HER FATHER'S CONSENT. Home and School Reciter READINGS, DECLAMATIONS AND PLAYS Original Compositions and Choice Selections of the Best Literature CONTAINING ALSO THE MOST COMPLETE AND MODERN RULES FOR VOICE AND PHYSICAL CULTURE FOR HOME, SCHOOL AND ALL PUBLIC AND SOCIAL ENTERTAINMENTS ^Y • "WRITTEN, COMPILED AND ARRANGED \ RICHARD LINTHICUM THE WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR, JOURNALIST AND CRITIC OF LITERATURE AND PLAYS WITH INTRODUCTION, SPECIAL SELECTIONS AND LESSON TALKS MARVIN VICTOR HIINSHAW OF THE CELEBRATED HlNSHAW SCHOOL OF ELOCUTION, ORATORY A^MUSIC >, 3 Sumptuously Illustrated with , "Beautiful Full Tage Photo "Pictures from Life J. S. ZI EG LER & CO. CHICAGO, ILL. \ \ by Trt£"Ll8RARY OF CONGRESS, Two Coptee Received JUL. 18 1902 EIIQHT EKTRV bs XXo. No, COPY 8. COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY RICHARD LINTHICUM • • • ♦ • ■ = PREFACE f~\ NE of the most pleasing and rational forms of entertainment is in those public and v_/ 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 toe direction of home, church and school entertainments, the publishers feel confi- dent that they have met this demand. The introductory chapter on THE ART OF ELOCUTION contains complete instructions and rules laid down by the best teachers of elocution, for the guidance of those who wish to read, speak, recite, sing, act, or take part in any entertainment, public or private. This chapter teaches how to cultivate, develop, and use the voice; how to make correct gestures, how to give correct expression in recitations through the use of the head, the eyes, the arms, the body, and the lower limbs, and at the same time teaches the reader how to acquire gracefulness and self-possession, which are so ; necessary to a successful appearance in public. To these instructions have been added Physical Culture Exercises for the body, which are so simple that anyone can quickly learn and perform them. Many of the selections both in prose and in verse are original and appear in print in this volume for the first time. The variety of original and selected recitations and dialogues is shown by the various divisions made with reference to the subjects of which the selections treat: Juvenile Gems for the Children contains selections suitable for little folks of all ages, from the smallest tot to boys and girls who are verging on young manhood and womanhood. They are all selections which the children themselves like and were sub- mitted to the approval of children of various ages before they were compiled in this volume. Patriotism and War contains the best patriotic and stirring literature that has been written from Revolutionary days to and including our war with Spain. National and School Holidays contain appropriate selections for each day observed as a holiday either in the nation or in the school, including New Year's Day, Lincoln's Birthday, 7 8 PREFACE. Washington's Birthday, Arbor Day, Decoration Day, Flag Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas. Around the Evening Lamp is a department containing selections to be read or recited in the home circle after the evening lamp has been lit and the family has gath- ered around it for entertainment. A great deal of space has been given to dialogues and pieces in which a half dozen or more persons can take part. There is such a great variety of these that some one or more of them will be found suitable for every occasion or form of entertainment that can arise. Particular care has been used in preparing and selecting Tableaux, Pantomimes, Drills, and similar features, including the Maypole Dance and the Minuet, all ar- ranged in attractive manner, with full explanation and direction how to present them. Other attractive features and departments in this volume will be found in the depart- ments of Humorous Recitations, Religious and Moral, Dialect Selections, Temperance, Dramatic Readings, Orations of the World's Great Men, Love and Sentiment, and Mis- cellaneous Selections. For the guidance and instruction of persons getting up .and directing entertain- ments at home or in the church and school, a series of programmes are presented in this volume which will be found to meet the demand of every occasion. The magnificent illustrations in this volume are not only sumptuous and beauti- ful but they have the same practical value as the selections. They are made from actual photographs of real scenes presented at public entertainments, and in addition to their beauty and appropriateness as works of art, they will serve to guide and instruct be- ginners in the art of appearing successfully in public entertainments. It will be seen from the foregoing that the claim made for this volume as a COM- PLETE AND THOROUGHLY PRACTICAL SPEAKER AND RECITER is well founded. Very respectfully, THE PUBLISHERS. Untrobuction anb Lesson ttalh By MARVIN VICTOR HINSHAW OF THE HINSHAW SCHOOL OF ELOCUTION, ORATORY AND MUSIC ^* c5* l5* 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 m 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 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 153 A Peach Pie 179 A Picture 136 A Private Rehearsal 367 A Race for Life 236 A Sermon In Flowers 354 A Small Boy's Advice. 377 A Song for Your Birthday 103 A String of Bird's Eggs 356 A Tale of Whoa 428 A Tenement House Guest 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 Blaine's Oration on Garfield 257 Bob-o'-link 353 Borrowing Trouble 420 Boys Wanted 112 Brevities 305 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 33& 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 Lame O'Dee 416 Leave Old Glory As It Is 449 Lessons From Scripture Flowers 332 Like Other Men 313 Limpy Tim 440 Lincoln on Slavery 258 Lincoln's Address at Gettysburg 256 Little Boy Blue 91 Little Breeches 149 Little By Little 90 Little Dot 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 ' S7 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 106 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 432 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 n A Plea for Forgiveness 12 Dignity 2I Ridicule 2I Awkward Imitation 22 Discernment 22 Gracefulness 2 3 The Awkward Salute 23 Surprise 24 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 the Bob\> &5* «j* «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 ftbe Brt of Elocution How to Read and Recite Correctly with Rules for the Cultivation of the Voice t&* t&& fcT* 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. The speaker who is unable to manage his Dignity voice, is never easy and graceful in his gestures. If the voice is exercised on too high a key, or in a harsh, aspirated, guttural, or impure tone of any kind, the attitude will be stiff and awkward, and the gestures broken, irregular and difficult. But the speaker who has a good command of his voice, if he understands his subject, and is self-possessed, will speak with ease; and his gesticulation, if not always graceful, will be appropriate and expressive. Before the pupil can be easy and natural in his action and gesticulation, he must have perfect control of his voice. Any at- tempt, therefore, which he may give to the cultivation of gesture and action, before he has obtained a good control of his voice, be labor spent in vain. wi Stand or sit erect, in an easv and °race- 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, 1. The gentleman on my right, the lady on my left, the vacant chair before me, the books, maps and pictures all around me. 2. High, Low, Left, Right: on pro- nouncing the word HIGH, raise the hand gracefully above the head ; on LOW, let it fall slowly and gracefully ; LEFT, let the arm and hand be extended to the left; on the word RIGHT, to the right. 3. Before commencing the gesture al- ways let the eye glance in the direction of the object, concerning which you are about to speak. 4. Do not move the arm and hand to the intended position by the shortest course, but describe a waving, line, and let the motion be rather slow, until the position is almost reached, then let the hand move quickly to its place, in completing the gesture. The Awkward Salute 24 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. Surprise When the student has obtained a toler- able command over his arms, hands and lower limbs, let him select for himself short passages suitable as exercises in descriptive gesture and action. I. Their swords flashed in front, While their plumes waved behind. 2. His throne is on the mountain top, His fields the boundless air, And hoary hills, that proudly prop The skies, his dwelling are. 3. Mountains above, earth's, ocean's plain below. 4. Death in the front, destruction in the rear. 5. See through this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. The hanging down of the head denotes shame or grief. The holding of it up, pride or courage. To nod forward implies assent. To toss the head back, dissent. The inclination of the head implies diffi- dence or languor. The head is averted, in dislike or horror. It leans forward, in attention. Coquetry THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 25 THE EYES. The eyes are raised in prayer. They weep, in sorrow. They burn, in anger. They are downcast or averted, in shame or grief. They are cast on vacancy, in thought. They are cast in various directions, in doubt and anxiety. THE ARMS. The placing of the hand on the head, indicates pain and distress. r — -- 1 kI ^\ v . JmrnWr •V ; pp mm It IP 1-f I ,; '• Jjrj m I ml st-sii 4 ' fm\m ' If I £* \ ^Jf .{ 4 Cheerfulness Sauciness On the eyes, shame or sorrow. On the hips, an injunction of silence. On the breast, an appeal to conscience. The hand is waved or nourished, 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. Anxiety Reproach The best course that can be pursued to prepare the voice for speaking within a short time, is to repeat all the elementary sounds several times in succession; then declaim a few select passages ; first, with ordinary force, in the middle pitch; then, progressively elevate the pitch and increase the force and the rate of utterance; lastly, go over them two or three times in the deepest and lowest tone you can reach. 28 THE ART OF ELOCUTION. Innocent Coyness HOW TO ACQUIRE A CONTROL OF THE VOICE IN EITHER HIGH OR LOW- KEY. By exercising the voice with great force, for a short time in a low key — paradoxical as it may seem — you will immediately afterward be able to speak with much greater ease upon a high key; and by ex- ercising the voice with great force in a very high pitch, you will be able within a short time afterward, to read or speak, with greater ease than before, on a low or very low pitch. NATURAL PITCH OF VOICE. "Every person has some pitch of voice in which he converses, sings and speaks with greater effect and facility than in any other. It should be an object of constant solicitude, with every person who desires to become a good speaker or reader, to find what is the natural pitch of his voice. Wonderment THE IDEAL POISE. THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL. National Readings and Declamations 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. 1*11* i*i 3 THE OLD FARM KITCHEN. IN an old New England kitchen, where a warm wood fire burned bright, Sat honest Farmer Ketcham and his wife one winter night. The wind without was wailing, with a wild and woeful sound, And the fleecy folds of the drifting snow lay deep upon the ground; But what cared Farmer Ketcham for the tumult out of doors, For he had foddered the cattle and done the other chores. And snug in the chimney-corner in his easy-chair he sat, Silently smoking his old clay pipe and pooring the purring cat; While plying her knitting-needles, his wife rocked to and fro, Humming a hymn and dreaming a dream of the long ago. Over the old-time fire-place a rusty musket hung, And a score of strings of apples from the smoky ceiling swung. While, back in the dingy corner, the tall clock ticked away, And looked like the sagging farmhouse, fast falling to decay. The knitting fell from the woman's hands, the old man turned about, He took the pipe from his mouth and slowly knocked the ashes out; And, after thinking a moment, he said, with a solemn air — " 'Tis Christmas Eve, but the stockin's don't hang by the chimbley there." The woman sighed, and then replied, in a sad and faltering tone, "The years hev come and the years hev gone, and we are ag'in alone, An', I hev jest been thinkin' o' a Christ- mas long ago, When the winders were frosted over an' the ground wus white with snow; When we sat in the chimbley-corner, by the firelight's cheerful gleam, When our lives were full o' promise, an* the futur' but a dream, When all the rest o' our folks hed gone away to bed, An' we sat an' looked an' I listened to the whispered words you said, Till home from Benson's store came rollickin' brother John, An' a peekin' thro' the winder, saw what wus agoin' on; Then how the neighbors tattled an' talked all over town, Till you an' I were married an' quietly settled down. "While a rummagin' thro' the cobwebs in the garret t'other day, I found a pile o' broken toys in a corner stowed away; An' a lot o' leetle worn out boots a layin' in a heap, Ez they used to lay on the kitchen floor 31 32 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. when the boys hed gone to sleep. I looked at the worn-out trundle-bed, an' the cradle long laid by, An' a leanin' ag'in the chimbley there, I couldn't help but cry — Fur the faces o' my children came back to me once more, An' I almost heard the patter o' their feet , upon the floor. I tho't o' the'r happy voices an' the leetle prayers they said, Ez they used to gather round me when 'twas time to go to bed. "Of all the earthly treasures we prize in this world below, The ones we love the fondest are the first to fade and go. Of all the beautiful children that came to our fireside, The one we loved most dearly wus our leetle girl that died. How calm in her leetle coffin she looked in her last repose, Ez sweet ez the fairest lily, ez pure ez a tuberose. An' I can well remember the sadness o' the day, When my heart wus well nigh broken ez they carried her away. "The oldest o' our children wus a proud and han'some boy, He wus his father's fondest hope an' his mother's pride an' joy, I used to play with his chubby hands an' kiss his leetle feet, An' wonder ef ever a babe wus born more beautiful an' sweet; An' many a night, by candle light, when he was snug in bed, I've patched his leetle clo's with weary hands an* an achin' head. We sent him away to college; he did un- commonly well, Till he went to live in the city, an' married a city belle — O' all our earthly trials; o' all our worldly care; The cold neglect o' a thankless child is the hardest o' all to bear. His wife "is a woman with only high notions in her head; She couldn't well knit a stockin', nor bake a loaf of bread. 'She plays on the grand pianner, nor works with her lily hands, An' she talks in a foreign lingo that no one understands; Whenever I go to see her, I tell you it makes me smile To see how it hurts her feelin's to look at my country style. "The youngest o' our livin' boys I never could understand; He didn't take to le'rnin' no more'n a fish to land, He wus wayward an' hard to govern, not altogether bad, He wus firm, an' proud, an' set in his ways, but not a vicious lad. An' somehow we couldn't keep him quite under our control, But I know that he had an honest heart, an' a true an' noble soul, An' a mother's prayers will go with him wherever he may be ; God keep him safe an' bring him home in His good time to me. "I miss our children's voices, fur all hev gone away — One hez gone to the better land, an' the rest hev gone astray. I wonder ef up in Heaven, where all is bright an' fair, Ef we will meet our children an' they will love us there ?" NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 33 There was a rap at the outside door, the old folks gave a start; The woman sprang from her rocking-chair with a flutter at her heart; The door swung widely open and banged against the wall, And into the farmhouse kitchen strode a stranger dark and tall. The mother looked at his bearded face a moment in surprise; She saw a quiver about his mouth and a glad look in his eyes; She lifted up her hands to Heaven, she uttered a cry of joy, And bowed her white head lovingly on the breast of her wayward boy. The red flame glowed upon the hearth, the beech logs cracked and steamed; And on the floor and time-worn walls the firelight glowed and gleamed ; That old New England kitchen had never been more bright Than it was to Farmer Ketcham and his wife that winter night. — From "Original Recitations/' by Eugene I. Hall. By special permission of the Author. tgfr &£• *2r> A BIRTHDAY ADDRESS. (Suitable for recitation at any birthday party.) 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- 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. «e9* t5* c£* THANKSGIVING IN MANY LANDS. And an orange a minute as big as their 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, 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. t&& f&& t£& 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 Hires, 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. G WATCHING THE OOD old days — dear old days heart beat high and When my 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! 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, W T aiting 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. t5* tf5* **?* NEW YEAR IN. But the spectre stood in that yonder gloom, And these were the words it spake: ''Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — and they seemed to mock A heart about to break. 'Tis New Year's eve, and again I watch In the old familiar place, And I'm thinking again of that old time when I looked on a dear one's face. Never a little one hugs my knee, And I hear no gleeful shout — I am sitting alone by the old hearth-stone, Watching the old year out. But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom That solemnly calls to me; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — for so the clock Tells of a life to be; "Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — 'tis so the clock Tells of eternity, — Eugene Field. NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 37 GARFIELD'S TRIBUTE TO HIS FALLEN COMRADES. IF silence is ever golden, it must be here, beside the graves of fifteen thousand men, whose lives were more significant than speech, and whose death was a poem, the music of which can never be sung. With words we make promises, plight faith, praise virtue. Promises may not be kept, plighted faith may be broken, and vaunted virtue be only the cunning mark of vice. We do not know one promise these men made, one pledge they gave, one word they spoke; but we do know they summed up and perfected by one supreme act the highest virtue of men and citizens. For love of country they accepted death, and thus resolved all doubts and made im- mortal their patriotism and their virtue. For the noblest man that lives there still remains a conflict. He must still with- stand the assaults of time and fortune; must still be assailed with temptations be- fore which lofty natures have fallen. But with these, the conflict ended, the victory was won, when death stamped on them the great seal of heroic character, and closed a record which years can never blot. At the beginning of the Christian era an imperial circus stood on the summit of what is now known as the Vatican Mount in Rome. There gladiator slaves died for the sport of Rome, and wild beasts fought with wilder men. In that arena, a Gali- lean fisherman gave up his life, a sacrifice for his faith. No human-life was ever so nobly avenged. On that spot was reared the proudest Christian temple ever built by. human hands. As the traveler descends the Apennines, he sees the dome of St. Pe- ter's rising above the desolate Campagna, and the dead city, long before the seven hills and ruined palaces appear to his view. The fame of the dead fisherman has out- lived the glory of the Eternal City. Seen from the western slope of our Capitol, this spot is not unlike the Vatican Mount. A few years ago the soil beneath our feet was watered with the tears of slaves. Yonder proud Capitol awakened no pride, inspired no hope. The face of the goddess was turned toward the sea, and not toward them. But thanks be to God, this arena of slavery is a scene of violence no longer! This will be forever the sacred mountain of our Capitol. Here is our temple. Its pavement is the sepulcher of heroic hearts; its dome, the bending- heaven; its - altar candles, the watching stars. — James A. Garfield. 10* i&fr ^* THE MANGER OF BETHLEHEM. THERE'S a song in the air! There's a star in the sky! There's a mothers 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, : L 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. t&& *2& t&* 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. i£fr i2fc *£& SIMON SOGG'S THANKSGIVING LET Earth give thanks," the deacon said, And then the proclamation read. "Give thanks fer what an' what about?" Asked Simon Soggs when church was out. "Give thanks fer what? I don't see why; The rust got in an' spiled my rye, And hay wan't half a crop, and corn All wilted down and looked forlorn. The bugs jest gobbled my pertaters, • The what-you-call-em lineaters, And gracious! when you come to wheat, There's more than all the world can eat; Onless a war should interfere, Crops won't bring half a price this year; I'll hev to give 'em away, I reckon!" "Good for the poor!" exclaimed the deacon. "Give thanks fer what?" asked Simon Soggs. "Fer th' freshet carryin' off my logs? Fer Dobbin goin' blind? Fer five Uv my best cows, that was alive Afore the smashin' railroad come And made it awful troublesome? Fer that hay stack the lightnin' struck And burnt to ashes? — thund'rin luck! For ten dead sheep?" sighed Simon Soggs. The Deacon said, "You've got yer hogs!" "Give thanks? and Jane and baby sick? I e'enmost wonder if ole Nick Ain't runnin' things!" The deacon said, "Simon! yer people might be dead!" NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 39 "Give thanks!" said Simon Soggs again. "Jest look at what a fix we're in! The country's rushin' to the dogs At race horse speed!" said Simon Soggs. "Rotten all through — in every State, — Why, ef we don't repudiate, We'll hev to build, fer big and small, A poor-house that'll hold us all. All round the crooked whisky still Is runnin' like the Devil's mill; Give thanks? How mad it makes me feel, To think how office-holders steal! The taxes paid by you and me Is four times bigger'n they should be; The Fed'ral Gov'ment's all askew, The ballot's sech a mockery, too! Some votes too little, some too much, Some not at all — it beats the Dutch! And now no man knows what to do, Or how is how, or who is who. Deacon! corruption's sure to kill! This 'glorious Union' never will, I'll bet a continental cent, Elect another President! Give thanks fer what, I'd like to know?" The deacon answered, sad and low, "Simon! It fills me with surprise, • Ye don't see where yer duty lies; Kneel right straight down, in all the muss, And thank God that it ain't no wuss!" —W. A. Croffut. c5* <<5* c5* JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS. (Recitation for a boy from seven to ten.) FATHER calls me William, sister calls me Will, Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill. Mighty glad I ain't a girl — ruther be a boy, Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy! Love to chawnk green apples an' go swim- min' in the lake — Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache ! 'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me, But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat;. First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at! Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide, 'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride, But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross, He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss, An' then I laff an' holler: "O, ye never teched me!" But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! Gran'ma says she hopes that when I get to be a man, I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother Dan, As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's He, Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile! But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd know 40 NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. That Buff'lo Bill an' cowboys is good enough for me! Excep' just 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be! And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still, His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?" The old. cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum! But I am so perlite an' tend so earnestly to biz, That mother says to father: "How im- proved our Willie is!" But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me When, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be! For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' toys, Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys; So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's, An' don't bust out your pantaloons, and don't wear out your shoes ; Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men, An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again; But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to see upon the tree, Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be! — Eugene Field. t2& t<7* ?<5* 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. <<5* *2& <&* 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£fc t&& fcT* 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 loyvly 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. ^5* <^* t^* THE MEANING OF THE AMERICAN FLAG. (Recitation for a boy.) THE American flag means, then, all that the fathers meant in the Rev- olutionary War; it means all that the Declaration of Independence meant; it means all that the Constitution of a peo- ple, organizing for justice, for liberty, and for happiness, meant. The American flag carries American ideas, American history, and American feeling. Beginning with the colonies and com- ing down to our time, in its sacred her- aldry, in its glorious 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. t5* c<5* **?* 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. 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 THE DIGNITY OF LABOR. (An oration for Labor Day.) fly-wheel of the steam engine to the pol- ished purse-ring or the glittering bead. Labor hews down the gnarled oak, and shapes the timber, and builds the ship, and guides it over the deep, plunging through the billows, and wrestling with the tem- pest, to bear to our shores the produce of every clime. Labor, laughing at difficul- ties, spans majestic rivers, carries viaducts over marshy swamps, suspends bridges over deep ravines, pierces the solid moun- tain with the dark tunnel, blasting rocks and filling hollows, and while linking to- gether with its iron but loving grasp all nations of the earth, verifying, in a literal sense, the ancient prophecy, "Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be brought low;" labor draws forth its delicate iron thread, and stretch- ing it from city to city, from province to province, through mountains and beneath the sea, realizes more than fancy ever fabled, while it constructs a chariot on which speech may outstrip the wind, and compete with lightning, for the telegraph flies as rapidly as thought itself. Labor, the mighty magician, walks forth into a region uninhabited and waste; he looks earnestly at the scene, so quiet in its desolation, then waving his wonder-work- ing wand, those dreary valleys smile with golden harvests; those barren mountain- slopes are clothed with foliage ; the furnace blazes; the anvil rings; the busy wheel whirls round; the town appears; the temple of religion rears its lofty front; a forest of masts rises from the harbor. On every side are heard the sounds of industry and gladness. Labor achieves grander victories, it weaves more durable trophies, it holds NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS -13 wider sway than the conqueror. His name becomes tainted and his monuments crum- ble; but labor converts his red battlefields into gardens, and erects monuments significant of better things. — Anonymous. t&* tO& fcT* HAVE YOU PLANTED A TREE? (For Arbor Day.) WHAT do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the ship, which will cross the sea, We plant the mast to carry the sails; We plant the planks to withstand the gales, The keel, the keelson, and beam and knee; We plant the ship when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the houses for you and me; We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors, We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, The beams and siding, all parts that be; We plant the house when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree? A thousand things that we daily see: We plant the spire that out-towers crag; We plant the staff for country's flag; We plant the shade from the hot free ; — We plant all these when we plant the tree. the sun «f5* ^5* «<5* 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* t2& ^* THE THREE HOLIDAYS. (For a girl and two boys.) 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, 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. t£r* v5* v5* A NEW YEAR'S TALK. HERE I am," said the New Year, popping his head in at the door. "Oh! there you are, eh?" replied the Old Year. "Come in and let me have a look at you, and shut the door after you, please!" The New Year stepped lightly in, and closed the door carefully. "Frosty night," he said. "Fine and clear, though. I have had a delightful journey." "Humph!" said the Old Year. "I don't expect to find it delightful, with this rheu- matism racking my bones. A long, cold, drive, I call it; but to be sure, I thought it pleasant when I was your age, youngster. Is the sleigh waiting?" "Yes," replied the other. "But there is no hurry. Wait a bit, and tell me how matters are in these parts." "So, so!" the Old Year answered, shak- ing his head. "They might be better, and yet I suppose they might be worse, too. They were worse before I came; much worse, too. I have done a great deal. Now I expect you, my boy, to follow my ex- ample, and be a good year all the way through." "I shall do my best," said the New Year, "depend upon it! And now tell me a little what there is to do." "In the first place," replied the other, "you have the weather to attend to. To be sure, you have a clerk to help you in that, but he is not always to be depended upon; there is a great deal of work in the department. The seasons have a way of running into each other, and getting mixed, if you don't keep a sharp lookout on them; and the months are a trouble- some, unruly set. Then you must be care- ful how to turn on wet and dry weather; your reputation depends in a great meas- ure on that. But you must not expect to satisfy everybody, for that is impossible. If you try to please the farmers the city people will complain; and if you devote yourself to the cities, the country people will call you all manner of names. I had rather devote myself to apples and that sort of a thing; everybody speaks of me as 'a great apple year;' 'a glorious year for grapes!' and so on. That is very gratify- ing to me. And one thing I want you to do very carefully; that is, to watch the leaves that are turned." "I thought Autumn attended to that sort of thing," said his companion. Photo by Eyron, N. Y. TELLING MOTHER. 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. 1&& tO& t£& 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 kis 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 tcfr t5* . 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 Hag; the others carry wreaths of flowers and small Hags. The wreaths should be made of red, of white, and of blue flowers (two of each color). They march in to soft, muffled drum- beats. They halt, and face about in line. Speaker A. — Why are you inarching 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. — Whit tier. 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 Cory. Selected quotations or recitations — found on other pages, or in Lyceum Night, Nos. 13 and 23 — can be given, alternately, by as many as desire, after which Numbers one and five hold up their wreaths of red: 1. — Our wreaths are of crimson — a blood-red hue, And before us our volunteers pass in re- view, For the red of defiance to battle incites, To strife and to war the hero invites. 5-— Deep sounding on the ear, there came The din of battles' dread alarms ; The muttered roll of myriad drums, The cannon's roar, the clash of arms ; The clanking squadron's measured tread, The trumpet's wild and martial notes, While proudly gleaming overhead The standard of our country floats, — The Stars and Stripes. All zvave their flags gently during the last two lines. Wreaths are lowered as two and six raise wreaths of white: 2. — We bear the wreaths of white, so pure, The conflict has ceased and peace shall en- dure; No North and no South, no East and no West, But one land, united in peace and at rest. No more sounds the trumpet or bugle's loud call, But quiet and peace now reigns over all. 6.— The earth has healed her wounded breast, The cannons plough the field no more ; The heroes rest! Oh, let them rest In peace along the peaceful shore ! They fought for peace, for peace they fell ; They sleep in peace, and all is well. — Joaquin Miller. Three and seven raise wreaths of blue: 3-— We bear the wreaths of heavenly hue, The flowers that bid us all be true, True to the soldiers now at rest, True to the land we love the best. 7-— We'll never forget those brave deeds of old, Of heroes, — a true, loyal band, Who faced the dangers of war untold, Who fought and who died for our land. 4 (Flag Bearer). — To-day we strew these sweetest flowers O'er the mounds of our heroes brave, With reverent thought through the solemn hours, We deck each soldier's grave. Whether he fought in the blue or the gray, Under the palm or the pine, Each hero with equal love we pay, Each deed shall equally shine; And these flowers of red, and the white ones pure, And the blooms of heavenly blue, Are the colors of this old flag secure, To which each soldier was true. All (waving flags). — We love forever the stars and stripes, Forever to them we are true, We love our land and our dear old flag, Of the red, and white, and blue. These colors have long been the nation's pride, 52 NATIONAL 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* c$* «<$* ADDRESS FOR DECORATION DAY. COMPANIONS and Friends: We meet on this solemn occasion, in the performance of a sacred duty, — to revive memories of our departed heroes, to recount their deeds of valor and self-sacrifice, and to bedeck anew their honored graves with these emblems of purity, — these beautiful flowers of May. The poet says : "After life's fitful fever he sleeps well." So, indeed, does the hero who awaits the great roll-call. Flowers spring up on his grave, and the winds of early summer fan our cheeks as we scatter tokens of love upon the grassy mound, while a voice seems to whisper : Yes, life is a fever, we are all in its heated grasp. But pause in the delirium of haste for the things of this world, and come aside from the "madding crowd," to join the kindlier procession where your brow will cool and your pulse slacken. Away with any who say this day is only a sentiment. It bears more fruit than tears and flowers. The old song, " 'Tis love that makes the world go round," answers such cavillers. So when America overflows with love and forgiveness till each earth-corner feels the glow, then can we say "How far yon little candle sheds its beams!" Only thus shall war-clouds depart and the dove of Peace fold her wings on the weary world. Only thus shall the sword be beaten into a ploughshare, — shall the bliss of Eden re- turn. Say not either that this memorial per- petuates strife ! It may be to us the high- way of Peace. It calls. Excelsior ! and that upward way is not marred by bloodstains, but strewn with lilies and forget-me-nots, — emblems of purity and remembrance. Let us, then, obey these voices which say: "Rest, and come up higher." The road may yet look steep, the black wings of War and Death may still shadow the upward path, but Memorial Day gleams out each year with sunshine that will, in time, drive all clouds away. Let America be the leader up to the purer air ! Let all nations follow her to the "Plains of Peace" ! — and in that day all people will see the full fruition of hopes and tears. Pass, then, with reverent tread Among the sleeping dead ; Whilst flowers adorn the sod Let prayers ascend to God From grateful hearts, that He Will keep us ever free. £& C^* 5(5* 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* C7* *&% 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. &5* c5* t5* PAPA'S SUM IN FRACTIONS. ittle old log school- Why, Maria, I re- ( i T3APA," said 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 miles in 25J 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 house in the woods, 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 25J 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 25J, 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 ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. "Henry, what are you talking about?" "Maria, I started out to find that great- est common divisor of yours, but 'tain't no use. I say that any man who would un- dertake to walk 25,795 miles in 25^ days is just a plain, ordinary, every-day fool. He can't do it." "But, papa, what's the -* w "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, In serried ranks o'erspread the landscape here. The purple aster, and the golden-rod, In queenly dress stood rivals side by side; And there, beneath the radiant smile of God, 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. AROUND THE 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. t<5* ^* ^* MR. SPOOPENDYKE'S SHAVE. M Y dear!" exclaimed Mr. Spoopen- dyke, dropping his razor and ex- amining his chin with staring eyes, "my dear, bring the court plaster, quick! I've ploughed off half my chin!" "Let me see," demanded Mrs. Spoopen- dyke, bobbing up and fluttering around her husband. "Great gracious, what a cut! Wait a minute!" and she shot into a closet and out again. "Quick!" roared Mr. Spoopendyke. "I'm bleeding to death! fetch me that court plas- ter!" "Oh, dear!" moaned Mrs. Spoopendyke, "I put it — on, where did I put it?" "Dod gast that putty!" yelled Mr. Spoop- endyke, who had heard his wife imperfect- ly. "What d'ye think this is, a crack in the wall? Got some sort of a notion that there is a draught through here? Court plaster, I tell ye! Bring me some court plaster before I pull out the side of this house and get some from the neighbors!" Just then it occurred to Mrs. Spoopen- dyke that she had put the plaster in the clock. "Here it is, dear!" and she snipped off a piece and handed it to him. Mr. Spoopendyke put it on the end of his tongue, holding his thumb over his wound. When it was thoroughly wetted, it stuck fast to his finger, while the carnage ran down his chin. He jabbed away at the cut, but the plaster hung to his digit until finally his patience was thoroughly ex- hausted. "What's the matter with the measly busi- ness?" he yelled. "Wher'd ye buy this plas- ter? Come off, dod gast ye!" and as he plucked it off his finger it grew to his thumb. "Stick, will ye?" he squealed, plug- ging at the cut in his chin. "Leave go that thumb !" and he whirled around on his heel and pegged at it again. "Why don't ye bring me some court plaster?" he shrieked, turning on his trembling wife. "Who asked ye for a leech ? Bring me something that knows a thumb from a chin!" and he planted his thumb on the wound and screwed it around vindictively. This time the plaster let go and slipped up to the corner of his mouth. "Now, it's all right, dear," smiled Mrs. Spoopendyke, with a fearful grin. "May be you've got the same idea that the court plaster has! P'raps you think that mouth was cut with a razor ! May be you're under the impression that this hole in my visage was meant to succumb to the persuasion of a bit of plaster! Come off! Let go that mouth!" and as he gave it a wipe it stuck to the palm of his hand as if it had been born there. "Let me try," suggested Mrs. Spoopen- dyke, "I know how to do it." "Then why didn't ye do it first?" howled 58 ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. Mr. Spoopendyke. "What did you want to wait until I'd lost three gallons of gore for? Oh, you know how to do it! You want a linen back and a bottle of mucilage up at your side to be a country hospital. Stick! Dod gast ye!" and he clapped the wrong hand over his jaw. "I'll hold ye here till ye stick, if I hold ye till my wife learns something!" and Mr. Spoopendyke pranced up and down the room with a face indicative of stern determination. "Let me see, dear," said his wife ap- proaching him with a smile, and gently drawing away his hand she deftly adjusted another piece of plaster. "That was my piece after all," growled Mr. Spoopendyke, eyeing the job and glancing at the palm of his hand to find his piece of plaster gone. "You always come in after the funeral." "I guess you'll find your piece sticking in the other hand, dear," said Mrs. Spoop- endyke pleasantly. "Of course you can tell," snorted Mr. Spoopendyke, verifying his wife's assertion with a glance. "If I had your sight and a pack of cards, I'd hire a shot tower and set up for an astronomer!" and Mr. Spoopen- dyke, who evidently meant astrology, wore that piece of blood-stained court plaster on his hand all day long, rather than admit, by taking it off, that his wife had ever been right in anything. c5* *&* &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', san!" Abraham's eyes hung out, his com- plexion became ash color, and his knees bent under him as if the springs were about to give way. It was a long minute before he could utter a sound, and then he reached for my trunk with the muttered ob- servation: "Befo' de Lawd, but things am gittin' so mixed up I can't dun tell whedder I'm his son or his fader!" t&* t&* t£& 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 O jib ways, In the pleasant land and peaceful. "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 ; "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 ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. In the land of the Dacotahs ! From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him Laughing Water ; Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the Old Man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off, "Fare thee well, O Minnehaha !" And the ancient arrow-maker Turned again unto his labor, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying : "Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us ! Just when they have learned to love us, When we are old and lean upon them, Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger Wanders piping through the village Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her, Leaving all things for the stranger!" — H. W. Longfellow. £& t&fc t&* 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. C7* fc5* t&* FARO BILL'S SERMON. (He tells the story of the Prodigal Son. J [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 ABOUND THE. EVENING LAMP. 61 such a lay out as this he plays every card to win, and if he goes through the deal as he orter do, when he lays down to die an' the last case is reddy to slide from the box he can call the turn every time. "I was readin' in the Bible to-day that yarn about the Prodigal Son, and I want to tell you the story. The book don't give no dates, but it happened long, long ago. This Prodigal Son had an old man that put up the coin every time the kid struck him for a stake, an' never kicked at the size of the pile, either. I recon the old man was pretty well fixed, an' when he died he in- tended to give all his wealth to this kid an' his brother. Prod gave the old man a little game o' talk one day, and induced him to whack up in advance o' the death racket. He'd no sooner got his divy in his fist than he shook the old man an' struck out to take in some o' the other camps. He had a way-up time for awhile, and slung his cash to the front like he owned the best playin' lead on earth; but hard luck hit him at last an' left him flat. The book don't state what he went broke on, but I -recon he got steered up again some brace game. But anyhow he got left without a chip or a four-bit piece to go an' eat on. An old granger then tuk him home an' set him to herdin' hogs, an' here he got so hard up an' hungry that he piped off the swine while they were feedin,' and he stood in with them on a shuck lunch. He soon weakened on such plain provender, and says to himself, says he: 'Even the old man's hired hands are livin' on square grub, while I'm worrin' along here on corn husks straight. I'll just take a grand tum- ble to myself, an' chop on this racket at once. I'll skip back to the governor and try to fix things up, and call for a new deal.' So off he started. "The old man seed the kid a-comin', and what do you reckon he did? Did he pull his gun and lay for him, intendin' to wipe him as soon as he got into range? Did he call the dogs to chase him off the ranch? Did he hustle round for a club and give him a stand off at the front gate? Eh? Not to any alarming extent he didn't; no sir. The Scripture book says he waltzed out to meet him, and froze to him on the spot and kissed him and then marched him off to a clothing store, and fitted him out in the nobbiest rig to be had for coin. Then the old gent invited all the neighbors, and killed a fat calf, and gave the biggest blow-out the camp ever seen." o5* t^* ^5* THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. TO me comes the brakeman, and seat- ing himself on the arm of the seat says: "I went to church yesterday." "Yes?" I said, with that interested in- flection that asks for more. "And what church did you attend?" "Which do you guess?" he asked. "Some union mission church?" I haz- arded. "Naw," he said, "I don't like to run on these branch roads very much. I don't often go to church, and when I do, I want to run on the main line, where your run is regular and you go on a schedule time and don't have to wait on connections. I don't like to run on a branch. Good enough, but I don't like it." "Episcopal?" I guessed. "Limited Express," he said; "all palace 62 ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. cars and $2 extra for a seat; fast time, and only stop at big stations. Nice line, but too exhaustive for a brakeman. All train men in uniform, conductor's punch and lantern silverplated, and no train boys al- lowed. Then the passengers are allowed to talk back at the conductor; and it makes them too free and easy. No, I couldn't stand the palace cars. Rich road, though. Don't often hear of a receiver being ap- pointed for that line. Some mighty nice people travel on it, too." "Universalist?" I suggested. "Broad-gauge," said the brakeman, "does too much complimentary business. Every- body travels on a pass. Conductor doesn't get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at all flag-stations, and won't run into anything but a union depot. No smoking-car on the train. Train orders are vague though, and the train men don't get along well with the passengers. No, I don't go to the Universalist, though I know some awfully good men who run on that road." "Presbyterian?" I asked. "Narrow-gauge, eh?" said the brakeman, "pretty track, straight as a rule; tunnel right through a mountain rather than go round it; spirit-level grade; passengers have to show their tickets before they get on the train. Mighty strict road, but the cars are a little narrow; have to sit one in a seat and no room in the aisle to dance. Then there's no stop-over tickets allowed; got to go straight through to the station you're ticketed for, or you can't get on at all. When the car's full no extra coaches; cars built at the shops to hold just so many and nobody else allowed on. But you don't often hear of an accident on that road. It's run up to the rules." "Maybe you joined the Free-Thinkers ?" I said. "Scrub road," said the brakeman; "dirt road-bed and no ballast; no time card and no train despatchers. All trains run wild and every engineer makes his own time, just as he pleases. Smoke if you want to; kind of go-as-you-please road. Too many side-tracks, and every switch wide open all the time, with the switchman sound asleep and the target lamp dead out. Get on as you please and get off when you want to. Don't have to show your tickets, and the conductor isn't expected to do anything but amuse the passengers. No, sir, I was offered a pass, but I don't like the line. I don't like to travel on a line that has no terminus. Do you know, sir, I asked a division superintendent where that road run to, and he said he hoped to die if he knew. I asked a conductor who he got his orders from, and he said he didn't take orders from any living man or dead ghost. And when I asked the engineer who he got his orders from, he said he'd like to see anybody give him orders, he'd run that train to suit himself or he'd run it into the ditch. Now you see, sir, I'm a railroad man, and I don't care to run on a road that has no time, makes no connections, runs nowhere and has no Superintendent. It may be all right, but I've railroaded too long to understand it." "Did you try the Methodist?" I said. "Now you're shouting," he said with some enthusiasm. "Nice road, eh? Fast time and plenty of passengers. Engines carry a power of steam and don't you for- get it; steam gauge shows a hundred and enough all the time. Lively road; when the conductor shouts 'all aboard,' you can hear him to the next station. Good, whole- souled, companionable conductors; ain't a road in the country where the passengers feel more at home. No passes; every pas- senger pays full traffic rates for his ticket. Wesleyan house airbrake on all trains, too ; ABOUND TEE 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 THE rocky slopes for emerald had changed their garb of gray, When the vessels from Connecticut came sailing up the bay, There were flashing lights on every wave that drew the strangers on, And wreaths of wild arbutus round the brows of Blomidon. Five years in desolation the Acadian land had lain, Five golden harvest moons had wooed the fallow fields in vain; Five times the winter snows caressed, and summer sunsets smiled, Great Dominion.") On lonely clumps of willows, and fruit trees growing wild. There was silence in the forest, and along the Uniac shore, And not a habitation from Canard to Beausejour, But many a ruined cellar and many a broken wall Told the story of Acadia's prosperity, and fall ! And even in the sunshine of that peaceful day in June, When Nature swept her harp, and found the strings in perfect tune, ■M 64 AROUND TEE 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; 1 w E* w CO' m H E* AROUND THE 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, Ande* 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. *£& %j& &5* 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 parlbr 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. In this department are embraced the choicest patriotic literature and descriptive scenes of war from Colonial days to the present time. t&& z&* s&fo 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 u BARBARA 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. 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." FRIETCHIE. "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 Whittier. *£& t&* t&* "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 witfi 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. c5* ««5* «<5* 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 truth 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. 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, thfc 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, ypu 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 I asked 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, n 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. c5» c^* c5* 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', parching 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 milling 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. 75 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. c^* o5* G?* 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 corning 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 then 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. %5& fcT* t!7* 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 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. Fie 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^» &5* t&* 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. 78 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'erhead, 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. 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 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. rill 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. «,£• c5* t(5* THE TORPEDO-BOAT. 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 ! 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 Great Dominion.") 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, — 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. &7* c5* 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. tzfr £* *2fr 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. C^* <£& <&™ 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* tc& t&& DE BUGLE ON DE HILL. IDOAN' 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. 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&& v& 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. c5* c5* t5* 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. ■J$ 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. <£* 6$* «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!" t&& f&fr *2r* ARATHUSA'S BROTHER JACK. MY 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." c<5* ^5* c5* 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. I 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.fC. 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 ringers 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. K&* 1&fr C7* 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. 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. 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. t&* V£& t(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. %c& *?* *5* 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 around An' makes th' soapsuds fly; An' sometimes, when he stirs 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. 1&hI t£& fc5* 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. fc?* t£& *£& 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. «5* «<$» v5* 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 sigh of grief, "I wish I could find A little green leaf." JUVENILE GEMS. 105 Said the fifth little chicken, With a faint little moan, 'Twish I could find A wee gravel stone." "Now, see here," said the mother From the green garden patctr "If you want any breakfast, Just come here and scratch." c$* e£* ?£* WHAT LITTLE THINGS CAN DO. A TINY drop of water, Within the ocean lay, A coaxing sunbeam caught her, And bore her far away; Up, up — and higher still — they go, With gentle motion, soft and slow. A little cloud lay sleeping, Across the azure sky, But soon it fell a-weeping, As cold the wind rushed by, And cried and cried herself away; It was a very rainy day. The little raindrops sinking, Ran trickling through the ground, And set the rootlets drinking, In all the country round, But some with laughing murmur, said, "We'll farther go," and on they sped. A little spring came dripping The moss and ferns among, A silver rill went tripping, And singing sweet along, And calling others to its side, Until it rolled — a river wide. And with the ocean blending, At last its waters run, Then is the story ending? Why, no! 'tis just begun, For in the ocean as before, The drop of water lay once more. <<5* i5» «<$* 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, puncried it in, Rubbed it in, clubbed it in, Pressed it in, caressed it- in, Rapped it in and slapped it in — When their heads were hollow. <5* *5* &$• ABOUT READY TO SHOW OFF. You will pardon our blunders, which, as all are aware, May even extend to the president's chair. 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, 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. ^w ^5* t(9* 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. <^w ^* ta& 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 by 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, 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. «(5* «<5* %&* 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 onlv little Dot!") CROUCHING on the icy pavement, Sobbing, shivering with the cold, Garments scant around her clinging, All her matches vet 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. j^% f^rt %&& 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. t&* c5* «<5* 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 GEMS. "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. ^¥ %&& t&& 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. t(5* &5* fc?* 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, 111 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. t£& £& X£& IF. IF I were a man," said the restless lad, 'Td 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." t£* «£* <*?• 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 GEMS. 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, You have reached the house of "Never" by the street of By-and-by. — Mrs. Abdy. «<5* «<5* c£* 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, "111 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. 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 screams 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! — William S. Lord. JUVENILE GEMS. 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. t&& *&* fc5* 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 you 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." *5* t5* ^?* 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. <£• ^* t2& 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! H H Choice Humor x H 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^* £& t0* 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 115 116 CHOICE HUMOR. temper, and I shan't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! Fve 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, fcT* fc5* t&* PAT'S EXCELSIOR. 5 HP WAS growin' dark so terrible fasht, I 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, c Tt'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 HUMOR. 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 "J onn 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 with the rules of health. " He saves his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness. t£* «(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 see. 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 'zeaze, 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." tt* c5* t5* 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!" protested 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 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 also 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. QUEER ENGLISH LANGUAGE. WE'LL begin with a box, and the 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&* tgri t£* 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 last 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." &£• «£* t5* BILL SMITH'S (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, COURTSHIP. 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 nufr ter cure ther sore eyes. Whar in the round world hev ye bin keepin' yerself?' " 'Oh, I've 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 monev 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.' "'I 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. " 'I 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 I. 'I'm in er monstrous lot uv truble, an' 126 CHOICE HUMOR. would ruther be ded than erlive, but I see 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 thev 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.' ft '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: " T'm glad hit turned out the way hit did. The Lord will provide.' " <(?• «£• «5* 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 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. &5* «(7* 07* 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 I 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. t&* %&& ^5* OUR LOST TREASURE. I SAW 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. C^* fc^W t&fc 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^* <£• ^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. 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. Whit tier. 131 &?* «c5» «<$* 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. £* t&* <£& 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. ** <£*• ^* c^* 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. £r* ^* *<&<£ fHE 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 lehind 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. xs Told in Dialect m 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. «^* <2r> 47* 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' ofT period. Eb- erything had bin red hot fur 20,000 y'ars, an' it took a heap o' time before dey got cool 'nufT to handle. When dey did we had a surface composed of water an' sich. Fur thousands of y'ars dar wasn't nufT sile fur a grasshopper to scratch in, nor 'nufT 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. rDoan' accept things as you find them, but inquar' of yourselves why de thusness of de thisness emulates de consanguinity of de concordance." & J* ,* 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 efTery night I goes Across to Brooklyn by clot 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. li; 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 ; 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. 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- 1 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 !" 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 ! — Philander Johnson. 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 144 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 blatf orm on, ven so mooch as ein hundert men, mit vips in der hands, und der ringers 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 day, 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 lafdn' 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. &5* v* ^* 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 yi her house foriver afther. THE RULER 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. 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. %£j4 (<5% 5,5* "DE COTE-HOUSE IN DE SKY." NOW Ps 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' reads 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! <£ <£ J8 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, lt- "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* &5* <<$* 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, Afways 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. * 5JS Jfc * * * * 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. 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, I'se glad you a'n't a dawg" — Hushaby, HI' baby boy. All de HI' 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, HI' baby boy. Hushaby, hushaby, HI' baby boy, Watch dawg bark an' booger man run; Down in the medder HI' bunnies race, Frolickin' an' jumpin' all about de place — Jess yo' quit dat laffin' right in yo' mam- my's face — Hushaby, HI' baby boy. Oi' brindle cow's a-callin', "goo' night, goo' night," she said, Time all HI' chilluns fer ter be in bed ; Tight shet go dem bright eyes, down drap dat curly head — Hushaby, HI' baby boy. — Richard Linthicum. t&rl t&& *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 Pfeiffer, 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. «5* 4$* «5* 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. <<5* «<5* c5* 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 hand 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 152 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. *£& t&fc t&& 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 dflt 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, $$s — — — — — t— — — — — 0— — •— — 3— — — — — *£!£! Modern Dialogues and Plays s£>i ■ Characters. Gentlemen — Ladies — January. February. March. April. July. May. August. June. October. September December November. 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^* *2r* *2* 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. (Tzvo 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 with a bunch of snozvdrops 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, 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.) 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 154 MODEBN 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 Hies 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 ■a d a d ° d •r-l « i a a 2 ■h d o d +> ■p d Ji Q CS o si d ft o ft * o d .4 o f-c MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 157 singing, and 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 flowers and nest full of birds. March wanders 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 flowers with 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 July, 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, MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 159 The darkening sky, like a cup, Is filled 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 withdraws 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. 160 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 zvithout 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 with 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 wreath 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. t£& tv* fcT* PAT DOLAN'S WEDDING. Characters. Nicholas Neverslip, a modem 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 two chairs, C. Nicholas discovered standing near L. E. with 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 DIALGOUES 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 without). — 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 backward 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 ! MODERN 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. £.] 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 watch). — 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 down 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 without). — 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 thinkin' 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 yez. (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. 165 raining. — (Matilda and Miss Spy all take seats 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 tozvards 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 view). 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. 166 MODERN 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 news 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. t&& s3* t&™ 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 wife on the 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-live cents, and puts his purse azvay angrily. He starts to go; but when at the door, he thinks he will 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, Lizzie. ) 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, follozved 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 f 01 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. (Two 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. t&* 1£& t£& 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 she That to her grandmother 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. MODERN 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 bio — 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 zvith a dummy in it with a large night- cap. Wolf is heard knocking. Granny (spoken from the zving 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 or heavy dew, Perhaps without her bonnet; and, of course, 172 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. The little donkey is a little 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 grozvls are heard. The dummy is removed without 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 0;t£)anda 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 dozvn 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 en jine. 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 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 fingers'] ; 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 dog? 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 riot 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.] 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. Pinchem, with gray zvig and zuhiskers 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 ? right, sir. Mr. Clerk. That's all 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.) t£T* t&* t&* 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. & ,* & 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.) T <£• g£* c5* A GROVE OF HISTORIC TREES (Arbor Day.) REE 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, 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 Phoebe 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 182 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), 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 MODE EX DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 183 is tiie 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 Y 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 oft, 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 c<5* $*?* ?^* 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. Alum 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 nozv 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. 186 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. ON TIME Copyright, 1900, by the Lyceum Publi ROBERT C. 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. MISS 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 v/edding coat in it, I suppose. Mrs. C. I'd like to have a word with you, Mr. Ferment. -a farce. shing Company. (Used by Permission.) V. MEYERS. Ferment. Now, Mrs. Campbell, I jiave 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 out.) 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. IS' 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 fist 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 up, rubbing 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, "Ka th arin e ! Ka th arin e !" 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). W 7 hat, 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 FOR LIFE. o H A < 02 M < P & o ri w W O B p 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 1 '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 in! {At door, left.) Break the lock! Burst open the 192 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. door! (Door Hies 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 Farley, 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 down 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 you 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. Time." Not too late. In fact, it is "On Earley. Katharine. Mrs. Campbell. Ferment. CURTAIN. %2* «<5* t&fr THE HARVEST QUEEN AND HER MAIDENS. SARAH M. WYMAN. 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 gracefully 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. 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 dashed 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 xaltar 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. t£& t£pl <£& 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- 106 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. S waggles nock. 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 fat us 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. [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. t<5* ^5* ^5* 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 lawn, or woodland, with gaily- decked background; elevated positions for Mother Earth and Dame Nature; the various participants wearing a dress, sash, or flozver, to indicate the character represented. The introduc- tion of music at proper intervals will 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 dowers, 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 flowers.) 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 Larcorn. MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 201 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. (Flowers 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 her forward.) 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, 1898. Entrances right and left, and right and left center at back. Patience discovered arranging table in center of stage. Enter Mrs. Quigg from right zvith 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 afl 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. . room is right. Ready and waiting. I should like to see whether his 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 Chatter ton, 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 saiiyorman 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 dolefully, 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, walks 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 pocketbook). 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 table, 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. Q. {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. Q. 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- ingh')' 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. v Doctor, what kind of coat should my 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 flag; they eye each other steadfastly as she crosses to door, right, and goes through flag 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 waving 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. MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 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 tivo 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 (zvaving). 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 zvriggles.) 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? I 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, follozved by Miss von C, Miss M., Miss W. and Miss F. each carrying a dish. Patience brings up the rear zvith 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. gus 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 ? Miss W. Macaroni croquettes and cheese sauce. I'm sure that will soothe his 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 wry 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. (who 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 away 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 merchant! 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 JCoopay {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, who 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 Til 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 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-ra! courage, my boy, courage. You think you can ? Patience (puckering her month). 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 iive 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, zvell-Htting 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 the jolliest 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 ri g- 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 DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 211 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 day 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. %0* t<5* t<7* 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 walk back and forth, hand in hand — meet Fox face to face. Fox in brown fur cloak and hood. Fox. Good evening, oh, good evening ! How 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, I'll 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 will 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. t&r1 fcT* t&& BEN HUR'S CHARIOT RACE. THE trumpet sounded short and sharp. The starfers, 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 HEADINGS 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 hea*d 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 r "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- ting the hard earth! another and another; ( &$• t5* « 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 24:0 DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. That I pitied as I pitied her — If I could have stopped, with all the spur Of the train's weight on, and cannily — But it wouldn't do with a lad like me And she a lady — or had been — sir ? Who was she? Best say no more of her ! The world is hard ; but I'm her friend, Stanch, sir, — down to the world's end. It is a curl of her sunny hair Set in this locket that I wear. I picked it off the big wheel there. Time's up, Jack. Stand clear, sir. Yes ; We're going out with the express. — W. Wilkins. £& *&* *2& HENRY V. AT ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow over- whelm it, As fearfully as doth a galled rock Overhang and jutty his confounded base, Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nos- tril wide, Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height. Now on, you noblest English, HARFLEUR. Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof; Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn to even fought, And sheathed their swords for lack of ar- gument: Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war! And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs are made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not: For there is none of you so mean and base That hath not noble luster in your eye; I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start: the game's a-foot; Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge, Cry, Heaven for Harry, England, and St. George. — Shakespeare. ^"V Treasure Trove-World Favorites 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. ^5* &5* C<7* 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; 241 242 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. They loved, but their story we cannot un- fold; They scorned, but the heart of the 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? t&& ^5* *^* THE EXILE OF ERIN 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. "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. TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 245 "Erin, my country ! though sad and for- saken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas ! in ,a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to de- plore ! "Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot re- call. "Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bard sings aloud with devotion, — Erin mavourneen! Erin go bragh!" — Thomas Campbell. <£* t$* 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. & £ x JOHN ANDERSON. JOHN Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow; John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. — Robert Burns. *£& *&& c5* "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. Elisabeth Akers. t£& %a* £& THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. HOW 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. 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, years ago. -there, forty The river's running just as still; the wil- lows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts, — pretty girls, — just forty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low, — 'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach; And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To see how sadly I am changed, since forty years ago. Near by that spring, upon old elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's put beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same. Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some forty years ago. My lids have long been dry, Torn, but tears came to my eyes; THE ABU RE 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. s^* fe?* ^5* THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 1LOVE 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? THE AS V BE 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 i means," — And shake their heads ; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe! How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side ; How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame? A fitful tongue of leaping flame; A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe? The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go, — How vain it seems, this empty show! Till all at once his pulses thrill — ■ Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!" And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears, In some sweet lull of harp and song For earth-born spirits none too long, 252 TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. Just whispering of the world below Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? No matter: while our home is here, No sounding name is half so dear; When fade*s 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. %2& t&& t£& 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. o^* ^* t^* 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. ^* &5* *£& 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 The masterpieces of American eloquence and statesmanship are included in this department. The selections are particularly adapted to the anniversaries of our Great American Statesmen and to all patriotic holidays as well. McKINLEY'S EULOGY OF LINCOLN. IT is not difficult to place a correct esti- mate upon the character of Lincoln. He was the greatest man of his time, es- pecially approved of God for the work He gave him to do. "History abundantly proves his superior- ity as a leader, and establishes his constant reliance upon a higher power for guidance and support. "The tendency of this age is to exagger- ation, but of Lincoln certainly none have spoken more highly than those who knew him best. "The greatest names in American history are Washington and Lincoln. One is for- ever associated with the independence of the states and formation of the Federal Union, the other with the universal free- dom and preservation of that Union. "Washington enforced the Declaration of Independence as against England, Lincoln proclaimed its fulfillment, not only to a downtrodden race in America, but to all people, for all those who may seek the pro- tection of our flag. "These illustrious men achieved grander results for mankind within a single century — from 1775 to 1865 — than any other men ever accomplished in all the years since first the flight of time began. "Washington engaged in no ordinary revolution. With him it was not who should rule, but what should rule. He drew his sword, not for a change of rulers upon an established throne, but to establish a new government, which should acknowledge no throne but the tribune of the people. "Lincoln accepted war to save the Union, the safeguard of our liberties, and re-es- tablished it on 'indestructible foundations' as forever 'one and indivisible.' "To quote his own grand words: u '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." 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 * %&& 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. 109 The Dutchman's ship in its wandering course, And the thunder's mockery bellowed hoarse. And a woman waited beside a tree, In the moan of the winds and the branches' dree, For a letter to come that night by sea. Then shouted the mate to the skipper there, 'Turn back," so sounded his trumpet's blare, "Or our seams will split and our masts stand bare." But Vanderdecken drew his blade, And the steely sheen that its flashing made Struck light from the all-surrounding shade. And his anger stood in his bristling hair While his furious sword-stroke smote the air As he stood alone in defiance there. And he swore to weather the stubborn gaie With its rattling volleys of icy hail, If it stripped from the masts each tattered sail; And to beat around for that very bay, And where was the one who could say him nay — "By God! if he sailed till the judgment day." Then the mist grew dense and the light- ning flashed, And a red bolt down on the tree-top crashed, Where a woman stood by the shore sea- lashed. And the thunder tolled in the blackening clouds, And the waves swept by in hurrying crowds, And a wan light paled in the creaking shrouds ; While a scream came by from the far-off shore That was hushed and drowned by the mad waves' roar, And the vessel passed and was seen no more. And now on that selfsame fateful night, If the seas be calm and the skies are bright, The ocean giveth a mystic sight. For a shadow-ship and a shadow-frame Goes by at twelve through the moonlight flame, Passing as suddenly as it came. And a whisper thrills through the salt- sweet breeze, While a heart-throb stirs in the moving seas And the tide fast out to the ocean flees. And a fine wind stirs in the tree-top high That ghostly stands in the starlit sky, And a sound wells up like a woman's sigh. But when on that night the clouds turn black And the huge waves follow the storm king's track, And the skies are heavy with tempest- wrack, Why, then is seen, as a spectre gray, 'Mid the shimmering mist and lightning- play, A vessel headed for Table Bay. And the ship, like a lover, keeps her troth To her skipper's pledge — 'twas a pledge for both — 310 MISCELLANEOUS, And the wild winds echo the Dutchman's oath, And a wraith waits there by the haunted tree, While the storm wails on and the wind blows free, For a letter which comes not in from the sea. — Ernest McGaifey. THE MEN WHO LOSE. HERE'S to the men who lose! What though their work be e'er so nobly planned And watched with zealous care, No glorious halo crowns their efforts grand ; Contempt is failure's share. Here's to the men who lose ! If triumph's easy smiles our struggles greet, Courage is easy then ; The king is he who, after fierce defeat, Can up and fight again. Here's to the men who lose ! The ready plaudits of a fawning world Ring sweet in victor's ears ; The vanquished's banners never are un- furled — For them there sound no cheers. Here's to the men who lose! The touchstone of true worth is not suc- cess: There is a higher test — Though fate may darkly frown, onward to press, And bravely do one's best. Here's to the men who lose! It is the vanquished's praises that I sing, And this the toast I choose : "A hard-fought failure is a noble thing. Here's a luck to those who lose !" — G. H. Broadharst. 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. %7* t<5* 10^ ALWAYS CONSULT YOUR WIFE. A BLUEBIRD sat on a farmhouse shed And wagged his tail as he scratched his head, While he puzzled his brain to find the best And safest spot to build his nest. A "cruel monster," this bluebird, he No counsel would take from Mrs. B b, He did not allow her in aught to have choice, Nor in family matters to raise up her voice. The consequence was that his wife's small head Was very firm set against all that he said; But he was the master, and "willy or nilly," His orders she followed — no matter how silly. "Chick-a-dee ! I have it! The very thing! We will go where the swallows built last spring "You have it, indeed!" sneered Mrs. B bj "You'd do no such thing if you listened to me! "Why not build in the shed?" "Hush! hush, my dear! You've nothing to do but sit quiet and hear." So sloth prevailed, and they quietly took A swallow's nest in the chimney nook. "Three eggs?" Mr. Bluebird hopped out in the sun To laugh at the trick he'd played. "What fun!" But as he was smoothing his little brown vest, Came a sound which soon made him fly back to the nest. The swallows had come, and their fierce, flashing eyes Showed the anger they felt, as well as sur- prise. After some consultation they urged the re- quest 312 MISCELLANEOUS. That Blue and his wife would vacate their nest. But gentleman Blue knew the old-time saw, Possession is fully nine-tenths of the law; And he laughed in their faces, and winked his left eye, As much as to say, "You are green, not I." But Mrs. B b, with an angry burst, Said, "I told you so from the ' very first ; And I won't stay here another day." So out she flew and hurried away. "Good riddance!" cried Bluebird. "To go you are free, But they won't find it easy to get rid of me!" Alas ! for the folly that revels in sin ; The swallows with mud came and coffined him in. Moral : Oh, man who wouldst flourish and prosper in life, In matters of moment consult with thy wife. %£& i&& %3* SAND. I OBSERVED a locomotive in the rail- road yards one day — It was waiting in the round-house where the locomotives stay; It was panting for the journey, it was coaled and fully manned, And it had a box the fireman was filling full of sand. It appears that locomotives cannot always get a grip On their slender iron pavement, 'cause the wheels are apt to slip; And when they reach a slippery spot, their tactics they command, And to get a grip upon the rail, they sprin- kle it with sand. It's about this way with travel along life's slippery track, If your load is rather heavy and you're al- ways sliding back ; So, if a common locomotive you completely understand, You'll supply yourself, in starting, with a good supply of sand. If your track is steep and hilly and you have a heavy grade, And if those who've gone before you have the rails quite slippery made, If you ever reach the summit of the upper tableland, You'll find you'll have to do it with a lib- eral use of sand. If you strike some frigid weather and dis- cover to your cost That you're liable to slip on a heavy coat of frost Then some prompt, decided action will be called into demand, You'll slip way to the bottom if you haven't any sand. You can get to any station that is on life's schedule seen, If there's fire beneath the boiler of ambi- tion's strong machine; And you'll reach a place called Flushtown at a rate of speed that's grand, If for all the slippery places you've a good supply of sand, MISCELLANEOUS. 313 LORRAINE, LORREE, ARE you ready for your steeplechase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree? You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee, You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see, To keep him straight, and keep him first, and win the run for me." She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lor- raine, Lorraine, Lorree, "I can not ride Vindictive, as any man might see, And I will not ride Vindictive with this baby on my knee ; He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why must he kill me ?" "Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coul- terlee And land him safe across the brook and win trie 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£5 «,$* LIKE OTHER MEN. OH, varied are the changes, half unno- ticed, all unsung, That have passed across this world of ours since you and I were young, When all the sea, and sky, and earth, and stars that gemmed the night, Were ours by eminent domain of youth's unchallenged right — Old comrade of my boyhood, do you e'er recall the joys Of that glorious, care-free time of life when you and I were boys ? We knew, perchance, that other ships o'er favoring seas had sailed, And of the harbor of success had fallen short, and failed To reach the golden shores they sought, but no such luckless fate Along the future's glittering waves for us could lie in wait — For all the good things of this world but waited our command And all there was for us to do was occupy the land. We dreamed of great and noble deeds we'd do as life sped on, When honor, fame and glory, and un- bounded wealth were won ; 314 MISCELLANEOUS. For other men, perhaps, might be a life of toil and grind, The grip of poverty might seize upon the grovelling mind — But as for us, our shining path lay upward and across The everlasting hills of Hope, where no man suffers loss ! Ah, well, we've drifted on until the even- ing shades lie long Across the afternoon of life, and all the happy throng Of boys that used to play with us upon the schoolhouse green, Have laid their tired heads to rest, and passed to the unseen, And you and I, old comrade, have suc- ceeded much the same As the hundred thousand other men un- known to wealth or fame. — Clara A. Trask. t&& ty* c*7* 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. ^5* c^* t^* 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. v5* <<5* <<5* DOMINION DAY. Tidelis." 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; 16 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 v . to shed from shore to shore A light among the nations, till nations are no more. o5* «£* <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. ?(5* c^* " «^* 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 t 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 ofT your coat and make a dust in the world. The busier you are, the less harm you will be apt to get into, the sweeter will be your sleep, the brighter and happier your holi- days, and the better satisfied will the world be with you. — R. J. Burdette. i£fr t&& %&& 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. tSfc t<5* «<7* 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* t«5* 5^* THE TRUE 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, GENTLEMAN. 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. sc* C$* &?* WHY SHE DIDN'T STAY IN THE POOR-HOUSE. NO, I didn't stay in the poor-house, and this is how, you see, It happened at the very last, there came a way for me. The Lord, he makes our sunniest times out of our darkest days, And yet we fail most always to render His name the praise. But, as I am goin' to tell you, I have a home of my own, And keep my house, an' — no, I'm not a- livin' here alone. Of course you wonder how it is, an' I'm a-goin' to tell How, though I couldn't change a jot, the Lord done all things well. I've spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Re- becca, "that lives out west;" An' Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best; An' Susan; — but not a single word I said about another one, — Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was our wayward son, An' while his father was livin' he ran away to sea, An' never sent a word or line to neither him nor me. Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there, An' what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear. But I couldn't talk of Georgie — he was too dear to blame, — It seemed as if I couldn't bear even to hear his name. But when I took my pauper's place in that old work-house grim, My weary heart was every day a-cryin' out for him. For I'd tried the love of the others, and found it weak and cold, An' I kind o' felt if Georgie knew that I was poor and old, He'd help to make it better, and try to do his part, For love and trust are last of all to die in a woman's heart. An' he used to be always tellin' when he was a man and strong, How he'd work for father and mother; and he never done no wrong, Exceptin' his boyish mischief, an' his run- nin' off to sea; So somehow now, out of them all, he seemed the best to me. And so the slow days wore along, just as the days all go, When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we know Is nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till 'twould seem That the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream. MISCELLANEOUS. 321 And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him, And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes were dim. And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never again I should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men. When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin' up to me, Savin', "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. 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!" «(?• %&& %&& 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 speejd, .if ever -for life you would speed; And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride, For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire; And feet of wild horses hard flying before, I hear like a sea breaking high on the shore ; While the buffalo come like the surge of the sea, Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire." We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again, And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer, MISCELLANEOUS. 323 Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold, Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold, And gold-mounted Colt's, true compan- ions for years; Cast the silken serapes to the wind in a breath, And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse, As bare as when born, as when new from the hand Of God, without word, or one word of command, Turned head to the Brazos in a red race with death, Turned head to the Brazos with a breath in the hair Blowing hot from a king leaving death in his course; Turned head to the Brazos with a sound in the air Like the rush of an army, and a flash in the eye Of a red wall of fire reaching up to the sky, Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black roll- ing sea Rushing fast upon us as the wind sweep- ing free And afar from the desert, blew hollow and hoarse. Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall, Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call Of love-note or courage, but on o'er the plain So steady and still, leaning low to the mane, With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein, Rode we on, rode we three, rode we nose and gray nose, Reaching long, breathing loud, like a crev- iced wind blows, Yet we broke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer, There was work to be done, there was death in the air, And the chance was as one to a thousand for all Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the arid earth rang, And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck Flew around like the spray on z. storm- driven deck. Twenty miles! thirty miles! — a dim distant speck — Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos in sight, And I rose in my seat with a shout of de- light. I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right, But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping Herd on his breast, and his naked breast stooping Low down to the mane as so swifter and bolder Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. To right and to left the black buffalo came, A terrible surf on a red sea of flame Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher; And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full 324 MISCELLANEOUS. Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire Of battle, with rage and with bellowing loud And unearthly, and up through its lower- ing cloud Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hid- den fire, While his keen crooked horns through the storm of his mane Like black lances lifted and lifted again; And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through, And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two. I looked to my left, then, and nose, neck, and shoulder Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs ; And up through the black blowing veil of her hair Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes With a longing and love, yet a look of despair, And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her, And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's swell Did subside and recede and the nerves fall as dead. Then she saw sturdy Pache still lorded his head, With a look of delight, for this Pache, you see, Was her father's, and once at the South Santa Fe Had won a whole herd, sweeping every- thing down In a race where the world came to run for the crown; And so when I won the true heart of my bride — My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe — She brought me this steed to the border the night She met Revels and me in her perilous flight From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos side; And said, so half-guessing of ill as she smiled, As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should pursue I should surely escape without other ado Than to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side, And await her, and wait till the next hol- low moon Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon And swift she would join me, and all would be well Without bloodshed or word. And now, as she fell From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire, The last that I saw was a look of delight That I should escape — a love — a desire — Yet never a word, not a look of appeal, 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. & 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." 1 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. <£ & "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. I'm down below. He's up on high, 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. f£& 1&& *£& 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. & & & 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, c5* t<$* «<$• 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. c^* ^* t&* 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. t&* c5* t<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 onery, twoery, hicgory ann? Or tell 'commons' and 'alleys' apart? Can you fling a top, I would like to know, Till it hums like a bumble-bee? Can you make a kite yourself that will go Most as high as the eye can see, Till it sails and soars, like a hawk on the And wing, the birds string?" come and light on the 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 II. 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. 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 ground," Said Rev. Dr. Hunt. the "Las' year I fell in Hodges' 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." t,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* fc5* 5*5* LESSONS FROM SCRIPTURE FLOWERS. The assignment of parts here given can be changed to suit different cases and such other classifications adopted as may seem best. Singing could also be introduced very effectively, especially in connection with "The Rose of Sharon," by the use of H. R. Palmer's hymn by that name. The Lily of the Field. First Boy — This flower that Jesus bids us consider was the Chalcedonian Lily, very common in Palestine, with scarlet flowers, like those that grow wild in our pastures. First Girl — In upland meadows bright flowers I see, Like lilies that blossomed in Galilee; When I see them shining in gold and red, I think of the words that Jesus said: TWO IN CONCERT — Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto you that even Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these. — Matt, vi; 28, 29. The Rose of Sharon. Second B. — This flower was not a rose, but the nar- cissus, like our white flowers of that name. This is the flower of which Solomon speaks when he says: "I am the Rose of Sharon." Second G. — In garden-borders, in rows of white, The dear narcissus is spring's delight; This lovely blossom in odors sweet, The promise of old still seems to repeat: Two in con. — The desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. — Isa. xxxv: 2. The True Rose. Third B.— This grows in Palestine. The hills of Jerusalem are covered with beautiful pink, white, and yellow roses. Third G. — When lovely roses, in colors fair, Are budding and blossoming everywhere, By the brook of the fields in the bright June day, Their voices to the children shall sweetly say: TWO IN CON. Hearken unto me, ye children, and bud forth as a rose, growing by the brool the fields. — Ecclesiasticus xxxix: 13. The Almond Tree. Fourth B. — This is the wakeful tree, because it is the first to awake from winter's sleep and put on its beautiful garment of rose-colored blossoms. Fourth G. — The flowering almond, we call it now; Spring's brightest, earliest blooming bough. MISCELLANEOUS. 333 The prophet found it a symbol true. That God would hasten his work to do. Two IX con. — And I said, I see a rod of an almond tree. Then said the Lord unto me, Thou hast well seen, for I will hasten my word to perform it. — Jer. i: n, 12. Mint, Anise, Cummin. Fifth B. — These plants had small, fragrant seeds, and were those that we now call by the same name. Fifth G. — In fragrant gardens I love to go, Where mint and anise and cummin grow; But, oh! how sad it would be to hear Such words as these from the Master, dear. Two in con. — Ye pay tithe of mint, and anise, and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, — judgment, mercy and faith. — Matt, xxiii: 23. The Mustard Tree. Sixth B. — This was not our common mustard plant. It is a shrub, still found by the sea of Galilee. The seed is small but the shrub grows so large that birds can, and do, lodge in the branches. Sixth G. — Sometimes I stop by the way to heed The simple bloom of the mustard seed; And think how, from humblest things that grew, Such lessons as this our Teacher drew. Two in con. — The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field; which, indeed, is the least of all seeds; but when it is grown, it is the greatest among herbs, and becom- eth a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in the branches thereof. — Matt. xiii: 31, 32. Seventh G. — When winter goes by and spring is here, And over the earth the flowers appear, While birds are singing and breezes play, These beautiful words again we say: Two in con. — For lo! the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, is come. — Cant, ii 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. The time of the singing of birds 11, 12. g5* t£* *£& 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, Flired 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. £ j8 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, jl 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, TJd 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. t&™ C7* fcT* 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." 336 MISCELLANEOUS. The Fern — Green: A fern, the people call me, I'm always clothed in green, I live in every forest; you've seen me oft, I ween. Sometimes I leave the shadow, to grow beside the way You'll see me as you pass, — some nice, fine day. Chorus. We are the little flowers, coming with the spring; If you listen closely, sometimes you'll hear us smsf. 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, air ! 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? <^% ^9 1&* 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. t&& t&* c*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 rilled his lawn with cabbage and he planted it with beet, And it blossomed with potatoes, and with peach and pear and plum, And Jim he lived and waited for the mil- lions yet to come. Then Jim he took his ancient axe and cleared a forest street, While he lived on bear and succotash and young opossum meat. And his rhythmic axe strokes sounded and the woods no more were dumb, While he cleared a crooked highway for the millions yet to come. Then they came like aimless stragglers, they came from far and near, A little log house settlement grew round the pioneer ; And the sound of saw and broadaxe made a glad industrial hum. Jim said : "The coming millions, they have just begun to come." And a little crooked railway wound round mountain, hill and lake, Crawling toward the forest village like an undulating snake; And one morn the locomotive puffed into the wilderness, And Jim said : "The coming millions, they are coming by express." And the village grew and prospered, but Jim Croker's hair was grayer; When they got a city charter, and old Jim was chosen Mayor; But Jim declined the honor, and moved his household goods Far away into the forest, to the old prime- val woods. Far and far into the forest moved the griz- zled pioneer, There he reared his hut and murmured, "I will build a city here." And he hears the woodfox barking, and he hears the partridge drum, And the old man sits and listens for the millions yet to come. — S. W.Foss. MISCELLANEOUS. 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! Whatever be our station, with Providence for guide, Such fine circumstances ort to make us sat- isfied ; For the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips for me and you. — James Whit comb Riley. «5* t5* t$* THE BEST SEWING-MACHINE. GOT one? Don't say so! Which did you get? One of the kind to open and shut ? Own or hire it? How much did you _ pay? Does it go with a crank or a treadle ? S-a-y. I'm a single man, and somewhat green ; Tell me about your sewing-machine." "Listen, my boy, and hear all about it : I don't know what I could do without it ; I've owned one now for more than a year, And like it so well that I call it 'my dear ;' 'Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen, This wonderful family sewing-machine. "It's none of your angular Wheeler things, 340 MISCELLANEOUS. With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings; Its work would bother a hundred of his, And worth a thousand ! Indeed it is ; And has a way — you need not stare — Of combing and braiding its own back hair ! "Mine is not one of those stupid affairs That stands in a corner with what-nots and chairs And makes that dismal, heachy noise Which all the comfort of sewing destroys; No rigid contrivance of lumber and steel, But one with a natural spring in the heel. "Mine is one of the kind to love, And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove ; Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot, And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot, And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, and loops, With any indefinite number of hoops. "None of your patent machines for me, Unless Dame Nature's the patentee ; I like the sort that can laugh and talk, And take my arm for an evening walk ; That will do whatever the owner may choose, With the slightest perceptible turn of the screws ; "One that can dance, and — possibly — flirt ; And make a pudding as well as a shirt ; One that can sing without dropping a stitch, And play the housewife, lady, or witch ; Ready to give the sagest advice, Or to do up your collars and things so nice. "What do you think of my machine? A 'n't it the best that ever was seen? 'Tisn't a clumsy, mechanical toy, But flesh and blood ! Hear that, my boy ? With a turn for gossip and household affairs, Which include, you know, the sewing of tears. "Tut, tut, don't talk. I see it all— You needn't keep winking so hard at the wall; I know what your fidgety fumblings mean ; You would like, yourself a sewing-machine ! Well, get one, then, — of the same design, — There were plenty left where I got mine !" «£* t&* <<5* 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&** tcfr t&* But frolics froo de wukin' days, and snoozes at de meetin' ; Dat jines de Temp'ance 'Ciety, an' keeps a gittin' tight, An' pulls his water-millions in de middle ob de night! Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in deir ban'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' loafm' roun' an' chattin' wid de snake. MR. MEEK'S DINNER. '' ' 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 on her holidays for a day or two, and they want me desperately at the Woman's Aid and Relief Bazaar, to help them with [heir high tea from 4:30 to 8:30. 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 gti 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 g*one 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 low. Then it went out. He rushed for a kindling, and nearly took his head off on a clothes-line. Just as he had got nicely through expressing his views on clothes-lines in general, and that clothes- line in particular, he went about twice as far towards taking his head off on the same clothes-line on his way back. The gentlest of natures when roused is often the most terrible. Mr. Meek became very terrible. He 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 w T ise 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. t<$* t5* OVER THE 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, TELEPHONE. but they do. So I rang the bell, and this talk ensued: Central office — "What-number-do-you- want ?" I.— "Main 24-68." C. O.— "Main 2-4-6-3?" I.— "No, 2-4-6-8." Then I heard a k-look, k-look, k'look — klook-klook-klook-look-look ! Then a hor- rible "gritting" of teeth, and finally a pip- ing voice : "Hello?" (rising inflection). I.— "Hello, is this Mr. Bagley's?" "Yes, did you wish to speak to me ?" Without answering, I handed the receiver to the applicant, and sat down. Then fol- lowed the queerest of all things in the world — a conversation with only one end to it. MISCELLANEOUS. 3-15 You hear questions asked; you don't hear the answer. You hear invitations given; you hear no thanks in return. You have listening pauses of dead silence, followed by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations of glad surprise, or sorrow or dismay. You can't make head or tail out of the talk, because you never hear anything that the person at the other end of the wire says. Well, I heard the following series of remarkable observations, all from the one tongue, and all shouted, — for you can't ever persuade the gentle sex to speak gently into a telephone : "Hello, is that you, Daisy?" Pause. "Yes. Why, how did that happen?" Pause. "What did you say?" Pause. "Oh, no, I don't think it was." Pause. "No! Oh, no, I didn't mean that. I did think of getting it, but I don't believe it will stay in style, and — what? — and Charlie just hates that shade of blue, any- way." Pause. "What's that?" "You wouldn't let him dictate tQ 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-H-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. CfT* fc^* c^* 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. 'WHEKT GRANDMA DANCED THE MINUET. ft MISCELLANEOUS. 349 My papa just belongs tome 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? £rl %3™ <&* THE CLOSING YEAR. IS midnight's holy hour, — and silence T 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. ££ Little Nature Studies £2 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. c£* ^5* ^5* 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. 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 35i 352 LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. geting coled, and a happy thawt struck me. Eye put down the windur. Eye awlso re- tired tu a room on the opozit sighed ov the hows, up stares. Finally eye saw a goast. It wuz a white kat, with a black i, siting in the windur. Then eye went two slepe. In the morning eye got up, and what dew yew sopohs eye saw ? Why, eye saw a chare and a lot uv water-pitchur outsighed the win- dur. What puzuls owr hole family iz how it cairn thare. Doant yew evur tell. Lizzy Taylor found a kitun undur her desk the uthur day. I wundur if sum teecher put it thare to skair her. She didn't faint, thoh, and neethur did the kitun. t&& £* c5* "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. t£* t«5* t<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. t£& t£& t£& 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 !" J8 <£ <£ 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. (£* fcT* C<5* 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. t&* t<5* t<5* 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 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 on ornithology.) 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: "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 \" c5* ^» «5* 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 !' fe5* ^w ^* 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. t&*l fc7* ^* A DAY 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. 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. ^* t^* t&& 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. i Clever Monologues > The selections in this department give the speaker unusual opportunities for a display of elocutionary, vocal and dramatic powers. &5* 5(5* <&* 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 well? 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. *3* t&* «<5* 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&N t&N t&* RHOOMATIZ OR SUTHIN' ELSE. (A monologue.) 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.) Huh — 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 mail'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' — sit' 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 / 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' know'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. %0* t&* t£& 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 look, 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. t&* t&fr t£& 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 ; 3GG 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 itis, — 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* £fc t&* A PRIVATE REHEARSAL. (A monologue.) Scene. — A room, zvith door center and side exit; famished with table, desk, screen, easy chair, conch, 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, Til 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 you 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 can bring! This morning I was so light-hearted and happy, and now — now my heart is breaking! (Seats herself at desk, picks up lener 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 down.) 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 up left, turns at door.) But when the real part of it is acted I'll be there ! [Exit. CURTAIN. t&* fcT* &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. f£& <£* t&* MARK TWAIN'S MINING STORY. 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 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! r — : L The selections in this department have been made to meet the needs of very little children who want recitations that are short and pleasing. '-•5* 17* V7* 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; 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. T HE 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. THE CHRISTMAS BALL. The fiddlers they rosined their squeaking bows, And the brave little lads their partners swung. O, bonny the fruit on its branches which grows ! And the mistletoe bough from the ceiling hung ! 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, 371 372 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, 6, 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? t3& *2& to* THE BABIES' BEDTIME. SW^EET 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 !" TINT 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 ! t&& c5* ^* PARTNERSHIP. (The speaker should hold a kitten in her arms, and appear to address the mother cat.) Y OU 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&* K&& 5*5* MY DEAR TRUE-LOVE. (For a little boy, on Saint Valentine's Day.) 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. 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! 374 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£j* C*5* RUNNING A 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. we But somehow, — it was very queer; watched them all the while, — The little shining, fretful tear, got beaten by the smile. &5* tSr* &5* WHERE HE DID IT. D EAR little Wora, dimpled and fair, Under the mistletoe standing there. No one was near, no one could see ; In a moment he grasped the opportunity. Under the mistletoe, under the rose ; Under the mistletoe, under the nose. TINY 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. ^W t£w t5* 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<5* ^5* « t£?* c<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. t£* %&fr c5* B' OTHER!" 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. THE BOY AND THE BOOT. 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. 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. "My boy," said I, in a voice like a flute, "Why not first try your troublesome boot On the other foot?" "I'm a goose!" 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), MY Our troubles come from trying to put The left-hand boot on the right-hand foot. t!7* t&* t0* 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. WHEN winter comes, the people say, "Oh, shut the door !" And when, As sometimes happens, I forget, They call me back again. A BOY'S WISH. And "Leave it open!" is the cry When I go in or out. It takes till summer-time to learn; And then things change about, 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, *£& *£& *£& 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 posea, 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. &* t2& t&* GOING HOME TO-DAY. MY 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 stav, 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. t<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 Carletan, 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 U TO sa _ ■+■> O «) &?,$ .3° © 0> OS a> to £ ©^ y as M og .5 a P«cS cS ^ ^ a> to ^ 0) 3- •d © +» 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. t&£ t2& *&* 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, 184 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. £* C^* *2rl 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. t5* 5<5* Ct/* 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 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. And from the wreck on oars and rafts de- scend. Now on the mountain wave on high they ride, Then downward plunge beneath the involv- ing tide, Till one, who seems in agony to strive, The whirling breakers heave on shore alive ; The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, And pressed the stony beach, a lifeless crew! — William Falconer. t£& f£& fc5* 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 v/as 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 ! "— O God, to thee We'll own the favoring gale !" The audience, thinking only of the needs of their hearts, noticed not the useless book. "But should the surges rise," They sang faintly now, for the surges had been over them. The alto bent over a dying husband, and had buried him in a dis- tant city. Like a bolt from a clear sky came the death of her manly boy one evening when he had just left her side. Waves of trouble had come upon the treble; fair young children had been taken from her embrace — sons and daughters had been swept away. The voices faded away, but gained again with the line : "And rest 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." 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. l3* %6& 1G& 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. IN THE AMEN CORNER. J r "PWAS a stylish congregation, that of I 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. ^* %&* &?* 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. X&& fc5* K6& 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. t&& t£& 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 larn to notice what I say, I'm 'fraid that he'll git to rulin' me, if things goes on this way ; But boys is boys, and will be boys, till ther grown up to men, An' John's about as good a lad as the aver- age of 'em. I'll tell ye, stranger, how it is : I feel a heap o' pride In that boy — he's our only one sence little Neddy died; Don't mind me, sir, I'm growin' old, my eyesight's gettin' dim ; But 't seems sumhow a kind o' mist cums long o' thoughts of him. Jes' set down on the doorstep, Squar, an' make yerself to hum ; While Johnny's bringin' up the cows I'll tell ye how it cum That all our boys ha' left us, 'ceptin' Johnny there, An' I reckon, stranger, countin' all, we've had about our share. Thar was our first boy, Benjamin, the old- est of them all, He was the smartest little chap, so clipper, peart and small ; DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 395 He cum to us one sun-bright morn, as merry as a lark, It would ha' done your soul good, Squar, to a seen the little spark. An' thar was Tom, "a hansum boy," his mother alius said, He took to books, and larned so spry, we put the sprig ahead — His skoolin' cleaned the little pile we'd laid by in the chest, But I's bound to give the boy a chance to do his level best. Our third one's name was Samuel; he growed up here to hum, An' worked with me upon the farm till he was twenty-one. Fur Benjamin had larned a trade — He didn't take to work ; Tom, mixin' up in politics, got 'lected County Clerk. We ken all remember, stranger, the year o' sixty-one, When the spark that teched the powder off in that Confed'rat gun Flashed like a streak o' lightning up acrost from east to west, An' left a spot that burned like fire in every patriot's breast. An' I tell you what it was, Squar, my boys cum up to the scratch. They all had a share o' the old man's grit, with enough of their own to match. They showed their colors, an' set ther flint, their names went down on the roll, An' Benjamin, Thomas an' Sam was pledged to preserve the old flag whole. They all cum hum together at the last, rigged up in their soldier clothes ; It made my old heart thump, thump with pride, an' ther mother's spirits rose, Fur she'd been "down in the mouth" sum- what sense she'd heard what the boys had done, Fur it took all three, an' it's hard enough fur a mother to give up one. But ther warnt a drop of coward's blood in her veins, I ken tell you first, Fur she'd send the boys, an' the old man, too, ef the worst had cum to worst ; I shall never furgit the last night, Squar, when we all kneeled down to pray, How she give 'em, one by one, to God, in the hush of the twilight gray. An' when the morning broke so clear — not a cloud was in the sky — The boys cum in with sober looks to bid us their last good-by; I didn't spect she would stand it all, with her face so firm an' calm, But she didn't break nor give in a peg till she cum to kissin' Sam, An' then it all cum out at onct, like a ■ storm from a thunder cloud, — She jest set down on the kitchen floor, broke out with a sob so loud Thet Sam give up, and the boys cum back, and they all got down by her there ; An' I'm thinkin' 'twould a made an angel cry to hev seen that partin', Squar ! I think she had a forewarnin', fur when they brought back poor Sam, She sot down by his coffin there, with her face so white and calm, Thet the neighbors who cum a pourin' in to see our soldier dead, Went out with a hush on ther tremblin' lips, an' the words in ther hearts un- said. Stranger, perhaps you heard of Sam, how he broke through thet Secesh line, 396 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. An' planted the old flag high an' dry, where its dear old stars could shine ; An' after our soldiers won the day, an' a gatherin' up the dead, They found our boy with his brave heart still, and the flag above his head. An' Tom was shot at Gettysburg, in the thickest of the fray — They say thet he led his gallant boys like a hero thro' thet day ; But they brought him back with his clear voice hushed in the silent sleep of death, An' another grave grew grassy green 'neath the kiss of the Summer's breath. An' Benjamin, he cum hum at last; but it made my old eyes ache To see him lay with thet patient look, when it seemed thet his heart must break With his pain and wounds, but he lingered on till the flowers died away, An' then he laid him down to rest, in the close of the autumn day. Will I sell the old farm, stranger, the house where my boys were born? Jes' look down through the orchard, Squar, beyond thet field of corn — Ken ye see them four white marble stuns gleam out through the orchard glade? Wall, all thet is left of our boys on earth rests unner them old trees' shade. But there cums John with the cows, ye see, an' it's 'bout my milkin' time ; If ye happen along this way agin, jes' drop in at any time. Oh, ye axed if I'd eny notion the old farm would ever be sold; Wall! may be, Squar, but I'll tell ye plain, 'twill be when the old man's cold. ^7-J ^J* <£* THE 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, DRUMM1 R 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. 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. t&* t&* £r* GRANDMA'S KNITTING STORY. THE supper is o'er, the hearth is swept, And in the wood-fire's glow The children cluster to hear a tale Of that time so long ago, When grandma's hair was golden brown, And the warm blood came and went O'er the face that could scarce have been sweeter then Than now in its rich content. The face is wrinkled and careworn now, And the golden hair is gray ; But the light that shone in the young girl's eyes Never has gone away. And her needles catch the firelight As in and out they go, With the clicking music that grandma loves, Shaping the stocking toe, 398 DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. And the waiting children love it, too, For they know the stocking song Brings many a tale to grandma's mind Which they shal 1 have ere long. But it brings no story of olden time To grandma's heart to-night, — Only a refrain, quaint and short, Is sung by the needles bright. "Life is a stocking," grandma says, "And yours is just begun ; But I am knitting the toe of mine, And my work is almost done. "With merry hearts we begin to knit, And the ribbing is almost play ; Some are gay-colored, and some are white, And some are ashen-gray. "But most are made of many hues, With many a stitch set wrong ; And many a row to be sadly ripped Ere the whole is fair and strong. "There are long, plain spaces, without a break, That in life are hard to bear ; And many a weary tear is dropped As we fashion the heel with care. "But the saddest, happiest time is that We count and yet would shun, When our Heavenly Father breaks thread, And says that our work is done." the 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. i5* < trouble roll across my peaceful breast. t&* <£& t&fc THAT OLD RED SUNBONNET. HOW dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood And every fond spot which my infancy knew." So sang the old poet in rhythmical measure, And millions have dreamed of his picture so fair, But never a word of that one crowning treasure, The old red sunbonnet our girls used to wear. The bells of to-day in their scorn would deride it And wonder how maidens could wear such a fright! But when 'twas protecting a dear head in- side it To old-fashioned boys 'twas a heavenly sight. No ornaments decked it, it bore no fine laces j No ribbons of bright colored hues did it bear, But hid in its depths was the sweetest of faces — That old red sunbonnet our girl used to wear. When school was dismissed, on her head we would set it And tie the long strings in a knot 'neath her chin, Then claim from her red lips a kiss and would get it, For kissing in old days was never a sin. Then homeward we'd speed where the brooklet was plashing Down through the old wood and the meadow so fair, The skies not more blue than the eyes that were flashing Inside that sunbonnet our girl used to wear. In front of her mirror a proud dame is standing Arranging a prize on her head, now so white ! She turns, while her bosom with pride is expanding, And asks if it is not a dream of delight ! I speak of the past as I make the inspec- tion, Of days when to me she was never more fair, And tears gem her eyes at the fond recol- lection Of that old sunbonnet she once used to wear. — James Barton Adams. 426 ENCORES. O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN I (This exquisite poem refers to our martyred Lincoln.) O CAPTAIN, my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart, heart, heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies Fallen, cold and dead. O Captain, my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths, for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning: Here, Captain ! dear father ! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won ; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck — my Captain lies Fallen, cold and dead. 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. 5,5* K0* t£* MEMORY. (The following poem was written by President Garfield during his senior year in William's College, Mass.) ? r 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, 42* 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. %a* t£fr t£& A TALE OF "WHOA." MORNING. GOODBY, old horse, we'll turn you out To roam o'er hill and plain ; We've bought a horseless carriage, and We'll never need you again. With naphtha, oil or gasoline We'll ride from morn till dark And on a Sunday afternoon Go puffing through the park. You're hardly worth a piece of pie ! Goodby, old horse, goodby! EVENING. Come here, old horse, we need your pull To get us home to-night; This nasty, stinking, puffing thing Is not perfected — quite. Ten miles from home it fussed and fumed And then refused to go, And, minus both a push and pull, It was a case of whoa ! If you'll return, so will our joy, Good boy, old horse, good boy. t2& *&* «<5* THE MAN WHO KNOWS IT ALL. YOU bump against him everywhere, in country and in town ; Upon his sadly swollen head he wears the knowledge crown. His bump of self-esteem stands out like knots upon a log; His 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. C$* X£& t^fc 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, 'Ith 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 'era, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — All is, he couldn't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, — The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in April. She thought no voice hed such a swing Ez hisn in the choir ; My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher. An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin' bunnet Felt somehow thru its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it. 430 ENCORES. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper, — All ways to once her feelin's flew, Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle ; His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a juerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ?" "Wal — no — I come dasignin' — " "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin." To say why gals acts so or so, Or don't 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, "I'd better call agin," Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' — wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes. For she was jest the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. The blood clost 'roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin' Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'. Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay of Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In' meetin' come nex' Sunday. t&* t£* fcT* 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. 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, 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. THE CHEESE. And I hear they are arguing it now, But of all the choice spirits who lived ifc the cheese Not one of them thought of a cow. — A. Conan Doyle. <&& c5* t<5* T PITCHER HEY toiled together side by side, In the field where the corn was grow- 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. &7* t^* ^* 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. 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 <^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. <£ <£ S CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN RICHES. Arthur Rich: YOUR hat is too big for your head, Martin Lee, Your jacket is threadbare and old, There's a hole in your shoe and a patch on your knee, Yet you seem very cheerful and bold. Martin Lee: Why not, Arthur Rich ? for my lesson I say, And my duty I try hard to do ; I have plenty of work, I have time, too, to play, I have health, and my joys are not few. Arthur Rich: See my vest, Martin Lee, and my boots how they shine! My jacket, my trousers, all new ! Now, would you not like such a nice ring as mine? Come, give me the answer that's true. Martin Lee: Such clothes, Arthur Rich, would become me, and please, But I'm content in the thought, Since my mother is poor, that I'd rather wear these Than make her work more than she ought. Arthur Rich: You are right, Martin Lee, and your way is the best; Your hat is now handsome to me ; I look at the heart beating under your vest, And the patches no longer I see. 1&& t&& %&& ,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?" said. ( Ye— es," she 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, ^5* t^* *<5* "ONE, TWO, THREE." 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 ringers, 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. Bunner. Pauline Pavlovna >s«£*e£€e09*ee?«®#3 T. B. ALDRICH. Period: The 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 Ser gius 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 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 Leminofr" at end, The old wrong righted, the estates restored, And my promotion, with the ink not dry ! Those fairies which neglected me at birth Seemed now to lavish all good gifts on me — Gold roubles, office, sudden dearest friends. PAULINE PAVLOVNA. 437 The whole world smiled ; then, as I stooped to taste The sweetest cup, freak dashed it from my lip. This very night — just think — this very night I planned to come and beg of you the alms I dared not ask for in my poverty. I thought me poor, then. How stript am I now! There's not a ragged mendicant one meets Along the Nevski Prospekt but has leave to tell his love, And I have not that right! Pauline Pavlovna, why do you stand there Stark as a statue, with no word to say? She. Because this thing has frozen up my heart. I think that there is something killed in me, A dream that would have mocked all other bliss. What shall I say? What would you have me say? He. If it be possible, the word of words ! She (very slowly). Well, then — I love you. I may tell you so This once — and then forever hold my peace. We cannot stay here longer unobserved. No — do not touch me, but stand further off, And seem to laugh, as if we jested — Eyes, eyes everywhere! Now turn your face away — I love you! He. With such music in my ears I would death found me. It were sweet to die listening! You love me — prove it. She. Prove it — how? I prove it saying it. How else? He. Pauline, I have three things to choose from; you shall choose. This marriage, or Siberia, or France. The first means hell ; the second, purgatory ; The third— with you — were nothing less than heaven! She (starting). How dared you even dream it! He. I was mad. This business has touched me in the brain. Have patience ! the calamity 's so new. Pauses — There is a fourth way, but the gate is shut To brave men who hold life a thing of God. She. Yourself spake there; the rest was not of you. He. Oh, lift me to your level ! So, I'm safe. What's to- be done ? She. There must be some path out. Perhaps the Emperor He. Not a ray of hope! His mind is set on this with that insistence Which seems to seize on all match-making folk— The fancy bites them, and they straight go mad. She. Your father's friend, the metropolitan — A word from him. He. Alas, he, too, is bitten! Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly wise, he sees This marriage makes me the Tsar's protege And opens every door to preference. 438 PAULINE PAVLOVNA. She. Think while I think. There surely is some key Unlocks the labyrinth, could we but find it. Nastasia ! He. What, beg life of her? Not I. She. Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air. Were she told all would she not pity us ? For if she love you — as I think she must — Would not some generous impulse stir in her, Some latent, unsuspected spark illume ? How love thrills even commonest girl-clay ! Ennobling it an instant, if no more! You said that she is proud ; then touch her pride, And turn her into marble with the touch. But yet the gentle passion is the stronger. Go to her, tell her in some tenderest phrase That will not hurt too much — ah, but 'twill hurt !— Just how your happiness lies in her hand To make or mar for all time ; hint, not say, Your heart is gone from you, and you may find He. A casemate in St. Peter and St. Paul For, say, a month; then some Siberian town. Not this way lies escape. At my first word That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire In every vein. She. How blindly you read her Or any woman ! Yes, I know, I grant How small we often seem to our small world Of trivial cares and narrow precedents — Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men — Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse ; But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs, The weakest of us measures pulse with you. He. Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height ! But there's no martyr wrapt in her rose flesh. There should have been, for Nature gave you both The self-same purple for your eyes and hair, The self-same southern music to your lips — Fashioned you both, as 'twere, in the same mold, Yet failed to put the soul in one of you ! I know her wilful — her light head quite turned In this court atmosphere of flatteries ; A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there, And since, spoiled here ; as soft as swan's down, now, With words like honey melting from the comb, But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold. I fancy her between two rosy smiles Saying, "Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines !" That is the sum of her. She. You know her not. Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask Could hide the soul ; yet how you have mis- taken The soul these two months — and the face to-night ! (She remove mask.) He. You ! — it was you ! She. Count Sergius Pavlovich, go find Pauline Pavlovna — she is here — And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. (Goes out hurriedly.) Historical and Pathetic In this department have been grouped many choice selections adapted to the highest forms of emotional expression. c^* ^* t&& FADING LEAF. THE 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. t&& t&* t2& "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 — Lit id Ted — Aged three — gon up to heven — One brother left to mourn him dead — Funeral to-morrow — eleven." "Was it your brother?" asked the man Who took the notice in; Tim tried to hide it, but began To quiver at the chin. The more he sought himself to brace The stronger grew his grief ; Big tears came rolling down his face, To give his heart relief. "By selling out — my kit — I found — That quarter — " he replied ; "B — but he had his arms around My neck — when he d — died." HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 441 Tim hurried home, but soon the news Among the boys was spread; They held short, quiet interviews Which straight to action led. He had been home an hour, not more, When one with naked feet Laid down Tim's kit outside his doo~ With flowers white and sweet. Each little fellow took a part, His penny freely gave To soothe the burdened brother's heart And deck the baby's grave. Those flowers have faded since that day, The boys are growing men, But the good God will yet repay The deed he witnessed then. The light which blessed poor "Limpy Tim' Descended from above — A ladder leading back to Him Whose Christian name is Love. 10* t£& fcT* 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 mrld, 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. 5,5* &5* *3* 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!" t£* $5* <5* DEATH OF JO is very glad to see his old friend; and says, when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Sangsby, touched by the spectacle before him, im- mediately lays upon the table half-a-crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds. "And how do you find yourself, my poor lad ?" inquires the stationer, with his cough of sympathy. "I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," re- turns Jo, "and don't want for nothink. I'm more cumf'bler nor you can't think, Mr. Sangsby. I'm werry sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir." The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him what it is that he is sorry for having done. "Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as was and yet as war'nt the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says nothink to me for having done it, on ac- counts of their being so good and my hav- ing been 'o unfertnet. The lady come herself and see me yes'day, and she ses, 'Ah Jo !' she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you, Jo !' she ses. And she sits down a smilin' so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I does, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to LITTLE JO. turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to give me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's alius a doin' on day and night, and wen he come a bendin' over me and speakin' up so bold, I see his tears a falling 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 ?' r 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 bier nor I wos afore." The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown, — he has never been so close to a case requiring so many, — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this little earth, shall meet no more. No more. {Another Scene. — Enter Mr. Wood- court.) "Well, Jo, what is the matter ? Don't be frightened." "I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, "I thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. An't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot?" "Nobody." "And I an't took back to Tom-all- Alone's, am I, sir?" "No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I am very thankful." After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice: "Jo, did you ever know a prayer?" "Never knowd nothink, sir." "Not so much as one short prayer?" "No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chad- bands he wos a prayin' wunst at Mr. Sangs- by's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a speakin' to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but / couldn't make out nothink on it. Different times there wos other gen'l'men come down Tom-all-Alone's a prayin', but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a talkin' to theirselves, or a passin' blame on the t'others, and not a talkin' to us. We never knowd nothink. / never knowd what it wos all about." It takes him a long time to say this ; and few but an experienced and attentive listener could hear, or hearing, understand him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong ef- fect to get out of bed. "Stay, Jo, stay! What now?" "It's time for me to go to that there berryin' ground, sir," he returns with a wild look. "Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?" "Where they laid him as wos wery good to me; wery good to me indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that there berryin' ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be ber- ried. He used fur to say to me, T am as poor as you, to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him, now, and have come there to be laid along with him." "By-and-by, Jo ; by-and-by." "Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?" "I will, indeed." "Thankee, sir! Thankee, sir! They'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it's alius locked. And there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with my broom. It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a comin' ?" "It is coming fast, Jo." Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end. "Jo, my poor fellow !" "I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin' — a gropin' — let me catch hold of your hand." "Jo, can you say what I say?" "I'll say any think as you say, sir, for I knows it's good." "Our Father." 446 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. sir. "Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, "Which art in Heaven." "Art in Heaven! — Is the light a comin', sir r "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. f£& t&* t£& 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. ^5* <(£* c£* 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. K&* &5* t3& 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. c£* t.5* C(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, the water, like a gentle Whose flowers nurse, Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, And lean'd in graceful attitudes to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells, By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashion'd for a happier world! King David's limbs were weary, fled He had 450 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. From far Jersualem ; and now he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank, And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray. Oh! when trie 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. <*7* C^* ^5* THE COUNTERSIGN WAS "MARY." J HP WAS near the break of day, but still 1 The moon was shining brightly ; The west wind as it passed the flowers Set each one swaying lightly; The sentry slow paced to and fro, A faithful night-watch keeping, While in the tents behind him stretched His comrades — all were sleeping. Slow, to and fro, the sentry paced, His musket on his shoulder, But not a thought of death or war Was with the brave young soldier ; Ah, no ! his heart was far away, Where on a western prairie, A rose-twined cottage stood. That night The countersign was "Mary." And there his own true love he saw, Her blue eyes kindly beaming, Above them on her sun-kissed brow, Her curls like sunshine gleaming, And heard her singing as she churned The butter in the dairy, The song he loved the best. That night The countersign was "Mary." "Oh, for one kiss from her!" he sighed, When up the lone road glancing, He spied a form, a little form, With faltering steps advancing. And as it neared him silently, He gazed at it in wonder, Then dropped his musket to his hand, And challenged, "Who goes yonder?" 452 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. Still on it came. "Not one step more, Be you man, child or fairy, Unless you give the countersign, Halt ! Who goes there?"—" Tis Mary,' A sweet voice cried, and in his arms The girl he'd left behind him Half fainting fell. O'er many miles She'd bravely toiled to find him. "I heard that you were wounded, dear," She sobbed. "My heart was breaking, I could not stay a moment, but All other ties forsaking, I traveled, by my grief made strong, Kind heaven watching o'er me, Until unhurt and well" — "Yes, love, At last you stood before me." "They told me that I could not pass The lines to seek my lover Before day fairly came; but I Pressed on ere night was over, And as I told my name I found The way as free as prairie." "Because, thank God! to-night," he said, "The countersign is 'Mary.' ' c5* c5* c<5* 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 sfone 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. t5* *<5* ^7* 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. %&& t&fc t2& THE BOOTBLACK. HERE y'are — ? Black your boots, boss, Do it for jest five cents; Shine 'em up in a minute — That is 'f nothin' prevents. Set your right foot on there, sir ; The mornin's kinder cold — Sorter rough on a feller When his coat's gettin' old. Well, yes — call it coat, sir, Though 'tain't much more'n a tear; Can't get myself another — Ain't got the stamps to spare. Make as much as most on 'em? That's so ; but then, yer see, They've only got one to do for; There's two on us, Jack and me. Him? Why— that little feller With a doubled-up sorter back, Sittin' there on the gratin' Sunnin' hisself — that's Jack. Used to be round sellin' papers, The cars ther was his lay, But he got shoved off the platform, Under the wheels, one day. Yes, the conductor did it — Gave him a reg'lar throw ; He didn't care if he killed him ; Some on 'em is just so. He's never been all right since, sir, Sorter quiet and queer — Him and me go together, He's what they call cashier. Trouble? I guess not much, sir, Sometimes when biz gets slack I don't know how I'd stand it If 'twasn't for little Jack. Why, boss, you ought to hear him ; He says we needn't care How rough luck is down here, sir, If some day we git up there. All done now — how's that, sir? Shine like a pair of lamps. Mornin' — give it to Jack, sir, He looks after the stamps. HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 455 THE KING OF DENMARK'S WORD was brought to the Danish king, (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (O! ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl; And his Rose of the Isles is dying. Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounted a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (O! ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Worn-out chargers struggled and sank ; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst ; But ride as they would, the king rode first; For his Rose of the Isles lay dying. His nobles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage crying. The king looked back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled. RIDE. 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. c5* «<5* *(5* 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. s&w s&b c?* 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! J8 THE CHILD MUSICIAN. HE had played for his lordship's levee, He had played for her ladyship's whim, Till the poor iittle head was heavy And the poor little brain would swim. And the face grew peaked and eerie, And the large eyes strange and bright, And they said — too late — "He's weary! He shall rest for, at least, to-night!" But at dawn, when the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent gloom, With the sound of a strained cord break- ing A something snapped in the room. 'Twas a string of his violoncello And they heard him stir in his bed: — "Make room for a tired little fellow, King God!" was the last that he said. HISTORICAL AXD PATHETIC. 459 CATO OX IMMORTALITY IT must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest [ well! Else whence this pleasing- hope, this fond j desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into naught! Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruc- tion? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; Tis heaven itself, that points our here- after, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity ! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies be- fore me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us, — And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works, He must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must be happy, But when? or where? This world was made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end them. (Laying his hand on his sword.) Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me. This in a moment brings me to my end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secure in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years ; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. — Joseph Addison. & DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. (This oration has now become the "banner oration," having taken more medals at oratori- cal contests than any other written, — is suitable for any patriotic occasion.) FIFTY years ago, in a rude garret, near the loneliest suburbs of the city of London, lay a dying man. He was but half dressed; though his legs were con- cealed in long military boots. An aged minister stood beside the rough couch. The form was that of a strong man grown old through care more than age. There was a face that you might look upon but once, and yet wear it in your memory for- ever. Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face. A bold forehead seamed by one deep wrinkle visible between the brows — long locks of dark hair, sprinkled with gray; lips firmly set, yet quivering, as though they had a life separate from the life of the man; and then, two large eyes — vivid, burn- ing, unnatural in their steady glare. Ay, there was something terrible in that face — something so full of unnatural lone- 460 HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. liness — unspeakable despair, that the aged minister started back in horror. But look! those strong arms are clutching at the va- cant air; the death-sweat stands in drops upon that bold brow — the man is dying. Throb — throb — throb — beats the death- watch in the shattered wall. "Would you die in the faith of the Christian?" faltered the preacher, as he knelt there on the damp floor. The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled, but made no sound. Then, with the strong agony of death upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. For the first time he spoke. "Christian!" he echoed in that deep tone which thrilled the preacher to the heart. "Will that faith give me back my honor? Come with me, old man, come with me, far over the waters. Ha! we are there! This is my na- tive town. Yonder is the church in which I knelt in childhood; yonder the green on which I sported when a boy. But an- other flag waves yonder, in place of the flag that waved when I was a child. "And listen, old man, were I to pas's 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 thenrback 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 Gf 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. "Anaconawas 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. IUL. ?4 190? 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