crushing out of old King Alcohol. Said 
 he: 
 
 "You 'mind me, my bredern and sistern, 
 of a nannecot I wonse heerd when I was 
 nigh a pickaninny. Dar was a sh't ho'n 
 kalf a ramblin' ob hisself down a shady lane, 
 when wot should he see but a snaik a lying 
 on the ground with a big rock on his hed. 
 
 "Says Mr. Kalf ; Wot de matter ob you?' 
 
 "Says Mr. Snaik: 'Please, Mr. Kalf, to 
 take dis stone off my hed.' 
 
 "'Dunno,' says Mr. Kalf, "spec you'll 
 bite me.' 
 
 " 'Deed, no,' says Mr. Snaik ; 'you take de 
 stone off on' sure I'll neber bite you.' 
 
 "So Mr. Kalf he knocked de stone off 
 Mr. Snaik's hed. 
 
 " 'Which way you gwine, Mr. Kalf, says 
 Mr. Snaik. 
 
 " 'Down dis way,' said Mr. Kalf. 
 
 "So dey started off togedder. 
 
ENCORES. 
 
 421 
 
 "Bine by, Mr. Snaik says: 'Mr. Kalf, 
 guess I'll bite you.' 
 
 "'Why,' said Mr. Kalf, 'you said you 
 wouldn't bite if I turned you loose.' 
 
 "'I know dat,' says Mr. Snaik, 'but I 
 kan't help it; it's my nature.' 
 
 " 'Well,' says Mr. Kalf, 'we'll leave that 
 queschun to de fust niggah we meet.' 
 
 "Well, de fust niggah they met was a fox. 
 
 '"Mr. Fox,' says Mr. Kalf, 'I took a 
 stone offen Mr. Snaik's hed awhile back, 
 an' he promised he wouldn't bite me; an' 
 now he wants to bite anyhow.' 
 
 " 'Well,' says Mr. Fox, 'de only way I can 
 
 arborate de matter is to see de 'rig'nal per- 
 sishuns ob de parties.' 
 
 "So dey went back, an' Mr. Snaik laid 
 hisself down and Mr. Kalf put de stone on 
 his hed. 
 
 " 'Now,' says Mr. Fox, 'dat am de 'rig'- 
 nal persishuns ob de 'sputants, am it?' 
 
 "Dey boff said it was. 
 
 "'Well,' said Mr. Fox, 'Mr. Kalf, you 
 just go 'bout yo' bis'ness and Mr. Snaik 
 won't bite you.' 
 
 "Dass it, my bredern, dass it. You mus' 
 put de stone on de hed an' gwine about yo' 
 bis'ness, an' de Snaik won't bite you." 
 
 ftS* t5* <<$• 
 
 GRIND YOUR AXE IN THE MORNING. 
 
 GRIND your axe in the morning, my 
 boy !" 
 'Twas a gray old woodcutter spoke, 
 Beneath whose arm, on his backwoods farm, 
 
 Had fallen the elm and oak. 
 The hickory rough and the hornbeam 
 tough 
 Had yielded to wheat and corn, 
 Till his children played 'neath the apple- 
 tree's shade, 
 By the cabin where they were born. 
 
 "Grind your axe in the morning, my boy," 
 
 He said to his lusty son ; 
 "Or the hearts of oak will weary your 
 stroke 
 
 Long ere the day is done. 
 The shag-bark's shell and the hemlock knot 
 
 Defy the dull, blunt tool; 
 And maul as you may, you may waste your 
 day 
 
 If your strength is the strength of a fool. 
 
 "Grind your axe in the morning, my boy; 
 
 Bring the hard, bright steel to an edge ; 
 The bit, like a barber's razor, keen ; 
 
 The head like a blacksmith's sledge ; 
 
 And then, through maple, and ironwood, 
 and ash, 
 
 Your stroke resistless shall drive, 
 Till the forest monarchs around you crash, 
 
 And their rugged fibers rive. 
 
 "Grind your axe ere the sunrise shines, 
 
 With long and patient care, 
 And whet with the oil-stone, sharp and fine, 
 
 Till the edge Will clip a hair. 
 And what though you reel o'er the stub- 
 born steel, 
 
 Till the toil your right arm racks, 
 Pray, how could you cut the white-oak 
 butt, 
 
 If you had but a pewter axe ? 
 
 "Grind your axe and be ready, my lad; 
 
 Then afar in the forest glen, 
 With a steady swing your stroke shall ring, 
 
 Keeping time with the stalwart men ; 
 And if you miss your grinding at dawn, 
 
 You'll never know manhood's joys; 
 No triumphs for you the long days through ; 
 
 You must hack the bush withthe boys." 
 
 "Grind your axe in the morning," I heard 
 Life's watchword, rude but clear; 
 
422 
 
 ENCORES. 
 
 And my soul was stirred at the homely word 
 Of the backwoods sage and seer ; 
 
 O, youth, whose long day lies before, 
 Heed, heed, the woodman's warning ! 
 
 Would you fell life's oaks with manly 
 strokes, 
 You must grind your axe in the morning. 
 
 And he who dawdles and plays the fool, 
 Nor longs for virtue and knowledge ; 
 
 Who shirks at work, plays truant from 
 school, 
 Or "cuts" and "ponies" at college ; 
 Whose soul no noble ambition fires — 
 
 No hero-purpose employs — 
 He must hoe life's fence-row among the 
 briers, 
 Or hack the brush with the boys. 
 
 — George Lansing Taylor. 
 
 £rl t&& c?* 
 
 LYING IN CHINA. 
 
 PEE CHEE and Hung Li and Wun 
 Fang and Chin Lo 
 Are lying around in China ; 
 They lie on the banks of the winding Pei- 
 ho 
 And in other dark spots in China; 
 Gum Shoo and Dun Kee and Wun Lung 
 
 and Yip Ye 
 And Hung Lo and Hip La and Sam Yu 
 
 and Ong We 
 Are all kept as busy as they can be 
 Just lying around in China. 
 
 When the guns cease to roar and the smoke 
 drifts away 
 They will still lie around in China ; 
 Hung Hi and Li Lo and Wun Chin and 
 Kin Say 
 Will be lying around in China ! 
 They have caused us to hope and then left 
 
 us to grieve, 
 And the lies that they tell and the fibs that 
 
 they weave 
 Are things that the world must decline to 
 believe ; 
 Now let them lie down in China! 
 
 (£5 «5* <5* 
 
 EASTER. 
 
 ANIGHT, a day, another night had 
 passed 
 Since that strange day of sorrow and amaze 
 When, on the cruel cross of Calvary, 
 The pure and holy Son of Man had died. 
 Scattered were they who once had followed 
 
 Him: 
 Silent the tongues that once had hailed 
 
 Him king; 
 Heavy the hearts that loved Him as their 
 
 Lord. 
 
 A few sad women who had followed close 
 When Joseph bore Him from the cross 
 away, 
 
 And saw the sepulcher made fast and sure, 
 Came early when the Sabbath day was 
 
 past, 
 Bringing sweet spices to the sacred tomb ; 
 And lo ! the heavy stone was rolled away. 
 They looked within and saw the empty 
 
 place, 
 And mournfully unto each other said, 
 "Where have they laid the body of our 
 
 Lord?" 
 
 But as they drew with lingering steps 
 
 away, 
 An angel, clad in shining garments, said, 
 
ENCORES. 
 
 423 
 
 "Why seek among the dead, the risen 
 
 Lord? 
 Did He not say that He would rise again ! 
 He is arisen ; quickly go and tell 
 The great glad tidings to His followers." 
 With joyful haste they bore the wondrous 
 
 news, 
 And on from lip to lip the story passed : 
 "The Lord is risen, risen from the dead." 
 
 So broke the morning of the gospel day; 
 So came the heavenly springtime to the 
 
 world. 
 As in the trembling light of early dawn, 
 And in the first faint pulsings of the spring, 
 We read the promise of the day's high sun, 
 And the glad gathering of the harvest 
 
 sheaves, 
 So in the dawning of that Easter morn, 
 There shone the brightness that was yet 
 
 to be. 
 
 The day has risen to its noontide hour, 
 And still the joyful message is as sweet 
 As when, on Easter morning long ago, 
 The women told it in Jerusalem, — 
 "The Lord is risen, risen from the dead." 
 Repeat the message, O ye happy ones, 
 
 Upon whose hearts no darkness ever fell ! 
 Repeat it, ye upon whose rayless night, 
 The brightness of His shining has come in ! 
 And ye who are afar, take the refrain, 
 "The Lord is risen, risen from the dead," 
 And with the joyful news the light will 
 come. 
 
 O lily white, yield all your rich perfume! 
 O bird, sing ever sweet your vernal song! 
 O brook, glance brightly in the morning 
 
 sun! 
 Lend all your charms to grace the hallowed 
 
 day 
 Wherein we sing the ever-new, glad song, 
 "The Lord is risen, risen from the dead." 
 
 Christ is risen ! Let the swell 
 Of the holy Easter bell 
 All the wond'rous story tell. 
 
 Sound, O bell, your dulcet ring! 
 Lift, O child, your voice, and sing, 
 For again has come the King. 
 
 And, fair lily, lift your head; 
 All your sweetest incense shed; 
 Christ is risen from the dead ! 
 
 — Marion Riche. 
 
 THE BUILDERS. 
 
 O 
 
 NCE there was a sort of a sailor 
 
 man- 
 
 Kind that loves to study an' plan ; 
 Had no reverence under the sun 
 For a thing that's only half-way done. 
 Made no difference to him, it 'pears, 
 If it'd been that way ten thousand years. 
 So he sailed, one day, out into the sea, 
 Past the bound of all seas that used to be ; 
 Past the rim of the world; past the edge 
 
 of things, 
 Down the slant of the sky where chaos 
 
 springs ; 
 
 Past the hem of the twilight's dusky robe ; 
 Down the slope of the globe — 'fore there 
 
 was a globe ! 
 And what do you reckon he goes and does ? 
 Spoiled every map of the world there was ! 
 But he made a better one. 
 
 Once was a man who had an idee 
 That everything was 'cause it had to be. 
 An' every "must," he used to say, 
 Had a law behind it, plain as day; 
 An' he used to argy, if you could find 
 The law that gave the "thing" its mind, 
 
424 
 
 ENCORES. 
 
 By using your brains, and hands, and eyes, 
 You could break the "must" to be bridle 
 
 wise; 
 To "haw" an' "gee," "geddap" an' "whoa!" 
 To stand an' back ; to come an' go ; 
 Jest learn to use, this man, says he, 
 Your "think" instead of your memory. 
 
 So he got to thinkin' one day 'bout steam ; 
 An' he'd think, an' study, an' whittle, an' 
 
 dream — 
 An' 'fore he got through, what you reckon 
 
 he'd done? 
 Wrecked every stage-coach under the sun ! 
 But he made a better one. 
 
 t5* *5* <iS* 
 
 SISTER SALLIE JONES. 
 
 IN big revival-meetin' time, when sinners 
 crowded round 
 The mourner's bench to git their feet sot 
 
 onto solid ground, 
 To git 'em pulled by Christian faith from 
 
 out the mire an' clay 
 An' have their strayin' footsteps sot toward 
 
 eternal day, 
 One voice 'd rise above the rest in clear and 
 
 searchin' tones, — 
 The wonderful arousin' voice of Sister Sal- 
 lie Jones ; 
 'T'd cheer the mourners, prayin' there, to 
 
 hear her glad refrain: 
 There is a land o' pure delight where saints 
 
 immortal reign! 
 
 Ol' Jonas Treat 'd start the tune, pitched in 
 
 the proper key, 
 An' then Aunt Sallie she'd break in, an' 
 
 goodness ! mercy me ! 
 But how that meetin'-house 'd ring till 
 
 every head 'd swim 
 To hear her jerk the music from some ol' 
 
 revival hymn! 
 She'd look 'way back towards the door, 
 
 where unsaved sinners sot, 
 An' sing right at 'em till they seemed all 
 
 rooted to the spot : 
 There is a fountain tilled with blood drawn 
 
 from Immanuel's veins, 
 An' sinners plunged beneath that Hood lose 
 
 all their guilty stains. 
 
 She'd long to stand where Moses stood, an' 
 
 view the lan'scape o'er, 
 Would some day set her ransomed feet on 
 
 Canaan's happy shore, 
 An' sometimes sing ontil I thought the 
 
 angels all could hear: 
 Amazin' grace, how sweet the sound in a 
 
 believer's ear! 
 An' every heart 'd feel a thrill o' sympa- 
 thetic pain 
 When she would raise her tender eyes an' 
 
 sing the sad refrain : 
 Alas, an' did my Savior bleed an' did my 
 
 sovereign die? 
 Would He devote that sacred head fur sich 
 
 a worm as If 
 
 I've of 'n heerd the preacher say that voice 
 
 to her was given 
 To rescue sinners from their sins an' start 
 
 'em up to heaven, 
 An' cheer the droopin' hearts o' them 
 
 whose burdens bent them down 
 An' fill them full o' new resolves to fight 
 
 an' win the crown. 
 Sometimes I sit in wakin' dreams an' 
 
 memory takes wing 
 Back to the long ago an' I kin hear Aunt 
 
 Sallie sing: 
 When I can read my title clear to mansions 
 
 in the skies, 
 I'll bid farwell to every fear an' wipe my 
 
 weepin' eyes. 
 
ENCORES. 
 
 425 
 
 She's been at rest fur many years beside 
 the church that she 
 
 Once filled with sweet an' soul-felt strains 
 o' sacred melody ; 
 
 An' I've an idee* 'fore she died the mourn- 
 ers heerd her sing: 
 
 0, grave, where is thy victory? 0, death, 
 where is thy sting ? 
 
 An' when she entered heaven's gate, with 
 
 glad, triumphant tongue, 
 I bet she clapped her saintly hands an' 
 
 rapturously sung: 
 Here will I bathe my wearied soul in seas 
 
 o' heavenly rest, 
 An' not a wave o' trouble roll across my 
 
 peaceful breast. 
 
 10* t£& t&& 
 
 THAT OLEf RED SUNBONNET. 
 
 HOW dear to my heart are the scenes 
 of my childhood 
 When fond recollection presents them 
 to view ! 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled 
 wildwood 
 And every fond spot which my infancy 
 knew." 
 So sang the old poet in rhythmical measure, 
 And millions have dreamed of his 
 picture so fair, 
 But never a word of that one crowning 
 treasure, 
 The old red sunbonnet our girls used to 
 wear. 
 
 The bells of to-day in their scorn would 
 deride it 
 And wonder how maidens could wear 
 such a fright! 
 But when 'twas protecting a dear head in- 
 side it 
 To old-fashioned boys 'twas a heavenly 
 sight. 
 No ornaments decked it, it bore no fine 
 lacesj 
 No ribbons of bright colored hues did it 
 bear, 
 But hid in its depths was the sweetest of 
 faces — 
 That old red sunbonnet our girl used to 
 wear. 
 
 When school was dismissed, on her head 
 we would set it 
 And tie the long strings in a knot 'neath 
 her chin, 
 Then claim from her red lips a kiss and 
 would get it, 
 For kissing in old days was never a sin. 
 Then homeward we'd speed where the 
 brooklet was plashing 
 Down through the old wood and the 
 meadow so fair, 
 The skies not more blue than the eyes that 
 were flashing 
 Inside that sunbonnet our girl used to 
 wear. 
 
 In front of her mirror a proud dame is 
 standing 
 Arranging a prize on her head, now so 
 white ! 
 She turns, while her bosom with pride is 
 expanding, 
 And asks if it is not a dream of delight ! 
 I speak of the past as I make the inspec- 
 tion, 
 Of days when to me she was never more 
 fair, 
 And tears gem her eyes at the fond recol- 
 lection 
 Of that old sunbonnet she once used to 
 wear. 
 
 — lames Barton Adams. 
 
426 
 
 ENCORES. 
 
 O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! 
 
 (This exquisite poem refers to our martyred Lincoln.) 
 
 O CAPTAIN, my Captain ! our fearful 
 trip is done, 
 The ship has weather'd every rack, the 
 
 prize we sought is won, 
 The port is near, the bells I hear, the people 
 
 all exulting, 
 While follow eyes the steady keel, the 
 vessel grim and daring; 
 But O heart, heart, heart! 
 
 O the bleeding drops of red, 
 Where on the deck my Captain lies 
 Fallen, cold and dead. 
 
 O Captain, my Captain! rise up and hear 
 
 the bells; 
 Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you 
 
 the bugle trills, 
 For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths, for 
 
 you the shores a-crowding, 
 
 For you they call, the swaying mass, their 
 eager faces turning: 
 Here, Captain ! dear father ! 
 
 This arm beneath your head ! 
 
 It is some dream that on the deck 
 
 You've fallen cold and dead. 
 
 My Captain does not answer, his lips are 
 
 k pale and still, 
 My father does not feel my arm, he has no 
 
 pulse nor will, 
 The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its 
 
 voyage closed and done, 
 From fearful trip the victor ship comes in 
 with object won ; 
 Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! 
 
 But I, with mournful tread, 
 Walk the deck — my Captain lies 
 Fallen, cold and dead. 
 
 ^w ^* ^* 
 
 THE GOOD OLD TIME RELIGION. 
 
 THE good old time religion that we 
 have in Bowerville; 
 This is the kind that suits me, an' the kind 
 
 that always will. 
 There ain't no pew that isn't free — the 
 
 same as heav'nly grace — 
 But then I sort of claim a seat up in the 
 
 "Amen" place. 
 An' it is good to hear the way the old-time 
 
 stanzas ring 
 When Parson Brown lines out the hymn 
 
 an' says, "Arise an' sing." 
 
 The good, old-time religion, an' the old- 
 time music, too, 
 
 It sets your soul a-singin' 'fore the verse is 
 half way through. 
 
 There ain't no high priced singer, who 
 seems too good fer earth, 
 
 A-warblin just enough to give the folks 
 
 their money's worth. 
 The congregation sings the song; it may 
 
 get off the key, 
 But still the old-time praise an' song is 
 
 good enough for me. 
 
 The good, old-time religion — the new kinds 
 are too strange, 
 
 But, thank the Lord that heaven hasn't suf- 
 fered any change ! 
 
 We still believe that heaven is our home up 
 in the skies, 
 
 An' it is still old fashioned when we call it 
 "paradise." 
 
 We've got new streets an' 'lectric lights an' 
 waterworks, but still ' 
 
 We've got old-time religion in the church 
 at Bowerville. 
 
ENCORES. 
 
 427 
 
 BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY. 
 
 IN speaking of a person's faults, 
 Pray don't forget your own; 
 Remember those with homes of glass, 
 
 Should seldom throw a stone. 
 If we have nothing else to do 
 But talk of those who sin, 
 'Tis better we commenced at home, 
 And from that point begin. 
 
 We have no right to judge a man 
 
 Until he's fairly tried; 
 Should we not like his company, 
 
 We know the world is wide. 
 Some may have faults — and who 
 not?— 
 
 The old as well as young; 
 Perhaps we may, for aught we know, 
 
 Have fifty to their one. 
 
 has 
 
 I'll tell you of a better plan, 
 
 And find it works full well: 
 To try my own defects to cure 
 
 Before of others' tell; 
 And though I sometimes hope to be 
 
 No worse than some I know, 
 My own shortcomings bid me let 
 
 The faults of others go. 
 
 Then let us all, when we commence 
 
 To slander friend or foe, 
 Think of the harm one word may do 
 
 To those we little know. 
 Remember, curses sometimes, like 
 
 Our chickens, "roost at home;" 
 Don't speak of others' faults until 
 
 We have none of our own. 
 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 (The following poem was written by President Garfield during his senior year in William's 
 
 College, Mass.) 
 
 ? ' I "" IS beauteous night ; the stars look 
 
 1 brightly down 
 
 Upon the earth decked in her robe of snow. 
 No lights gleam at the windows save my 
 
 own 
 Which gives its cheer to midnight and to 
 
 me. 
 
 And now with noiseless step sweet memory 
 
 comes 
 And leads me gently through her twilight ; 
 What poet's tuneful lyre has ever sung 
 
 realms 
 Or delicatest pencil e'er portrayed 
 The enchanted shadow land where memory 
 
 . dwells? 
 It has its valleys, cheerless, lone and drear, 
 Dark, shaded, mournful, cypress tree; 
 And yet its sunlit mountain tops are bathed 
 
 In heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy 
 
 cliffs 
 Robed in the dreamy light of distant years, 
 Are clustered joys serene of other days. 
 Upon its gently sloping hillsides bend 
 The weeping willows o'er the sacred dust 
 Of dear departed ones ; yet in that land, 
 Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore, 
 They that were sleeping rise from out the 
 
 dust 
 Of death's long, silent years, and round us 
 
 stand 
 As erst they did before the prison tomb 
 Received their clay within its voiceless 
 
 halls. 
 The heavens that bend above that land are 
 
 hung 
 With clouds of various hues. Some dark 
 
 and chill, 
 
428 
 
 ENCORES. 
 
 Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre 
 
 shade 
 Upon the sunny, joyous land below. 
 Others are floating through the dreamy air, 
 White as the falling snow, their margins 
 
 tinged 
 With gold and crimson hues ; their shadows 
 
 fall 
 Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes, 
 Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing. 
 When the rough battle of the day is done, 
 And evening's peace falls gently on the 
 
 heart, 
 I bound away, across the noisy years, 
 Unto the utmost verge of memory's land, 
 Where earth and sky in dreamy distance 
 
 meet, 
 And memory dim with dark oblivion joins ; 
 Where woke the first remembered sound 
 
 that fell 
 
 Upon the ear in childhood's early morn ; 
 And, wandering thence along the rolling 
 
 years, 
 I see the shadow of my former self, 
 Gliding from childhood up to man's estate ; 
 The path of youth winds down through 
 
 many a vale. 
 And on the brink of many a dread abyss, 
 From out whose darkness comes no ray of 
 
 light, 
 Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf 
 And beckons toward the verge. Again the 
 
 path 
 Leads o'er the summit where the sunbeams 
 
 fall: 
 And thus in light and shade, sunshine and 
 
 gloom, 
 Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along. 
 — James Abram Garfield. 
 
 t5* *5* ^* 
 
 A TALE OF "WHOA." 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 GOODBY, old horse, we'll turn you out 
 To roam o'er hill and plain ; 
 We've bought a horseless carriage, and 
 
 We'll never need you again. 
 With naphtha, oil or gasoline 
 
 We'll ride from morn till dark 
 And on a Sunday afternoon 
 
 Go puffing through the park. 
 You're hardly worth a piece of pie! 
 Goodby, old horse, goodby ! 
 
 THE MAN WHO 
 
 YOU bump against him everywhere, in 
 country and in town ; 
 Upon his sadly swollen head he wears the 
 
 knowledge crown. 
 His bump of self-esteem stands out like 
 knots upon a log ; 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 Come here, old horse, we need your pull 
 
 To get us home to-night ; 
 This nasty, stinking, puffing thing 
 
 Is not perfected — quite. 
 Ten miles from home it fussed and fumed 
 
 And then refused to go, 
 And, minus both a push and pull, 
 
 It was a case of whoa ! 
 If you'll return, so will our joy, 
 Good boy, old horse, good boy. 
 
 KNOWS IT ALL. 
 
 His egotism never yet was known to slip 
 
 a cog. 
 His self assurance has its stamp forever in 
 
 his eyes; 
 No gray and patriarchal owl could ever 
 
 look so wise; 
 
ENCORES. 
 
 429 
 
 He is a constant sufferer from enlargement 
 
 of the gall 
 And petrifaction of the cheek, the man who 
 
 knows it all. 
 
 He has an unimpeded flow of language at 
 command ; 
 
 His active, tireless tongue is of the auto- 
 matic brand. 
 
 His nasal organ he inserts in every one's 
 affairs ; 
 
 He sows the grain of knowledge, while his 
 neighbors sow the tares. 
 
 No matter what the theme may be, he's 
 posted up to date ; 
 
 The information that he bears would wreck 
 a common pate. 
 
 He thinks without his guidance this ter- 
 restrial whirling ball 
 
 Would cease to take its daily spin, the man 
 who knows it all. 
 
 — James Barton Adams. 
 
 £* (5* ^* 
 
 THE COURTIN'. 
 
 GOD makes sech nights, all white an' 
 still 
 Fur'z you can look or listen, 
 Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 
 All silence an' all glisten. 
 
 Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
 An' peeked in thru the winder, 
 
 An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
 Tth no one nigh to hender. 
 
 A fireplace filled the room's one side 
 With half a cord o' wood in — 
 
 There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
 To bake ye to a puddin'. 
 
 The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
 Towards the pootiest, bless her, 
 
 An' leetle flames danced all about 
 The chiny on the dresser. 
 
 Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 
 
 An' in amongst 'em rusted 
 The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 
 
 Fetched back from Concord busted. 
 
 The very room, coz she was in, 
 Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', 
 
 An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
 Ez the apples she was peelin'. 
 
 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 
 
 On sech a blessed cretur; 
 A dogrose blushin' to a brook 
 
 Ain't modester nor sweeter. 
 
 He was six foot o' man, Ai, 
 
 Clear grit an' human natur' ; 
 None couldn't quicker pitch a ton 
 
 Nor dror a furrer straighten 
 
 He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 
 He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 
 
 Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
 All is, he couldn't love 'em. 
 
 But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
 All crinkly like curled maple, — 
 
 The side she breshed felt full o' sun 
 Ez a south slope in April. 
 
 She thought no voice hed such a swing 
 
 Ez hisn in the choir ; 
 My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, 
 
 She knowed the Lord was nigher. 
 
 An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
 When her new meetin' bunnet 
 
 Felt somehow thru its crown a pair 
 O' blue eyes sot upon it. 
 
430 
 
 ENCORES. 
 
 Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! 
 
 She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 
 For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 
 
 Down to her very shoe-sole. 
 
 She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 
 
 A-raspin' on the' scraper, — 
 All ways to once her feelin's flew, 
 
 Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 
 
 He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, 
 
 Some doubtfle o' the sekle; 
 His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 
 
 But hern went pity Zekle. 
 
 An' yit she gin her cheer a juerk 
 Ez though she wished him furder, 
 
 An' on her apples kep' to work, 
 Parin' away like murder. 
 
 "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ?" 
 "Wal — no — I come dasignin' — " 
 
 "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es 
 Agin to-morrer's i'nin." 
 
 To say why gals acts so or so, 
 Or don't 'ould be presumin' ; 
 
 Mebby to mean yes an' say no 
 Comes nateral to women. 
 
 He stood a spell on one foot fust, 
 Then stood a spell on t'other, 
 
 An' on which one he felt the wust 
 He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 
 
 Says he, "I'd better call agin," 
 Says she, "Think likely, Mister ;" 
 
 Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 
 An' — wal, he «p an' kist her. 
 
 When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 
 
 Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
 All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 
 
 An' teary roun' the lashes. 
 
 For she was jest the quiet kind 
 
 Whose naturs never vary, 
 Like streams that keep a summer mind 
 
 Snowhid in Jenooary. 
 
 The blood clost 'roun' her heart felt glued 
 
 Too tight for all expressin' 
 Tell mother see how metters stood, 
 
 An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 
 
 Then her red come back like the tide 
 Down to the Bay of Fundy, 
 
 An' all I know is they was cried 
 In' meetin' come nex' Sunday. 
 
 (5* *2* &* 
 
 MY BOB-SLED. 
 
 MADE it all myself, you see ; it wasn't 
 much fer fine; 
 Fellers all began to laugh at that ol' sled uv 
 
 mine, 
 When they see me climbin' up ther hill we 
 
 used to slide, 
 A-draggin' it along behin', all ready for a 
 
 ride — • 
 Then they shouted, scornful like: "Say, 
 
 Jimmie, what it is?" 
 Didn't feel like sayin' much, so 'tended to 
 
 my biz; 
 Jes' let 'em keep on laughin' an' a-tauntin' 
 
 me, until 
 
 I squared my ol' bob-sled around fer my 
 first slide down ther hill. 
 
 The runners were of hickory, and the top 
 was made uv oak. 
 
 When I got her finished, wa'n't no part 
 could be broke ; 
 
 But the other fellers' sleds were all so 
 bang-up slick and fine, 
 
 Kinder knocked the spots all off that home- 
 made one uv mine ; 
 
 The bottoms were so slippery, an' polished 
 up so bright, 
 
ENCORES. 
 
 431 
 
 I was ready to bet she'd go ahead uv every 
 
 thing in sight; 
 But I never answered back a word, an' was 
 
 mighty quiet till 
 I laid right down an' hugged her tight, fer 
 
 my first run down ther hill. 
 
 Didn't have a mite uv paint on bottom, 
 
 sides, or top; 
 Knew if she once got started though, 
 
 'twould be mighty hard to stop. 
 'Twas seasoned stuff she was made uv, an' 
 
 jes' ther shape fer speed, 
 Might keep a-pokin' lots uv fun, I knew 
 
 she'd take ther lead. 
 There was Clipper, Comet, Reindeer, an' 
 
 Dexter there, an' Dart — 
 All lined up on ther hillside, an' ready fer 
 
 the start. 
 
 My ol' bob-sled didn't hev no name. I'se 
 
 bound she wouldn't till 
 I found out which would suit her best, by 
 
 my first slide down ther hill. 
 An' then we shouted : "One, two, three, an' 
 
 altogether. Go!" 
 Gee whiz! the way that bob-sled flew was 
 
 anything but slow : 
 She shot ahead like a rocket that's got lots 
 
 uv powder behin'; 
 None uv the rest was in it, when you 
 
 looked back up ther line. 
 
 She beat 'em like a thoroughbred, if she did 
 
 look like a scrub, 
 'Twas my turn now ter laugh an' shout: 
 
 "Gimme yer heads to rub !" 
 "Say, Jimmie, won't yer let us ride?" an' I 
 
 said: "Course I will;" 
 For they owned my bob-sled beat 'em all 
 
 a-slidin' down ther hill. 
 
 <£ & jt 
 
 THE MITES IN 
 
 THE cheese mites asked how the cheese 
 got there, 
 And warmly debated the matter. 
 The orthodox said it came from the air, 
 And the heretics said from the platter. 
 They argued it long, and they argued it 
 strong, 
 
 THE CHEESE. 
 
 And I hear they are arguing it now, 
 But of all the choice spirits who lived iv. 
 the cheese 
 Not one of them thought of a cow. 
 
 — A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 I£rl %£rl 10* 
 
 PITCHER 
 
 THEY toiled together side by side, 
 In the field where the corn was grow- 
 ing; 
 They paused awhile to quench their thirst, 
 Grown weary with the hoeing. 
 
 "I fear, my friend," I said to one, 
 
 "That you will ne'er be richer ; 
 You drink, I see, from the little brown jug, 
 
 Whilst your friend drinks from the 
 pitcher. 
 
 OR JUG. 
 
 "One is filled with alcohol, 
 The fiery drink from the still; 
 
 The other with water clear and cool 
 From the spring at the foot of the hill. 
 
 "In all of life's best gifts, my friend, 
 I fear you will ne'er be richer, 
 
 Unless you leave the little brown jug, 
 And drink, like your friend, from the 
 pitcher." 
 
432 
 
 ENCORES. 
 
 My words have proved a prophecy, 
 For years have passed away ; 
 
 How do you think have fared our friends 
 That toiled in the fields that day? 
 
 One is a reeling, drunken sot, 
 Grown poorer instead of richer; 
 
 The other has won both wealth and fame, 
 And he always drank from the pitcher. 
 
 (£• t5* fe5* 
 
 VAT I CALL HIM. 
 
 DER leddle boy vot yust arrived 
 Aboud some veeks ago, 
 His voice was learning for to make 
 
 Dot noise vich is a crow. 
 Und also somedimes ven I vent 
 
 Und sboke mit him a vile, 
 He tvists his leddle face arount 
 Und makes vot is a smile ! — 
 I vonder vot to call him? 
 
 Some say Thomas, 
 Some say Tim; 
 Some say Stephen, 
 Some say Jim; 
 Some say Diederich, 
 Some say Matt; 
 Some say Daniel, 
 Some say Pat; 
 Some say Goethe, 
 Some say Choe; 
 Vot to call him 
 I doan'd know. 
 
 I ask dot leddle boy himself 
 
 Vot name he dinks vill do, 
 Und den he makes a funny vink 
 
 Und says py me, "Ah, Goo!" 
 Ah Goo ! dot is a Chinese name ! 
 
 I guess vot he doan'd like 
 To be called dot ven he grows up,. 
 
 Much bedder id vas Mike ! 
 I wonder vot I call him? 
 
 Some say Heinrich, 
 Some say Net; 
 Some say Villum, 
 Some say Fret; 
 Some say Dewey, 
 Some say Schley, 
 Some say Sampson, 
 Some say Si; 
 Some say Chasper, 
 Some say Snitz; 
 So I dink I 
 Call him Fritz. 
 
 %0* 10* t0& 
 
 WATER. 
 
 WINE, wine, thy power and praise 
 Have ever been echoed in minstrel 
 
 lays; 
 But water, I deem, hath a mightier claim 
 To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame. 
 Ye who are bred in Anacreon's school 
 May sneer at my strain, as the song of a 
 
 fool; 
 Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn 
 How the tongue can cleave, and the veins 
 
 can burn. 
 
 Should you ever be one of a fainting band, 
 With your brow to the sun and your feet 
 
 to the sand 
 I would wager the thing I'm most loth to 
 
 spare, 
 That your Bacchanal chorus would never 
 
 ring there. 
 Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell 
 What treasures exist in the cold, deep well ; 
 Sink in despair on the red, parched earth, 
 And then you may reckon what water is 
 worth. 
 
ENCORES. 
 
 433 
 
 Famine is laying her hand of bone 
 On the ship becalmed in a torrid zone ; 
 The gnawing of Hunger's worm is past, ' 
 But fiery Thirst lives on to the last. 
 The stoutest one of the gallant crew 
 Hath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue ; 
 The hot blood stands in each glassy eye ; 
 And, "Water, O T-od !" is the only cry. 
 
 There's drought in the land, and the herbage 
 
 is dead, 
 No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed : 
 The herd's low bleat, and the. sick man's 
 
 pant, 
 Are mournfully telling the boon we want. 
 Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold, 
 How soon we find it is better than gold ; 
 And water, I say, hath a right to claim 
 The minstrel's song, and a tithe of Fame. 
 
 ti5* t5* t£5 
 
 CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN RICHES. 
 
 Arthur Rich: 
 
 YOUR hat is too big for your head, 
 Martin Lee, 
 Your jacket is threadbare and old, 
 There's a hole in your shoe and a patch on 
 your knee, 
 Yet you seem very cheerful and bold. 
 
 Martin Lee: 
 Why not, Arthur Rich ? for my lesson I say, 
 
 And my duty I try hard to do ; 
 I have plenty of work, I have time, too, to 
 play, 
 I have health, and my joys are not few. 
 
 Arthur Rich: 
 See my vest, Martin Lee, and my boots how 
 they shine! 
 My jacket, my trousers, all new ! 
 
 t5* ^* c5* 
 
 Now, would you not like such a nice ring 
 as mine? 
 Come, give me the answer that's true. 
 
 Martin Lee: 
 Such clothes, Arthur Rich, would become 
 me, and please, 
 But I'm content in the thought, 
 Since my mother is poor, that I'd rather 
 wear these 
 Than make her work more than she 
 ought. 
 
 Arthur Rich: 
 You are right, Martin Lee, and your way 
 is the best; 
 Your hat is now handsome to me ; 
 I look at the heart beating under your vest, 
 And the patches no longer I see. 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED. 
 
 (Can be used as a dialogue.) 
 
 1KNOW what you're going to say," she 
 said, 
 And she stood up, looking uncommonly 
 
 tall; 
 "You are going to speak of the hectic fall, 
 And say you are sorry the summer's dead, 
 And no other summer was like it, you 
 know, 
 
 And can I imagine what made it so ? 
 Now, ain't you, honestly ?" "Yes," I said. 
 
 "I know what you're going to say," she 
 
 said; 
 "You're going to ask if I forget 
 That day in June when the woods were 
 
 wet, 
 
434 
 
 ENCORES. 
 
 And you carried me" — here she dropped her 
 head — 
 "Over the creek; you are going to say, 
 Do I remember that horrid day ? 
 
 Now, ain't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said. 
 
 "I know what you're going to say," she 
 said; 
 "You are going to say that since that 
 
 time 
 You have rather tended to run to rhyme ; 
 And," — her clear glance fell, and her cheek 
 grew red, — 
 "And have I noticed your tone was queer ; 
 
 Why, everybody has seen it here ! 
 Now, ain't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said. 
 
 "I know what you're going to say," I said, 
 "You are going to say you've been much 
 
 annoyed, 
 And I'm short of tact — you will say, de- 
 void — 
 And I'm clumsy and awkward, and call me 
 Ted, 
 And I'll bear abuse like a dear old lamb, 
 And you'll have me, anyway, just as I 
 am? 
 Now, ain't you, honestly?" "Ye — es," she 
 said. 
 
 ^* (5* c5* 
 
 "ONE, TWO, THREE." 
 
 IT was an old, old, old, old lady, 
 And a boy who was half-past three ; 
 And the way that they played together 
 Was beautiful to see. 
 
 She couldn't go running and jumping, 
 And the boy no more could he, 
 
 For he was a thin little fellow, 
 With a thin, little, twisted knee. 
 
 They sat in the yellow sunlight, 
 
 Out under the maple tree ; 
 And the game they played, I'll tell you, 
 
 Just as it was told to me. 
 
 It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were play- 
 ing, 
 
 Though you'd never known it to be, 
 With an old, old, old, old lady, 
 
 And a boy with a twisted knee. 
 
 The boy would bend his face down, 
 On his one little sound right knee, 
 
 And he'd guess where she was hiding, 
 In guesses One, Two, Three ! 
 
 "You are in the china-closet !" 
 He would cry, and laugh with glee, 
 
 It wasn't the china-closet, 
 
 But he still had Two and Three. 
 
 "You are up in Papa's big bedroom, 
 In the chest with the queer old key !" 
 
 And she said : "You are warm and 
 warmer ; 
 But you're not quite right," said she. 
 
 "It can't be the little cupboard, 
 
 Where Mamma's things used to be — 
 
 So it must be the clothes-press, Grandma!" 
 And he found her with his Three. 
 
 Then she covered her face with her fingers, 
 That were wrinkled and white and wee, 
 
 And she guessed where the boy was hiding, 
 With a One and a Two and a Three. 
 
 And they had never stirred from their 
 places, 
 Right under the maple-tree — 
 This old, old, old, old lady, 
 
 And the boy with the lame little knee — 
 This dear, dear, dear, old lady, 
 
 And the boy who was half-past three. 
 — H. C. Banner. 
 
»•— — •••••••^♦ • ••••••*»o*»gs»»— o***< 
 
 Pauline Pavlovna 
 
 >©©€©€» 
 
 I 
 
 I » 
 
 g«»e« 3 go«e»s»» ge cee» t —> gwo « «f O 8 «««« c* »e c 0»— ——$ « • § «»•••»«•» 
 
 T. B. ALDRICH. 
 
 Period: T/?^ present time. 
 Scene: St. Petersburg. A ballroom in 
 the winter palace of the Prince. The 
 ladies in character costumes and masks. 
 The gentlemen in official dress and un- 
 masked, with the exception of six tall 
 figures in scarlet kaftans, who are treated 
 with marked distinction as they move 
 here and there among the promenaders. 
 Quadrille music throughout the dialogue. 
 Count Sergius Pavlovich Panshine, who 
 has just arrived, is standing anxiously in 
 the doorway of an antechamber with his 
 eye fixed upon a lady in costume of a 
 maid of honor in the time of Catherine II. 
 The lady presently disengages herself 
 from the crowd, and passes near Count 
 Panshine, who impulsively takes her by 
 the hand and leads her across the thres- 
 hold of the inner apartment, which is 
 unoccupied. 
 
 He. 
 Pauline ! 
 
 She. 
 You knew me? 
 
 He. 
 How could I have failed? 
 A mask may hide your features, not your 
 
 soul. 
 There's an air about you like the air that 
 
 folds a star. 
 A blind man knows the night, and feels the 
 
 constellations. 
 No coarse sense of eye or ear had made you 
 
 plain to me. 
 Through these I had not found you; for 
 
 your eyes, 
 As blue as violets of our Novgorod, look 
 black behind your mask there, 
 
 And your voice — I had not known that 
 
 either. 
 My heart said, "Pauline Pavlovna." 
 
 She. 
 Ah, your heart said that? 
 You trust your heart, then! 
 'Tis a serious risk! 
 How is it you and others wear no mask? 
 
 He. 
 
 The emperor's orders. 
 
 She. 
 Is the emperor here ? I have not seen him. 
 
 He. 
 He is one of the six in scarlet kaftans and 
 
 all masked alike. 
 Watch — you will note how every one bows 
 
 down 
 Before those figures, thinking each by 
 
 chance 
 May be the Tsar; yet none know which is 
 
 he. 
 Even his counterparts are left in doubt. 
 Unhappy Russia ! No serf ever wore 
 Such chains as gall our emperor these sad 
 
 days. 
 He dare trust no man. 
 
 She. 
 All men are so false. 
 
 He. 
 Spare one, Pauline Pavlovna. 
 
 She. 
 No! All, all! 
 
 I think there is no truth left in the world, 
 In man or woman. 
 
 Once were noble souls 
 
 I Count Sergius, is Nastasia here to-night? 
 
 435 
 
436 
 
 PAULINE PAVLOVNA. 
 
 He. 
 Ah, then you know ! I thought to tell you 
 
 first. 
 Not here, beneath these hundred curious 
 
 eyes, 
 In all this glare of light ; but in some place 
 Where I could throw me at your feet and 
 
 weep. 
 In what shape came the story to your ears ? 
 Decked in the tellers' colors, I'll be sworn ; 
 The truth, but in the livery of a lie, 
 And so must wrong me. Only this is true : 
 The Tsar, because I risked my wretched life 
 To shield a life as wretched as my own, 
 Bestows upon me as supreme reward — 
 
 irony! — the hand of this poor girl. 
 Says : "Here I have the pearl of pearls for 
 
 you, 
 Such as was never plucked from out the 
 
 deep 
 By Indian diver for a Sultan's crown ; 
 Your joy's decreed." 
 And stabs me with a smile. 
 
 She. 
 And she — she loves you. 
 
 He. 
 
 1 know not, indeed. Likes me, perhaps. 
 What matters it? — her love! 
 
 Sidor Yurievich, the guardian, consents, 
 
 and she consents. 
 No love in it at all — a mere caprice, 
 A young girl's spring-tide dream. 
 Sick of her earrings, weary of her mare, 
 She'll have a lover — something ready-made 
 Or improvised between two cups of tea — 
 A love by imperial ukase ! 
 Fate said the word — I chanced to be the 
 
 man! 
 If that grenade the crazy student threw 
 Had not spared me as well as spared the 
 
 Tsar 
 All this would not have happened ; I'd have 
 
 been a hero, 
 
 But quite safe from her romance. 
 She takes me for a hero — think of that ! 
 Now, by our holy Lady of Kazan, 
 When I have finished pitying myself I'll 
 pity her. 
 
 She. 
 Oh, no; begin with her; she needs it most. 
 
 He. 
 
 At her door lies the blame, whatever falls. 
 She, with a single word, with half a tear, 
 Had stop't it at the first, 
 This cruel juggling with poor human 
 hearts. 
 
 She. 
 The Tsar commanded it — you said the Tsar. 
 
 He. 
 
 The Tsar does what she wills — God fath- 
 oms why. 
 Were she his mistress now! but there's no 
 
 snow 
 Whiter within the bosom of a cloud ; 
 Nor colder, either. She is very haughty, 
 For all her fragile air of gentleness ; 
 With something vital in her, like those 
 
 flowers 
 That on our desolate steppes outlast the 
 
 year. 
 Resembles you in some things. It was that 
 First made us friends. I do her justice, 
 
 see! 
 For we were friends in- that smooth sur- 
 face way 
 We Russians have imported out of France. 
 Alas ! from what a blue and tranquil heaven 
 This bolt fell on me ! After these two years, 
 My suit with Ossip Leminoff at end, 
 The old wrong righted, the estates restored, 
 And my promotion, with the ink not dry! 
 Those fairies which neglected me at birth 
 Seemed now fo lavish all good gifts on 
 
 me — 
 Gold roubles, office, sudden dearest friends. 
 
PAULINE PAVLOVNA. 
 
 437 
 
 The whole world smiled ; then, as I stooped 
 
 to taste 
 The sweetest cup, freak dashed it from my 
 
 lip. 
 This very night — just think — this very 
 
 night 
 I planned to come and beg of you the alms 
 I dared not ask for in my poverty. 
 I thought me poor, then. How stript am I 
 
 now! 
 There's not a ragged mendicant one meets 
 Along the Nevski Prospekt but has leave 
 
 to tell his love, 
 And I have not that right! 
 Pauline Pavlovna, why do you stand there 
 Stark as a statue, with no word to say? 
 
 She. 
 Because this thing has frozen up my heart. 
 I think that there, is something killed in me, 
 A dream that would have mocked all other 
 
 bliss. 
 What shall I say? What would you have 
 
 me say? 
 
 He. 
 
 If it be possible, the word of words ! 
 
 She (very slowly). 
 Well, then — I love you. I may tell you so 
 This once — and then forever hold my peace. 
 We cannot stay here longer unobserved. 
 No — do not touch me, but stand further off, 
 And seem to laugh, as if we jested — 
 Eyes, eyes everywhere! 
 Now turn your face away — 
 I love you ! 
 
 He. 
 
 With such music in my ears I would death 
 
 found me. 
 It were sweet to die listening! You love 
 
 me — prove it. 
 
 She. 
 Prove it — how? I prove it saying it. 
 How else? 
 
 He. 
 Pauline, I have three things to choose 
 
 from; you shall choose. 
 This marriage, or Siberia, or France. 
 The first means hell ; the second, purgatory ; 
 The third — with you — were nothing less 
 
 than heaven ! 
 
 She (starting). 
 How dared you even dream it ! 
 
 He. 
 I was mad. This business has touched me 
 
 in the brain. 
 Have patience ! the calamity 's so new. 
 
 Pauses — 
 There is a fourth way, but the gate is shut 
 To brave men who hold life a thing of God. 
 
 She. 
 Yourself spake there; the rest was not of 
 you. 
 
 He. 
 
 Oh, lift me to your level ! So, I'm safe. 
 What's to be done? 
 
 She. 
 There must be some path out. Perhaps the 
 Emperor 
 
 He. 
 Not a ray of hope! 
 
 His mind is set on this with that insistence 
 Which seems to seize on all match-making 
 
 folk— 
 The fancy bites them, and they straight go 
 
 mad. 
 
 She. 
 Your father's friend, the metropolitan — 
 A word from him. 
 
 He. 
 Alas, he, too, is bitten ! 
 Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly wise, he 
 
 sees 
 This marriage makes me the Tsar's protege 
 And opens every door to preference. 
 
438 
 
 PAULINE PAVLOVNA. 
 
 She. 
 Think while I think. There surely is some 
 
 key 
 Unlocks the labyrinth, could we but find it. 
 
 Nastasia ! 
 
 He. 
 
 What, beg life of her? Not I. 
 
 She. 
 Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps 
 Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air. 
 Were she told all would she not pity us ? 
 For if she love you — as I think she must — 
 Would not some generous impulse stir in 
 
 her, 
 Some latent, unsuspected spark illume? 
 How love thrills even commonest girl-clay ! 
 Ennobling it an instant, if no more ! 
 You said that she is proud ; then touch her 
 
 pride, 
 And turn her into marble with the touch. 
 But yet the gentle passion is the stronger. 
 Go to her, tell her in some tenderest phrase 
 That will not hurt too much — ah, but 'twill 
 
 hurt !— 
 Just how your happiness lies in her hand 
 To make or mar for all time ; hint, not say, 
 Your heart is gone from you, and you may 
 
 find 
 
 He. 
 A casemate in St. Peter and St. Paul 
 For, say, a month; then some Siberian 
 
 town. 
 Not this way lies escape. At my first word 
 That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to 
 
 fire 
 In every vein. 
 
 She. 
 How blindly you read her 
 Or any woman ! Yes, I know, I grant 
 How small we often seem to our small 
 
 world 
 Of trivial cares and narrow precedents — 
 Lacking that wide horizon stretched for 
 
 men — 
 Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse ; 
 
 But when it comes to suffering mortal 
 
 pangs, 
 The weakest of us measures pulse with you. 
 
 He. 
 Yes, you, not she. If she were at your 
 
 height ! 
 But there's no martyr wrapt in her rose 
 
 flesh. 
 There should have been, for Nature gave 
 
 you both 
 The self-same purple for your eyes and 
 
 hair, 
 The self-same southern music to your lips — 
 Fashioned you both, as 'twere, in the same 
 
 mold, 
 Yet failed to put the soul in one of you ! 
 I know her wilful — her light head quite 
 
 turned 
 In this court atmosphere of flatteries ; 
 A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there, 
 And since, spoiled here; as soft as swan's 
 
 down, now, 
 With words like honey melting from the 
 
 comb, 
 But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold. 
 I fancy her between two rosy smiles 
 Saying, "Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk 
 
 mines !" 
 That is the sum of her. 
 She. 
 You know her not. 
 
 Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask 
 Could hide the soul ; yet how you have mis- 
 taken 
 The soul these two months — and the face 
 
 to-night ! 
 
 (She remove mask.) 
 He. 
 You ! — it was you ! 
 
 She. 
 Count Sergius Pavlovich, go find Pauline 
 
 Pavlovna — she is here — 
 And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. 
 (Goes out hurriedly.) 
 
Historical and Pathetic 
 
 In this department have been grouped many choice selections adapted to the highest 
 
 forms of emotional expression. 
 
 *2™ *c& ^* 
 
 THE FADING LEAF. 
 
 WE all do fade as a leaf." The sad 
 voice whispers through my soul, 
 and a shiver creeps over from the church- 
 yard. "How does a leaf fade?" It is a 
 deeper, richer, stronger voice, with a ring 
 and an echo in it, and the shiver levels into 
 peace. I go out upon the October hills and 
 question the genii of the woods. "How does 
 a leaf fade ?" Grandly, magnificently, impe- 
 rially, so that the glory of its coming is 
 eclipsed by the glory of its departing; thus 
 the forests make answer to-day. The ten- 
 der bud of April opens its bosom to the 
 wooing sun. From the soft airs of May and 
 the clear sky of June it gathers greenness 
 and strength. Through all the summer its 
 manifold lips are open to every passing 
 breeze, and great draughts of health course 
 through its delicate veins and meander 
 down to the sturdy bark, the busy sap, the 
 tiny flower and the maturing fruit, bearing 
 life for the present, and treasuring up prom- 
 ise for the future. 
 
 Then its work is done, and it goes to its 
 burial, not mournfully, not reluctantly, but 
 joyously, as to a festival. Its grave-clothes 
 wear no funereal look. It robes itself in 
 splendor. Solomon in all his glory was not 
 arrayed like one of these. First there was 
 a flash of crimson in the lowlands, then a 
 glimmer of yellow on the hillside, then, 
 rushing on exultant, reckless, rioting in 
 color, grove vies with grove till the woods 
 are all aflame. Here the sunlight streams 
 through the pale gold tresses of the maple, 
 
 serene and spiritual, like the aureole of a 
 saint ; there it lingers in bold dalliance with 
 the dusky orange of the walnut. 
 
 The fierce heart of the tropics beats in 
 blood-red branches that surge against deep, 
 solemn walls of cypress and juniper. 
 Yonder a sober, but not sombre, russet 
 tones down the flaunting vermilion. The 
 intense glow of scarlet struggles for su- 
 premacy with the quiet sedateness of brown, 
 and the numberless tints of year-long green 
 come in everywhere to enliven and soothe 
 and subdue and harmonize. So the leaf 
 fades — brilliant, gorgeous, gay, rejoicing — 
 as the bride adorned for her husband, as a 
 king goes to his coronation. 
 
 But the frosts come whiter and whiter. 
 The nights grow longer and longer. Ice 
 glitters in the morning light, and clouds 
 shiver with snow. The forests lose their 
 flush. The hectic dies into sere. The little 
 leaf can no longer breathe the strength-giv- 
 ing air, nor feel juicy life stirring in its 
 veins. Fainter and fainter grows its hold 
 upon the protecting tree. A strong wind 
 comes and loosens its clasp, and bears it 
 tenderly to earth. A whirl, an eddy, a 
 rustle, and all is over — no, not all ; its work 
 is not yet done. It sinks upon the protect- 
 ing earth, and, Antaeus like, gathers 
 strength from the touch, and begins a new 
 life. It joins hands with myriads of its 
 mates, and takes up again its work of be- 
 nevolence. 
 
 No longer sensitive itself to frosts and 
 
 439 
 
440 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 snows, it wraps in its warm bosom the frail 
 little anemones, and the delicate spring 
 beauties that can scarcely bide the rigors, of 
 our pitiless winters, and, nestling close in 
 that fond embrace, they sleep securely till 
 the spring sun wakens them to the smile of 
 the blue skies and the song of dancing 
 brooks. Deeper into the earth go the happy 
 leaves, mingling with the moist soil, drink- 
 ing the gentle dews, cradling a thousand 
 tender lives in theirs, and springing again 
 in new forms — an eternal cycle of life and 
 death "forever spent, renewed forever." 
 
 We all do fade as a leaf. Change, thank 
 God, is the essence of life. "Passing away" 
 is written on all things, and passing away is 
 
 passing on from strength to strength, from 
 glory to glory. Spring has its growth, sum- 
 mer its fruitage, and autumn its festive in- 
 gathering. The spring of eager preparation 
 waxes into the summer of noble work ; mel- 
 lowing, in its turn, into the serene autumn, 
 the golden-brown haze of October, when the 
 soul may robe itself in jubilant drapery, 
 awaiting the welcome command, "Come up 
 higher," where mortality shall be swallowed 
 up in life. Let him alone fear who does not 
 fade as the leaf — him whose spring is 
 gathering no strength, whose summer is 
 maturing no fruit, and whose autumn shall 
 have no vintage. 
 
 — Gail Hamilton. 
 
 i5* c5* %3& 
 
 "LIMPY TIM." 
 
 ABOUT the big post-office door 
 Some boys were selling news, 
 While others earned their slender store 
 By shining people's shoes. 
 
 They were surprised the other day 
 
 By seeing "Limpy Tim" 
 Approach in such a solemn way 
 
 That they all stared at him. 
 
 "Say, boys, I want to sell my kit ; 
 
 Two brushes, blacking-pot 
 And good stout box — the whole outfit; 
 
 A quarter buys the lot." 
 
 "Goin' away?" cried one. "O no," 
 Tim answered, "not to-day; 
 
 But I do want a quarter so, 
 And I want it right away." 
 
 The kit was sold, the price was paid, 
 
 When Tim an office sought 
 For daily papers ; down he laid 
 
 The money he had brought. 
 
 "I guess, if you'll lend me a pen, 
 I'll write myself," he sighed; 
 
 With slowly moving fingers then 
 He wrote this notice, "died — 
 
 Of scarlet fever — Litnl Ted — 
 Aged three — gon up to heven — 
 
 One brother left to mourn him dead — 
 Funeral to-morrozn} — eleven." 
 
 "Was it your brother?" asked the man 
 
 Who took the notice in; 
 Tim tried to hide it, but began 
 
 To quiver at the chin. 
 
 The more he sought himself to brace 
 The stronger grew his grief ; 
 
 Big tears came rolling down his face, 
 To give his heart relief. 
 
 "By selling out — my kit — I found — 
 
 That quarter — " he replied ; 
 "B — but he had his arms around 
 
 My neck — when he d — died." 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 441 
 
 Tim hurried home, but soon the news 
 Among the boys was spread; 
 
 They held short, quiet interviews 
 Which straight to action led. 
 
 He had been home an hour, not more, 
 When one with naked feet 
 
 Laid down Tim's kit outside his doo~ 
 With flowers white and sweet. 
 
 Each little fellow took a part, 
 His penny freely gave 
 
 To soothe the burdened brother's heart 
 And deck the baby's grave. 
 
 Those flowers have faded since that day, 
 
 The boys are growing men, 
 But the good God will yet repay 
 
 The deed he witnessed then. 
 
 The light which blessed poor "Limpy Tim" 
 
 Descended from above — 
 A ladder leading back to Him 
 
 Whose Christian name is Love. 
 
 to* tgnl tcr 1 
 
 THE DYING BOY. 
 
 A FRIEND of mine, seeking for objects 
 of charity, reached the upper room of 
 a tenement house. It was vacant. He saw 
 a ladder pushed through a hole in the ceil- 
 ing. Thinking that perhaps some poor 
 creature had crept up there, he climbed the 
 ladder, drew himself through the hole, and 
 found himself under the rafters. There 
 was no light but that which came through 
 a bull's eye in the place of a tile. Soon he 
 saw a heap of chips and shavings, and on 
 them lay a boy about ten years old. 
 
 "Boy, what are you doing here?" 
 
 "Hush, don't tell anybody, please, sir." 
 
 "What are you doing here ?" 
 
 "Hush, please don't tell anybody, sir ; I'm 
 a-hiding." 
 
 "What are you hiding for ?" 
 
 "Don't tell anybody, please, sir." 
 
 "Where's your mother?" 
 
 "Please, sir, mother's dead." 
 
 "Where's your father?" 
 
 "Hush, don't tell him. But look here." 
 He turned himself on his face, and through 
 the rags of his jacket and shirt my friend 
 saw that the boy's flesh was terribly bruised, 
 and his skin was broken. 
 
 "Why, my boy, who beat you like that ?" 
 
 "Father did, sir." 
 
 "What did he beat you for?" 
 
 "Father got drunk, sir, and beat me 'cos 
 I wouldn't steal." 
 
 "Did you ever steal?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; I was a street-thief once." 
 
 "And why won't you steal any more?" 
 
 "Please, sir, I went to the mission school, 
 and they told me there of God and of 
 heaven, and of Jesus, and they taught me, 
 'Thou shalt not steal,' and I'll never steal 
 again, if my father kills me for it. But 
 please don't tell him." 
 
 "My boy, you mustn't stay here. You'll 
 die. Now you wait patiently here for a 
 little time. I'm going away to see a lady. 
 We will get a better place for you than * 
 this." 
 
 "Thank you, sir; but please, sir, would 
 you like to hear me sing my little hymn?" 
 
 Bruised, battered, forlorn, friendless, 
 motherless, hiding from an infuriated 
 father, he had a little hymn to sing. 
 
 "Yes, I will hear you sing your little 
 hymn." 
 
 He raised himself on his elbow and then 
 sang: 
 
 "Gentle Jesus, meek and mfld, 
 Look upon a little child, 
 
442 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 Pity my simplicity, 
 
 Suffer me to come to Thee. 
 
 "Fain would I to Thee be brought 
 Gracious Lord, forbid it not ; 
 In the kingdom of Thy grace, 
 Give a little child a place." 
 
 "That's the little hymn, sir. Good-bye." 
 The gentleman hurried away for restora- 
 tives and help, came back again in less than 
 two hours, and climbed the ladder. There 
 were the chips, there were the shavings, and 
 
 there was the little motherless boy with one 
 hand by his side and the other tucked in 
 his bosom — dead. Oh, I thank God that he 
 who said, "Suffer little • children to come 
 unto me," did not say "respectable chil- 
 dren," or "well-educated children." No, he 
 sends his angels into the homes of poverty 
 and sin and crime, where you do not like to 
 go, and brings out his redeemed ones, and 
 they are as stars in the crown of rejoicing 
 to those who have been instrumental in en- 
 lightening their darkness. 
 
 t£pl t0* t2& 
 
 CHARITY'S MEAL. 
 
 A RICH man sat by his chamber window, 
 Viewing the skies, where the clouds 
 hung low ; 
 'Twas a darksome day in raw December, 
 And the air was filled with the falling 
 snow. 
 
 But he was rich in worldly treasure, 
 
 And none of the outside cold did feel ; 
 Fortune had blest him with heaping 
 measure, 
 And he knew not the chill of a charity 
 meal. 
 
 A wayfaring man in rags and tatters, 
 Weary and hungry, sick and sore — 
 
 Clothes all covered with muddy spatters, 
 Came knocking at the rich man's door. 
 
 A plate of cold potatoes was given, 
 
 (The snow on the window panes con- 
 geal), 
 But, oh, there is nothing 'twixt earth and 
 heaven, 
 So cold to the heart as a charity meal. 
 
 Ask the winds why poor men wander, 
 Ask the storm why the wild geese fly; 
 
 Or, why does the slave on liberty ponder, 
 Or the weary wish for the sweet by and 
 by. 
 
 We must take this world just as we find it, 
 And not judge it by what we think it 
 should be; 
 Nor lay all the blame on the powers behind 
 it- 
 Most of the blame lays on you, sir, and 
 me. 
 
 Slowly the old man munched his dinner, 
 For his molars had long since gone to de- 
 cay, 
 
 He may have been a hardened old sinner, 
 But what was that to charity, pray? 
 
 Cold were the looks which the rich man 
 gave him, 
 Cold were the thoughts in his heart of 
 steel ; 
 But, colder than all for the tramp, God save 
 him, 
 Were the cold potatoes of charity's meal. 
 
 There he sat eating and silently weeping, 
 For the old man's spirit was broken, I 
 know; 
 And sad were the thoughts in his shattered 
 mind creeping — 
 Thoughts of the night in the wind and 
 the snow. 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 443 
 
 To lay by the fire all night was denied him, 
 (Some human hearts no compassion can 
 feel) ; 
 But, with words cold and stern, the rich 
 man did chide him, 
 And sent him adrift with that charity 
 meal. 
 
 Down the bleak road he watched the tramp 
 going, 
 Then turned from the window with a 
 yawn of content; 
 Forgetting the tramp and the winter winds 
 blowing, 
 For vagabonds seemed but a common 
 event. 
 
 That night sleeping soundly on his soft 
 yielding pillow, 
 The rich man dreamed of his childhood 
 day; 
 And visions came to him on memory's bil- 
 low, 
 And again with his brother in the old 
 home did play. 
 
 Again they were swimming in the old mill 
 basin, 
 And the air was scented from the red 
 clover field ; 
 And again in the water the brothers were 
 racing 
 Almost tired out, but neither would yield. 
 
 The miller came out on seeing their danger, 
 For both of the swimmers were nearing 
 the wheel, 
 And he shouted to them to go back, in 
 anger, 
 Or a blow from his pole on their heads 
 they would feel. 
 
 And now both the boys are alive to their 
 danger, 
 For the current is drawing them into the 
 flume ; 
 
 And the miller, in fright, forgets all his 
 anger, 
 And plunged in to save the bad boys from 
 their doom. 
 
 "Take Edward out first, for he is the light- 
 est !" 
 The one brother shouted while panting 
 for breath. 
 And then, great God! that loved face, the 
 whitest 
 Went under the wheel, and, they thought 
 to sure death. 
 
 They found him below with legs and arms 
 broken, 
 And long weary months was he gaining 
 his health, 
 "And where is he. now?" said the rich man 
 awaking ; 
 "To see him again I would give half my 
 wealth." 
 
 Next morning the earth was all covered 
 with whiteness, 
 For all the night long came the snow 
 tumbling down ; 
 But now the sunbeams were glimmering in 
 brightness, 
 And the rich man felt happy as he rode 
 towards town. 
 
 But what are these men doing here by the 
 bushes ? 
 Lifting some object from off the cold 
 ground. 
 "What is it? who is it?" he asks, as he 
 rushes 
 Up to the spot where the dead tramp was 
 found. 
 
 "Some poor tramp," one said. "We found 
 him here lying 
 As dead as a door nail — as stiff as a log. 
 
444 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 It must have been hard to be all alone — 
 dying, 
 Dying alone, like some poor homeless 
 dog." 
 
 The rich man knelt down, and helped by 
 another, 
 
 They opened his coat and his old ragged 
 
 vest. 
 "Oh God!" he shouted, "My brother! my 
 
 brother ! 
 Oh, heaven forgive me — see the scar on 
 
 his breast !" 
 
 c5* t5* c5* 
 
 DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 
 
 JO is very glad to see his old friend; 
 and says, when they are left alone, 
 that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. 
 Sangsby should come so far out of his way 
 on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Sangsby, 
 touched by the spectacle before him, im- 
 mediately lays upon the table half-a-crown, 
 that magic balsam of his for all kinds of 
 wounds. 
 
 "And how do you find yourself, my poor 
 lad?" inquires the stationer, with his cough 
 of sympathy. 
 
 "I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," re- 
 turns Jo, "and don't want for nothink. I'm 
 more cumf'bler nor you can't think, Mr. 
 Sangsby. I'm werry sorry that I done it, 
 but I didn't go fur to do it, sir." 
 
 The stationer softly lays down another 
 half-crown, and asks him what it is that he 
 is sorry for having done. 
 
 "Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv 
 a illness to the lady as was and yet as war'nt 
 the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says 
 nothink to me for having done it, on ac- 
 counts of their being so good and my hav- 
 ing been 'o unfertnet. The lady come herself 
 and see me yes'day, and she ses, 'Ah Jo !' 
 she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you, Jo!' 
 she ses. And she sits down a smilin' so 
 quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look 
 upon me for having done it, she don't, and 
 I turns agin the wall, I does, Mr. Sangsby. 
 And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to 
 
 turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, 
 he come fur to give me somethink fur to 
 ease me, wot he's alius a doin' on day and 
 night, and wen he come a bendin' over me 
 and speakin' up so bold, I see his tears a 
 fallin', Mr. Sangsby." 
 
 The softened stationer deposits another 
 half-crown on the table. Nothing less than 
 a repetition of that infallible remedy will 
 relieve his feelings. 
 
 "Wot I wos thinkin' on, Mr. Sangsby," 
 proceeds Jo, "wos, as you wos able to write 
 wery large, p'raps ?" 
 
 "Yes, Jo, please God," returns the sta- 
 tioner. 
 
 "Uncommon precious large, p'raps ?" says 
 Jo, with eagerness. 
 
 "Yes, my poor boy." 
 
 Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I was 
 thinkin' on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that 
 when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could 
 go, and couldn't be moved on no furder, 
 whether you might be so good, p'raps, as 
 to write out, wery large, so that anyone 
 could see it anywheres, as that I wos wery 
 truly hearty sorry that I done it, and that I 
 never went fur to do it; and that though I 
 didn't know nothink at all, I know'd as Mr. 
 Woodcot once cried over it, and wos alius 
 grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be 
 able to forgive me in his mind. If the 
 writin' could be made to say it wery large 
 he might." 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 445 
 
 "It shall say it, Jo; very large." 
 
 Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangs- 
 by. It's very kind of you, sir, and it makes 
 me more cumf'bler nor I wos afore." 
 
 The meek little stationer, with a broken 
 and unfinished cough, slips down his 
 fourth half-crown, — he has never been so 
 close to a case requiring so many, — and is 
 fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this 
 little earth, shall meet no more. No more. 
 
 (Another Scene. — Enter Mr. Wood- 
 court.) 
 
 "Well, Jo, what is the matter? Don't be 
 frightened." 
 
 "I thought," says Jo, who has started, 
 and is looking round, "I thought I was in 
 Tom-all-Alone's agin. An't there nobody 
 here but you, Mr. Woodcot ?" 
 
 "Nobody." 
 
 "And I an't took back to Tom-all- 
 Alone's, am I, sir?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I am very 
 thankful." 
 
 After watching him closely a little while, 
 Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and 
 says to him in a low, distinct voice: "Jo, 
 did you ever know a prayer ?" 
 
 "Never knowd nothink, sir." 
 
 "Not so much as one short prayer?" 
 
 "No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chad- 
 bands he wos a prayin' wunst at Mr. Sangs- 
 by's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if 
 he wos a speakin' to hisself, and not to me. 
 He prayed a lot, but / couldn't make out 
 nothink on it. Different times there wos 
 other gen'l'men come down Tom-all-Alone's 
 a prayin', but they all mostly sed as the 
 t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly 
 sounded to be a talkin' to theirselves, or a 
 passin' blame on the t'others, and not a 
 talkin' to us. We never knowd nothink. / 
 never knowd what it wos all about." 
 
 It takes him a long time to say this ; and 
 
 few but an experienced and attentive 
 listener could hear, or hearing, understand 
 . him. After a short relapse into sleep or 
 stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong ef- 
 fect to get out of bed. 
 
 "Stay, Jo, stay ! What now ?" 
 
 "It's time for me to go to that there 
 berryin' ground, sir," he returns with a wild 
 look. 
 
 "Lie down, and tell me. What burying 
 ground, Jo?" 
 
 "Where they laid him as wos wery good 
 to me ; wery good to me indeed, he wos. 
 It's time for me to go down to that there 
 berryin' ground, sir, and ask to be put along 
 with him. I wants to go there and be ber- 
 ried. He used fur to say to me, 'I am as 
 poor as you, to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants 
 to tell him that I am as poor as him, now, 
 and have come there to be laid along with 
 him." 
 
 "By-and-by, Jo; by-and-by." 
 
 "Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos 
 to go myself. But will you promise to have 
 me took there, sir, and laid along with 
 him?" 
 
 "I will, indeed." 
 
 "Thankee, sir! Thankee, sir! They'll 
 have to get the key of the gate afore they 
 can take me in, for it's alius locked. And 
 there's a step there, as I used fur to clean 
 with my broom. It's turned wery dark, sir. 
 Is there any light a comin' ?" 
 
 "It is coming fast, Jo." 
 
 Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, 
 and the rugged road is very near its end. 
 
 "Jo, my poor fellow !" 
 
 "I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a 
 gropin' — a gropin' — let me catch hold of 
 your hand." 
 
 "Jo, can you say what I say?" 
 
 "I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I 
 knows it's good." 
 
 "Our Father." 
 
U6 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 "Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, 
 sir." 
 
 "Which art in Heaven." 
 
 "Art in Heaven! — Is the light a comin', 
 sir?" 
 
 "It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy 
 Name." 
 
 "Hallowed be — thy — name !" 
 
 The light is come upon the dark be- 
 nighted way. Dead. 
 
 Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and 
 gentlemen. Dead, Righ Reverends and 
 Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, 
 men and women, born with heavenly com- 
 passion in your hearts. And dying thus 
 around us every day. 
 
 — Charles Dickens. 
 
 ta& <5* ^* 
 
 THE SINGER'S CLIMAX. 
 
 IF you want to hear 'Annie Laurie' sung 
 come to my house to-night," said a 
 man -to his friend. "We have a love-lorn 
 fellow in the village who was sadly wrecked 
 by the refusal of a young girl to whom he 
 had been paying attention for a year or 
 more. It is seldom he will attempt the 
 song, but when he does I tell you he draws 
 tears from eyes unused to weeping." 
 
 A small select party had assembled in a 
 pleasant parlor, and were gayly chatting 
 and laughing when a tall young man en- 
 tered whose peculiar face and air instantly 
 arrested attention. He was very pale, with 
 that clear, vivid complexion which dark- 
 haired consumptives so often have; his 
 locks were as black as jet, and hung pro- 
 fusely upon a square white collar; his eyes 
 were very large and spiritual, and his brow 
 was such a one as a poet should have. But 
 for a certain wandering look, -a casual ob- 
 server would have pronounced him a man 
 of uncommon intellectual powers. The 
 words "poor fellow," and "how sad he 
 looks" went the rounds, as he came for- 
 ward, bowed to the company, and took his 
 seat. One or two thoughtless girls laughed 
 as they whispered that he was "love- 
 cracked," but the rest of the company 
 treated him with respectful deference. 
 
 It was late in the evening when singing 
 
 was proposed, and to ask him to sing 
 "Annie Laurie" was a task of uncommon 
 delicacy. One song after another was sung, 
 and at last that one was named. At its 
 mention the young man grew deadly pale, 
 but he did not speak; he seemed instantly 
 to be lost in reverie. 
 
 "The name of the girl who treated him 
 so badly was Annie," said a lady, whisper- 
 ing to the new guest, "but oh! I wish he 
 would sing it; nobody else can do it 
 justice." 
 
 "No one dares to sing 'Annie Laurie' be- 
 fore you Charles," said an elderly lady. 
 "Would it be too much for me to ask you 
 to favor the company with it?" she asked, 
 timidly. 
 
 He did not reply for a moment; his lip 
 quivered, and then looking up as if he saw 
 a spiritual presence, he began. Every soul 
 was hushed, — it seemed as if his voice were 
 the voice of an angel. The tones vibrated 
 through nerve and pulse and heart, and 
 made one shiver with the pathos of his feel- 
 ing; never was heard melody in a human 
 voice like that — so plaintive, so soulful, so 
 tender and earnest. 
 
 He sat with his head thrown back, his 
 eyes half closed, the locks of dark hair 
 glistening against his pale temple, his fine 
 throat swelling with the rich tones, his 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 447 
 
 hands lightly folded before him, and as he 
 sung 
 
 "And 'twas there that Annie Laurie 
 Gave me her promise true," 
 
 it seemed as if he shook from head to foot 
 with emotion. Many a lip trembled, and 
 there was no jesting, no laughing, but in- 
 stead, tears in more than one eye. 
 
 And on he sung and on, holding every 
 one in rapt attention, till he came to the last 
 verse : 
 
 "Like dew on the gowan lying 
 Is the fa' of her fairy feet, 
 And like winds in summer sighing 
 Her voice is low and sweet, 
 Her voice is low and sweet, 
 
 And she's a' the world to me — " 
 He paused before he added, 
 "And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I'll lay me down and dee." 
 
 There was a long and solemn pause. The 
 black locks seemed to grow blacker — the 
 white temples whiter — almost imperceptibly 
 the head kept falling back — the eyes were 
 close shut. One glanced at another — all 
 seemed awe-struck — till the same person 
 who had urged him to sing laid her hand 
 gently on his shoulder, saying: 
 
 "Charles! Charles!" 
 
 Then came a hush — a thrill of horror 
 crept through every frame — the poor, tried 
 heart had ceased to beat. Charles, the love- 
 betrayed, was dead. 
 
 ^* t£& *£& 
 
 IN MANILA BAY. 
 
 IN the broad Manila Bay 
 The Spanish cruisers lay, 
 In the shelter of their forts upon the 
 shore ; 
 And they dared their foes to sail 
 Thro' the crashing iron hail 
 
 Which the guns from decks and battle- 
 ments would pour. 
 
 All the harbor ways were mined, 
 And along the channel blind 
 
 Slept the wild torpedoes, dreaming 
 dreams of wrath. 
 Yea ! the fiery gates of hell 
 Lay beneath the ocean's swell, 
 
 Like a thousand demons ambushed in the 
 path. 
 
 Breasting fierce Pacific gales, 
 Lo ! a little squadron sails, 
 
 And the Stars and Stripes are floating 
 from its spars. 
 It is friendless and alone, 
 
 Aids and allies it has none, 
 
 But a dauntless chorus sing its dauntless 
 tars: 
 
 "We're ten thousand miles from home; 
 Ocean's wastes and wave and foam 
 
 Shut us from the land we love so far 
 away. 
 We have ne'er a friendly port 
 For retreat as last resort, 
 
 But we'll beard the ships of Spain in 
 their own bay. 
 
 "They have mines beneath the sea, 
 They have forts upon their lee, 
 
 They have everything to aid them in the 
 fray; 
 But we'll brave their hidden mines, 
 And we'll face their blazing lines ; 
 
 Yes! We'll beard the ships of Spain in 
 their own bay. 
 
 "If we're worsted in the fight, 
 
448 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 We shall perish in the right — 
 
 No hand will wipe the dews of death 
 away. 
 The wounded none will tend, 
 For we've not a single friend; 
 
 But we'll beard the ships of Spain in 
 their own bay. 
 
 "No ironclads we sail, 
 Only cruisers light and frail, 
 
 With no armor plates to turn the shells 
 away. 
 All the battleships now steer 
 In another hemisphere, 
 
 But we'll beard the ships of Spain in 
 their own bay. 
 
 "Ho ! Remember now the Maine ! 
 Up! And smite the ships of Spain! 
 
 Let them not forget for years this first 
 of May! 
 Though hell blaze up from beneath, 
 Forward through the cannon's breath, 
 
 When Dewey leads into Manila Bay." 
 
 There, half-way round the world, 
 Swift and straight the shots were hurled, 
 And a handful of bold sailors won the 
 day. 
 
 Never since earth was begun 
 Has a braver deed been done 
 
 Than when Dewey sailed into Manila 
 Bay. 
 
 God made for him a path 
 Thro' the mad torpedoes' wrath, 
 
 From their slumbers never wakened into 
 play. 
 When dawn smote the east with gold, 
 Spaniards started to behold 
 
 Dewey and his gallant fleet within their 
 bay. 
 
 Then from forts and warships first 
 Iron maledictions burst, 
 
 And the guns with tongues of flame be- 
 gan to play ; 
 Like demons out of hell 
 The batteries roar and yell, 
 
 While Dewey answers back across the 
 bay. 
 
 O gods ! it was a sight, 
 
 Till the smoke, as black as night, 
 
 Hid the fire-belching ships from light of 
 day. 
 When it lifted from the tide, 
 Smitten low was Spanish pride, 
 
 And Dewey was the master of their bay. 
 
 t5* ^* ^* 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 HE offered himself for the land he loved, 
 But what shall we say for her? 
 He gave to his country a soldier's life ; 
 'Twas dearer by far to the soldier's wife, 
 All honor to-day to her ! 
 
 He went to the war while his blood was 
 hot, 
 
 But what shall we say of her ? 
 He saw himself through the battle's flame 
 A hero's reward on the scroll of fame ; 
 
 What honor is due to her ? 
 
 He offered himself, but his wife did more, 
 
 All honor to-day to her ! 
 For dearer than life was the gift she gave, 
 In giving the life she would die to save; 
 
 What honor is due to her ? 
 
 He gave up his life at his country's call, 
 
 But what shall we say of her? 
 He offered himself as a sacrifice, 
 But she is the one who pays the price; 
 All honor we owe to her. 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 449 
 
 LEAVE "OLD GLORY" AS IT IS. 
 
 IF "Old Glory" remains in its ^present 
 starred and barred form it will be no 
 fault of several well-meaning but sadly dis- 
 torted minds. Every day brings forth 
 somebody with a "plan" of a new flag to 
 fit the newer national conditions. All are 
 interesting as showing the deep concern in 
 the country's development; some display 
 signs of artistic conception, others have 
 nothing to recommend them at all. 
 
 A western man thinks the stars should 
 be rearranged so as "to make room for 
 those symbolizing Cuba, Porto Rico and the 
 Philippines," and the bars of red as now 
 arranged are "indistinct when seen at a dis- 
 tance" and ought to be either broader or 
 farther separated by the white stripes. All 
 the "plans" suggest a rearrangement of the 
 stars so as to include the "island posses- 
 sions." 
 
 The vital mistake in these new flag plans 
 is that they provide for something which 
 does not exist. The United States has no 
 "island possessions," and it is doubtful if 
 it will have in the sense that they must or 
 will be entitled to representation on the 
 blue field. The stars stand for the forty-five 
 states in the Union. The several territories 
 
 are not manifest, nor will they be so long 
 as they remain out of the statehood. 
 
 The United States flag is one of the most 
 beautiful in a purely artistic sense in the 
 whole international collection. It is clear, 
 bold in lines, and the red, white and blue 
 make a harmonious whole in color effect. 
 The person who can't see the red and white 
 bars at a reasonable distance ought to con- 
 sult an oculist ; his vision is defective or he 
 is color-blind. 
 
 If anybody wants to know how really 
 beautiful "Old Glory" is, he or she should 
 behold it in foreign lands waving and 
 cracking from the peak of one of Uncle 
 Sam's war vessels, or from the masthead of 
 a merchant ship. All the paintings of 
 Angelo, Rubens, Vandyke, Corot and the 
 whole world of masters combined are not 
 half so beautiful or inspiring or enchanting 
 or soulful or anything else. Men have been 
 known to jump into the air, shout them- 
 selves hoarse, swing their arms and twist 
 their legs at the sight of the American flag 
 away from home. 
 
 "Old Glory" is all right as it is, and so 
 is the country it represents and the 75,000,- 
 000 people who are always ready to fight to 
 defend it. 
 
 ^* (<?• (5* 
 
 ABSALOM. 
 
 THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil 
 hung low 
 On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd 
 Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 
 Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. 
 The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow 
 
 leaves, 
 With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, 
 Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long 
 
 Stems, 
 
 Whose flowers the water, like a gentle 
 
 nurse, 
 Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, 
 And lean'd in graceful attitudes to rest. 
 How strikingly the course of nature tells, 
 By its light heed of human suffering, 
 That it was fashion'd for a happier world! 
 
 King David's limbs were weary. He had 
 fled 
 
450 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 From far Jersualem ; and now he stood, 
 With his faint people, for a little rest 
 Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind 
 Of morn was stirring, and he bared his 
 
 brow 
 To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
 The mourner's covering, and he had not felt 
 That he could see his people until now. 
 They gather'd round him on the fresh green 
 
 bank, 
 And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the 
 
 sun 
 Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them 
 
 there, 
 And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray. 
 Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter 
 
 thoughts 
 Come crowding quickly up for utterance, 
 And the poor common words of courtesy 
 Are such an empty mockery — how much 
 The bursting heart may pour itself in 
 
 prayer 
 
 He pray'd for Israel — and his voice went up 
 Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for 
 
 those 
 Whose love had been his shield — and his 
 
 deep tones 
 Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — 
 For his estranged, misguided Absalom — 
 The proud, bright being who had burst 
 
 away, 
 In all his princely beauty, to defy 
 The heart that cherish 'd him — for him he 
 
 pour'd 
 In agony that would not be controll'd, 
 Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 
 Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 
 
 The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
 Was straighten'd for the grave ; and, as the 
 
 folds 
 Sank to the still proportions, they betray'd 
 The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
 His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 
 
 Were floating round the tassels as they 
 
 sway'd 
 To the admitted air, as glossy now 
 As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bath- 
 ing 
 The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. 
 His helm was at his feet; his banner, soil'd 
 With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid. 
 Reversed, beside him; and the jewell'd hilt, 
 Whose diamonds lit the passage of his 
 
 blade, 
 Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow. 
 The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, 
 Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief, 
 The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, 
 And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, 
 As if he feared the slumberer might stir. 
 A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his 
 
 blade 
 As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form 
 Of David enter'd, and he gave command, 
 In a low tone, to his few followers, 
 And left him with his dead. The king stood 
 
 still 
 Till the last echo died; then, throwing off 
 The sackcloth from his brow, and laying 
 
 back 
 The pall from the still features of his child, 
 He bow'd his head upon him, and broke 
 
 forth 
 In the resistless eloquence of woe. 
 
 "Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst 
 die! 
 Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! 
 That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 
 And leave his stillness in this clustering 
 hair! 
 How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, 
 My proud boy, Absalom ! 
 
 "Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill, 
 As to my bosom I have tried to press 
 thee: 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 451' 
 
 How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 
 Like a rich harp-string, yearning to 
 caress thee, 
 And hear thy sweet 'My father ?' from these 
 dumb 
 And cold lips, Absalom! 
 
 "But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush 
 
 Of music and the voices of the young; 
 And life will, pass me in the mantling blush, 
 And the dark tresses to the soft wind 
 flung; 
 But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, 
 shalt come 
 
 To meet me, Absalom! 
 
 "And oh ! when I am stricken, and my 
 heart, 
 Like a bruised reed, is wasting to be 
 ■ broken. 
 How will its love for thee, as I depart, 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep 
 token ! 
 
 It were so sweet, amid death's gathering 
 gloom, 
 
 To see thee, Absalom ! 
 
 "And now, farewell ! Tis hard to give thee 
 up; 
 With death so like a slumber on thee ; 
 And thy dark sin ! — oh ! I could drink the 
 cup, 
 If from this woe its bitterness had won 
 thee. 
 May God have call'd thee like a wanderer, 
 home, 
 
 My lost boy, Absalom !" 
 
 He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself 
 A moment on his child; then giving him 
 A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd 
 His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ! 
 And, as if a strength were given him of 
 
 God, 
 He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
 Firmly and decently, and left him there, 
 As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 
 
 ((?• i5* <^» 
 
 THE COUNTERSIGN WAS "MARY." 
 
 T 
 
 ' WAS 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, no ! his heart was far away, 
 
 Where on a western prairie, 
 A rose-twined cottage stood. That night 
 
 The countersign was "Mary." 
 
 And there his own true love he saw, 
 
 Her blue eyes kindly beaming," 
 Above them on her sun-kissed brow, 
 
 Her curls like sunshine gleaming, 
 And heard her singing as she churned 
 
 The butter in the dairy, 
 The song he loved the best. That night 
 
 The countersign was "Mary." 
 
 "Oh, for one kiss from her!" he sighed, 
 
 When up the lone road glancing, 
 He spied a form, a little form, 
 
 With faltering steps advancing. 
 And as it neared him silently, 
 
 He gazed at it in wonder, 
 Then dropped his musket to his hand, 
 
 And challenged, "Who goes yonder?" 
 
4-52 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 Still on it came. "Not one step more, 
 
 Be you man, child or fairy, 
 Unless you give the countersign, 
 
 Halt ! Who goes there?"—" Tis Mary," 
 A sweet voice cried, and in his arms 
 
 The girl he'd left behind him 
 Half fainting fell. O'er many miles 
 
 She'd bravely toiled to find him. 
 
 "I heard that you were wounded, dear," 
 She sobbed. "My heart was breaking, 
 
 I could not stay a moment, but 
 All other ties forsaking, 
 
 I traveled, by my grief made strong, 
 Kind heaven watching o'er me, 
 
 Until unhurt and well" — "Yes, love, 
 At last you stood before me." 
 
 "They told me that I could not pass 
 
 The lines to seek my lover 
 Before day fairly came; but I 
 
 Pressed on ere night was over, 
 And as I told my name I found 
 
 The way as free as prairie." 
 "Because, thank God ! to-night," he said, 
 
 "The countersign is 'Mary.' " 
 
 t2& i3* *c& 
 
 THE AGED PRISONER. 
 
 NIGH on to twenty years 
 Have I walked up and down this 
 dingy cell ! 
 I have not seen a bird in all that time 
 Nor the sweet eyes of childhood, nor the 
 
 flowers 
 That grow for innocent men, — not for the 
 curst, 
 Dear God ! for twenty years. 
 
 "With every gray-white rock 
 I am acquainted; every seam and crack, 
 Each chance and change of color; every 
 
 stone 
 Of this cold floor, where I by walking much 
 Have worn unsightly smoothness, that its 
 rough 
 Old granite walls resent. 
 
 "My little blue-eyed babe, 
 That I left singing by my cottage door, 
 Has grown a woman — is perchance a wife. 
 To her the name of 'father' is a dream, 
 Though in her arms a nestling babe may 
 rest, 
 
 And on her heart lie soft. 
 
 "Oh, this bitter food 
 That I must live on ! this poisoned thought 
 
 That judges all my kind, because by men 
 I have been stripped of all that life holds 
 
 dear — 
 Wife, honor, reputation, tender child — 
 For one brief moment's madness. 
 
 "If they had killed me then, 
 By rope, or rack, or any civil mode 
 Of desperate, cruel torture, — so the deed 
 Were consummated for the general good — 
 But to entomb me in these walls of stone 
 
 For twenty frightful years ! 
 
 "Plucked at my hair — 
 Bleached of all color, pale and thin and 
 
 dead — 
 My beard that to such sorry length has 
 
 grown ; 
 And could you see my heart, 'tis gray as 
 
 these — 
 All like a stony archway, under which 
 Pass funerals of dead hopes. 
 
 "To-morrow I go out! 
 Where shall I go? what friend have I to 
 
 meet? 
 Whose glance will kindle at my altered 
 
 voice ? 
 The very dog I rescued from his kind 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 453 
 
 Would have forgotten me, if he had lived. 
 I have no home — no hope !" 
 
 An old man, bent and gray, 
 Paused at the threshold of a cottage door. 
 A child gazed up at him with startled eyes, 
 He stretched his wasted hands — then drew 
 
 them back 
 With bitter groan : "So like my little one 
 
 Twenty years ago !" 
 
 A comely, tender face 
 Looked from the casement; pitying all 
 
 God's poor, 
 "Come in, old man !" she said, with gentle 
 
 smile, 
 And then from out the fullness of her heart, 
 She called him "Father," thinking of his 
 age; 
 But he, with one wild cry, 
 
 Fell prostrate at her feet. 
 "O child!" he sobbed, "now I can die. 
 
 When last 
 You called me father — was it yesterday? 
 No! no! your mother lived, — now she is 
 
 dead! 
 And mine was living death — for twenty 
 years — 
 For twenty loathsome years!" 
 
 Her words came falteringly: 
 "Are you the man — who broke my mother's 
 
 heart? 
 No ! no ! O father, — speak ! 
 Look up — forget!" Then came a stony 
 
 calm. 
 Some hearts are broken with joy — some 
 break with grief, 
 The old gray man was dead. 
 
 x2& tc& v* 
 
 WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 THE birthday of the "Father of his 
 Country!" May it ever be freshly 
 remembered by American hearts ! May it 
 ever re-awaken in them a filial veneration 
 for his memory; ever rekindle the fires of 
 patriotic regard for the country which he 
 loved so well, to which he gave his youth- 
 ful vigor and his youthful energy, during 
 the perilous period of the early Indian war- 
 fare; to which he devoted his life in the 
 maturity of his powers, in the field; to 
 which again he offered the counsels of his 
 wisdom and his experience, as president of 
 the convention that framed our Constitu- 
 tion ; which he guided and directed while 
 in the chair of State, and for which the last 
 prayer of his earthly supplication was of- 
 fered up, when it came the moment for him 
 so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to 
 die. He was the first man of the time in 
 which he grew. His memory is first and 
 
 most sacred in our love, and ever hereafter, 
 till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the 
 last American heart, his name shall be a 
 spell of power and of might. 
 
 Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one 
 vast felicity, which no man can share with 
 him. It was the daily beauty, and towering 
 and matchless glory of his life which en- 
 abled him to create his country, and at the 
 same time secure an undying love and re- 
 gard from the whole American people. 
 "The first in the hearts of his countrymen !" 
 Yes, first! He has our first and most fer- 
 vent love. Undoubtedly there were brave 
 and wise and good men before his day in 
 every colony. But the American nation, as 
 a nation, I do not reckon to have begun be- 
 fore 1774. And the first love of that Young 
 America was Washington. The first word 
 she lisped was his name. Her earliest 
 breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejacu- 
 
454 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 lation ; and it will be the last gasp of her ex- 
 piring life ! Yes ; others of our great men 
 have been appreciated — many admired by 
 all ; — but him we love ; him we all love. 
 About and around him we call up no dis- 
 sentient and discordant and dissatisfied ele- 
 ments — no sectional prejudice nor bias — no 
 party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None 
 of these shall assail him. Yes : when the 
 storm of battle blows darkest and rages 
 highest, the memory of Washington shall 
 nerve every American arm, and cheer every 
 American heart. It shall relume that 
 Promethean fire, that sublime flame of 
 
 patriotism, that devoted love of country 
 which his words have commended, which 
 his example has consecrated : 
 
 "Where may the wearied eye repose, 
 
 When gazing on the great ; 
 Where neither guilty glory glows 
 
 Nor despicable state? 
 Yes— one — the first, the last, the best, 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Whom envy dared not hate, 
 Bequeathed the name of Washington, 
 To make man blush there was but one." 
 — Rufus Choate. 
 
 ^w (£• ^* 
 
 THE BOOTBLACK. 
 
 HERE y'are — ? Black your boots, boss, 
 Do it for jest five cents ; 
 Shine 'em up in a minute — 
 That is 'f nothin' prevents. 
 
 Set your right foot on there, sir; 
 
 The mornin's kinder cold — 
 Sorter rough on a feller 
 
 When his coat's gettin' old. 
 
 Well, yes — call it coat, sir, 
 
 Though 'tain't much more'n a tear; 
 Can't get myself another— 
 
 Ain't got the stamps to spare. 
 
 Make as much as most on 'em? 
 
 That's so ; but then, yer see, 
 They've only got one to do for; 
 
 There's two on us, Jack and me. 
 
 Him? Why— that little feller 
 With a doubled-up sorter back, 
 
 Sittin' there on the gratin' 
 Sunnin' hisself — that's Jack. 
 
 Used to be round sellin' papers, 
 The cars ther was his lay, 
 
 But he got shoved off the platform, 
 Under the wheels, one day. 
 
 Yes, the conductor did it — 
 Gave him a reg'lar throw ; 
 
 He didn't care if he killed him ; 
 Some on 'em is just so. 
 
 He's never been all right since, sir, 
 Sorter quiet and queer — 
 
 Him and me go together, 
 He's what they call cashier. 
 
 Trouble? I guess not much, sir, 
 Sometimes when biz gets slack 
 
 I don't know how I'd stand it 
 If 'twasn't for little Jack. 
 
 Why, boss, you ought to hear him ; 
 
 He says we needn't care 
 How rough luck is down here, sir, 
 
 If some day we git up there. 
 
 All done now — how's that, sir? 
 
 Shine like a pair of lamps. 
 Mornin' — give it to Jack, sir, 
 
 He locks after the stamps. 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 455 
 
 THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 
 
 brought 
 
 to the Danish 
 
 WORD was 
 king, (Hurry!) 
 That the love of his heart lay suffering, 
 And pined for the comfort his voice would 
 
 bring; 
 (O! ride as though you were flying!) 
 Better he loves each golden curl 
 On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
 Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and 
 pearl ; 
 And his Rose of the Isles is dying. 
 
 Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; (Hurry !) 
 Each one mounted a gallant steed 
 Which he kept for battle and days of need; 
 (O! ride as though you were flying!) 
 Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; 
 Worn-out chargers struggled and sank; 
 Bridles were slackened, and girths were 
 
 burst; 
 But ride as they would, the king rode first ; 
 For his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 
 
 His nobles are beaten, one by one; 
 
 (Hurry!) 
 They have tainted, and faltered, and 
 
 homeward gone; 
 His little fair page now follows alone, 
 For strength and for courage crying. 
 The king looked back at that faithful 
 
 child; 
 Wan was the face that answering smiled. 
 
 They passed the drawbridge with clatter- 
 ing din; 
 Then he dropped; and the king alone 
 rode in 
 Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 
 
 The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; 
 
 (Silence!) 
 No answer came, but faint and forlorn 
 An echo returned on the cold gray morn, 
 Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
 The castle portal stood grimly wide; 
 None welcomed the king from that weary 
 
 ride; 
 For, dead in the light of dawning day, 
 The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, 
 Who had yearned for his voice while 
 dying. 
 
 The panting steed with a drooping crest 
 
 stood weary, 
 The king returned from her chamber of 
 
 rest, 
 The thick sobs choking in his breast; 
 And, that dumb companion eyeing, 
 The tears gushed forth, which he strove 
 
 to check; 
 He bowed his head on his charger's neck; 
 "O, steed, that every nerve didst strain, 
 Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain, 
 To the halls where my love lay dying!" 
 — Caroline E. Norton. 
 
 NOBODY'S CHILD. 
 
 (A girl dressed in ragged clothes, and the stage darkened.) 
 
 ALONE, in the dreary, pitiless street, 
 With my torn old dress and bare cold 
 feet, 
 All day I wandered to and fro 
 Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go ; 
 The night's coming on in darkness and 
 
 dread, 
 And the chill sleet beating upon my bare 
 head ; 
 
 Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so 
 
 wild? 
 Is it because I'm nobody's child? 
 
 Just over the way there's a flood of light, 
 And warmth and beauty, and all things 
 
 bright; 
 Beautiful children, in robes so fair, 
 Are caroling songs in rapture there. 
 
456 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, 
 Would pity a poor little beggar like me, 
 Wandering alone in the merciless street, 
 Naked and shivering and nothing to eat? 
 
 Oh ! what shall I do when the night comes 
 
 down 
 In its terrible blackness all over the town? 
 Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, 
 On the cold, hard pavements alone to die? 
 When the beautiful children their prayers 
 
 have said, 
 And mammas have tucked them up 
 
 snugly in bed, 
 No dear mother ever upon me smiled — 
 Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's 
 
 child? 
 
 No father, no mother, no sister, not one 
 In all the world loves me; e'en the little 
 
 dogs run 
 When I wander too near them; 'tis 
 
 wondrous to see, 
 How everything shrinks from a beggar 
 
 like me! 
 
 Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but sometimes when 
 
 Hie 
 Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, 
 Watching for hours some large bright star, 
 I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar. 
 
 And a host of white-robed nameless 
 
 things, 
 Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; 
 A hand that is strangely soft and fair 
 Caresses gently my tangled hair, 
 And a voice like the carol of some wild 
 
 bird— 
 The sweetest voice that ever was heard — 
 Calls me many a dear pet name, 
 Till my heart and spirits are all aflame; 
 And tells me of such unbounded love, 
 And bids me come up to their home above, 
 And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise, 
 They look at me with their sweet blue eyes, 
 And it seems to me out of the dreary night, 
 I am going up to the world of light, 
 And away from the hunger and storms so 
 
 wild — 
 I am sure I shall then be somebody's 
 
 child. 
 
 ^w t&9 %£& 
 
 MEASURING THE BABY. 
 
 WE measured the riotous baby 
 Against the cottage wall — 
 A lily grew on the threshold, 
 
 And the boy was just as tall; 
 A royal tiger-lily, 
 
 With spots of purple and gold, 
 And a heart like a jeweled chalice, 
 The fragrant dew to hold. 
 
 Without, the bluebirds whistled 
 High up in the old roof-trees, 
 
 And to and fro at the window 
 The red rose rocked her bees; 
 
 And the wee pink fists of the baby 
 Were never a moment still, 
 
 Snatching at shine and shadow 
 That danced on the lattice-sill. 
 
 His eyes were wide as bluebells — 
 
 His mouth like a flower unblown — 
 Two little bare feet, like funny white mice, 
 
 Peeped out from his snowy gown; 
 And we thought, with a thrill of rapture 
 
 That had yet a touch of pain, 
 When June rolls around with her roses, 
 
 We'll measure the boy again. 
 
 Ah me! in a darkened chamber, 
 
 With the sunshine shut away, 
 Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, 
 
 We measured the boy to-day; 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 457 
 
 And the little bare feet that were dimpled 
 And sweet as a budding rose, 
 
 Lay side by side together, 
 In a hush of a long repose! 
 
 Up from the dainty pillow, 
 
 White as the risen dawn, 
 The fair little face lay smiling, 
 
 With the light of heaven thereon; 
 And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves 
 
 Dropped from a rose, lay still, 
 
 Never to snatch at the sunshine 
 That crept to the shrouded sill! 
 
 We measured the sleeping baby 
 
 With ribbons white as snow, 
 For the shining rosewood casket 
 
 That waited him below; 
 And out of the darkened chamber 
 
 We went with a childless moan — 
 To the height of the sinless angels 
 
 Our little one had grown. 
 
 t£& £fr X&fr 
 
 REGULUS TO THE ROMAN. 
 
 ILL does it become me, O Senators of 
 Rome, — ill does it become Regulus, 
 after having so often stood in this vener- 
 able assembly clothed with the supreme 
 dignity of the Republic, to stand before 
 you a captive, — the captive of Carthage. 
 Though outwardly I am free, though no 
 fetters encumber the limbs, or gall the 
 flesh, — yet the heaviest of chains, — the 
 pledge of a Roman Consul, — makes me the 
 bondsman of the Carthaginians. They 
 have my promise to return to them, in the 
 event of the failure of this, their embassy. 
 My life is at their mercy. My honor is 
 my own; — a possession which no reverse 
 of fortune can jeopard; a flame which im- 
 prisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, 
 death cannot extinguish. 
 
 Of the train of disasters which followed 
 close on the unexampled successes of our 
 arms, — of the bitter fate which swept off 
 the flower of our soldiery, and consigned 
 me, your General, wounded and senseless, 
 to Carthaginian keeping, — I will not 
 speak. For five years, a rigorous captivity 
 has been my portion. For five years, the 
 society of family and friends, the dear 
 amenities of home, the sense of freedom, 
 and the sight of country, have been to me a 
 recollection and a dream, — no more. But 
 
 during that period Rome has retrieved her 
 defeats. She has recovered under Metellus 
 what under Regulus she lost. She has 
 routed armies. She has taken unnumbered 
 prisoners. She has struck terror into the 
 hearts of the Carthaginians, who have now 
 sent me hither with their ambassadors to 
 sue for peace, and to propose that, in ex- 
 change for me, your former Consul, a 
 thousand common prisoners of war shall 
 be given up. You have heard the ambassa- 
 dors. Their intimations of some unimagin- 
 able horror, I know not what, impending 
 over myself, should I fail to induce you to 
 accept their terms, have strongly moved 
 your sympathies in my behalf. Another 
 appeal, which I would you might have 
 been spared, has lent force to their suit. 
 A wife and child, threatened with widow- 
 hood and orphanage, weeping and despair- 
 ing, have knelt at your feet on the very 
 threshold of the Senate-chamber: — Con- 
 script Fathers! Shall not Regulus be 
 saved? Must he return to Carthage to 
 meet the cruelties which the ambassadors 
 brandish before your eyes? With one 
 voice you answer, No! 
 
 Countrymen! Friends! For all that I 
 have suffered, — for all that I may have to 
 suffer, — I am repaid in the compensation 
 
458 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 of this moment! Unfortunate you may 
 hold me; but oh, not undeserving! Your 
 confidence in my, honor survives all the 
 ruin that adverse fortune could inflict. 
 You have not forgotten the past. Repub- 
 lics are not ungrateful. May the thanks 
 which I cannot utter bring down blessings 
 from the gods on you and Rome! 
 
 Conscript Fathers! There is but one 
 course to be pursued. Abandon all 
 thought of peace. Reject the overtures 
 of Carthage. Reject them wholly and 
 unconditionally. What! give back to her 
 a thousand able-bodied men, and receive 
 in return one attenuated, war-worn, fever- 
 wasted frame, — this weed, whitened in a 
 dungeon's darkness, pale and sapless, 
 which no kindness of the sun, no softness 
 of the summer breeze, can ever restore to 
 health and vigor? It must not, — it shall 
 not be! Oh! were Regulus what he was 
 once, before captivity had unstrung his 
 sinews and enervated his limbs, he might 
 pause, — he might proudly think he were 
 well worth a thousand of his foe; he might 
 say, "Make the exchange! Rome shall 
 not lose by it!" But now, alas! now 'tis 
 gone, — that impetuosity of strength, which 
 could once make him a leader indeed, to 
 penetrate a phalanx or guide a pursuit. 
 His very armor would be a burden now. 
 
 His battle-cry would be drowned in the 
 din of the onset. His sword would fall 
 harmless on his opponent's shield, But if 
 he cannot live, he can at least die for his 
 country. Do not deny him this supreme 
 consolation. Consider: every indignity, 
 every torture, which Carthage shall heap 
 on his dying hours, will be better than a 
 trumpet's call to your armies. They will 
 remember only Regulus, their fellow-sol- 
 dier and their leader. They will regard 
 only his services to the Republic. Tunis, 
 Sardinia, Sicily, every well-fought field, 
 won by his blood and theirs — will flash on 
 their remembrance, and kindle their 
 avenging wrath. And so shall Regulus, 
 though dead, fight as he never fought be- 
 fore against the foe. 
 
 Conscript Fathers! There is another 
 theme. My family, — forgive the thought! 
 To you and to Rome I confide them. I 
 leave them no legacy but my name, — no 
 testament but my example. 
 
 Ambassadors of Carthage! I have 
 spoken, though not as you expected. I 
 am your captive. Lead me back to 
 whatever fate may await me. Doubt not 
 that you shall find, to Roman hearts, coun- 
 try is dearer than life, and integrity more 
 precious than freedom! 
 
 THE CHILD MUSICIAN. 
 
 HE had played for his lordship's levee, 
 He had played for her ladyship's 
 whim, 
 Till the poor iittle head was heavy 
 And the poor little brain would swim. 
 
 And the face grew peaked and eerie, 
 And the large eyes strange and bright, 
 
 And they said — too late— "He's weary! 
 He shall rest for, af least, to-night!" 
 
 But at dawn, when the birds were waking, 
 As they watched in the silent gloom, 
 
 With the sound of a strained cord break- 
 ing 
 A something snapped in the room. 
 
 'Twas a string of his violoncello 
 And they heard him stir in his bed: — 
 
 "Make room for a tired little fellow, 
 King God!" was the last that he said. 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 459 
 
 CATO ON IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Plato, thou reasonest 
 
 IT must be so 
 well! 
 
 Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond 
 desire, 
 
 This longing after immortality? 
 
 Or whence this secret dread, and inward 
 horror, 
 
 Of falling into naught! Why shrinks the 
 soul 
 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruc- 
 tion? 
 
 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 
 
 'Tis heaven itself, that points our here- 
 after, 
 
 And intimates eternity to man. 
 
 Eternity ! — thou pleasing, dreadful 
 thought! 
 
 Through what variety of untried being, 
 
 Through what new scenes and changes 
 must we pass! 
 
 The wide, the unbounded prospect lies be- 
 fore me; 
 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest 
 upon it. 
 
 Here will I hold. If there's a Power 
 above us, — 
 
 *£& <£fr t0* 
 
 DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 (This oration has now become the ''banner oration," having taken more medals at oratori- 
 cal contests than any other written, — is suitable for any patriotic occasion.) 
 
 And that there is, all Nature cries aloud 
 Through all her works, He must delight in 
 
 virtue ; 
 And that which he delights in must be 
 
 happy, 
 But when? or where? This world was 
 
 made for Csesar. 
 I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end 
 
 them. 
 
 (Laying his hand on his sword.) 
 
 Thus am I doubly armed. My death and 
 
 life, 
 My bane and antidote, are both before me. 
 This in a moment brings me to my end; 
 But this informs me I shall never die. 
 The soul, secure in her existence, smiles 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
 The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
 Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in 
 
 years; 
 But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
 Unhurt amid the war of elements, 
 The wreck of matter, and the crush of 
 
 worlds. 
 
 — Joseph Addison. 
 
 FIFTY years ago, in a rude garret, near 
 the loneliest suburbs of the city of 
 London, lay a dying man. He was but 
 half dressed; though his legs were con- 
 cealed in long military boots. An aged 
 minister stood beside the rough couch. 
 The form was that of a strong man grown 
 old through care more than age. There 
 was a face that you might look upon but 
 once, and yet wear it in your memory for- 
 ever. 
 
 Let us bend over the bed, and look 
 upon that face. A bold forehead seamed 
 by one deep wrinkle visible between 
 the brows — long locks of dark hair, 
 sprinkled with gray; lips firmly set, 
 yet quivering, as though they had a 
 life separate from the life of the man; 
 and then, two large eyes — vivid, burn- 
 ing, unnatural in their steady glare. 
 Ay, there was something terrible in that 
 face — something: so full of unnatural lone- 
 
460 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 liness — unspeakable despair, that the aged 
 minister started back in horror. But look! 
 those strong arms are clutching at the va- 
 cant air; the death-sweat stands in drops 
 upon that bold brow — the man is dying. 
 Throb — throb — throb — beats the death- 
 watch in the shattered wall. "Would you 
 die in the faith of the Christian?" faltered 
 the preacher, as he knelt there on the 
 damp floor. 
 
 The white lips of the death-stricken 
 man trembled, but made no sound. 
 Then, with the strong agony of death 
 upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. 
 For the first time he spoke. "Christian!" 
 he echoed in that deep tone which thrilled 
 the preacher to the heart. "Will that 
 faith give me back my honor? Come with 
 me, old man, come with me, far over the 
 waters. Ha! we are there! This is my na- 
 tive town. Yonder is the church in which 
 I knelt in childhood; yonder the green on 
 which I sported when a boy. But an- 
 other flag waves yonder, in place of the 
 flag that waved when I was a child. 
 
 "And listen, old man, were I to pass 
 along the streets, as I passed when but a 
 child, the very babes in their cradles 
 would raise their tiny hands, and curse 
 me! The graves in yonder churchyard 
 would shrink from my footsteps; and 
 yonder flag would rain a baptism of blood 
 upon my head!" 
 
 That was an awful death-bed. The 
 minister had watched "the last night" 
 with a hundred convicts in their cells, but 
 had never beheld a scene so terrible as this. 
 Suddenly the dying man arose; he tottered 
 along the floor. With those white fingers, 
 whose nails were blue with the death-chill, 
 he threw open a valise. He drew from 
 thence a faded coat of blue, faced with 
 silver, and the wreck of a battle-flag. 
 
 "Look ye, priest! this faded coat is 
 
 spotted with my blood!" he cried, as old 
 memories seemed stirring at his heart. 
 "This coat I wore, when I first heard the 
 news of Lexington; this coat I wore, when 
 I planted the banner of the stars on 
 Ticonderoga! that bullet-hole was pierced 
 in the fight of Quebec; and now, I am a 
 — let me whisper in your ear!" He 
 hissed that single burning word in the 
 minister's ear. "Now help me, priest! 
 help me to put on this coat of blue; for 
 you see" — and a ghastly smile came over 
 his face — "there is no one here to wipe 
 the cold drops from my brow; no wife, no 
 child. I must meet Death alone; but I will 
 meet him, as I have met him in battle, 
 without a fear!" 
 
 And while he stood arraying his limbs 
 in that worm-eaten coat of blue and silver, 
 the good minister spoke to him of faith in 
 Jesus. Yes, of that great faith, which 
 pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls 
 them back from the face of God. "Faith!" 
 echoed that strange man, who stood there, 
 erect, with the death-chill on his brow, 
 "Faith! Can it give me back my honor? 
 Look ye, priest! there, over the waves, sits 
 George Washington, telling to his com- 
 rades the pleasant story of the eight years' 
 war; there, in his royal halls, sits George 
 of England, bewailing, in his idiotic voice, 
 the loss of his colonies! And here am I! 
 — I, who was the first to raise the flag of 
 freedom, the first to strike a blow against 
 that king — here am I, dying! oh, dying 
 like a dog." 
 
 The awe-stricken preacher started back 
 from the look of the dying man, while 
 throb — throb — throb — beats the death- 
 watch in the shattered wall. "Hush! 
 silence along the lines there!" he mut- 
 tered, in that wild, absent tone, as though 
 speaking to the dead; "silence along the 
 lines! not a word — not a word, on peril of 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 461 
 
 your lives! Hark you, Montgomery! we 
 will meet in the center of the town; — we 
 will meet there in victory, or die! — Hist! 
 silence, my men — not a whisper, as we 
 move up those steep rocks! Now on, my 
 boys — now on! Men of the wilderness, 
 we will gain the town! Now up with the 
 banner of the stars — up with the flag of 
 freedom, though the night is dark, and 
 the snow falls! Now! now, one more 
 blow, and Quebec is ours!" 
 
 And look! his eye grows glassy. With 
 that word on his lips, he stands there — ah! 
 what a hideous picture of despair! erect, 
 livid, ghastly; there for a moment, and 
 then he falls! — he is dead! Ah, look at 
 that proud form, thrown cold and stiff 
 upon the damp floor. In that glassy eye 
 there lingers, even yet, a horrible energy — 
 a sublimity of despair. Who is this strange 
 man lying there alone, in this rude garret; 
 this man, who, in all his crimes, still treas- 
 ured up in that blue uniform, that faded 
 flag? Who is this being of horrible re- 
 morse — this man, whose memories seem 
 
 to link something with heaven, and more 
 with hell? 
 
 Let us look at that parchment and flag. 
 The aged minister unrolls that faded flag; 
 it is a blue banner gleaming with thirteen 
 stars. He unrolls that parchment; it is a 
 colonel's commission in the Continental 
 army addressed to Benedict Arnold! And 
 there, in that rude hut, while the death- 
 watch throbbed like a heart in the shat- 
 tered wall — there, unknown, unwept, in all 
 the bitterness of desolation, lay the corpse 
 of the patriot and the traitor. 
 
 Oh that our own true Washington had 
 been there, to sever that good right arm 
 from the corpse ; and, while the dishonored 
 body rotted into dust, to bring home that 
 noble arm, and embalm it among the holi- 
 est memories of the past! For that right 
 arm struck many a gallant blow for free- 
 dom; yonder at Ticonderoga, at Quebec, 
 Champlain, and Saratoga — that arm, yon- 
 der, beneath the snow-white mountains, 
 in the deep silence of the river of the dead, 
 first raised into light the Banner of the 
 Stars. — George Leppard. 
 
 MOTHER AND POET. 
 
 (The "mother" in this superb ode was Laura Savio, a poet and ardent patriot of Turin, 
 
 who lost two sons in the revolutionary struggles— one at Anacona on the Adriatic 
 
 Sea, the other at Gaeta, on the Mediterranean.) 
 
 DEAD ! one of them shot by the sea in 
 the east, 
 And one of them shot in the west by the 
 sea. 
 Dead! both my boys! When you sit at 
 the feast, 
 And are wanting a great song for Italy 
 free, 
 
 Let none look at me ! 
 
 Yet I was a poetess only last year, 
 And good at my art for a woman, men 
 said. 
 
 But this woman, this, who is agonized here, 
 The east sea and west sea rhyme on in 
 her head 
 
 Forever instead. 
 
 What art's for a woman? To hold on her 
 knees 
 Both darlings! to feel all their arms 
 round her throat 
 Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees 
 And 'broider the long-clothes and neat 
 little coat! 
 To dream and to dote, 
 
462 
 
 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 To teach them. It stings there. I made 
 them indeed 
 Speak plain the word "country." I 
 taught them no doubt 
 That a country's a thing men should die 
 for at need. 
 I prated of liberty, rights and about 
 The tyrant turned out. 
 
 And when their eyes flashed. . .O my 
 beautiful eyes! . . . 
 I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the 
 wheels 
 Of the guns, and denied not. — But then 
 the surprise, 
 When one sits quite alone! — Then one 
 weeps, then one kneels! 
 - —God! how the house feels! 
 
 At first happy news came, in gay letters 
 moiled 
 With my kisses, of camp-life and glory 
 and how 
 They both loved me, and soon, coming 
 home to be spoiled, 
 In return would fan off every fly from 
 my brow 
 
 With their green laurel-bough. 
 
 Then was triumph at Turin. "Anacona was 
 free!" 
 And some one came out of the cheers in 
 the street 
 With a face pale as stone, to say some- 
 thing to me. 
 My Guido was dead! — I fell down at his 
 feet, 
 
 While they cheered in the street. 
 
 I bore it — friends soothed me: my grief 
 looked sublime 
 As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- 
 mained 
 
 To be leant on and walked with, recalling 
 the time 
 
 When the first grew immortal, while 
 both of us strained 
 
 To the height he had gained. 
 
 And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, 
 more strong, 
 Writ now but in one hand. "I was not 
 to faint. 
 One loved me for two. .would be with me 
 ere long: 
 And 'Viva Italia,' he died for, our saint, 
 Who forbids our complaint." 
 
 My Nanni would add "he was safe, and 
 aware 
 Of a presence that turned off the balls 
 .... was imprest 
 It was Guido himself, who knew what I 
 could bear, 
 And how 'twas impossible, quite dis- 
 possessed, 
 
 To live on for the rest." 
 
 On which without pause up the telegraph 
 line 
 Swept smoothly the next news from 
 Gaeta: — Shot. 
 Tell his mother. Ah, ah,— "his," "their" 
 mother: not "mine." 
 No voice says "my mother" again to me. 
 What? 
 
 You think Guido forgot? 
 
 Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy 
 with Heaven, 
 They drop earth's affections, conceive 
 not of woe? 
 I think not. Themselves were too lately 
 forgiven 
 Through that Love and Sorrow which 
 reconciled so 
 The Above and Below. 
 
 O Christ of the seven wounds, who 
 look'dst through the dark 
 
HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 
 
 463 
 
 To the face of Thy mother! consider, I 
 pray, 
 How we common mothers stand desolate, 
 mark, 
 Whose sons, not being Christs, die with 
 eyes turned away, 
 
 And no last word to say! 
 
 Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. 
 We all 
 Have been patriots, yet each house must 
 always keep one. 
 'Twere imbecile, hewing our roads to a 
 wall. 
 And, when Italy's made, for what end is 
 it done 
 
 If we have not a son? 
 
 Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what 
 then? 
 When the fair wicked queen sits no 
 more at her sport 
 Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls 
 out of men? 
 When your guns of Cavalli with final 
 retort 
 
 Have cut the game short, — 
 
 When Venice and Rome keep their new 
 jubilee, 
 When your flag takes all heaven for its 
 white, green and red, 
 
 When you have your country from moun- 
 tain to sea, 
 
 When King Victor has Italy's crown on 
 his head, 
 
 (And I have my Dead,) 
 
 What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring 
 your bells low, 
 And burn your lights faintly! — My 
 country is there, 
 Above the star pricked by the last peak of 
 snow. 
 My Italy's there, — with my brave civic 
 Pair, 
 
 To disfranchise despair. 
 
 Forgive me. Some women bear children 
 in strength, 
 And bite back the cry of their pain and 
 self-scorn. 
 But the birth-pangs of nations will wring 
 us at length 
 Into wail such as this! — and we sit on 
 forlorn 
 
 When the man-child is born. 
 
 Dead! — one of them shot by the sea in the 
 west, 
 And one of them shot in the east by the 
 sea! 
 Both! both my boys! — If in keeping the 
 feast 
 You want a great song for your Italy 
 free, 
 
 Let none look at me ! 
 
 — Mrs. Browning. 
 
THE HINSHAW SCHOOL 
 
 OF 
 
 OPERA and DRAMA 
 * 
 
 STEI5TWAY THEATRE BUILDING 
 CHICAGO, HJU 
 
 William Wade Hinshaw and Mabvin "Victoh Hinshaw 
 directors 
 
 TTHE HINSHAW SCHOOL OF 
 V* OPERA AND DRAMA is ac- 
 knowledged to be one of the leading 
 schools of its kind in the country, 
 and is endorsed by all Leading 
 Theatrical Managers and Actors of 
 both New York and Chicago. 
 
 Pupils prepared for the stage and 
 given public appearances in full roles 
 in the best Operas and Dramas. 
 Engagements with best American 
 Companies Guaranteed to our grad- 
 uates. 
 
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