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WERNER'S 
 
 Readings and Recitations 
 
 NUMBER TWENTY-SIX 
 
 NEW YORK 
 EDGAR S. WERNER & COMPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1902, by Edgar S. Werner Publishing & Supply Co. 
 Copyright, 1923, by M. S. T. Werner 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Advantages of Adversity to the Pilgrim Fathers — Edward Everett... 50 
 
 Ambition of a Statesman. — Henry Clay 16 
 
 Attitudes Illustrated in Verse. — Martha E. Barbour 112 
 
 At Uncle Dock's.— Elsie Malone McCollum 73 
 
 Aunt Susan's Quilt. — Eugene Wood 17 
 
 Benediction. — Francois Coppee 154 
 
 Boy Kept Step.— Opie P. Read 67 
 
 Changing Her Mind. — Alfred Perceval Graves 96 
 
 Christmas. — Margaret E. Sangster 99 
 
 Christma-s Bells. — Henry W. Longfellow 97 
 
 Christmas Carol. — Phillips Brooks 23 
 
 Christmas Exercises 97 
 
 Christmas Gift.— Ella M. Powers 98 
 
 Christmas Gifts 99 
 
 Christmas Welcome 100 
 
 Colonel's Experiment. — Will Lisenbee 81 
 
 Curfew. — Henry W. Longfellow 116 
 
 Deacon Adams to His Son 163 
 
 "Death Has Crowned Him as a Martyr." — Ella Wheeler Wilcox 59 
 
 De Nice Leetle Canadienne. — William Henry Drummond 95 
 
 De Tired Pickaninny's Star-Song. — Mary Baillie 110 
 
 Dikkon's Dog. — Dorothy Lundt 164 
 
 Dream-Ship. — Eugene Field 52 
 
 Dying Christian to His Soul. — Alexander Pope 26 
 
 First Valentine 66 
 
 Fountain. — James Russell Lowell 115 
 
 Generosity 72 
 
 Getting Rid of Her Daughter's Beau 75 
 
 "Good Night."— Reginald Whitfield Kaylor 171 
 
 Grandmamma's Fan. — Edith S. Tupper 138 
 
 How Bateese Came Home. — William Henry Drummond 46 
 
 How Girls Fish 136 
 
 How Lucy Backslid. — Paul Laurence Dunbar 133 
 
 How Persimmons Took Cah ob der Baby 145 
 
 In Memory of Lincoln. — John N. Baldwin 104 
 
 "I Was on the Merrimac" 160 
 
 Kindergarten Christmas — Hayden Carruth 14 
 
 (3) 
 Werner's Readings No. 26. 
 
4 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lecture Recital: Ella Wheeler Wilcox.— Grace B. Faxon 60 
 
 Lecture Recital: Three Women Poets of New England.— Grace B. 
 
 Faxon 7 
 
 Let Santa Claus in 103 
 
 Lost Bride (Ginevra). — Samuel Rogers 157 
 
 Lotty's Message. — Alexander G. Murdoch 38 
 
 McKinley's Funeral Address. — C. M. Manchester 78 
 
 Matthew the Miner.— Frank L. Stanton ; 108 
 
 Mary Ellen Attends a School of Elocution.— Mary S. Hopkins 43 
 
 Master. — A. Conan Doyle 117 
 
 Merry Christmas 101 
 
 Mrs. Middlerib's Letter ISO 
 
 Nanny Saved from the Poorhouse. — J. M. Barrie 87 
 
 Old Actor's Story. — George R. Sims 35 
 
 Our Glorious Language 74 
 
 Out Sleighing with Sophia. — George V. Hobart 70 
 
 Phenomenal Memory 170 
 
 Queen Mab. — Thomas Hood 28 
 
 Queen's Last Ride. — Ella Wheeler Wilcox 26 
 
 Reasonable Man. — Lucy Hayes Macqueen 125 
 
 Recruit. — Robert W. Chambers 85 
 
 Rejoicing upon the New Year's Coming of Age.— Charles Lamb 55 
 
 Remarkable Honeymoon Trip. — Laurence Lee 34 
 
 Sandalphon. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 173 
 
 Schoolboys' Strike. — R. J. Burdette 161 
 
 She Never Was a Boy. — S. E. Kiser 169 
 
 Sue Waters's Housekeeping. — Theo. Whiting .' 107 
 
 Tale of Christmas Eve 24 
 
 Three Fishers. — Charles Kingsley 45 
 
 Time Doeth All Things Well.— Jerome Harte 118 
 
 Tobe's Monument. — Elizabeth Kilham 139 
 
 Village Coward. — Mary Berri Chapman 176 
 
 Waltz-Quadrille.— Ella Wheeler Wilcox 57 
 
 Washington Acrostic 119 
 
 Water Color 129 
 
 What's In a Name ? — Ellerton Gay 122 
 
 When Pa Takes Care of Me. — Francis C. Williams 54 
 
 When the Northern Bands Played Dixie. — Frank L. Stanton 175 
 
 When the Wind Goes Thro' the Maples.— Ella M. Truesdell 113 
 
 White Man's Burden. — Rudyard Kipling . . .' 76 
 
 Wonderful Tar Baby Story. — Joel Chandler Harris 148 
 
 Werner's Readings No. 26. 
 
INDEX TO AUTHORS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Baillie, Alary 110 
 
 Baldwin, John N. . . : 104 
 
 Barbour, Martha E 112 
 
 Barrie, James Al 87 
 
 Brooks, Phillips 23 
 
 Burdette/ R. J 161 
 
 Carruth, Hayden 14 
 
 Chambers, Robert W 85 
 
 Chapman, Alary Berri 176 
 
 Clay, Henry 16 
 
 Coppee, Francois 154 
 
 Doyle, A. Conan 117 
 
 Drummond, William Henry 46, 95 
 
 Dunbar, Paul Laurence 133 
 
 Everett, Edward 50 
 
 Faxon, Grace B 7, 60 
 
 Field, Eugene 52 
 
 Gay, Ellerton 122 
 
 Graves, Alfred Perceval 96 
 
 Harris, Joel Chandler 148 
 
 Harte, Jerome 118 
 
 Hobart, George V 70 
 
 Hood, Thomas 28 
 
 Hopkins, Alary S 43 
 
 Kaylor, Reginald Whitfield , 171 
 
 Kilham, Elizabeth 139 
 
 Kingsley, Charles T^ 45 
 
 (5) 
 Werner's Readings No. 26. 
 
6 INDEX TO AUTHORS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Kipling, Rudyard 76 
 
 Kiser, S. E 169 
 
 Lamb, Charles 55 
 
 Lee, Laurence 34 
 
 Lisenbee, Will 81 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 97, 116, 173 
 
 Lowell, James Russell 115 
 
 Lundt, Dorothy 164 
 
 McCollum, Elsie Malone 73 
 
 Macqueen, Lucy Hayes 125 
 
 Manchester, CM 78 
 
 Murdoch, Alexander G 38 
 
 Pope, Alexander 26 
 
 Powers, Ella M 98 
 
 Read, Opie P 67 
 
 Rogers, Samuel 157 
 
 Sangster, Margaret E 99 
 
 Sims, George R 35 
 
 Stanton, Frank L 108, 175 
 
 Truesdell, Ella M 113 
 
 Tupper, Edith S : 138 
 
 Whiting, Theo 107 
 
 Wilcox, Ella Wheeler 26, 57, 59 
 
 Williams, Francis C 54 
 
 Wood, Eugene 17 
 
 Werner's Readings No. 26. 
 
WERNER'S READINGS 
 AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 
 
 CONTENTS, ADDITIONAL. 1923 Edition. 
 
 Apartment Hunting. — Stanley Schell 182 
 
 Aunt Hanner Hayseed Joins a Lodge. — Walter Ben Hare 185 
 
 Aunt Mandy's Mating. — Catherine Rhodes Davis 189 
 
 Beginning to Clean Out. — Bertha E. Bush 179 
 
 Betsy Bobbity's Bun 181 
 
 'Cause He'd Nothing Else To Do. — Herbert Grey. 1S4 
 
 Conquerors, The. — M. S. Lancaster 180 
 
 "De Conjure Man" — Charles C. Jones 187 
 
 Gossips, The 184 
 
 Her Garden. — Stanley Schell 177 
 
 Mumpy Mumps. — Lucile Crites 178 
 
 Song of Good-By. — Frank L. Stanton 192 
 
 When Jack Proposed 183 
 
 AUTHOR'S LIST, ADDITIONAL. 1923 Edition. 
 
 Bush, Bertha E 179 
 
 Crites, Lucile 178 
 
 Davis, Catherine Rhodes 189 
 
 Grey, Herbert 184 
 
 Hare, Walter Ben 185 
 
 Jones, Charles C 187 
 
 Lancaster, M. S 180 
 
 Schell, Stanley 177, 182 
 
 Stanton, Frank L 192 
 
Werner's 
 Readings and Recitations 
 
 No. 26. 
 
 j ectute Recital: Three Women Poets of 
 New England* 
 
 'By GRACE <B . FAXON. 
 
 NEW ENGLAND has furnished us so many shining lights of 
 feminine poetic genius that to select adequate representatives 
 from names like Louise Chandler Moulton, Harriet Prescott Spof- 
 ford, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, Julia Ward Howe, Margaret Deland, 
 Mary E. Wilkins, etc., places one in a position where individual 
 preference must to a degree assert itself. I have chosen to consider 
 the writings of three women who lived at the same period, of con- 
 trasting temperament, and whose hereditary endowments varied as 
 greatly as did the environments among which fate had set each — 
 Lucy Larcom, Celia Thaxter and Helen Hunt Jackson. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson's poetry unquestionably takes rank above that of 
 any American woman and in the opinion of many above that of any 
 Englishwoman but Mrs. Browning with whom she is often compared. 
 A still more exalted position is accorded her if we may believe a story 
 to the effect that some one who asked Emerson whether he thought 
 that Helen Hunt occupied first place among the women poets of 
 America received the reply, "' I should leave out the women." The 
 story is not impossibly true for in Emerson's private scrap-book, 
 published in 1874, under the title " Parnassus," he inserts five of 
 Mrs. Jackson's poems out of the few she had then published, and 
 
 1 
 
8 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 she forms one of the group of only three American poets whom 
 he especially mentions in this volume's preface. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson's works include a few — a very few — poems of 
 domestic life, love poems of extraordinary intensity and fulness, 
 verses showing intimate sympathy with external nature, a few odes 
 of high dignity, and many contemplative poems, the last of such 
 value as td give her the place she holds in poetic literature. It was 
 entirely from this class of her poems Emerson chose for his collec- 
 tion before alluded to. His avowed favorite " Thought " well illus- 
 trates the section of her poems of contemplation. 
 
 (Recite " Thought.") 
 
 An interest is always acknowledged in a writer's first poems. 
 Mrs. Jackson's show no crudity of craftsmanship. " Coronation " 
 appeared in the Atlantic, 1869, in connection with which the pseudo- 
 nym " H. H." was first used. 
 
 (Recite " Coronation.") 
 
 In lyric quality Mrs. Jackson falls far below Celia Thaxter and 
 Lucy Larcom. Indeed there appears but little of this strain espe- 
 cially in her later writings. " When the Tide Comes In " is written 
 in appealing rhythm, and may be quoted as the best example of her 
 lyric poems. 
 
 (Recite " When the Tide Comes In.") 
 
 Among the pen pictures she has painted of external nature 
 " September " and " October's Bright Blue Weather " stand out pre- 
 eminent. Simply as she has chosen her words its faithfulness has 
 won the former widespread renown. 
 
 (Recite "September.") 
 
 The last two verses because of their personal note — a rare thing with 
 this author — are omitted when the reciter is simply revealing 
 through the poet's eyes an early autumnal scene. That touch of 
 personality seems to have irresistibly crept in and forms a subject of 
 interesting conjecture for the romantic mind as to what particular 
 event in the life of this brilliant woman so indelibly stamped " one 
 day in one September." 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 9 
 
 Who does not love our ever loved second fall month still more 
 after he reads "October's Bright Blue Weather"? One forgets 
 the near approach of grim November and still drearier December 
 and feels only a keen exuberance of joy in living amid such outdoor 
 glories. An editor of an educational magazine annually brings this 
 poem as a panacea for heavy-heartedness, popularly supposed to ac- 
 company the " melancholy days," to her readers' notice, with " no 
 apology," as she says for its recurrence. 
 
 {Recite " October's Briglit Blue Weather.") 
 
 What exquisite simile is discovered in Mrs. Jackson's dainty frag- 
 ments of verse entitled " Dawn " and " Eve," descriptive of the 
 rising and setting sun. 
 
 (Recite "Dawn" and "Eve.") 
 
 Granted Mrs. Jackson the position she holds among American 
 women poets, with all respect to her fidelity to the scene or mood she 
 is picturing, her skill as a colorist, and her dignity of conception, 
 even her warmest admirers will admit that she has failed to come as 
 near the people's hearts as her humbler sisters, Lucy Larcom and 
 Celia Thaxter. 
 
 Why has she failed? Is it for the want of individual character- 
 ization ? Hardly ; Longfellow, the dearest of all American poets, 
 shows himself to a high degree, personally reticent in verse. Lack 
 of feeling certainly can not be attributed to Mrs. Jackson's poems 
 for sympathetic tenderness fills them and an under thrill of sensitive- 
 ness breaks through the fine precision of faultless verse symmetry. 
 We shall be obliged to content ourselves with the reasoning that the 
 failure must lie in the fact that she rarely wrote on lines of common 
 human experience, but usually expressed the emotions of exceptional 
 and sensitive spirits. 
 
 This trait is more easily illustrated than defined. Xone of the 
 poems previously used embrace the referred to element, but take, for 
 instance, " Semitones," which highly typifies the larger number of 
 Mrs. Jackson's poems. 
 
 (Recite " Semitones.") 
 Not that this poem does not breathe of truth — truth to a very human 
 
10 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 feeling — and not that it does not represent poetry in a high form; 
 but it does not reveal itself as such to the busy man or to the tired 
 mother though they both may be lovers of poetry and impressionable 
 people. But if the experience of which the sonnet speaks has come 
 to them they very likely have not recognized it, consequently attach 
 little importance to such flutters of sensibility. 
 
 Not that it is here intended to insist that only spiritual natures 
 like Emerson, for instance, can interpret and take to themselves the 
 loftier strains of Mrs. Jackson's utterances, but it is true that much of 
 her poetry is concerned with subtleties of emotional experience such 
 as appeal only to persons who are acquainted with their inner selves, 
 who have attained the power to analyze and weigh each fleeting sen- 
 sation — these are the ones who will delight in Mrs. Jackson's psy- 
 chological verse studies. For the rest of us remain beautiful thoughts 
 clothed in rich garments of completeness and clearness, which bring 
 with their absorption a keener realization of the world's brightness 
 and happiness. 
 
 Mrs. Thaxter's poetry does not attain the stateliness of Mrs. 
 Jackson's but her verses are recognized as graceful, refined, distinctly 
 feminine, yet womanly strong. She has taken her themes from the 
 life and incidents about her and she has made the best use of her 
 material, which after all is much the same as Emerson's with the 
 difference between a barren island and a well wooded country town. 
 Another difference is that she looks at her subject objectively and 
 then treats it subjectively while Emerson does exactly the reverse. 
 
 Her poems show the closest observation of natural phenomena, 
 especially of the changing seasons of the sea in its varying moods ; 
 and they are redolent of flowers even to the humblest weeds, thistle 
 and mullein stalks, as well as elderberry, sumach and bayberry. She 
 notes the habits of birds, butterflies and moths and the strange fish 
 found in the waters around her lonely home ; and she is unequaled 
 in description of the great sea birds that swoop high above these 
 rocky islands, while the smaller, more companionable ones, like the 
 sandpiper, song sparrow, and swallow have no less frequently 
 claimed the attention of her pen. 
 
 In " The Sandpiper," perhaps her best known poem, she has given 
 us a wild sea scene with the little bird always in the foreground, the 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 11 
 
 materialism of the whole being made inferior to the subjectivity by 
 the final and unexpected strain of sentiment. 
 
 (Recite " The Sandpiper.") 
 
 Her first poem, " Land-Locked," was published unknown to her 
 by James Russell Lowell, editor of the Atlantic to which magazine 
 she afterward became a frequent contributor. At the time Mrs. 
 Thaxter had been married but a few months. She had exchanged 
 her island home for an inland city one and the verses show her home- 
 sickness for the sweet awful voice of the sea. 
 
 (Recite "Land-Locked.") 
 
 What music became to Celia Thaxter in the latter years of her life 
 she shows in her poems on Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert, Chopin, 
 and Schumann, of which one * of the two on Beethoven takes an 
 apostrophic form, sublime in conception. 
 
 (Recite " Beethoven.") 
 
 Mrs. Thaxter's ability to write on any everyday incident is well 
 exampled in a poem entitled " In a Horse-Car." 
 
 (Recite " In a Horse-Car.") 
 
 Mrs. Jackson's love poems may excel those of Mrs. Thaxter's 
 in fervor but not in daintiness. " Because of Thee " is an exquisite 
 fragment of this class. 
 
 (Recite "Because of Thee.") 
 
 Again, Mrs. Thaxter's " Autumn " well stands the test of com- 
 parison with Mrs. Jackson's poems descriptive of the fall months. 
 
 (Recite " Autumn.") 
 
 Tales of shipwrecks, of some of which she had been an eye wit- 
 ness, comprise most of Mrs. Thaxter's narrative poems, but one, 
 " Heartbreak Hill," embodies a popular Essex County legend and 
 is replete with local coloring. 
 
 (Recite "Heartbreak Hill") 
 
 * The one beginning " If God speaks anywhere," etc. 
 
12 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 The mournful song of the sea appears to have been not withot" 
 its effect upon Mrs. Thaxter for a vein of sadness prevails in her 
 writings which strangely contrasts with her sunny face and her 
 established reputation for geniality. Her pensiveness does not reach 
 the depths of Mrs. Jackson's analytical emotion studies, but because 
 it is more distinctly human it appeals to the most of us as more 
 convincing. The strain is not so pronounced but that we may ignore 
 it if we choose, and at all events it does not injuriously impress us. 
 In that dear little melody, " Sing_, Little Bird," we feel the sweetness 
 of the bird's song, the fragrance of the bright flower more keenly 
 than we do the sorrow and darkness of the world that Mrs. Thaxter 
 would have us simultaneously recognize. 
 
 (Recite "Sing, Little Bird") 
 
 " Good-By, Sweet Day " is perhaps as famous as any of Mrs. 
 Thaxter's poems. Certainly every heart must respond to the beauty, 
 movement and thought of these exquisite lines. 
 
 (Recite " Good-By,. Sweet Day.") 
 
 Of the three women whose writings I have chosen to consider I 
 might place those of Lucy Larcom third in rank, but I should make 
 haste to assert that with many persons she holds first place. Her 
 poems are more nearly related to Mrs. Thaxter's than to Mrs. Jack- 
 son's for they treat of the material rather than of the spiritual. In 
 many instances her verses are cruder than Mrs. Thaxter's, but they 
 make up in wholesomeness of optimism and healthfulness of truth 
 and common sense. I should say that much of Miss Larcom's popu- 
 larity is due to her essentially American spirit inherited, and fos- 
 tered by her early associations which are too w^ 1 1 known to rehearse 
 here. She represents the feminine as Whittier the masculine side 
 of what may be fairly called " Americanism " in poetic literature. 
 
 Like Mrs. Thaxter Miss Larcom's home was beside the sea, and 
 she has drawn upon it for many of her subjects. " Hannah Binding 
 Shoes " and its companion piece " Skipper Ben " are generally con- 
 sidered her masterpieces, and they have achieved an international 
 reputation. 
 
 (Recite "Hannah Binding Shoes" following it with "Skipper Ben") 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 13 
 
 In many of her sentimental poems Miss Larcom has been likened 
 to Whittier to whose constant encouragement of her work she ac- 
 knowledged great indebtedness. It seems only just to make known, 
 however, that " The Old School House " anticipated by several years 
 Whittier's famous poem on the same theme. 
 
 {Recite " The Old School House.") 
 
 Miss Larcom sympathized with Whittier in his anti-slavery views, 
 and like him wrote some stirring patriotic poems, her " A Loyal 
 Woman's No " being one of the most popular lyrics of the war. 
 
 (Recite "A Loyal Woman's No.") 
 
 Of her poems descriptive of the seasons " November " may be 
 cited as of value equal with Mrs. Jackson's " September " and Mrs. 
 Thaxter's " Autumn." 
 
 (Recite "November") 
 
 In making an analytical study of Miss Larcom's poetry it becomes 
 apparent that her range is wider than Mrs. Jackson's or Mrs. Thax- 
 ter's. Indeed she finds expression in almost all forms of versifica- 
 tion: the epic, as in " An Idyl of Work "; the ballad, relating some 
 story or legend of early New England days ; the lyric in numerous 
 forms — pastoral songs breathing of fields and farms, lyrics of 
 nature in all moods, lyrics of grief as when she chants the dirge of 
 Whittier's sister Elizabeth, or tolls the passing bell of Lincoln, 
 sacred lyrics in which she deals with the human heart's deep emo- 
 tions, expressing its longing for immortality and its adoration of 
 God ; and her range is further enlarged by the sonnet and the stately 
 ode. Her religious poems have met with great favor, as for example, 
 " Hand in Hand with Angels " which keeps before one the thought 
 of unseen spiritual presences. 
 
 As closing poem I will quote " In the Street " which deals with 
 broad humanity and forcibly reminds one of Mrs. Thaxter's " In a 
 Horse-Car." 
 
 (Recite "In the Street") 
 
14 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 A Kindergarten Christmas* 
 
 A Description by Mr. Milo Bush. 
 By HAYDEN CARRUTH. 
 
 i ' O HE hailed from round Boston somewheres, and she came out 
 O here and started one of these 'ere kindling-garters. Roped in 
 all the small children in town and begun to learn 'em to string 
 straws, and map out beans, and wad wet clay and such other prac- 
 tical things which would be useful to 'em when they growed up. 
 Well, it seemed to be a good thing, though I don't reckon our folks 
 would 'a' took much stock in it if it hadn't been for the girl herself. 
 That' there girl was the prettiest girl that ever struck the country. 
 Such eyes as she had ! And that mouth of hers ! — well, I b'lieve if 
 it could 'a' been done, that every man in town would 'a' had himself 
 reduced to eighteen inches high and gone to school to her, and 
 strung his straw, and wadded his gob of clay with thumbkins. 
 
 " She was the most enthusiastic girl — and the prettiest! She just 
 kept us parents on the jump. Doing what, do you think? Living 
 for our children! That was all, but it kep' us busy. Finally Christ- 
 mas hove in sight, and the girl got more excited than ever. Called 
 another mothers' meeting, and we fathers was on hand. The girl 
 made another speech. Christmas was coming. Didn't we know 
 the little song about Christmas? And wot it said about Sandy 
 Claus? The song told especially of Sandy Claus's reindeers, and 
 the children were much interested in the reindeers. Wot fond parent 
 would volunteer to show the children a team of reindeers? 
 
 " I sprung to my feet while the other parents was leaning for'ard 
 to rise, and says I : ' Miss, if we can find a pair of reindeers in Bon 
 Pierre County, or even one reindeer, or half a reindeer, or a critter 
 that looks like a reindeer, I'll drive him for the children.' ■ Thank 
 you,' says the girl, smiling at me ; and if she'd 'a' asked me to drive 
 two lions tandem with a hyener under the seat, I'd 'a' done it. ' And 
 you are on the right track, Mr. Bush,' she goes on ; ' there are, of 
 course, no reindeers here. We must stimulate some reindeers, Mr. 
 Bush.' ' Wot ? ' says I, thumbkin behind my ear, letting on I hadn't 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 15 
 
 heard. ' We must stimulate some reindeers — counterfeit 'em, you 
 know.' Well, we all talked the matter over, and decided that the 
 best we could do was to take a couple of mooley steers belonging to 
 Zeb Woodbeck, and tie some horns on 'em, hitch 'em to a light 
 sleigh, and let 'cm sizzle, with me a-holding the reins, and mebbe 
 calling cheerily : ' On, Prancer ! Whoa, Dancer ! ' 
 
 " Well, there ain't much more to tell. I done it. 'Bout four 
 o'clock in the afternoon, so's the little ones could go home and get to 
 bed early. The plan was to have the children in front of the school- 
 house, and I was to dash around the corner, swing round the house a 
 couple or three times, and then leave the sleigh and crawl through a 
 hole in the back end of the building, and pop out behind the stove 
 as the children come in the door, all frosty, and with flowing whisk- 
 ers, and wearing pillers under my clothes, and with my nose red. 
 It took a pile of fixing up, and when they got through with me my 
 nose was the only thing which I could recognize as my own. Then 
 I got in the sleigh down by the livery-barn, and drove up around, 
 the steers trotting off pretty free, and the bells on 'em ringing lively. 
 Then I swung 'em round the corner, and says I : ' On, Prancer ! On, 
 Dancer ! ' and the children clapped their hands, and the others begun 
 to yell, and somehow it excited them critters, and they hopped up 
 into the air, and yanked round their heads, and their horns fetched 
 loose and tipped back and took 'em on the shoulders, and Dancer let 
 out an awful ' B-a-a-a-r ! ' and Prancer kicked sideways at a dog, and 
 they lit out down the main street like a bloo streak, me a-sawing on 
 the reins and a-yelling ' The Night Before Christmas ' at 'em in 
 chunks. As we tore through town, both reindeers b-a-a-a-r-ing and 
 kicking, the bells a-ringing, every dog in town close behind, making 
 use of their own language, and my own voice not idle, we was said 
 to 'a' presented a impressive spectacle. We tore on. After passing 
 over six miles of prehayrie in a few minutes, I was throwed out by 
 the sleigh striking a rock. Them stimulated reindeers went on. 
 My knee was fractured, and I started to crawl back the six miles, 
 singing cheerily, ' Clap, clap with glee ; for Christmas is coming and 
 merry are we ! ' My whiskers impeded my crawl a good deal by 
 getting under my knees, but I reached the house of a settler about 
 dark. 
 
it I 
 it I 
 
 16 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 " ' Didn't you go by here a spell ago sort as if you was in a kind 
 of a hurry ? ' says he. 
 
 No/ says I ; ' that was Sandy Claus.' 
 
 It looked like you;' says he. 
 
 We are one and the same/ says I ; ' e pluribus unum. I was 
 stimulating Sandy Claus. Bring in some snow and thaw out my left 
 earkin.' 
 
 See yere, old man/ says he ; ' before I stir a step tell me wot 
 in all creation you are making such a Tom-twisted fool of yourself 
 for.' 
 
 " ' I am living for a Boston kindling-garter teacher/ says I ; 
 ' fetch in that snow ! ' " 
 
 Ambition of a Statesman. 
 
 By HENRY CLAY. 
 
 I HAVE been accused of ambition in presenting this measure, — 
 ambition, inordinate ambition. If I had thought of myself only 
 I should have never brought it forward. I know well the perils to 
 which I expose myself, — the risk of alienating faithful and valued 
 friends, with but little prospect of making new ones, if any new 
 ones could compensate for the loss of those we have long tried and 
 loved ; and I know well the honest misconception both of friends and 
 foes. Ambition ! If I had listened to its soft and seducing whispers, 
 if I had yielded myself to the dictates of a cold, calculating and pru- 
 dential policy, I would have stood still and unmoved. I might even 
 have silently gazed on the raging storm, enjoyed its loudest thunders, 
 and let those who are charged with the care of the vessel of State to 
 conduct it as they could. 
 
 I have been heretofore often unjustly accused of ambition. Low, 
 groveling souls, who are utterly incapable of elevating themselves to 
 the higher and nobler duties of pure patriotism, — beings who, for- 
 ever keeping their own selfish ends in view, decide all public measures 
 by their presumed influence or their aggrandizement, — judge me by 
 the venal rule which they prescribe to themselves. I have given to 
 the winds those false accusations, as I consign that which now im- 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 17 
 
 peaches my motives. I have no desire for office, not even the highest. 
 The most exalted is but a prison, in which the incarcerated incum- 
 bent daily receives his cold, heartless visitants, marks his weary 
 hours, and is cut oft from the practical enjoyment of all the blessings 
 of genuine freedom. 
 
 I am no candidate for any office in the gift of the people of these 
 States, united or separated; I never wish, never expect, to be. Pass 
 this bill, tranquilize the country, restore confidence and affection in 
 the Union, and I am willing to go home to Ashland and renounce 
 public service forever. I should there find in its groves, under its 
 shades, on its lawns, 'mid my flocks and herds, in the bosom of my 
 family, sincerity and truth, attachment and fidelity and gratitude, 
 which I have not always found in the walks of public life. Yes, I 
 have ambition ; but it is the ambition of being the humble instru- 
 ment, in the hands of Providence, to reconcile a divided people ; 
 once more to revive concord and harmony in a distracted land, — the 
 pleasing ambition of contemplating the glorious spectacle of a free, 
 united, prosperous, and fraternal people. 
 
 Aunt Susan's Quilt 
 
 By EUGENE WOOD. 
 
 SMonotogue for a. Woman. 
 
 Costume : Old-fashioned, quiet dress and shawl, poke bonnet with 
 a rusty black feather, white wig combed down over the ears, a big 
 breast-pin, black lace mitts. Enter, carrying a bulging carpet-bag 
 and a big paper box. 
 
 Yessum, it's me 'r whut's left of me. An' glad to git back ; not 
 but whut I've enjoyed myself whilst I was down to York, but it's 
 nice to be back home. Well, sir, give me Pokeberry Corners where 
 a body kin hear theirselves think, an' where you know whut's goin' 
 on an' who's who. 'Tain't whut you might call lonesome neither 
 down to York. 
 
 I don't need to ask if you took good keer o' my bird. I don't 
 know's I ever noticed his singin' sounded so s'rill. [Pause.] Yes. 
 
18 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 [Pause.] Uh — uh. [Pause] Well I d'know's I'd hang him right 
 in the sun that way. [Pause.] Wouldn't -he eat it? [Pause.] 
 Well, you know he's used to havin' it fried fer him. I jist bet that 
 cat's jist about run wild sence I ben gone. [Pause.] Well, 'twas 
 awful good o' you, Mis' Parkins, to take care of the bird an' to feed 
 the cat. [Pause] Every day? Well, you know plants don't need 
 to be watered more'n oncet every two or three clays. You might ha' 
 saved your steps an' you so much to look after an' all. I feel to say 
 how much obleeged to you I am for your kindness. 'Twas reel 
 neighborly of you. [Business of picking up carpet sack and putting 
 paper box -under arm.] 
 
 So if you'll jist gimme the key now an' hand me down the bird 
 cage I'll go over and start a fire. [Pause.] Laws, yes, white 
 satin, low neck an' short sleeves. [Pause.] Veil an' all. Yes. 
 Orange-blossoms, too. Oh, jist lovely. [Pause.] White kid gloves. 
 Come clear up about the elbow. [Pause.] Took 'em off to put the 
 ring on. [Pause.] No. I reely must be gittin' home. Look how 
 long I ben gone, week ago last — now don't you go to any trouble, 
 Melissy Parkins. ■ Land knows you've got enough to do. [Pause.] 
 Well, ain't you bin livin' neighbor to me long enough to know I 
 don't take no trimmin's in my tea? [Business of drinking and then 
 looking at the cup.] I alius did like them sprigged cups o' yourn, 
 Melissy. You got to will me them when you die. [Pause.] Sixty 
 cents a pound ! Why, Melissy ! It's just splendid, though. Does 
 a body so much good. 
 
 Well, I s'pose I oughtn't to be settin' here runnin' on about the 
 weddin' an' that house a-lookin' like distraction. But I do' know's 
 I ever enjoyed myself so much as I did then. Jimmy was never no 
 great hand to write letters an' if I got one oncet a year why 'twas 
 as much's I could expect. So when that invite to the weddin' 
 come, thinks I, "I'll go, if it's the last act." I hadn't seen him for 
 ten years, exceptin' once, that time he was up to Equity on law 
 business an' jis' stayed over night. You know how kind o' peaked 
 lie used to be. Well, he's all filled out, — big, tall, fine-looking man 
 he is. Gets that from his pa. The Larkins was alius big. But he's 
 got his ma's looks an' ways. I was alius her favorite an' when she 
 died, she left him to me to take care of. Thay say old maids do' 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 19 
 
 know nottin' about the rearin' of children, but I do' know's I got any 
 cause to be ashamed o' Jimmy Larkin, the way he was brought up 
 right from the bottle, an' sich a time as I had with him a-gettin' 
 one cow's milk. He alius went to church an' Sunday-school an' alius 
 was kep' clean an' nice for day-school, that is, nice's you kin keep 
 boys, alius a-whoopin' an' hollerin' an' trackin' up the floor. I loved 
 that boy as if he was my own, but he jist about druv me plum 
 distracted in muddy weather, all over my nice clean floor till I made 
 him set on the back porch an' pull oft his shoes an' come in in his 
 stockin' feet. [Pause. ] Jist half a cup. Now there, — you've gone 
 an' filled it. Tchk ! Tchk ! Well, I s'pose they's no use pourin' 
 it back in the pot now. 
 
 So I jist made up my mind, go I would come what might. But 
 you know what the Scripter says about not havin' on a weddin' 
 garment. [Pause.] I got Elviry Hodges to make over that old 
 black silk o' mine an' pert two rows o' jet trimmin's on it like I seen 
 in the Home Companion, but laws ! I woosht I'd 'a' done it myself. 
 [Pause.] They're wearin' 'em more flarin' out at the bottom now. 
 I took notice to that. An' then I thinks : " What'll I take to the in- 
 fare?" For I jedged the bride would have quite a settin' out, her 
 pa bein' well off an' Jimmy bein' right forehanded himself. You 
 know that camel's-hair shawl he sent me last Christmas? Reel 
 camel's-hair ! Reel ! Cost him $850. So you know I couldn't give 
 the bride anything common. Well, what to give I didn't know till 
 I thought o' that quilt. 
 
 So I got it out an' looked it over an' I says to myself : " If Jimmy's 
 wife knows anything about housekeepin' an' especially what nice 
 quiltin' is, she'll see that it wa'n't no one day's job to do this well, 
 I guess not. Why, Melissy Parkins, I had that quilt in the frame 
 five weeks an' three days. Five weeks an' three days. They's 
 2147 pieces into it. An' a good many of 'em was off o' dresses an' 
 aparns 'at Jimmy wore when he was little. One was pink, — the first 
 short dress he had. They was another piece of blue chambry, I 
 iecollect, made out of a sunbunnet he had all lined with fine white 
 jaconet, that cost eighteen cents a yard. Things wuz dear in war- 
 time. [Subdued tone.] Yes, his pa was killed to the war, — Antie- 
 tam. [Sighs.] Melissy, if you got any more hot water, I will take 
 another cup. 
 
20 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 I mind a piece o' fine muslin in that quilt with a little pink sprig 
 in it, that he wore to the celebration the time the war was over — time 
 they had the bonfires an' the fireworks, an' the folks was just plumb 
 wild an' distracted with joy. Don't you mind the Mt. Hope delega- 
 tion was all little girls in white, ridin' in a ox-wagon all over posies 
 an' the oxen's horns was hung with artificial flowers ? Why, yes, you 
 do, Melissy. Don't you recollect ? An' that night every last blessed 
 man in town got tight 'cause the cruel war was over. [Pause.] 
 Yes, he was too, Melissy Parkins. You didn't marry him till after- 
 ward so you've no call to feel responsible for that. 
 
 Well, my laws ! when I got off at the deepoo in New York an' 
 come out there where they was a hull lot o' fellers in plug hats a- 
 squackin' away like so many ducks, " keb, keb, keb, keb ! " I was 
 atchilly skeered. They looked as if they drank. An' they hollered 
 so fierce-like at the people ! Me not thinkin' to send Jimmy word o' 
 course he wa'n't there to meet me an' which way to turn I did-not- 
 knozv. [Pause.] Well, that's jist what I done. I jist walked up 
 to one as hold's brass an' I says to him : " Mr. Policeman " — ye see 
 I knowed him by his buttons — " I want to go to this place." And 
 I. showed him the address. Don't ask me how I got there [gesture 
 of despair], but I did. [Pause.] His boardin'-house. Well, sir. 
 You could ha' knocked hum down with a feather, he was that s'prised 
 an' tickled. An' he got me a room in his boardin'-house. [Pause.] 
 Yessum, they told ycu right. The hot water an' the cold water jist 
 squirts right outer the wall when you turn the fasset. 
 
 I slicked up an' went clown to dinner. They call supper dinner 
 down to York, ain't that too killin'? Well, sir, we had a long talk 
 about old times an' about Plelen. That's his wife, Helen Holbrook, 
 that was. So I says to him : " Now in the mornin' you take me over 
 to her house," I says, " ah' I'll take right hold an' help her ma be- 
 cause," I says, " I know how 'twill be. Even if she does keep a 
 girl," I says, " she'll have all she can do and more too," I says, 
 " seein' to things," I says, " an' I'll be only too glad to help her," I 
 says, " an' she needn't think 'twould be the least speck o' trouble to 
 me," I says, " because I come prepared," I says, " I got a new big 
 kitchen apron in my trunk right now," I says, " which I put in 
 a-purpose," I says. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 21 
 
 " They got a caperer hired," he says. " Oh, get out," I says, 
 " I wasn't talking about cutting capers an' dancin'. Me at my time 
 o' life," I says, " an' I never could dance unless it was the Virginiar 
 Reel an' then had to be told what to do an' drug through it. [Pause,] 
 Well, maybe 'twas caterer; anyways, he told me I was jist the same 
 as a mother to him an' he wasn't going to have me play the servant. 
 But between you and me and the gate-post, Melissy Parkins, I was 
 disappointed, for I 'lotted on seein' how Helen's mother kep' house 
 so's as I would know whether Helen' d be a good wife to my boy, for 
 he is my boy. 
 
 But Lawsy, my ! when I got to the weddin' the nex' night, I 
 thought I'd go through the floor. My old black silk wa'n't no- 
 wheres. The women was jist a-glitterin' with diamonds like that 
 alum-basket o' yourn when the sun strikes it, an' the men with spike- 
 tail coats ! tchk. But I didn't see none of 'em looked any finer'n my 
 Jimmy. I felt so cheap that I sneaked into a corner behind some 
 pa'ms whur I could see the bride. Awful sweet she looked. [Pause.] 
 Hung way down her back and trailed on the floor. [Pause] Oh, 
 reel point lace, 'bout that deep [measuring on- finger] down the front 
 an' then look back tow'rds the basque [sweep of hand back]. Car- 
 ried a prayer-book, ivory I guess. She's Episcopal. 'Twas reel 
 solemn. 
 
 Well you know, when it was all over and they was congratulatin' 
 'em, I felt so out o' place that I slipped upstairs to the room where 
 I had took off my bunnet an' shawl an' I looked acrost the hall an' 
 there was the room full of presents the other folks had brought, silver 
 an' 'cut-glass an' pictures, reel oil paintings, hand-painted, an' me 
 with my little ole footy quilt. Laws ! I jist kind o' turned one 
 corner back, and there was the little piece o' sprigged muslin he 
 wore to the celebration an' right nex' to it was a piece off the green 
 gingham apern he wore the first day he went to school with the 
 bunch o' flowers in his hand for the teacher an' me a-watchin' him 
 down the street an' all a-trimblin' to think of the responsibilities that 
 I ow T ed to his poor dead mother an' to him an' how he was takin' the 
 first steps that was lea din' him out into the world an' away from me 
 an' here he was now a grown man an' a honor to his perfession an' 
 to me though I was no honor to him, amons: all them fine folks, an' 
 
22 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 my throat was all hurtin' me an' the tears was coming to my eyes, 
 when all of a suddint, I heard a dress swishin' beside me an' ther' 
 was Helen with her arms around my neck and Jimmy standin' by. 
 
 " We've been lookin' for you every place," she said. " When 
 James — my husband " — I reckon I was the first person she used them 
 words to, speaking of my Jimmy — " when my husband told me you 
 were here," she says, " and you came so far to see us married, I just 
 wanted to put my arms around you and hug you good," she says, 
 " and tell you how I want to be as good a wife to him as you have 
 been an aunt." An' I put my arms around her an' bust out a-crying 
 an' we jist rocked back an' forth for my heart was full. An' I could 
 see where the rascally dressmaker had jist tacked on the heading of 
 the bridal dress an' 'stid o' sewing it on firm it was comin' off. 
 
 Then Jimmy, kind o' fumbling around, says : " Why, auntie," he 
 says, "ain't this a quilt? Looks like the kind you used to make." 
 
 " You let that be," I says, for I wasn't goin' to let 'em see it. 
 But he snatched it away from me and says, " Look here, didn't you 
 bring this for a weddin' present. Injun giver!" he says, "make 
 a present an' then take it back." 
 
 " I some thought I would give it to your wife," I says, " it ain't 
 very fine," I says, " but every stitch in it I made myself an' it took 
 me five weeks an' three days, what time I could spare on it," I says, 
 " an' they's 2147 pieces in it some of them from the first clothes I 
 made you," I says, " an' one from a dress your ma used to have but 
 it ain't fine enough," I says, an' I was goin' to say more but Helen, 
 she up and kissed me right on the mouth an' you know you can't 
 talk when somebody's a-kissin' you. I know that even if I am an old 
 maid, an' then she says, " All them fine things in there," she says, 
 a-pointin' to the room where the rich presents were, " was all bought 
 to the stores with money, but what you give is all made yourself. 
 Oh, my ! what beautiful stitches ! " she says, " how could you ever 
 do it ? " she says. 
 
 An' we set right down there an' visited an' I told her all about the 
 dresses Jimmy had an' what happened to him when he was a little 
 boy an' how he poured coal oil on his hair so's to be like Aaron 
 in the Bible when he was anointed with oil. An' we jist had a grand 
 time. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 23 
 
 I stayed on with her pa and ma after the bride and groom left an' 
 we went everywhere an' seen everything. My laws ! I got enough to 
 talk about my hull endurin' life. [Pause] You got the hull set o' 
 ihese cups and saucers? [Pause] Well, of course, the cups does 
 get broke quicker'n the saucers. [Pause.] Well, I was thinkin' o' 
 borryin' them next week when Jimmy an' Helen stops over on their 
 weddin' tower. 
 
 A Christmas Carol. 
 
 <By THILLIPS 'BROOKS. 
 
 EVERYWHERE, everywhere, Christmas to-night ! 
 Christmas in lands of the fir-tree and pine, 
 Christmas in lands of the palm-tree and vine, 
 Christmas where snow-peaks stand solemn and white, 
 Christmas where corn-fields lie sunny and bright. 
 Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night ! 
 
 Christmas where children are hopeful and gay, 
 Christmas where old men are patient and gray, 
 Christmas where peace, like a dove in its flight, 
 Broods o'er brave men in the thick of the fight. 
 
 Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night ! 
 
 For the Christ-child who comes is the Master of all, 
 No palace too great and no cottage too small, 
 The angels who welcome him sing from the height : 
 " In the City of David, a King in His might." 
 Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night ! 
 
 Then let every heart keep its Christmas within, 
 Christ's pity for sorrow, Christ's hatred of sin, 
 Christ's care for the weakest, Christ's courage for right, 
 Christ's dread of the darkness, Christ's love of the light. 
 Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night ! 
 
24 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 So the stars of the midnight which compass us round 
 Shall see a strange glory, and hear a sweet sound, 
 And cry : " Look ! the earth is aflame with delight, 
 O, sons of the morning, rejoice at the sight." 
 
 Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night ! 
 
 A Tale of Christmas Eve* 
 
 < By permission of The Designer. 
 
 IT was the eve of Christmas, the snow fell slowly down, 
 And like a mantle overspread the little seaport town. 
 Within a solitary street the oil lamps glimmered low, 
 Their feeble ray could not pierce through their covering of snow ; 
 The cottages on either side no cheery welcome gave, 
 Their inmates slept, and all was dark and silent as the grave. 
 But see that gabled cottage at the corner of the road, 
 The flagstaff plainly showing it's a mariner's abode. 
 A light streams from the window, so unlike to all the rest. 
 The garden gate is opened wide, as if to greet a guest; 
 But who on such a night as this would dare to venture forth? 
 The snow drifts deep, the bitter wind blows from the chilly north. 
 Yet there is one who fights against the fury of the night ; 
 With stumbling stips he staggers on, a shapeless mass of white ; 
 The snow-flakes fly into his eyes and freeze upon his hair, 
 His frozen limbs can scarce support the burden they've to bear. 
 He falls, and for a moment in the soft white snowdrift lies; 
 A dreamy feeling o'er him steals, he has no wish to rise ; 
 He must not linger there, nor to such thoughts as these give way, 
 Or never more will he behold the blessed light of day. 
 With pain he rises to his feet and struggles on once more, 
 Until with weary limbs he comes Up to the cottage door. 
 He gazes through the window with a keen and eager look. 
 An old dame by the fireside is reading from a book. 
 She reads aloud an ancient tale, her voice is low but clear. 
 The wanderer starts — he little thought that tale again to hear. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 25 
 
 She reads of how a son forsook his home and parents, yet 
 
 They never ceased to think of him with longing and regret; 
 
 And while his time was spent in folly, riotous and wild, 
 
 The parents daily prayed that God would send them back their child. 
 
 The wanderer's heart is all aflame, his eyes with anguish burn 
 
 As once again he hearkens to the Prodigal's return. 
 
 The tale is ended, and the book is carefully laid by. 
 
 The dame removes her spectacles and wipes the glasses dry ; 
 
 She moves the lamp, and thus lights up a corner of the room 
 
 Where until now a gray-haired man was sitting wrapped in gloom. 
 
 "Now, mother," says the old man, "it's near midnight, I believe; 
 
 The bells will ring in Christmas soon, for this is Christmas Eve. 
 
 Put up the latch, let down the chain, and leave the door ajar; 
 
 Take care to see that it is free from every bolt and bar. 
 
 For ten long years on Christmas Eve this I have always done. 
 
 But now I'm blind and helpless, and no use to any one ; 
 
 But your eyes, mother, are as bright as twenty years ago ; 
 
 I can not see them now, but still I know they must be so. 
 
 Then, mother, you see to the door, for when he's ceased to roam, 
 
 On some such night as this, maybe, our boy will come back home. 
 
 On Christmas Eve he left us when he ran away to sea, 
 
 On Christmas Eve he will return to mother and to me. 
 
 And when he comes, old woman, he shall have a welcome warm, 
 
 Where'er he be, on land or sea, God keep him safe from harm ! " 
 
 The wind and snow beat on the door, and drove it open wide. 
 
 With arms outstretched and trembling feet the wand'rer stepped in- 
 side. 
 
 " O father ! mother ! I've come back ! forgive ! '" was all he said. 
 
 The blind man started from his seat and raised his sightless head, 
 
 The mother gazed like one amazed. " Ah, God ! " she cried. " At 
 last!" 
 
 Then rushed into the wand'rer's arms and held him tightly clasped. 
 
 The Christmas bells chimed merrily their tale of peace and joy, 
 
 As once again the aged folk embraced their long-lost boy. 
 
26 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 The ^ying Christian to his SouL 
 
 Ode. 
 'By ALEXANDER TOPE. 
 
 VITAL spark of heav'nly flame ? 
 Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame : 
 Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, 
 Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
 Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
 And let me languish into life. 
 
 Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 
 " Sister spirit, come away ! " 
 What is this absorbs me quite? 
 Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
 Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? 
 Tell me, my soul, can this be death? 
 
 The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
 Heav n opens on my eyes ! my ears 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring: 
 Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 
 O grave ! where is thy victory ? 
 
 O death ! where is thy sting ? 
 
 The Queen s Last Ride* 
 
 <By ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 
 
 THE Queen is taking a drive to-day, 
 They have hung with purple the carriage way ; 
 They have dressed with purple the royal track 
 Where the Queen goes forth and never comes back. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 27 
 
 Let no man labor as she goes by, 
 On her last appearance to mortal eye. 
 With heads uncovered let all men wait 
 For the Queen to pass in her regal state. 
 
 Army and navy shall lead the way 
 
 For that wonderful coach of the Queen's to-day. 
 
 Kings and princes and lords of the land 
 
 Shall ride behind her, a humble band. 
 
 And over the city and over the world 
 Shall flags of all nations be halfmast furled 
 For the silent lady of royal birth 
 Who is riding away from the courts of earth, 
 
 Riding away from the world's unrest 
 
 To a mystical goal on a secret quest. 
 
 Though in regal splendor she drives through town, 
 
 Her robes are simple, she wears no crown, 
 
 And yet she wears one ; for, widowed no more, 
 She is crowned with the love that has gone before, 
 And crowned with the love she has left behind 
 In the hidden depths of each thinking mind. 
 
 Uncover your heads, lift your hearts on high, 
 The Queen in silence is driving by. 
 
 (££#"**& 
 
28 
 
 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Piano. 
 
 Queen Mah* 
 
 <By THOMAS HOOD, 
 
 <A SMusical Recitation. 
 Allegretto scherzando. . 
 
 
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 And from, the moon she flutters down: 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26, 
 
 29 
 
 She has a little 9il : 
 
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 .a good 
 
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 filled 
 
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 trees that bear 
 
 delicious fruit. 
 
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 lovely flowers that never fade: 
 
 Bright flies that; "glitter in the'. 
 
30 
 
 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 •Un, 
 
 A.nd 
 
 glow-worms shining 
 
 in the shade. 
 
 ^•/y-Wn 
 
 
 And talking 
 
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 pretty dwarfs to show the way Through fairy lulls and fairy dales. 
 
 But when a bad child goes to bed. From left to right 
 
 Meno mosso. 
 
 she weaves her rings, And then it dreams all through the night Of only ngly horrid- 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 
 
 31 
 
 Tbeu lions come with 
 
 (il basso sonore) 
 flittering 
 
 And tigers growl, a dreadful 
 
 And 
 
 ogres 
 trem 
 
 draw their 
 
 cruel knives, 
 
 To 
 
 shed the blood 
 
 of girls 
 
 and' boy9. 
 
 F ¥ *-^n 
 
 PP 
 
 -f~ 
 
 W— i — 
 
 \ * 
 
 =f$->* "~~j 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Then stormy 
 
 Or raging flame 
 
82 
 
 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 CDme scorching round, 
 
 Fierce dragons hover in the air And serpent* craw 
 
 I*. rs 
 
 along the .ground. 
 
 Then wicked children wake 
 
 C&ad weep, And wish the long clack glocm aw.ay: 
 
 Tempo con e prima. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 33 
 
 A LITTLE fairy comes at night,, 
 Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown, 
 With silver spots upon her wings, 
 And from the moon she flutters down. 
 
 She has a little silver wand, 
 
 And when a good child goes to bed 
 She waves her hand from right to left, 
 
 And makes a circle round its head. 
 
 And then it dreams of pleasant things, 
 Of fountains filled with fairy fish, 
 
 And trees that bear delicious fruit, 
 And bow their branches at a wish. 
 
 Of arbors filled with dainty scents 
 From lovely flowers that never fade ; 
 
 Bright flies that glitter in the sun, 
 
 And glow-worms shining in the shade* 
 
 And talking birds with gifted tongues, 
 For singing songs and telling tales, 
 
 And pretty dwarfs to show the way 
 Through fairy hills and fairy dales. 
 
 But when a bad child goes to bed, 
 
 From left to right she weaves her rings, 
 
 And then it dreams all through the night 
 Of only ugly, horrid things. 
 
 The lions come with glaring eyes, 
 And tigers growl, a dreadful noise, 
 
 And ogres draw their cruel knives, 
 To shed the blood of girls and boys. 
 
34 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Then stormy waves rush on to drown, 
 Or raging flames come scorching round, 
 
 Fierce dragons hover in the air, 
 
 And serpents crawl along the ground. 
 
 Then wicked children wake and weep, 
 And wish the long, black gloom away ; 
 
 But good ones love the dark, and find 
 The night as pleasant as the day. 
 
 cA c Remarkahle Honeymoon ^Trip. 
 
 By LAURENCE LEE. 
 
 AN accommodation train on a distant railroad was dragging along 
 when a long, lean and sallow woman, in what appeared to be 
 subdued bridal finery, leaned across the aisle of the car and said 
 seriously to a lady sitting opposite her: 
 
 " Dear me ! It's a kind of a solemn thing to be travelin' with 
 two husbands, now, ain't it ? " 
 
 " I do not know what you mean," replied the lady. 
 
 " Oh, mebbe not. Well, you see, my first husband died 'bout a 
 year ago an' was buried over in Patrick county, and last week I was 
 married ag'in, an' me an' my second husband have been over in 
 Patrick county on a little weddin' tower, an' I thought I'd kinder 
 like to have my first husband buried in the graveyard nigh where 
 I'm goin' to live now, and my second husband was willin', so we tuk 
 my first husband up an' he's in the baggage car along with our other 
 things. My second husband is settin' out on the platform takin' a 
 smoke, an' I been settin' here thinkin' how solemn it is to go on a 
 weddin' tower with two husbands. It's a tumble solemn piece of 
 bizness when you come to think of it." 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 35 
 
 TAe Old Actor s Story. 
 
 By GEORGE R. SIMS. 
 
 MINE is a wild, strange story, — the strangest you ever heard ; 
 There are many who won't believe it, but it's gospel every 
 word ; 
 It's the biggest drama of any in a long, adventurous life ; 
 The scene was a ship, and the actors — were myself and my new-wed 
 wife. 
 
 We'd acted together in England, traveling up and down 
 With a strolling band of players, going from town to town; 
 We played the lovers together — we were leading lady and gent — 
 And at last we played in earnest, and straight to the church we went. 
 
 The parson gave us his blessing, and I gave Nellie the ring, 
 
 And swore that I'd love and cherish, and endow her with everything. 
 
 How we smiled at that part of the service when I said, " I thee 
 
 endow ! " 
 But as to the " love and cherish," I meant to keep that vow. 
 
 Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit ; 
 Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a flit, 
 Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call ; 
 But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet to fall. 
 
 We got an offer from Melbourne, — got it that very week. 
 Those were the days when thousands went over to fortune seek, 
 The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot 
 Good for a " spec," and took us as actors among his lot. 
 
S6 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 We hadn't a friend in England — we'd only ourselves to please — 
 And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the seas. 
 r'We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough; 
 We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough. 
 
 But use is a second nature, and we'd got not to mmd a storm, 
 When misery came upon us, — came in a hideous form. 
 My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad 
 That the doctor said she was dying, — I thought 'twould have sent 
 me mad, — 
 
 Dying where leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their prey, 
 And the nearest land was hundreds — aye, thousands,— of miles away. 
 She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, 
 So still I'd to bend and listen for the faintest sign of breath. 
 
 She seemed in a sleep, and sleeping, with a smile on her thin, wan 
 
 face, 
 She passed away one morning, while I prayed to the throne of grace. 
 I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, 
 Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless — my wife was dead ! 
 
 Dead ! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that night, 
 For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright. 
 I was shut in the farthest cabin, and I beat my head on the side, 
 And all day long in my madness, " They've murdered her ! " I cried. 
 
 They locked me away from my fellows, — put me in cruel chains, 
 It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's brains. 
 I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil sent 
 To gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent. 
 
 I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, 
 
 And my wife lay dead quite near me. I beat with my fettered fists, 
 
 Beat at my prison panels, and then — O God !— and then 
 
 I heard the shrieks of women and the tramp of hurrying men. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 37 
 
 I heard the cry, " Ship a-fire ! " caught up by a hundred throats, 
 And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats ; 
 Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood, 
 And the place grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I stood. 
 
 I dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, " I will not die ! 
 Die in this burning prison ! " but I caught no answering cry. 
 Then suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar, 
 And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door. 
 
 I was free — with the heavy iron door dragging me down to death ; 
 I fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning breath 
 Of the flames that danced around me like man-mocking fiends at 
 
 play, 
 And then — O God ! I can see it, and shall to my dying day. 
 
 There lay my Nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth that night ; 
 The flames flung a smile on her features, — a horrible lurid light. 
 God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by 
 
 her side; 
 I thought she was living a moment ; I forgot that my Nell had died. 
 
 In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain ; 
 I heard a sound as of breathing, and then a low cry of pain ; 
 Oh, was there mercy in heaven ? Was there a God in the skies ? 
 The dead woman's lips were moving, the dead woman opened her 
 eyes. 
 
 I cursed like a madman raving — I cried to her, " Nell ! my Nell ! " 
 They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell, 
 They had left us alone to perish — forgotten me living — and she 
 Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven, instead of the sea. 
 
 I clutched at her, roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her still; 
 I seized her in spite of my fetters,; — fear gave a giant's will. 
 
38 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and 
 
 the wreck 
 Up — 'Up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck. 
 
 We'd a moment of life together, — a moment of life, the time, 
 
 For one last word to each other, — -'twas a moment supreme, sublime. 
 
 From the trance we'd for death mistaken, the heat had brought her 
 
 to life, 
 And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband and wife ! 
 
 It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, 
 When a shout came over the water, and I looked, and lo, there lay, 
 Right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by ; 
 They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky. 
 
 I shouted a prayer to heaven, then called to my wife, and she 
 Tore with new strength at my fetters — God helped her, and I was 
 
 free; 
 Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life. 
 Did they save us? Well, here I am, sir, and yonder's my dear old 
 
 wife. 
 
 Lottys Message* 
 
 By ALEXANDER G. MURDOCH. 
 
 CAN you listen to a heart-thrilling story 
 Of pathos, and passion, and sin, — 
 A tale of the tragical sorrow 
 
 That comes of the liking for gin? 
 Your ear, then, good friends, and I'll tell it, 
 
 In just as plain words as I can, 
 How honest Jack Drew was a drunkard, 
 And how he became a new man. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 39 
 
 For Jack was a right honest fellow, 
 
 And handsome and stalwart, as true, — 
 A forgeman, who wrought a steam hammer, 
 
 And a large weekly " pay-bill " he drew ; 
 So Jack, like his fellows, got married, 
 
 And had in good time a wee " tot," 
 A sweet little flaxen-haired darling 
 
 As ever fell to a man's lot. 
 
 'Twas Lotty they called her — " Wee Lotty "— ■> 
 
 And well was the darling caressed, 
 Till the passion for drink, like a demon, 
 
 Killed all the sweet love in his breast ; 
 For Jack, who was once a good husband, 
 
 As never was known to go wrong, 
 Began to dip into the " strong stuff," 
 
 And the end, you may guess, wasn't long. 
 
 And Lotty 's poor mother, alas, sirs, 
 
 Now that her " dear Jack " was astray, 
 Broke down in the fight to make ends meet, 
 
 And passed straight to heaven away ! 
 And Jack for a moment was sobered, 
 
 And drew himself back from the brink 
 Whereon he'd been reeling in madness, — 
 
 The horrible hell-pit of drink! 
 
 But, alas for the heart's human weakness ! 
 
 And, alas for the power that's in gin! 
 Jack went back, like a tiger unsated, 
 
 To drink down the horror within ! 
 And Lotty, neglected wee Lotty, 
 
 She, too, was fast wearing away 
 To the land where her mother had gone to 
 
 Two years since, last Christmas day. 
 
40 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Well, one night in the depth of wild winter, 
 
 When snow lay on house-top and street, 
 Jack came home with fierce fire in his sunk eyes, 
 
 His face gone as white as a sheet; 
 " Lotty, get me a copper on these, lass ! 
 
 And hurry up ! quick ! or I'm done ! 
 , The ' Pawns ' will be shut in a minute, 
 
 And to get you in time, lass, I've run!" 
 
 And he handed poor Lotty her wee boots, — 
 
 The only good pair she had got ; 
 " Oh, father, the Sunday School Soiree, 
 
 Next week ! " and she smiled at the thought. 
 " Curse the Sunday School Soiree ! Be quick, child ! 
 
 Run run the whole way all your might; 
 I must have more drink, or, God help me, 
 
 The river will have me to-night ! " 
 
 " Hush, father! don't speak so ! I'll go ! yes, 
 
 I'll run as I ne'er ran before,, 
 Though weak with a touch of the fever — " 
 
 "Off! make yourself scarce! out the door!" 
 So the poor child — ill-clad and sore ailing, 
 
 Slow dying of want and despair — 
 Ran out on the .cold snows barefooted, 
 
 Death-pierced by the cutting night-air. 
 
 But Lotty ran hard with the " off 'ring," 
 
 As hard and as fast as she could, 
 Till checked by a sudden exhaustion; 
 
 Then — slozvly her way she pursued. 
 Weak and fainting at heart she crept onward, 
 
 Holding on by the wall as she went; 
 'A strange blinding mist o'er her eyesight, 
 
 And fear in her heart, weak and spent, 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 41 
 
 Till, reaching the pawn-shop's dark threshold, 
 
 The strong door was slammed in her face, 
 With a " Come back to-morrow, young slow-coach ; 
 
 We don't 'low five minutes of grace ! " 
 So, Lotty, struck dumb with chill terror, 
 
 Crept back to her father's abode, 
 Sinking down in his presence, exhausted, 
 
 As if crushed by a terrible load. 
 
 " Where's the money, the money ? oh, curse you ! 
 
 These boots ! you have hung back till late ! " 
 " Nay, father, I ran without stopping, 
 
 Till my breath felt crushed under a weight; 
 My boots, I'd have pledged them to serve you, 
 
 But just as I reached the ' Pawn ' door, 
 'Twas shut in my face " " You lie, Lotty ! 
 
 Take that!" — and she swooned on the floor. 
 
 Yes, he lifted his clenched fist and struck her,- — 
 
 Struck down the sweet child of his love ! 
 For he loved her — but loved the gin better ! 
 
 And the angels wept sorrow above; 
 Remorse in his heart, he bent downward, 
 
 And tenderly lifted the child; 
 Then placed her upon her straw pallet 
 
 And well-nigh with anguish went wild. 
 
 " Oh, you won't die, sweet Lotty ! — speak ! — say so ! 
 
 And he wiped the warm blood from her face, 
 " I was mad, worse than mad, when I struck you, 
 
 A wretch undeserving of grace. 
 Oh, speak, Lotty ! — speak ! I'm your father ! 
 
 Sin-bruised both without and within : 
 It wasn't your father who struck you, 
 
 'Twas the demon that's bom of gin!" 
 
42 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 As beauty and peace are prefigured, 
 
 When God's love has rainbowed the sky, 
 A smile lighted up Lotty's features, 
 
 An Iris let down from on high: 
 " No, father, 'twas not you that struck me, 
 
 I know it; 'twas just the bad drink; 
 God will take these, your tears, as repentance, 
 
 And strike off your chains, link by link. 
 
 " To be with you, and comfort you, father, 
 
 I fain for a lifetime would stay; 
 But, just now, do you know, I saw mother, 
 
 And — I feel that I'm going away. 
 Have you not one sweet word for her, father? 
 
 I should like so to speak of you fair ; 
 Just one dear word of grace from your own lips, 
 
 A message of love to take there ? " 
 
 " Lotty, tell her I've signed it ! — yes, signed it !- 
 
 The ' Pledge ' she oft spoke of while here ; 
 With my heart's anguished blood it is written, 
 
 Though the trace of it mayn't appear. 
 Tell her, Lotty, I'll join her in heaven, 
 
 God-willing — for yours and her sake; 
 That's my one word of love to your mother, 
 
 The message of peace you will take." 
 
 A smile lit the wan face of Lotty, 
 
 A smile that was not of this earth, 
 For long ere the break of the morning, 
 
 She passed to her heavenly birth. 
 And Jack, poor dear fellow, he lives yet, 
 
 Though sober and sad-like of face; 
 And he hopes a reunion in heaven, 
 
 Where he sent Lotty's message of grace. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 43 
 
 Mary Ellen Attends a School of Elocution. 
 
 M 
 
 <Bp MARY S. HOPKINS. 
 
 ARY ELLEN, me daughter, is as foine a gerrel as yez could 
 foind in all the burrers av New York, not to be talkin' av 
 Hoboken and the unmixed disthrics, barrin' the airs she do be 
 a-pittan an, and the call she hov av mixin' in wid phat is none av 
 her business. Wid her Female Sufferers club, her electrocution 
 colleges, where she learned to trun herself around and shout herself 
 hoarse . over something she knows as little about as her brother 
 Danny does when he hollers for free trade — thinkin', no doubt, that 
 he can get aff widout payin' phat he owes at the corner groceray. 
 An Mary Ellen a-yellin' about a beggar that had lost his mind an' 
 she a-wantin' some wan to "Pay, pay, pay/'' "Pay phat?" sez 
 Oi, when she was goin' 'round the house a-practoysin'. " Sure it's 
 as much as any honest man or woman can do these days to pay 
 their own debts," sez Oi. " Well, mother," sez she, " ye don't 
 understand. This is a call for the English paple to take care of 
 the English soldiers' families phile they be fightin' the Bores," sez 
 she, " down in South Africa," sez she. " An' they hov all lost their 
 moinds?" sez Oi. "Well, it's no wonder," sez Oi, "an' it's too 
 bad," sez Oi. " Wudn't it be a payin' job," sez Oi, " to shut them 
 up in a lunatic asoylum," sez Oi, " an' if they want to bate out 
 their inimies (which the Lord forbid they do!) sind down some min 
 that can take their moinds wid thim an' settle the row. But will 
 ye be good enough to tell me, me gerrel, phat a full-blooded 
 American lady loike yoursilf hov to do wid it? A foine thing, 
 indade, for a daughter av Michael O 'Grady that's voted the Dim- 
 meycrat ticket since the day he landed to be stanin' in front av 
 the paple askin' pay for English fighters that are absent moinded or 
 any other moinded, or their kids ayther. Ye'd betther be lavin' 
 sooch work to the illegant ladies that cooms over here and gets up 
 tay-parties and pulls the legs av the pathrits. Git along with sooch 
 nonsense ! Whin yez get toired Oi suppose yez'll sthop," sez Oi. 
 An' wid that she tuk hersilf aff — a-bangin' the dure behind her. 
 Was Oi tellin' ye the way Mary Ellen kem to make sooch a fule 
 
44 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 av herself wid her school av oratorio airs? She'd been talkin' for 
 a long time about a man she called Mr. Delsthart, or Upsthart — all 
 the same, she was goin' woild over his atheistic jimjamastics, and 
 that she wanted to go to the school and larn to rade. " An' will ye 
 tell me," sez Oi, when she sthopped for breath, " phat ye were 
 doin' when yez war a shlip av a gerrel if yez didn't larn to rade— 
 playin' hookey?" sez Oi. "Oh/' sez she, "that war only plain, 
 straightaway radin' that anywan cud undhersthand," sez she. 
 "Sure Oi wants to learn to rade the way no wan livin' will know 
 phat's it all about," sez she. Wid that Oi tould her to shut up an' 
 go an' find as big a fool as herself to talk wid, and to kape her quoit 
 Oi tould her she could take phat she call a coorse in electrocution. 
 Not very long afther Moichael kem running down the sthairs. 
 " Rin for yer loife, Julia," sez he ; " Mary Ellen hov a fit ! " So up- 
 sthairs Oi goes, and there sthand Mary Ellen in the middle av the 
 flure, shakin' loike she hov the ager. "Oh, Mary Ellen, dear,".Oi 
 croied, " wait till your mother gets to ye ! " " Oh, don't be fright- 
 ened," sez she ; " there's not a haporth the matter wid me," sez she. 
 " Oi'm only dacomposin'." " Well, then, I think that's quoit 
 enough," sez Oi ; " dacomposin' before you're did. Sure if yez 
 want to doy, phy don't yez go to bed and doy like a Christian," sez 
 Oi, "an' not be stannin' there shakin' the finger nails aff ye," sez 
 Oi. An' wid that she begin sthritchin' herself as if she'd shlept for 
 a wake, then she bind herself over double, like a pace av an ould 
 carpet thrun over the back fince. " An' now will yez tell me," sez 
 Oi, "phat is the manin' av all this?" sez Oi. "Oh," sez Mary 
 Ellen, " thims me exercoises," sez she. " Well, now," sez Oi, " it 
 would be far more to your credit," sez Oi, " if yez be in nade av 
 exercoise to go down sthairs and foind it over the washtub," sez 
 Oi, " an' not be lavin' your poor ould mother smash her bones," 
 sez Oi. 
 
 But the gerrels is good for nothin' at all nowadays but thram- 
 pooshin' the sthreets wid bandy-legged jude boys wid a jack-in-the- 
 pot rose in their coats, the toime av day in their pockets an' very 
 little else. And then she begin drawin' an the wursht lookin' moog 
 Oi iver laid me two eyes an, an' she sthannin' in front av the lookin'- 
 glass. " Don't do that agin/' sez Oi ; " don't do that agin ! " 
 
' AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 45 
 
 " Thot's phat Oi'm larnin' at the school av expressin'," sez she. 
 " Well, ye'd betther sthop that," sez Oi, " or they'll very soon be 
 expressin' you," sez Oi, " to Mr. Bloomindale's asoylum," sez Oi, 
 " phere ye'll not be at all lonely for want av paple makin' oop the 
 same koind av faces." 
 
 The Three Fishers* 
 
 <By CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 THREE fishers went sailing out into the West — 
 Out into the West as the sun went down- 
 Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, 
 
 And the children stood watching them out of the town; 
 For men must work and women must weep, 
 And there's little to earn, and many to keep, 
 Though the harbor bar be moaning:. 
 
 Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, 
 
 And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; 
 
 And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, 
 And the night rack came rolling up, ragged and brown ; 
 
 But men must work, and women must weep, 
 
 Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
 And the harbor bar be moaning-. 
 
 Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
 In the morning gleam, as the tide went down, 
 
 And the women are watching and wringing their hands 
 For those who will never come back to the town; 
 
 For men must work, and women must weep — 
 
 And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep — 
 And good-by to the bar and its moaning. 
 
46 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 How 'Bateese Came Home* 
 
 By WILLIAM HENRY VRUMMOND, MJD. 
 
 W'EN I was a young boy on de farm, dat's twenty year ago 
 I have wan frien' he's leev near me, call Jean Bateese 
 Trudeau 
 An offen w'en we are alone, we lak for spik about 
 De tarn w'en we was come beeg man, wit' moustache on our mout'. 
 
 Bateese is get it on hees head, he's too moche educate 
 
 For mak' de habitant farmerre — he better go on State — ■ 
 
 An' so wan summer evening we 're drivin' home de cow 
 
 He's tole me all de whole beez-nesse — jus' lak you hear me now. 
 
 " Wat's use mak' foolish on de farm ? dere's no good chances lef ' 
 An' all de tarn you be poor man — you know dat's true you'se'l ; 
 We never get no fun at all — don't never go on spree 
 Onless we pass on 'noder place, an' mak' it some monee. 
 
 "I go on Les Etats Unis, I go dere right away 
 
 An' den mebber on ten-twelve year, I be riche man some day, 
 
 An' w'en I mak' de large fortune, I come back I s'pose 
 
 Wit' Yankee famme from off de State, an' monee on my clothes. 
 
 " I tole you somet'ing else also — mon cher Napoleon 
 
 I get de grande majorite, for go on parliament 
 
 Den buil' fine house on borde l'eau — near w'ere de church is stand 
 
 More finer dan de Presbytere, w'en I am come riche man ! " 
 
 I say, " For w'at you spik lak dat ? you must be gone crazee 
 Dere's plaintee feller on de State, more smarter dan you be. 
 Beside she's not so healtee place, an' if you mak' l'argent, 
 You spen' it jus' lak Yankee man, an' not lak habitant. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 47 
 
 " For me Bateese ! I tole you dis ; I'm very satisfy — 
 De bes' man don't live too long tarn, some day, ba Gosh ! he die — 
 An' s'pose you got good trotter horse, an' nice famme Canadienne 
 Wit' plaintee on de house for eat — w'at more you want, ma frien' ? " 
 
 But Bateese have it all mak' up, I can't stop him at all 
 He's buy de seconde classe tiquette, for gon on Central Fall — 
 An' wit' two-t'ree some more de boy, — w'at tink de sam' he do 
 Pass on de train de very nex' wick, was lef Riviere du Loup. 
 
 Wall ! mebbe fifteen year or more, since Bateese go away 
 I fin' myself, Riviere du Loup, wan cole, cole winter day 
 De quick express she come hooraw ! but stop de soon she can 
 An' beeg swell feller jomp off car, dat's boss by nigger man. 
 
 He's dressim on de premiere classe, an' got new suit of clothes 
 Wit' long moustache dat stickim out, de 'noder side hees nose 
 Fine gol' watch chain — nice portmanteau — an' long, long overcoat 
 Wit' beaver hat — dat's Yankee style — an' red tie on hees t'roat — 
 
 I say, " Hello Bateese ! Hello ! Comment 9a va mon vieux ? " 
 He say, " Excuse to me, ma frien', I t'ink I don't know you." 
 1 say, " She's very curis t'ing, you are Bateese Trudeau, 
 Was raise on jus' sam' place wit' me, dat's fifteen year ago? " 
 
 He say, " Oh, yass, dat's sure enough — I know you now firs' rate, 
 But I forgot mos' all ma French since I go on de State. 
 Dere's 'noder t'ing kip on your head, ma frien' dey mus' be tole 
 Ma name's Bateese Trudeau no more, but John B. Waterhole ! " 
 
 " Hole on de water's " fonny name for man w'at's call Trudeau, 
 Ma frien's dey all was spik lak dat, an' I am tole heem so — 
 He say, " Trudeau an' Waterhole she's jus' about de sam' 
 An' if you go for leev on State, you must have Yankee nam'." 
 
 Den we invite heem come wit' us, " Hotel du Canadaw " 
 Were he was treat mos' ev'ry tarn, but can't tak' w'isky blanc, 
 
48 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 He say dat's leetle strong for man jus' come off Central Fall, 
 An' " tobac Canayen " bedamme! he won't smoke dat at all! — 
 
 But fancy drink lak " Collings John " de way he put it down 
 Was long tarn since I don't see dat — I t'ink he's going drown ! 
 An' fine cigars cos' five cent each, an' mak' on Trois-Rivieres, 
 L'enfant ! He smoke beeg pile of dem — for monee he don't care !- 
 
 I s'pose meself it's t'ree o'clock w'en are t'roo dat night 
 Bateese, hees fader come for heem, an' tak' heem home all right 
 De ole man say Bateese spik French; w'en he is place on bed — 
 An' say bad word — but w'en he wake — forget it on hees head — 
 
 Wall ! all de winter w'en we have soiree dat's grande affaire 
 Bateese Trudeau, dit Waterhole, he be de boss man dere — 
 You bet he have beeg tam, but w'en de spring is come encore 
 He's buy de premiere classe tiquette for go on State some more. 
 
 You 'member w'en de hard tam come on Les Etats Unis 
 An' plaintee Canayens go back for stay deir own countree? 
 Wall ! jus' about dat tam again I go Riviere du Loup 
 For sole me two-t'ree load of hay — mak' leetle visit too — 
 
 De freight train she is jus' arrive — only ten hour delay — 
 She never carry passengaire — dat's w'at dey always say — 
 I see poor man on char caboose— he's got heem small valise 
 Begosh ! I nearly tak' de fit. It is — it is Bateese ! 
 
 He knew me very well dis tam, an' say, " Bon jour, mon vieux 
 I hope you know Bateese Trudeau was educate wit' you 
 I'm jus' come off de State to see ma familee encore 
 I bus' mesef on Central Fall — I don't go dere no more. 
 
 " I got no monee — not at all — I'm broke it up for sure — 
 Dat's locky t'ing, Napoleou, de brakeman Joe Latour 
 He's cousin of wan frien' of me call Camille Valiquette, 
 Conductor too's good Canayen — don't ax me no tiquette." 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 49 
 
 I tak' Bateese wit' me once more " Hotel du Canadaw " 
 An' he was glad for get de chance drink some good w'isky blanc ! 
 Dat's warm heem up' an' den he eat mos' ev'ryt'ing he see, 
 I watch de w'ole beez-nesse mese'f — Monjee! he was hongree! 
 
 Madame Charette wat's kip de place get very much excite 
 For see de many pork an' bean Bateese put out of sight 
 Du pain dore' — potato pie — an' noder t'ing be dere 
 But w'en Bateese is get heem t'roo — dey go I don't know w'ere. 
 
 It don't tak' long for tole de news " Bateese come off de State " 
 An' purty soon we have beeg crowd lak village she's en fete 
 Bonhomme Maxime Trudeau hese'f, he's comin' wit' de pries' 
 An' pass heem on de " Room for eat " w'ere he is see Bateese. 
 
 Den ev'rybody feel it glad, for watch the embrasser 
 
 An' bimeby de ole man spik " Bateese you here for stay ? " 
 
 Bateese he's cry lak beeg bebe, " Ba j'eux rester ici. 
 
 An' if I never see de State, I'm sure I don't care me." 
 
 " Correc'," Maxime is say right off, " I place you on de farm 
 For help your poor old fader, won't do you too moche harm, 
 Please come wit' me on Magasin, I feex you up — ba oui 
 An' den you ready for go home an' see de familee." 
 
 Wall ! w'en de ole man an' Bateese come off de Magasin 
 Bateese is los' hees Yankee clothes — he's dress lak Canayan 
 Wit' bottes sauvages — ceinture fleche— an' coat wit' capuchon 
 An' spik Frangais au naturel, de sam' as habitant. 
 
 ^c sfc ^ ;■: jjc ^c J-: 
 
 I see Bateese de oder day, hee's work hees fader's place 
 I t'ink mese'd he's satisfy — i see dat on heese face 
 'He say " I got no use for State, mon cher Napoleon 
 Kebeck she's good enough for me — Hooraw pour Canadaw ! °* 
 
50 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Advantages of Adversity to the Pilgrim 
 
 Fathers* 
 
 By EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 IT is a principle amply borne out by the history of the great and 
 powerful nations of the earth, and by that of none more than 
 the country of which we speak, that the best fruits and choicest 
 action of the commendable qualities of the national character are 
 to be found on the side of the oppressed few, and not of the tri- 
 umphant many. Never was this truth more clearly illustrated than 
 in the settlement of New England. 
 
 Could a common calculation of policy have dictated the terms 
 of that settlement, no doubt our foundations would have been laid 
 beneath the royal smile. Convoys and navies would have been 
 solicited to waft our fathers to the coast; armies, to defend the 
 infant communities; and the patronage of princes and great men, 
 to defend their interests in the councils of the mother country. 
 Happy, that our fathers enjoyed no such patronage; happy, that 
 our foundations were silently and deeply cast in quiet insignificance, 
 beneath a charter of banishment, persecution, and contempt; so 
 that, when the royal arm was at length outstretched- against us, 
 instead of a submissive child, tied down by former graces, it found 
 a youthful giant in the land, born among hardships, and nourished 
 on the rocks, indebted for no favors, and owing no duty. 
 
 From the dark portals of the star chamber, and in the stern 
 text of the acts of uniformity, the Pilgrims received a commission 
 more efficient than any that ever bore the royal seal. Their ban- 
 ishment to Holland was fortunate ; the decline of their little com- 
 pany in the strange land was fortunate; the difficulties which 1;hey 
 experienced in getting the royal consent to banish themselves to 
 this wilderness were fortunate ; all the tears and heart-breakings of 
 that ever-memorable parting at Delfthaven had the happiest in- 
 fluence on the rising destinies of New England. These rough touches 
 of fortune brushed off the light, uncertain, selfish spirits. 
 
 One is touched at the story of the long, cold, and dangerous 
 autumnal passage ; of the landing on the inhospitable rocks at this 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 51 
 
 dismal season; where they are deserted before long by the ship 
 which had brought them, and which seemed their only hold upon 
 the world of fellow-men — a prey to the elements and to want, and 
 fearfully ignorant of the power and the temper of the savage tribes 
 that filled the unexplored continent upon whose verge they had ven- 
 tured. But all this wrought together for good. 
 
 These trials of wandering and exile, of the ocean, the winter, 
 the wilderness, and the savage foe, were the final assurance of 
 success. They kept far away from the enterprise all patrician soft- 
 ness, all hereditary claims to preeminence. No effeminate nobility 
 crowded into the dark and austere ranks of the Pilgrims. No Carr 
 nor Villiers desired to conduct the ill-provided band of despised 
 Puritans. No well-endowed clergy were desirous to quit their 
 cathedrals, and set up a splendid hierarchy in the frozen wilder- 
 ness. No craving governors were anxious to be sent over to our 
 cheerless El Dorados of ice and of snow. 
 
 Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, 
 the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of 
 a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pur- 
 suing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. 
 Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter sur- 
 prises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished- 
 for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, 
 crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed 
 by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now, driven in fury 
 before the raging tempest, in their scarcely seaworthy vessel. 
 
 The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging. The 
 laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of 
 the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, as it were, madly from billow to 
 billow ; the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the 
 floating deck, and beats with deadening weight against the stag- 
 gered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their 
 all but desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after five months' 
 passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, weak and exhausted 
 from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without 
 shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. 
 
 Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle 
 
52 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of ad- 
 venturers. Tell me, man of military science, in how many months 
 were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated 
 within the boundaries of New England? Tell me, politician, how 
 long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and 
 treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of 
 history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settle- 
 ments, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the par- 
 allel of this. 
 
 Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of 
 women and children? Was it hard labor and spare meals? Was 
 it disease? Was it the tomahawk? Was it the deep malady of a 
 blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching in 
 its last moments at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond 
 the sea? — was it some or all of these united that hurried this for- 
 saken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that 
 neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast 
 this bud of hope? Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so 
 frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there have 
 gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, a reality 
 so important, a promise yet to be fulfilled so glorious? 
 
 The Dream-Ship* 
 
 By EUGENE FIELD. 
 
 WHEN the world is fast asleep, 
 Along the midnight skies — 
 As though it were a wandering cloud — 
 The ghostly dream-ship flies. 
 
 ) 
 An angel stands at the dream-ship's helm, 
 
 An angel stands at the prow, 
 And an angel stands at the dream-ship's side 
 With a rue-wreath on her brow. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 53 
 
 The other angels, silver-crowned, 
 
 Pilot and helmsman are, 
 And the angel with the wreath of rue 
 
 Tosseth the dreams afar. 
 
 The dreams they fall on rich and poor ; 
 
 They fall on young and old; 
 And some are dreams of poverty, 
 
 And some are dreams of gold. 
 
 And some are dreams that thrill with joy, 
 
 And some that melt to tears ; 
 Some are dreams of the dawn of love, 
 
 And some of the old dead years. 
 
 On rich and poor alike they fall 
 
 Alike on young and old, 
 Bringing' to slumbering earth their joys 
 
 And sorrows manifold. 
 
 The friendless youth in them shall do 
 
 The deeds of mighty men, 
 And drooping age shall feel the grace 
 
 Of buoyant youth again. / 
 
 The king shall be a beggarman — 
 
 The pauper be a king — ■ 
 In that revenge or recompense 
 
 The dream-ship dreams to bring. 
 
 So ever downward float the dreams 
 
 That are for all and me, 
 And there is never mortal man, 
 
 Can solve that mystery. 
 
 But ever onward in its course 
 Alone: the haunted skies — 
 
54 WERNER'S READINGS ' 
 
 As though it. were a cloud astray — 
 The ghostly dream-ship files. 
 
 Two angels with their silver crowns 
 Pilot and helmsman are, 
 
 And an angel with a wreath of rue 
 Tosseth the dreams afar. 
 
 When Pa Takes Care of Me. 
 
 By FRANCIS C. WILLIAMS. 
 
 WHEN Pa takes care of me, 
 He says to Ma, " By Jing! 
 It seems that everything 
 Comes on me when I've got the most to do, 
 But I suppose I've got to get it through 
 With ; so you needn't fuss one bit about 
 Him; I'll take charge of him while you are out." 
 But Ma makes him repeat all she has said 
 About what he's to do ; guess she's afraid 
 To let him try his way 
 Of watching me, the day 
 When Pa takes care of me. 
 
 When Pa takes care of me, 
 
 He puts me on a rug, 
 
 Gives me a kiss and hug, 
 
 Then brings in every pillow he can find, 
 
 And piles them up in front, at sides, behind 
 
 Me : " So that you can't hurt yourself," he says. 
 
 And then he gets my picture-books, and lays 
 
 Them down beside me, and my blocks and toys, 
 
 And says : " Now, go ahead ; make all the noise 
 
 You want to; I don't care." 
 
 And I sit there and stare, 
 
 When Pa takes care of me. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 55 
 
 When Pa takes care of me, 
 
 No book or toy or game 
 
 Seems, somehow, just the same. 
 
 And, by and by, I'm through with every one, 
 
 And when I cry, Pa says, " Have you begun 
 
 Already? What's the matter, anyway? 
 
 There's everything you own! Why don't you play? 
 
 Stop crying now! You won't? Well, what is wrong? 
 
 Come now ! I'll sing." And then he starts some song 
 
 About " Bye, Baby Bye ! " 
 
 And I lie flat and cry, 
 
 When Pa takes care of me. 
 
 When Pa takes care of me, 
 
 He grabs me up at last, 
 
 And starts to walk, real fast, 
 
 And talks to me, and pats my back, and tries 
 
 To act as if he liked it; but he sighs, 
 
 And sighs, and keeps a-lookin' at the clock, 
 
 And out of the window, up and down the block, 
 
 For sight of Ma ; and when she does come in, 
 
 She grabs me quick, and says, " It is a sin ! " 
 
 And Pa looks mad, and — I — 
 
 I'm glad the time's gone by 
 
 When Pa takes care of me. 
 
 Rejoicing upon the New Years Coming 
 
 of Age* 
 
 <By CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 THE Old Year being dead, and the New Year coming of age, 
 which he does, by calendar law as soon as the breath is out 
 of the old gentleman's body, nothing would serve the young spark 
 but he must give a dinner upon the occasion, to which all the Days 
 in the year were invited. The Festivals, whom he deputed as 
 
56 t WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 stewards, were mightily taken with the notion. They had been 
 engaged time out of mind, they said, in providing mirth and good 
 cheer for mortals below, and it was time they should have a taste 
 of their own bounty. 
 
 It was stiffly debated among them whether the Facts should be 
 admitted. Some said the appearance of' such lean, starved guests, 
 with their mortified faces, would pervert the ends of the meeting. 
 But the objection was overruled by Christmas Day, who had a 
 design upon Ash Wednesday (as you shall hear), and a mighty 
 desire to see how the old Dominie would behave himself in his 
 cups. Only the Vigils were requested to come with their lanterns 
 to light the gentlefolk home at night. 
 
 All the Days came. Covers were laid for three hundred and 
 sixty-five guests at the principal table ; with an occasional knife 
 and fork at the sideboard for the Twenty-Ninth of February. 
 
 Cards of invitation had been issued. The carriers were the 
 Hours ; twelve little merry whirligig foot pages that went round 
 and found out the persons invited, with the exception of Easter 
 Day, Shrove Tuesday, and a few such movables, who had lately 
 shifted their quarters. 
 
 Well, they all met at last, foul Days, fine Days, all sorts of 
 Days, and a rare din they made of it. There was nothing but " Hail, 
 fellow Day ! well met ! " only Lady Day seemed a little scornfuL 
 Yet some said Twelfth Day cut her out, for she came all royal and 
 glittering and Epiphanous. The rest came in green, some in white, 
 but Old Lent and his family were not yet out of mourning. Rainy 
 Days came in dripping, and Sunshiny Days laughing. Wedding 
 Day was there in marriage finery. Pay Day came late, and Dooms- 
 day sent word he might be expected. 
 
 April Fool took upon himself to marshal the guests, and May 
 Day, with that sweetness peculiar to her, proposed the health of 
 the host. This being done, the lordly New Year from the upper 
 end of the table returned thanks. Ash Wednesday, being now called 
 upon for a song - , struck up a carol, which Christmas Day had taught 
 him. Shrovetide, Lord Mayor's Day, and April Fool next joined 
 in a glee, in which all the Days, chiming in, made a merry burden. 
 
 All this while Valentine's Day kept courting pretty May, who 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 57 
 
 sat next him, slipping amorous billet-doux under the table till the 
 Dog Days began to be jealous and to bark and rage exceedingly. 
 At last the Days called for their cloaks and great-coats, and 
 took their leaves. Shortest Day went off in a deep black fog that 
 wrapped the little gentleman all round. Two Vigils — so watchmen 
 are called in Heaven — saw Christmas Day safe home ; they had 
 been used to the business before. Another Vigil — a stout, sturdy 
 patrol, called the Eve of St. Christopher — seeing Ash Wednesday 
 in a condition little better than he should be, e'en whipt him over 
 his shoulders, pick-a-pack fashion, and he went floating home sing- 
 ing: 
 
 ".On the bat's back do I fly," 
 
 and a number of old snatches besides. Longest Day set off west- 
 ward in beautiful crimson and gold; the rest, some in one fashion, 
 some in another ; but Valentine and pretty May took their departure 
 together in one of the prettiest silvery twilights a Lover's Day 
 could wish to set in. 
 
 c/L Y/altz- Quadrille. 
 
 <Sy ELLA WHEELE% WILCOX. 
 
 THE band was playing a waltz-quadrille; 
 I felt as light as a wind-blown feather 
 As we floated away at the caller's will 
 
 Through die intricate mazy dance together. 
 Like mimic armies our lines were meeting,. 
 Slowly advancing, and then retreating, 
 
 All decked in their bright array ; 
 And back and forth to the music's rhyme 
 We moved together, and all the time 
 
 I knew you were going away. 
 
53 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 The fold of your strong arm sent a thrill 
 
 From heart to brain as we gently glided, 
 Like leaves, on the wave of that waltz-quadrille, 
 
 Parted, met, and again divided — 
 You drifting one way, and I another; 
 Then suddenly turning and facing each other ; 
 
 Then off in the blithe chassee; 
 Then airily back to our places swaying, 
 While every beat of the music seemed saying 
 
 That you were going away. 
 
 I said to my heart : " Let us take our fill 
 
 Of mirth, and music, and love, and laughter; 
 For it all must end with this waltz-quadrille,. 
 
 And life will be never the same life after. 
 Oh, that the caller might go on calling, 
 Oh, that the music might go on falling 
 
 Like a shower of silver spray, 
 While we whirled on to the vast Forever^ 
 Where no heart breaks, and no ties sever, 
 
 And no one goes away." 
 
 A clamor, a crash, and the band was still — 
 
 'Twas the end of the dream and the end of the measure * 7 
 The last low notes of that waltz-quadrille, 
 
 Seemed like a dirge o'er the death of Pleasure. 
 You said good-night, and the spell was over — 
 Too warm for a friend, and too cold for a lover — 
 
 There was nothing else to say; 
 But the lights looked dim, and the dancers weary, 
 And the music was sad, and the hall was dreary, 
 
 After you went away. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 59 
 
 44 Death Has Crowned Him as a Martyr/' 
 
 <By ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 
 
 IN the midst of sunny waters, lo ! the mighty Ship of State 
 Staggers, bruised and torn and wounded by a derelict of fate, 
 One that drifted from its moorings, in the anchorage of hate. 
 
 On the deck our noble Pilot, in the glory of his prime, 
 Lies in wo-impelling silence, dead before his hour or time, 
 Victim of a mind self-centred, a godless fool of crime. 
 
 One of earth's dissension-breeders, one of Hate's unreasoning tools, 
 In the annals of the ages, when the world's hot anger cools, 
 He who sought for crime's distinction shall be known as Chief 
 of Fools. 
 
 In the annals of the ages, he who had no thought of fame 
 (Keeping on the path of duty, caring not for praise or blame), 
 Close beside the deathless Lincoln, writ in light, will shine his name. 
 
 Youth proclaimed him as a hero ; Time, a statesman ; Love, a man. 
 Death has crowned him as a martyr, so from goal to goal he ran, 
 Knowing all the sum of glory that a human life may span. 
 
 He was chosen by the people ; not an accident of birth 
 Made him ruler of a nation, but his own intrinsic worth. 
 Fools may govern over kingdoms — not republics of the earth. 
 
 He has raised the lover's standard, by his loyalty and faith. 
 
 He has shown how virile manhood may keep free from Scandal's 
 
 breath. 
 He has gazed, with trust unshaken, in the awful eyes of death. 
 
 In the mighty march of progress he has sought to do his best. 
 
 Let his enemies be silent, as we lay him down to rest, 
 
 And may God assuage the anguish of one suffering woman's breast. 
 
DO WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Lecture Recital: Ella Wheeler Wilcox* 
 
 By GRACE C B. FAXON. 
 
 IF I were asked my favorite poet among living American women 
 I should unhesitatingly answer, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, and I 
 fancy a great many persons similarly placed would similarly reply. 
 I shall not here address myself to the task of trying to settle the 
 much-vexed question as to Mrs. Wilcox's rank among poets. The 
 most varied and mutually exclusive opinions are held and confi- 
 dently expressed concerning her. Be her place where it may, few 
 persons will deny that Ella Wheeler Wilcox to-day holds, in what 
 may be fairly called, the prime of her womanhood, a scepter and an 
 influence unequal^d by any other living poet. 
 
 Her popularity was not reached in a bound. Day by day, 
 week by week, year by year her mastery of the pen has grown in 
 completeness until now a legion of admirers bow before the power 
 of its stroke. 
 
 Ella Wheeler wrote poetry as naturally as a bird sings. The 
 
 poetical impulse and instinct was born within her and could not be 
 
 crushed out by even her inauspicious surroundings. She says of 
 
 her early home, a humble cottage in the small town of Windsor, 
 
 three miles from Madison, Wisconsin : 
 
 "This is the place that I love the best: 
 A little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest, 
 Hid among grasses and vines and trees, 
 Summer retreat of the birds and bees. 
 
 "The tenderest light that ever was seen, 
 Sifts through the vine-made window screen — 
 Sifts and quivers and flits and falls 
 On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls." 
 
 Again her childhood is referred to in "The Room Beneath the 
 Rafters." 
 
 {Recite "The Room Beneath the Rafters.") 
 
 Ella began to write at the absurd age of eight. She tells the 
 
 story that she and an older sister, the latter very pretty and a great 
 
 belle, were invited to a party. It was Ella's first real party and she 
 
 was greatly interested in it. The pretty dresses, flowers, etc., made 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 61 
 
 an impression on her. During the evening she observed that sev- 
 eral of the young men became jealous of her sister, and she over- 
 heard some conversation on the subject. This impressed her youth- 
 ful mind so strongly that she could not forget it. In the garden that 
 surrounded her home were many old-fashioned flowers — holly- 
 hocks, four-o'clocks, larkspur, and a host of favorites. The idea 
 occurred to her to write out the events of the party, using the flowers 
 for persons. So she did. This was her first attempt. The book 
 was in chapters like a regular novel. For many years she kept it, 
 but in moving it got lost. Several months later, when she was 
 nearly nine, she wrote her second book, which is also a novel of 
 most thrilling description. She had not learned to write when she 
 started it, so the opening chapters are printed in child script. But 
 her brother insisted that if she were going to be an author she 
 should learn to write ; so the last part of the book contains her very 
 first efforts at penmanship. Noting that all books were bound in 
 some fashion, she surreptitiously tore paper off the kitchen wall for 
 covers. The wall had been papered by the family and consequently 
 the thick home-made paste clung to the bits of blue paper. Never- 
 theless she used it, and has the book to-day — a valued memento not 
 only of her first literary efforts, but also of the dear old home life. 
 
 At fourteen her pieces were accepted by the papers and brought 
 remuneration, and by the time she was eighteen she was clothing 
 herself and helping to furnish and brighten up the sparely deco- 
 rated little home. Not many years ago a publication requesting 
 American women of letters to write on the happiest event of their 
 girlhood, brought forth an article from Mrs. Wilcox from which 
 an extract is here quoted : 
 
 "I began to write verse and prose at a somewhat immature age, 
 but financial returns for these juvenile effusions did not enter the 
 mind of the author or her family as a possible event. At fourteen 
 I left the district school. A family conclave was held some time 
 after this, and it was decided that I must be sent away to school. 
 I returned at the end of three months, tearful and troubled. I had 
 learned nothing save my own deficiencies and the impossibility of a 
 happy life at boarding-school with an insufficient wardrobe. 
 
 "The only lasting impression made on my mind by my school ex- 
 
62 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 perience was a longing for pretty gowns and a desire for pleasure. 
 I knew my family had been obliged to make many sacrifices to send 
 me to school, and I begged those sacrifices to cease, and was al- 
 lowed to remain at home. But 'What shall we do with her?' became 
 more and more the question in the family. A girl who lives on a 
 prairie, twelve miles from nowhere, who dislikes school and does 
 not know the multiplication table, and has no money or practical 
 knowledge of any kind, yet with an enormous vitality and an imag- 
 ination more powerful than a four-horse team may well cause her 
 family some concern of mind. 
 
 "I was somewhere past sixteen years old when my best girl 
 friend asked me to be her bridesmaid. I had never filled such an 
 office, and the thought thrilled me beyond expression. The bride 
 was to wear pearl gray, and she said my dress must be a shade 
 darker only than hers. I talked it over with my mother, who had 
 long ago given up all ideas of procuring anything herself, but who 
 could not so easily resign herself to my lack of wardrobe and pleas- 
 ure. Ill luck and misfortune had attended the family ventures that 
 year. I lay awake in the night and saw my dream of pleasure, the 
 one pleasure of the season offered me, vanish in the darkness of 
 disappointment. 
 
 "In the meantime I was busy with my beloved writing., I sent 
 out stories, poems and essays by every mail, to every periodical 
 whose address I could obtain. And one bright morning, just as I 
 had relinquished all hope of the pearl gray gown, the 'happiest 
 event in my girlhood' occurred. The Chimney Corner sent me a 
 check of $10 in payment for three poems. I used the check to 
 buy my pearl gray gown, which I had longed for as I have longed 
 for only a few things since. 
 
 "And when the wedding occurred, I think the bridesmaid was 
 the happiest person present, not excepting even bride and groom. 
 Not only was the pearl gray gown a joy for that one occasion, but 
 its purchase answered for all time the vexed question of 'What will 
 become of Ella?' " 
 
 When a young girl Ella Wheeler often wrote on the subject of 
 total abstinence and the poems attracted so much attention that they 
 were gathered into a small volume entitled "Drops of Water." The 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 63 
 
 copyright was sold in America for only $50 and for £30 in Eng- 
 land. The book is now extinct, but Mrs. Wilcox's pen is still 
 active on the same theme. An interesting story is related by a 
 gentleman concerning one of the most famous of her temperance 
 poems, "The Two Glasses." Shortly after its publication he was 
 in a New York hotel bar-room when the proprietor of the place 
 called out to an attendant, "Bring me a glass of water and a glass 
 of red wine, please." The attendant wonderingly obeyed. The 
 proprietor placed the glasses side by side on the bar, and, turning 
 to the gentlemen (the relater of this story and friends), he drew 
 from his pocket a printed bit of paper, saying, "Gentlemen, here's 
 one of the finest things I have ever read." He then proceeded to 
 read aloud with much unction "The Two Glasses." 
 {Recite "The Two Glasses.") 
 
 Another stirring temperance poem, used by the elocutionist 
 even more frequently than "The Two Glasses," is "The Sign- 
 Board." 
 
 (Recite "The Sign-Board.") 
 
 The story of how the popular "The Waltz-Quadrille" came to 
 be written is thus told by Mrs. Wilcox in her recently published 
 autobiography : 
 
 "At a Thanksgiving Eve ball I recollect waltzing with a very 
 good-looking young man whom I met there for the first time. The 
 band played a Strauss waltz. As we floated about the hall I thought 
 to myself, Tf I were desperately in love with this man and he cared 
 for some one else, this waltz would sound like a dirge to me.' So 
 the next day I wrote a little poem called 'The Dirge' (which paid for 
 my slippers), which was widely copied. 
 
 " 'The Waltz-Quadrille,' one of my most popular early verses, 
 was similarly conceived. I had promised che quadrille at a com- 
 mencement-ball at Madison University to a man on the eve of a 
 journey, who was unable to find me when the number was called. 
 Although I did not have the pleasure of a dance with him, I wrote 
 the' poem and sent him a copy of it, saying, 'This is the way I 
 should have felt had I been in love with yoit and had I danced the 
 waltz-quadrille with you just before your departure from Madi- 
 son.' " 
 
64 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 {Recite "The Waltz-Quadrille.") 
 Perhaps the most famous of all this great writer's famous works 
 is that philosophical little poem, whose proof of Mrs. Wilcox's au- 
 thorship was established after a much heated controversy — "Soli- 
 tude." 
 
 {Recite "Solitude.") 
 A strong moral purpose exists in many of Mrs. Wilcox's writ- 
 ings. We have considered the temperance subject. A more vigor- 
 ous protest does not exist against society's unmerciful attitude to- 
 ward women whose waywardness is quickly remitted in men, than 
 her poem, "The Two Sinners." 
 
 {Recite "The Two Sinners.") 
 A prominent actress, once of America, but now making her 
 permanent home in London, chose for recitation at a church service 
 Mrs. Wilcox's beautiful poem on the late Queen. That an Ameri- 
 can author's work should be selected in preference to the many 
 eulogies written by the Queen's own subjects cannot be regarded 
 less than a great compliment. Mrs. Wilcox wrote this poem in 
 London, whence she had gone to witness the funeral pageant. 
 {Recite "The Queen's Last Ride") 
 Equally grand is the tribute she has paid our martyred Presi- 
 dent. The nation's sorrow is nobly voiced by this poet-laureate of 
 America in "Death Has Crowned Him as a Martyr." 
 
 {Recite "Death Has Crowned Him as a Martyr") 
 And hand in hand with this last recited poem should go that 
 stirring patriotic piece of hers, "A Plea." Surely no more elo- 
 quent discourse on the restriction of immigration was ever written 
 and its force at this mourning, thoughtful period will be keenly 
 recognized. 
 
 {Recite "A Plea.") 
 Love, the poet's common theme, Mrs. Wilcox treats with a com- 
 bination of exquisite delicacy and tropical richness. She gives a 
 definition of this intangible emotion in the poem, "What Love Is." 
 {Recite "What Love Is.") 
 "My Ships" is another love poem that has won great distinction. 
 
 {Recite "My Ships.") 
 A number of Mrs. Wilcox's poems imbue the inanimate with hu- 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 65 
 
 man passions. A particularly fascinating song belonging to this 
 
 group is "The Birth of the Opal." 
 
 {Recite "The Birth of the Opal") 
 
 Upon her marriage Mrs. Wilcox gladly exchanged her country 
 
 home for a city one. Unlike most poets, she does not care for the 
 
 country. She loves the hum of a busy mart where, as she says : 
 
 "I seem to read humanity's great heart 
 And share its hopes, its pleasures and its pains." 
 
 She wishes even her last resting place to be amid the city's 
 hum, for in "My Grave" she enjoins: 
 
 " . sfi y& ¥ * * * ]pf 
 
 No cemetery engulf me — no lone grot, 
 
 Where the great palpitating world comes not, 
 
 Save when, with heart bowed down, and eyelids wet, 
 
 It pays its last melancholy debt, 
 
 To some outjourneying pilgrim. May my lot 
 
 Be rather to lie in some much-used spot, 
 
 Where human life, with all its noise and fret, 
 
 Throbs on about me." 
 
 As may be inferred, Mrs. Wilcox loves people. In relation with 
 those persons with whom she comes in contact, whether of high 
 or humble station in life, her attitude is that of sympathetic listener, 
 friend and, if need be, reformer. She is keenly interested in every 
 one's personality. Confidences and secrets are invariably entrusted 
 to her, and many of her poems have been made from this unsought 
 material. She inspires force and energy in others from her mere 
 presence. She firmly believes in the power of good over evil, of 
 light over darkness, as shown in her poem, "Whatever Is — Is Best." 
 (Recite "Whatever Is— Is Best.") 
 
 One of the most stately of all Mrs. Wilcox's writings and one 
 that she considers among her best efforts, is "High Noon." 
 (Recite "High Noon.") 
 
 In manner Mrs. Wilcox is animated and charming and looks 
 much younger than her thirty-six years. Her height is medium, 
 she has brown hair tinted with red, and her eyes are blue. She 
 entertains a great deal and exceedingly well. It is good to think 
 of this lovely woman as : 
 
 " * * * one who lives to say 
 My skies have held more gold than gray, 
 And that the glory of the real 
 By far outshines my youth's ideal." 
 
66 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 The First Valentine* 
 
 ST. VALENTINE !" What tender thoughts come wreathed 
 around the honored name 
 Of boyhood's days when first the heart was fired with love's soft, 
 
 holy flame, 
 When timid lovers grasped the chance to breathe their love in 
 
 simple line, 
 And wonder if the darling one would guess who sent the valentine. 
 Among the messages was one far dearer than the rest to me, 
 'Twas written in a childish hand, the* letters fashioned awkwardly, 
 And well I knew from whom it came, that barefoot little sweet- 
 heart true : 
 
 "If yu luv me 
 As i luv yu 
 No nife can cut 
 Our luv in 2." 
 
 A timid little freckled face set 'neath a crown of tangled hair, 
 
 A faded dress of calico o'er feet and ankles brown and bare, 
 
 Two drooping long-lashed eyes of blue, red lips I thought a god 
 
 would kiss ; 
 A tiny, awkward country girl who answered to the name of "Cis." 
 We'd play together at recess and eat our lunch beneath a tree, 
 I'd share my pumpkin pie with her, she'd bread and butter share with 
 
 me, 
 And when that little missive came I seemed to feel those eyes of blue : 
 
 "If yu luv me 
 As i luv yu 
 No nife can cut 
 Our luv in 2." 
 
 Among my love-fraught treasures now are many printed works of 
 
 art, 
 Each calling up a memory of some adventure of the heart, 
 Bright wreaths of vari-colored flowers, sweet cupids poised on 
 
 golden wing, 
 Fair doves of emblematic white, love knots and all that sort of thing. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 67 
 
 On each recurrence of the day I look these hoarded treasures o'er, 
 And one far more than all the rest my aging heart warms to the 
 
 core, 
 The first love message of my life from little sweetheart fond and 
 true: 
 
 "If yu luv me 
 As i luv yu 
 No nife can cut 
 Our luv in 2." 
 
 That child sweetheart is near me yet, the truant locks now streaked 
 
 with gray, 
 The face, once freckled, bears the lines which years relentlessly por- 
 tray, 
 But in the eyes the same blue depth of azure beauty softly lies, 
 And on the face the same sweet smile brings answering sparkles to 
 
 mine eyes. 
 The love-tipped arrow Cupid sent through that first childish valen- 
 tine 
 Yet finds a welcome lodgment in this love-enamored heart of mine, 
 And oft I kiss the hand which penned the lines which time has 
 proven true : 
 
 "If yu luv me 
 As i luv yu 
 No nife can cut 
 Our luv in 2." 
 
 The Boy Kept Step. 
 
 By OPIE ?. READ. 
 
 THE other day, while waiting at a desolate way station in Illi-r 
 nois for a train which seemed to have declared itself against 
 schedule time and human patience, my attention was attracted by a 
 man and a small boy who sat on a bench near the end of the plat- 
 form. The man's face bespoke oppressive weariness, and the e&- 
 
68 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 hausted manner in which he leaned back against the station-house 
 showed that he had been subjected to some great strain. The boy 
 was given to excessive liveliness. lie found a large barrel hoop, 
 and, in turning it around for closer inspection, struck the man on the 
 nose. Then, securing an old oyster can, he filled it with water from 
 a neighboring puddle and poured it on a carpetbag which some one 
 had left on the platform. Then, wiping his hands on his clothes, he 
 approached the man. The man sighed deeply and said: 
 
 "Run along now." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Because I don't want you here. No, I don't want you to put 
 your arms around my neck," he added, when the boy had climbed up 
 on the bench." 
 
 "I want to love you." 
 
 "Well, but you can love me without choking me. Look out, 
 don't you put your muddy feet on me." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I don't want you to, that's why." 
 
 "Will people think you have been playing in the dirt?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why will they?" • ■ 
 
 "Because they will." 
 
 "Why will they will?" 
 
 "Oh, get down and hush. You are sometimes the most foolish 
 child I ever saw." 
 
 "Are you a Anarchist?" the boy asked when he had climbed 
 down, not, however, without wiping his muddy feet on the man's 
 trousers. 
 
 "Of course not." 
 
 "What is a Anarchist?" 
 
 "A man who tries to destroy the law." 
 
 "What law?" 
 
 "The law of the land." 
 
 "What land?" 
 
 "This land* 
 
 "This land right here ?" pointing to the ground. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 69 
 
 "Has this land right here got law?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What is law?" 
 
 "It's a — a — rule of civil — that is — look here, sir, are you going 
 to hush and let me alone?" 
 
 After a short silence. "What is law for?" 
 
 "To make people behave themselves." 
 
 "Can I see the law if I go out there and look on the land?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then how is it the law of the land?" 
 
 "I don't know. Hush." 
 
 "Then how do you know it is the law of the land?" 
 
 "I don't want to box your ears, but I'm afraid that I'll be driven 
 to it." 
 
 "Box my ears because I talk?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And would you box my tongue because I hear?" 
 
 The man sprang to his feet and began to walk up and down the 
 platform. The boy followed, attempting to keep step with him. 
 After a while the man, glancing at his watch, muttered that the su- 
 perintendent of the road ought be hanged. 
 
 "Is he a Anarchist?" the boy asked. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then why ought he to be hanged?" 
 
 "Because he has no regard for the public." 
 
 "What's the public?" 
 
 "The people." 
 
 "Am I the public?" 
 
 The man wheeled around and walked away. The boy kept step 
 with him. The man resumed his seat on the bench. The boy 
 found an old shoe, put it on and began to "scuff" around on the 
 platform, pretending that he was lame. Then, declaring that he was 
 a horse, he began to gallop. The old shoe flew off and struck the 
 man on the head, just as he had taken off his hat to run a handker- 
 chief over the polished surface covering his mine of thought. 
 
 "I didn't go to do it," the boy exclaimed. 
 
 "Come here, sir, and sit down. Come here this instant. Sit 
 
70 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 down here, now, and don't let me hear another word out of you. 
 This is the last time you shall ever go anywhere with me. Do you 
 hear? Hah, do you hear? Why don't you answer me, sir?" 
 
 "Because you said you didn't want to hear another word out of 
 me." 
 
 The man sprang to his feet and began a nervous march up and 
 down the platform. The boy kept step with him. 
 
 Oat Sleighing with Sophia* 
 
 By GEORGE V, HOBART. 
 
 OH! the goin' was delightful — never saw sich slidey snow! 
 It was jus' a white temptation all the time! 
 Everybody seemed a-sleighin' or jus' startin' out to go, 
 
 An' their smiles oi satisfaction was sublime. 
 So 1 says : "It's right smart costly for to hire, but, gee whiz ! 
 
 A feller must be sporty now and then ! 
 An, moreover, there's the lady — well, I guess I know my biz! 
 
 1 ain't goin' to let her glide with other men!" 
 So I goes an' gits a cutter an' a tidy lookin' nag. 
 
 Then I starts to call fer Miss Sophia Twigg; 
 She accepts my invitation without lettin' no time drag — 
 
 (An' it on'y cost ten dollars fer the rig!) 
 
 Ain't it grand when there's good sleighin' fer to hear the jinglin' 
 bells, 
 
 If a pretty girl is smilin' by your, side ! 
 Kinder makes a feller feel like he could loosen up some yells 
 
 When the cutter gits to goin' at a glide! 
 Miss Sophia's awful bashful, an' I'm built 'at self-same way, 
 
 So we rode along as timid as two birds ; 
 Conversation's very useful when you've got a lot to say, 
 
 But it ain't much use without you have the words. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 71 
 
 Finally I musters courage, an' I says, "The weather's fine !" 
 
 "Well, tol'able," says Miss Sophia Twigg; 
 Oh! the word she used was simple, but her voice it was divine — 
 
 (An' it on'y cost ten dollars fer the rig!) 
 
 Jingle! jangle! ain't it funny how the sleigh bells hints at things? 
 
 Seemed like they was all suggestin' I propose ! 
 "Ask her!" "Jingle!" "Ask her!" "Jangle!" kinder sassy like they 
 sings, 
 
 But plain enough, the goodness on'y knows. 
 So I clears my throat fer action — hem ! I flicks the whip a spell ; 
 
 Then I says, "How would you like if I — if I — " 
 She glanced up smilin' pretty, an' my feeble spirits fell, 
 
 An' I guess I let a half a mile go by. 
 Then I says, "If I — if I should take you out another day?" 
 
 "Well, tol'able!" says Miss Sophia Twigg; 
 Oh ! the word she used was simple, but to see them dimples play — 
 
 (An' it on'y cost ten dollars fer the rig!) 
 
 "Ask her!" "Jingle!" "Ask her!" "Jangle!" how them pesky bells 
 did dance! 
 
 An' the horse's hoofs they got to hintin', too, 
 So 1 whispers to myself, "I will, but give me half a chance — 
 
 Proposin' ain't no easy thing to do!" 
 Then 1 buttons tight my collar, an' I lays the whip away, 
 
 An' I says, "How would you like to be — to be — " 
 She looked an' smiled straight at me, an' the words jus' flew away, 
 
 While my face it was a reddish sight to see. 
 "To be," I went on sayin', "out here sleighin' all the while?" 
 
 "Well, tol'able!" says Miss Sophia Twigg; 
 Oh ! the word she used was easy, but to see that lovely smile — 
 
 (An' it on'y cost ten dollars fer the rig!) 
 
 I reckon 'at we rode afore we turned about ten miles — 
 
 The shortest ten 'at ever was surveyed ! 
 Me settin' there a-baskin' in the beauty of her smiles, 
 
 An' tryin' fer to ask her, but afraid. 
 
72 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Two dozen times, I reckon, did I muster courage brave, 
 
 An' set myself right firm down to the task, 
 But the way her eyes laughed at me wouldn't let my heart behave, 
 
 An' the fatal question never could I ask. 
 "How would you like to be — to go — to have" — an' then I'd switch, 
 
 "Well, tol'able!" says Miss Sophia Twigg; 
 Oh ! the word it wasn't costly, but her voice was sweet an' rich — 
 
 (An' it on'y cost ten dollars fer the rig!) 
 
 It was moonlight when we started on the road 'at led fer home, 
 
 An' the little stars was blinkin' in the sky; 
 Oh ! the night was sentimental — what some folks would call a 
 pome! 
 
 So I says now here is where I do or die ! 
 Then I loosens up my collar, an' I grabs my trusty whip, 
 
 'Gainst the dashboard firm I goes an' plants my feet ; 
 Then in one breath out I speaks it, 'fore my courage it can slip : 
 
 "Oh, Sophia, you are lookin' mighty sweet ! 
 How would you like to be my own an' ownest on'y bride?" 
 
 "Well, tol'able!" said Miss Sophia Twigg; 
 Oh ! the word she used was simple, but fer that word I'd a died — 
 
 (An' I'd paid a thousand dollars fer the rig!) 
 
 Generosity* 
 
 Willie. I say, give me a bite ? 
 
 Jack. Go 'way. 
 
 Willie. You might ! so far ! 
 
 Jack. All right ! There you are. 
 
 Take care, don't take it all, 
 
 Be fair ! 
 Willie. That's too small! You're bright 
 
 If you call that a bite. 
 Jack. Look, now. Take to there. 
 Willie. That's how to be square 
 Jack. I'm ready to share. 
 Willie. Hold steady! 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 73 
 
 At Uncle Dock's. 
 
 By ELSIE M ALONE SMcCOLLUM. 
 
 Yes-sir-ree ! to Uncle Dock's house ! 
 That's where mamma said we'd go; 
 It's lots nicer than the city, 
 An' that's where the good things grow. 
 
 Uncle Dock was onct at our house, 
 An' when dinner time was come, 
 We had nicest watermelon ! — 
 But they grow out at his home. 
 
 Just to think ! I'll see 'em growin' ! 
 Yes, sir, get to climb the tree ! 
 Shake 'em down an' bust 'em open ! 
 Eat a whole un there — just me ! 
 
 Wish't yo' ma'd let you go, Walter; 
 Unc' Dock won't care cause he likes boys; 
 An' Aunt Mollie — she's not nervish ; 
 Spec' she'd like to hear our noise. 
 
 So'd Aunt Bye, but she don't live there ; 
 She lives way off where's a big spring, 
 Down in Huntsville, Alabama; 
 Oh, that's further'n anything! 
 
 Spec' that's most across the ocean ! 
 
 But we'll go there some time, too ; 
 
 This time, though, we'll go t' Uncle Dock's house, 
 
 An' wear my clo'es 'at's just right new. 
 
 I must take these just to play in, 
 For uncle says we'll climb the hay; 
 Hunt the eggs and feed the ponies — 
 I'll have fun there every day. 
 
74 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 They have lots and lots of cows there, 
 An' they give sweet milk every one; 
 Milkman's cow they don't give that kind, 
 'Cept onct in a while — won't I have fun ! 
 
 When I said I'd talk to papa 
 Through the telephone every day, 
 Uncle Dock he laughed and tol' me 
 They don't have 'em out his way. 
 
 They don't have any street cars either 
 But they have so many things — 
 Pigs an' cows an' sheep an' chickens, 
 An' a Poll parrot 'at talks and sings. 
 
 Yes-sir-ree! to Uncle Dock's house! 
 That's where mamma said we'd go ! 
 It's lots nicer than the city, 
 For that's where the good things grow. 
 
 Our Glorious Language* 
 
 WE'LL begin with box, and the plural is boxes, 
 But the plural of ox should be oxen, not oxes. 
 The one fowl is a goose, but two are called geese, 
 Yet the plural of mouse 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. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 75 
 
 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 the whole set are teeth, 
 Why shouldn't the plural of both be called beeth? 
 If the singular's this and the plural is these, 
 Should the plural of kiss 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 tho' 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 greatest language you ever did see. 
 
 Getting ^Rid of Her daughter's Heaxx. 
 
 M 
 
 ARY BROWN'S mother is a very nice woman but she doesn't 
 want Mary to get married and she employs certain methods 
 to prevent which are generally effective. The other evening a 
 splendid catch called to escort Mary to the opera. While Mrs. 
 Brown was helping Mary get ready she said : 
 
 "Mary, are you going to wear the shoes with one heel off, or 
 the pair with holes in 'em?" 
 
 Mary did not seem to hear, and the mother inquired : 
 
 "Are you going to wear that dollar gold chain and that washed 
 locket, or will you wear the diamond father bought at the hardware 
 store?" 
 
 Mary winked at her, and the young man blushed, but the old 
 lady went on : 
 
 "Are you going to borrow Mrs. Brown's shawl, or will you wear 
 mine?" 
 
 Mary bustled around the room, and the mother said : 
 
 "Be careful of your dress, Mary; you know it's the only one 
 
76 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 you've got, and you can't have another until the mortgage of this 
 place is lifted." 
 
 Mary remarked to her escort that it promised to be a beautiful 
 evening, and as she buttoned her glove her mother said: 
 
 "Those are Mrs. Hardy's gloves, ain't they? She's been a good 
 neighbor to us, and I don't know how you'd manage to go anywhere 
 if she didn't live near us." 
 
 Mary was hurrying to get out of the room, when the mother 
 raised her voice once more and asked : 
 
 "Did you run into Mrs. Jewett's and borrow her bracelet and 
 fan? Yes, I see you did. Well, now you look real stylish, and I 
 hope you'll have a good time." 
 
 Mary sits by her window in the pale moonlight and sighs for the 
 splendid young man to come and beau her around some more, but 
 she hasn't seen him since that night. Her mother says that he 
 seemed like a nice young man, and she hopes he hasn't been killed 
 by the street cars. 
 
 T/ze White Mans burden. 
 
 By RUDYARD KIPLING. 
 
 TAKE up the White Man's burden — 
 Send forth the best ye breed — 
 Go, bind your sons to exile 
 
 To serve your captives' need; 
 To wait, in heavy harness, 
 
 On fluttered folk and wild — 
 
 Your new-caught sullen peoples, 
 
 Half devil and half child. 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden- 
 In patience to abide, 
 
 To veil the threat of terror 
 And check the show of pride ; 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 77 
 
 By open speech and simple, 
 
 A hundred times made plain, 
 To seek another's profit 
 
 And work another's gain. 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden— 
 
 The savage wars of peace — 
 Fill full the mouth of Famine, 
 
 And bid the sickness cease ; 
 And when your goal is nearest 
 
 (The end for others sought) 
 Watch sloth and heathen folly 
 
 Bring all your hope to naught. 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden — 
 
 No iron rule of kings, 
 But toil of serf and sweeper — 
 
 The tale of common things. 
 The ports ye shall not enter, 
 
 The roads ye shall not tread. 
 Go, make them with your living 
 
 And mark them with your dead. 
 
 Take up the White Man s burden — 
 
 And reap his old Reward — 
 The blame of those ye better 
 
 The hate of those ye guard — 
 The cry of hosts ye humor 
 
 (Ah, slowly) toward the light: 
 'Why brought ye us from bondage, 
 
 Our loved Egyptian night?" 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden — 
 
 Ye dare not stoop to less — 
 Nor call too loud on Freedom 
 
 To cloke your weariness. 
 
78 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 By all ye will or whisper, 
 
 By all ye leave to do, 
 The silent, sullen peoples 
 
 Shall weigh your God and you. 
 
 Take up the White Man's burden — 
 
 Have done with childish days — 
 The lightly proffered laurel, 
 
 The easy ungrudged praise: 
 Comes now to search your manhood 
 
 Through all the thankless years, 
 Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom, 
 
 The judgment of your peers. 
 
 McKinleys Funeral Address. 
 
 By C. m. MANCHESTER, D.D. 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 OUR President is dead. We can hardly believe it. We had 
 hoped and prayed, and it seemed that our hopes were to be 
 realized and our prayers answered, when the emotion of joy was 
 changed to one of grave apprehension. Still we waited, for we 
 said : "It may be that God will be gracious and merciful unto us." 
 It seemed to us that it must be His will to spare the life of one so 
 well beloved and so much needed. 
 
 Thus, alternating between hope and fear, the weary hours passed 
 on. Then came the tidings of defeated science and of the failure 
 of love and prayer to hold its object to the earth. We seemed to 
 hear the faintly muttered words : "Good-bye, all, good-bye. It 
 is God's way. His will, not ours, be done," and then "Nearer, 
 My God, to Thee." So, nestling nearer to his God, he passed out 
 into unconsciousness, skirted the dark shores of the sea of death for 
 a time, and then passed on, to be at rest. His great heart had ceased 
 to beat. Our hearts are heavy with sorrow. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 79 
 
 It was characteristic cf our beloved President that men met him 
 only to love him. They might, indeed, differ with him, but in the 
 presence of such dignity of character and grace of manner none 
 could fail to love the man. The people confided in him, believed 
 in him. It was s_id of Lincoln that probably no man since the 
 days of Washington was ever so deeply imbedded and enshrined 
 in the hearts of the people, but it is true of McKinley in a larger 
 sense. Industrial and social conditions are such that he was, even 
 more than his predecessors, the friend of the whole people. 
 
 My friends and countrymen, with what language shall I attempt 
 to give expression to the deep horror of our souls as I speak of the 
 cause of his death? When we consider the magnitude of the crime 
 that has plunged the country and the world into unutterable grief, 
 we are not surprised that one nationality after another has has- 
 tened to repudiate the dreadful act. This gentle spirit, who hated 
 no one, to whom every man was a brother, was suddenly smitten by 
 the cruel hand of an assassin, and that, too, while in the very act 
 of extending a kind and generous greeting to one who approached 
 him under the sacred guise of friendship. 
 
 Could the assailant have realized how awful was the act he was 
 about to perform, how utterly heartless the deed, methinks he would 
 have stayed his hand at the very threshold of it. In all the coming 
 years men will seek in vain to fathom the enormity of that crime. 
 
 Had this man who fell been a despot, a tyrant, an oppressor, 
 an insane frenzy to rid the world of him might have sought ex- 
 cuse, but it was the people's friend who fell when William McKinley 
 received the fatal wound. Himself a son of toil, his sympathies 
 were with the toiler. No one who has seen the matchless grace and 
 perfect ease with which he greeted such can ever doubt that his 
 heart was in hig open hand. Every heart throb was for his country- 
 men. That his life should be sacrificed at such a time, just when 
 there was abundant peace, when all the Americas were rejoicing to- 
 gether, is one of the inscrutable mysteries of Providence. 
 
 In the midst of our sorrow we have much .to console us. He 
 lived to see his nation greater than ever before. All sectional lines 
 are blotted out. There is no South, no North, no East, no West. 
 Washington saw the beginning of our national life. Lincoln passed 
 
80 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 through the night of our history and saw the dawn. McKinley 
 beheld his country in the splendor of its noon. Truly he died in the 
 fulness of his fame. With Paul he could say, and with equal truth- 
 fulness, "I am ready to be offered." The work assigned him had 
 been well done. The nation was at peace. We had fairly entered 
 upon an era of unparalleled prosperity. Our revenues were gen- 
 erous. Our standing among the nations was secure. Our Presi- 
 dent was safely enshrined in the affections of a united people. 
 Little more than four years ago we bade him good-bye as he went 
 to assume the great responsibilities to which the nation had called 
 him. His last words as he left us were: 
 
 "Nothing could give me greater pleasure than this farewell 
 greeting — this evidence of your friendship and sympathy, your 
 good-will, and, I am sure, the prayers of all the people with whom 
 I have lived so long and whose confidence and esteem are dearer to 
 me than any other earthly honors. To all of us the future is as a 
 sealed book, but if I can, by official act or administration or utter- 
 ance, in any degree, add to the prosperity and unity of our beloved 
 country, and the advancement and well-being of our splendid citi- 
 zenship, - 1 will devote the best and most unselfish efforts of my life 
 to that end. With this thought uppermost in my mind, I reluctantly 
 take leave of my friends and neighbors, cherishing in my heart the 
 sweetest memories and thoughts of my old home — my home now — 
 and I trust, my home hereafter, so long as I live." 
 
 We hoped with him that when his work was done, freed from 
 the burdens of his great office, crowned with the affections of a 
 happy people, he might be permitted to close his earthly life in the 
 home he had loved. 
 
 He has, indeed, returned to us, but how? Borne to the strains 
 of "Nearer, My God, to Thee," and placed where he first began life's 
 struggle, that the people might look and weep over so sad a home- 
 coming. But it was a triumphal march. How vast the procession. 
 The nation rose and stood with uncovered head. The people of the 
 land are chief mourners. The nations of the earth weep with them. 
 But, oh ! what a victory. 
 
 I do not ask you in the heat of public address, but in the calm 
 moments of mature reflection, what other man ever had such high 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 81 
 
 honors bestowed upon him,- and by so many people? What 
 pageant has equaled this that we look upon to-day? We gave him 
 to the nation but a little more than four years ago. He went out 
 with the light of the morning upon his brow, but with his task set, 
 and the purpose to complete it. We take him back a mighty con- 
 queror. 
 
 The Colonel's Experiment 
 
 By WILL LISENBEE. 
 [By permission of Truth.] 
 
 COLONEL HOOPER'S business had kept him in Badger City 
 for a whole day. He was waiting to see a man who did 
 not come. Time hung heavily on his hands. No one -would play 
 cards with him, and even the harmless game of checkers seemed to 
 be a lost art in the little dried-up Kansas town. 
 
 The Colonel craved excitement. He wanted to make a bet with 
 some one on something, he didn't care what, so long as it was a 
 bet. No one would bet with him. 
 
 He began to grow desperate. 
 
 "How long has it been since it rained ?" he asked the Lame Man 
 who had just taken a seat on the hotel piazza. 
 
 " 'Bout four months," replied the Lame Man. 
 
 The Colonel glanced at the blue expanse of sky. There was 
 not a cloud in sight. 
 
 "I will bet you ten dollars that it will rain here in ten minutes," 
 he said. 
 
 The Lame Man shook his head. "I wouldn't bet it wouldn't be 
 snowing here in ten minutes." 
 
 The Colonel looked disgusted. 
 
 "Would you bet on anything?" he asked, contemptuously. 
 
 "I might." 
 
 "Name it." 
 
 The Lame Man leaned back in his chair and sized up the Colonel 
 carefully. 
 
32 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 "I might bet you a ten that you couldn't stand on the end of the 
 porch there for a half-hour," said the Lame Man slowly, "and re- 
 peat a line from Shakespeare to every one. who spoke to you." 
 
 The Colonel drew a ten from his pocket. 
 
 "Put up," he said. 
 
 The Lame Man fished a ten from his vest pocket ; the two bills 
 were placed in a book the Colonel had been reading and laid on the 
 window-sill of the hotel. 
 
 "Now," said the Lame Man, "you are to stand on the end of 
 the porch, and, no matter what is said to you, you are to say this, 
 and nothing more : T come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.' " 
 
 '"Enough said." 
 
 The Colonel took his position, watch in hand, while the Lame 
 Man sank back into his chair. 
 
 Five minutes went by. A squatter from Blue Flats came up, 
 and seeing the man standing with his watch in hand, he asked : 
 
 "What's yer time, stranger?" 
 
 " T come to bury Csesar, not to praise him,' " said the Colonel, 
 solemnly. 
 
 "Who's that that's dead?" asked the squatter. 
 
 " T come to bury Caesar, not to praise him,' " repeated the ma*i 
 with the watch. 
 
 The squatter backed off. 
 
 "Crazier 'an a mus'rat, by gum !" he muttered. 
 
 He edged around to where the Lame Man was sitting. 
 
 "Why don't they take him away?" he asked. 
 
 "I dunno," replied the Lame Man. 
 
 "Is he dang'rous?" 
 
 "I dunno." 
 
 The landlord came out. Seeing the Colonel with his watch out, 
 he said : 
 
 "I reckon ye're gettin' impatient fer yer friend ter come?" 
 
 " T come to bury Caesar, not to praise him,' " said the Colonel. 
 
 The landlord looked at the Colonel, then at the Lame Man. 
 
 "He's gone plum crazy," declared the squatter. 
 
 "By Jude, can that be a fact!" exclaimed the landlord. 
 
 The Lame Man nodded gravely. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 83 
 
 "Better come an' have er cheer, Colonel," said the landlord, ki 
 a soothing tone. 
 
 " 'I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him,' " repeated the Col- 
 onel, growing red in the face. 
 
 The landlord looked completely beaten. 
 
 "I wouldn't 'a' had it ter happen in my house fer fifty dollars," 
 he said. 
 
 "He ort ter be took away — he might kill some one," suggested 
 the squatter. 
 
 A stranger galloped up to the hotel and dismounted. 
 
 "I want to see Colonel Hooper," he said. 
 
 "He's hyar a-waitin' fer ye, but he's gone plum crazy," whis- 
 pered the landlord, nodding toward the Colonel. 
 
 "Oh, I reckon not," said the stranger. Then turning toward the 
 Colonel, he said: 
 
 "This is Colonel Hooper, I believe " 
 
 " T come to bury Caesar, not to praise him,' " remarked the 
 Colonel slowly. 
 
 "By gosh ! — er — what'd ye say ?" gasped the stranger. 
 
 " T come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.' " 
 
 "That settles it," replied the newcomer, moving back. 
 
 "He's crazier 'an a mus'rat !" declared the squatter. "Why don't 
 somebody take him inter charge 'fore he gits vi'lent?" 
 
 The Colonel began to grow purple in the face ; his hands worked 
 convulsively, and he looked as if he would like to get at the squat- 
 ter, but he stood his ground. 
 
 Fifteen minutes of the half-hour had now passed. A crowd be- 
 gan to gather. 
 
 "What's the matter hyar," said Baggs,the groceryman, coming up. 
 • "A man's gone crazy," said some one. 
 
 The crowd grew larger and larger. Women and children 
 pressed into the crowd to get a look at the Colonel. 
 
 "Look at his eyes !" said one of the women, starting back, and 
 clasping a ragged young one to her breast. "What makes 'em let 
 him run loose?" 
 
 "I knowed a man that went crazy just like he's done," said the 
 squatter, "an' 'fore he could be got he chopped the heads off uv the 
 
84 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 hull family, an' blowed the house up with er keg of powder he had 
 fer blastin' in a well." 
 
 This cheerful piece of information caused one of the women to 
 shriek and another one to faint, and a sort of frenzy seemed to seize 
 the crowd. It began to press about the Colonel. 
 
 "Take holt uv him — hit won't do ter let him git away !" said the 
 squatter. 
 
 The Colonel waved them back, his face purple with rage. Two 
 men leaped forward and seized him by the arms. He flung them 
 off as if they had been children. He doubled up his fist and struck 
 right and left as they pressed about him. 
 
 " T come to {whack) bury Caesar {whack), not to {whack) 
 praise him {whack).'" 
 
 Then they closed in upon him. An awful scene followed. 
 Women shrieked and fainted; some curs that were attracted by the 
 noise came up, and, engaging in a vigorous fight upon the porch, 
 added their voices to the dreadful pandemonium. In the midst of 
 this a panting, struggling humanity, with the Colonel in the center, 
 rolled from the porch. 
 
 Five minutes later, the Colonel, bound hand and foot, was car- 
 ried into the hotel. 
 
 The Lame Man looked at his watch. The half-hour lacked just 
 three minutes of being up. He stepped to the window, took up the 
 book, extracted the two ten-dollar bills therefrom and placed them 
 in his pocket. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said to the crowd, "this is all the result of un- 
 due excitement on the part of the Colonel. He will be all right in 
 a few minutes. These spells only come on him once in a year,, but 
 it might be well to keep him tied for about ten minutes longer." 
 
 With this he seized his crutch and hobbled away as fast as he 
 could. 
 
 When the Colonel's liberty was finally restored to him he might 
 not have been considered insane, but there was no doubt that he 
 was mad. As he hurried away to look for the Lame Man the 
 squatter remarked : 
 
 "If they hain't made the mistake of their lives in turnin' that 
 man loose, then I'm crazier 'n a mus'rat myself!" 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 85 
 
 The Recruit 
 
 By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. 
 
 SEZ Corporal Madden to Private McFadden 
 "Bedad, yer a bad 'un ! 
 
 Now turn out your toes ! 
 Yer belt is unhookit, 
 Yer cap is on crookit, 
 
 Ye may not be dhrunk, 
 But, be jabbers, ye look it! 
 Wan — two ! 
 Wan — two ! 
 Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through! 
 Wan — two ! 
 Time! Mark! 
 Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk !" 
 
 Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: 
 "A saint it ud sadden 
 
 To drill such a mug! 
 Eyes front ! — ye baboon, ye ! — 
 Chin up ! — ye gossoon, ye ! 
 Ye've jaws like a goat — 
 Halt ! ye leather-lipped loon, ye ! 
 Wan — two ! 
 Wan — two ! 
 Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you ! 
 Wan — two ! 
 Time! Mark! 
 Ye've eyes like a bat! — can ye see in the dark?" 
 
 Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden : 
 "Yer figger wants padd'n' — 
 Sure, man, ye've no shape ! 
 Behind ye yer shoulders 
 Stick out like two bdwlders ! 
 
86 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Yer shins is as thin 
 As a pair of pen-holders! 
 Wan — two ! 
 Wan — two ! 
 Yer tummy belongs on yer back, razoo! 
 Wan — two ! 
 Time! Mark! 
 I'm dhry as a dog — I can't shpake, but I bark!" 
 
 Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: 
 "Me heart it ud gladden 
 
 To blacken yer eye. 
 Ye're gettin' too bold, ye 
 Compel me to scold ye — 
 'Tis halt! that I say — 
 Will ye heed what I told ye? 
 Wan — two ! 
 Wan — two ! 
 Be jabbers, I'm dhryer than Brian Boru! 
 Wan — two ! 
 Time! Mark! 
 What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for the lark !" 
 
 Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden : 
 "I'll not stay a gadd'n' 
 Wid Dagoes like you! 
 . , I'll travel no farther, 
 
 I'm dyin' for — wather — 
 
 Come on, if ye like — 
 
 Can ye loan me a quarther? 
 
 Ya-as, you, 
 
 What, two ! 
 
 And ye'll pay the potheen? 
 
 Ye're a daisy! Whurroo! 
 You'll do- 
 Whist! Mark! 
 The Rigiment's flatthered to own ye, me spark !" 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 87 
 
 Nanny Saved from the Poorhouse. 
 
 From "The Little minister," 'By J. €M. "BARRIE. 
 
 Characters: Doctor McQueen. Mr. Dishart (the Little 
 Minister). Nanny Webster (a poor old woman). Lady Babbie 
 (disguised as a gypsy). 
 
 Scene: Interior of Nanny Webster's cottage. The old 
 woman is waiting for the doctor and the minister who are to take 
 her to the poorhouse. 
 
 THE old woman was standing at the door of a mudhouse, 
 listening for the approach of the trap. 
 
 Nanny was not crying. She had redd up her house for the last 
 time, and put on her black merino. Her mouth was wide open 
 while she listened. No neighbor was with her. They feared to 
 hurt her feelings. No heart opens to sympathy without letting in 
 delicacy, and these poor people knew that Nanny would not like 
 them to see her being taken away. For a week they had been aware 
 of what was coming, and they had been most kind to her, but that 
 hideous word, the poorhouse, they had not uttered. Poorhouse is 
 not to be spoken in Thrums. Now that the hour had come they 
 called their children into their houses and pulled down their blinds. 
 
 "If you would like to see her by yourself," the doctor said 
 eagerly to Gavin, as the horse drew up at Nanny's gate, "I'll wait 
 with the horse. "Not," he added hastily, "that I feel sorry for her. 
 We are doing her a kindness." 
 
 They dismounted together, however, and Nanny, who had 
 run from the trap into the house, watched them from her win- 
 dow. 
 
 McQueen saw her and said glumly, "I should have come alone, 
 for if you pray she is sure to break down. Mr. Dishart, could 
 you not pray cheerfully?" 
 
88 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 The door stood open, and Nanny was crouching against the op- 
 posite wall of the room, such a poor, dull kitchen, that you would 
 have thought the furniture had still to be brought in. The blanket 
 and the piece of old carpet that was Nanny's coverlet were already 
 packed in her box. The plate rack was empty. Only the round 
 table, and the two chairs, and the stools and some pans were being 
 left behind. 
 
 "Well, Nanny," said the doctor, trying to bluster, "I have come, 
 and you see Mr. Dishart is with me.-" 
 
 Nanny rose up bravely. She knew the doctor was good to her, 
 and she wanted to thank him. She dropped a curtsey, an ungainly 
 one maybe, but it was an old woman giving the best she had. 
 
 "Thank you kindly, sir," she said. "Please to take a chair." 
 
 The doctor thought it best they should depart at once. 
 
 "Oh, no, doctor," cried Nanny in alarm. 
 
 "But you are ready?" 
 
 "Ay," she said, "I have been ready this twa hours, but you micht 
 Wait a minute. Hendry Munn and Andrew Allardyce is coming 
 yont the road, and they would see me." 
 
 "Wait, doctor," Gavin said. 
 
 "Thank you kindly, sir," answered Nanny. 
 
 "But, Nanny," the doctor said, "you must remember what I told 
 you about the poorhouse. It's a fine place and you will be very 
 happy in it." 
 
 "Ay, I'll be happy in it," Nanny faltered, "but, doctor, if I could 
 j«st hae bidden on here though I wasna happy!" 
 
 "Think of the food you will get; broth nearly every day." 
 
 "It — it'll be terrible enjoyable," Nanny said. 
 
 "And there will be pleasant company for you always," continued 
 the doctor, "and a nice room to sit in. Why, after you have been 
 there a week, you won't be the same woman." 
 
 "That's it!" cried Nanny, with sudden passion. "Na, na; 
 I'll be a woman on the poor rates. Oh, mither, mither, you little 
 thoucht when you bore me I should come to this !" 
 
 " Nanny," the doctor said, rising again, "I am ashamed of 
 you." 
 
 "I humbly speir your forgiveness, sir," she said, "and you micht 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 89 
 
 bide just a wee yet. I've been ready to gang this twa hours, but 
 now that the machine is at the gate, I dinna ken how it is, but I'm 
 terrible sweer to come awa'. Oh, Mr. Dishart, it's richt true what 
 
 the doctor says about the the place, but I canna just take it in. 
 
 I'm — I'm gey auld." 
 
 "You will often get out to see your friends," was all Gavin 
 could say. 
 
 "Na, na, na," she cried, "dinna say that, I'll gang, but you 
 mauna bid me ever come out, except in a hearse. Dinna let ony- 
 body in Thrums look on my face again." 
 
 "We must go," said the doctor, firmly. "Put on your mutch, 
 Nanny." 
 
 "I dinna need to put on a mutch," she answered, with a faint 
 flush of pride. "I have a bonnet." 
 
 The doctor glanced at the minister, and Gavin rose. "Let us 
 pray," he said, and the three went down on their knees. Had the 
 little minister been of God's own image, unstained, he would have 
 forgotten all else to-day in his Maker's presence, but Nanny was 
 speaking too, and her words choked his. At first she only whis- 
 pered, but soon what was eating her heart burst out painfully, and 
 she did not know that the minister had stopped. They were such 
 moans as these that brought him back to earth : — 
 
 "I'll ha'e to gang. . . . I'm a base woman no' to be mair 
 thankfu' to them that is so good to me. ... I dinna like to prig 
 wi' them to take a roundabout road, and I'm sair fleid the Roods 
 will see me. . . . If it could just be said to poor Sanders when 
 he comes back that I died hurriedly, syne he would be able to haud 
 up his head. . . . Oh, mither ! . . . I wish terrible they 
 had come and ta'en me at night. . . . It's a dog-cart, and I 
 was praying it micht be a cart, so that they could cover me wi' 
 straw." 
 
 "This is more than I can stand," the doctor cried. 
 
 Nanny rose frightened. 
 
 "I've tried you sair," she said, "but, oh, I'm grateful, and I'm 
 ready now." 
 
 They all advanced toward the door without another word, and 
 Nanny even tried to smile. But in the middle of the floor some- 
 
90 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 ! thing came over her, and she stood there. Gavin took her hand, 
 and it was cold. She looked from one to the other and her mouth 
 was opening and shutting. 
 
 "I canna helpt it," she said. 
 
 "It's cruel hard," muttered the doctor. "I knew this woman 
 when she was a lassie." 
 
 The little minister stretched out his hands. "Have pity on her, 
 O God!" he prayed with the presumptuousness of youth. 
 
 Nanny heard the words. "Oh, God," she cried, "you micht!" 
 
 God needs no minister to tell Him what to do, but it was His 
 will that the poorhouse should not have this woman. He made use 
 of a strange instrument, no other than the Egp;/tian, who now 
 opened the mudhouse door. 
 
 She had been passing the house, and curiosity, born suddenly of 
 Gavin's cry, made he.- enter. On finding herself in unexpected 
 company she retained hold of the door, and to the amazed min- 
 ister she seemed for a moment to have stepped into the mudhouse 
 from his garden. Her eyes danced, however, as they recognized 
 him, and he hardened. "This is no place for you," he was saying 
 fiercely, when Nanny, too distraught to think, fell crying at the 
 Egyptian's feet. 
 
 "They are taking me to the poorhouse," she sobbed ; "dinfaa 
 let them, dinna let them." 
 
 The Egyptian's arms clasped her, and the Egyptian kissed her 
 sallow cheek. When she turned with flashing eyes to the two men 
 she might have been a mother guarding her child. 
 
 "How dare you !" she cried, stamping her foot ; and they quaked 
 like malefactors. 
 
 "You don't see, " Gavin began, but her indignation stopped 
 
 him. 
 
 "You coward!" she said. 
 
 Even the doctor had been impressed, so that he now addressed 
 the gypsy respectfully. 
 
 "This is all very well," he said, "but a woman's sympathy -" 
 
 "A woman! Ah, if I could be a man for five minutes." She 
 clenched her little fist and again turned to Nanny. 
 
 "You poor dear, I won't let them take you away," she sa.\4 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 91 
 
 tenderly, and then looked triumphantly at both minister and doc- 
 tor, as one who had foiled them in their cruel designs. 
 
 "Go !" she said, pointing grandly to the door. 
 
 "Is this the Egyptian of the riots," the doctor said in a low 
 voice to Gavin, "or is she a queen? Hoots, man, don't look so 
 shame-faced. We are not criminals. Say something." 
 
 Then to the Egyptian, Gavin said firmly 
 
 "You mean well, but you are doing this poor woman a cruelty in 
 holding out hopes to her that can not be realized. Sympathy is not 
 meal and bedclothes, and these are what she needs." 
 
 "And you who live in luxury," retorted the girl, "'would send 
 her to the poorhouse for them. I thought better of you." 
 
 "Tuts," said the doctor, losing patience, "Mr. Dishart gives 
 more than any other man in Thrums to the poor, and he is not to be 
 preached to by a gypsy. We are waiting for you, Nanny." 
 
 "Ay, I'm coming," said Nanny, leaving the Egyptian. "I'll 
 ha'e to gang, lassie. Dinna greet for me." 
 
 But the Egyptian said, "No, you are not going. It is these men 
 who are going. Go, sirs, and leave us." 
 
 "And you will provide for Nanny ?" asked the doctor contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And where is the siller to come from?" 
 
 "That is my affair, and Nanny's. Begone, both of you. She 
 shall never want again. See how the very mention of your going 
 brings back life to her face." 
 
 "I won't be gone," the doctor said, roughly, "till I see the color 
 of your siller." 
 
 "Oh! the money," said the Egyptian scornfully. She put her 
 hand into her pocket confidently, as if used to well-filled purses, 
 but could only draw out two silver pieces. 
 
 "I had forgotten," she said aloud, though speaking to herself. 
 
 "I thought so," said the cynical doctor. "Come, Nanny." 
 
 "You presume to doubt me !" the Egyptian said, blocking his 
 way to the door. 
 
 "How could I presume to believe you?" he answered. "You 
 are a beggar by profession and yet talk as if — Poof, nonsense." 
 
92 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 "I could live on terrible little," Nanny whispered, "and Sanders 
 will be out again in August month." 
 
 "Seven shillings a week," rapped out the doctor. 
 
 "Is that all?" the Egyptian asked. "She shall have it." 
 
 "When ?" 
 
 "At once. No, it is not possible to-night, but to-morrow I will 
 bring five pounds; no, I will send it; no, you must come for it." 
 
 "And where, O daughter of Dives, do you reside?" the doctor 
 asked. 
 
 No doubt the Egyptian could have found a ready answer had her 
 pity for Nanny been less sincere; as it was, she hesitated, wanting 
 to propitiate the doctor, without telling him her secret. 
 
 4 "I only asked," McQueen said, eyeing her curiously, "because 
 when I make an appointment I like to know where it is to be held. 
 But I suppose you are suddenly to rise out of the ground as you 
 have done to-day, and did six weeks ago." 
 
 "Whether I rise out of the ground or not," the gypsy said, keep- 
 ing her temper with an effort, "there will be a five pound note in 
 my hand. You will meet me to-morrow about this hour at — say 
 the Kaims of Cushie?" 
 
 "No," said the doctor, after a moment's pause ; "I won't. Even 
 if I went to the Kaims I should not find you there. Why can you 
 not come to me?" 
 
 "Why do you carry a woman's hair," replied the Egyptian, 
 "in that locket on your chain?" 
 
 The doctor stepped back from her hastily and could not help 
 looking down at the locket. 
 
 "Yes," said the Egyptian calmly, "it is still shut; but why do 
 you sometimes open it at night?" 
 
 "Lassie," the old doctor cried, "are you a witch?" 
 
 "Perhaps," she said; "but I ask for no answer to my questions. 
 If you have your secrets, why may I not have mine? Now will 
 you meetme at the Kaims?" 
 
 "No; I distrust you more than ever. Even if you came, it 
 would be to play with me as you have done already. How can a 
 vagrant have five pounds in her pocket when she does not have 
 five shillings on her back?" 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 93 
 
 "You are a cruel, hard man," the Egyptian said, beginning to 
 lose hope. "But, see !" she cried brightening, "look at this ring. 
 Do you know its value?" 
 
 "I see it is gold," the doctor said cautiously, and she smiled 
 at the ignorance that made him look only at the frame. 
 
 "Certainly it is gold," said Gavin, equally stupid. 
 
 "Mercy on us !" Nancy cried, "I believe it's what they call a 
 diamond." 
 
 "How did you come by it?" the doctor asked suspiciously. 
 
 "I thought we had agreed not to ask each other questions," 
 the Egyptian answered drily. "But see, I will give it to you in 
 hostage. If I am not at Kaims to get it back you can keep it." 
 
 The doctor took the ring in his hand and examined it curi- 
 ously. 
 
 "There is a quirk in this," he said at last, "that I don't like. 
 Take back your ring, lassie. Mr. Dishart, give Nanny your arm, 
 and I'll carry her box to the machine." 
 
 Now all this time Gavin had been in the dire distress of a man 
 possessed of two minds. He did not answer the doctor. 
 
 "Unless," McQueen said, nettled by his hesitation, "you trust 
 this woman's word." 
 
 Gavin tried honestly to weigh those two minds together, but im- 
 pulse, nevertheless, jumped into one of the scales. 
 
 "You dojrust me," the Egyptian said, with wet eyes. 
 
 "Yes," he said, firmly, "I trust you." 
 
 "Just think a moment first," the doctor warned him. "You will 
 go to the Kaims for the siller?" 
 
 "If it is necessary," said Gavin. 
 
 "It is necessary," the Egyptian said. 
 
 "Then I will go." 
 
 "You dare not, man," the doctor said gruffly, "make an ap- 
 pointment with this gypsy. Think of what will be said in Thrums. 
 Send some one in your place." 
 
 "He must come himself and alone," said the Egyptian. "You 
 must both give me your promise not to mention who is Nanny's 
 friend, and she must promise too." 
 
 "Well/' said the doctor, buttoning up his coat, "I can not keep 
 
94 ( WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 my horse freezing any longer. Remember, Mr. Dishart, you take 
 the sole responsibility of this." 
 
 "I do," said Gavin, "and with the utmost confidence." 
 
 "So be it," said the doctor. "Get the money and I will say 
 nothing about it, unless I have reason to think that it has been dis- 
 honestly come by. Don't look so frightened at me, Nanny. I hope 
 for your sake that her stocking-foot is full of gold." 
 
 "Surely it's worth risking," Nanny said, not very brightly, 
 "when the minister's on her side." 
 
 "Ay, but on whose side, Nanny?" asked the doctor. "Lassie, 1 
 bear you no grudge; will you not tell me who you are?" 
 
 "Only a puir gypsy, your honour," said the girl, becoming mis- 
 chievous now that she had gained her point ; "only a wandering hal- 
 lenshaker, and will I tell you your fortune, my pretty gentleman?" 
 
 "No, you sha'n't," replied the doctor, plunging his hands so 
 hastily into his pockets that Gavin laughed. 
 
 "I don't need to look at your hand," said the gypsy, "I can read 
 your fortune in your face." 
 
 She looked at him fixedly, so that he fidgeted. 
 
 "I see you," said the Egyptian in a sepulchral voice, and speak- 
 ing slowly, "become very frail. Your eyesicht has almost gone. 
 You are sitting alone in a cauld room cooking your ain dinner ower 
 a feeble fire. The soot is falling down the lum. Your bearish 
 manners towards women have driven the servant lassie frae your 
 house, and your wife beats you." 
 
 "Ay, you spoil your prophecy there," the doctor said, consider- 
 ably relieved, "for I'm not married ; my pipe's the only wife I ever 
 had." 
 
 "You will be married by that time," continued the Egyptian, 
 frowning at this interruption, "for I see your wife. She is a shrew. 
 She marries you in your dotage. She lauchs at you in company. 
 She doesna allow you to smoke." 
 
 "Away with you, you jade," cried the doctor in a fury. 
 
 "You're na angry wi' me, doctor, are you?" asked Nanny wist- 
 fully. "You've been richt good to me, but I canna thole the thocht 
 o' that place. And, oh, doctor, you winna tell neabody that I was 
 so near ta'en to it?" 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 95 
 
 ^e Nice Leetle Canadienne* 
 
 By WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND, M.D. 
 
 YOU can pass on de worF w'erever you lak, 
 Tak' de steamboat for go Angleterrem, 
 Tak' car on de State, an' den you come back, 
 
 An' go all de place, I don't care — 
 Ma frien' dat's a fack, I know you will say, 
 
 Wen you come on dis contree again, 
 Dere's no girl can touch, w'at we see ev'ry day, 
 De nice leetle Canadienne. 
 
 Don't matter how poor dat girl she may be, 
 
 Her dress is so neat an' so clean, 
 Mos' ev'rywan t'ink it was mak' on Paree, 
 
 An' she wear it, wall ! jus' lak de Queen. 
 Den come for fin' out she is mak' it herse'f, 
 
 For she ain't got moche monee for spen', 
 But all de sam' tarn, she was never get lef, 
 Dat nice leetle Canadienne. 
 
 Wen " un vrai Canayen " is mak' it mariee, 
 
 You t'ink he go leev on beeg flat, 
 An' bodder herse'f all de tarn, night an' day, 
 
 Wit' housemaid, an' cook, am 1 all dat? 
 Not moche, ma dear frien', he tak' de maison, 
 
 Cos' only nine dollar or ten, 
 Were he leev lak blood rooster, an' save de l'argent, 
 Wit' hees nice leetle Canadienne. 
 
 I marry ma famme w'en I'm jus' twenty year, 
 
 An' now we got fine familee, 
 Dat skip roun' de place lak lettle small deer, 
 
 No smarter crowd you never see — 
 
WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 An' I t'ink as I watch dem all chasin' about, 
 
 Four boy and six girl, she mak' ten, 
 Dat's help mebber kip it, de stock from run out, 
 Of de nice leetle Canadienne. 
 
 O she's quick an' she's smart, an' got plaintee heart, 
 
 If you know correc' way go about, 
 An' if you don't know, she soon tole you so, 
 
 Den tak' de firs' chance an' get out; 
 But if she love you, I spik it for true, 
 
 She will mak' it more beautiful den, 
 An' sun on de sky can't shine lak de eye 
 Of dat nice leetle Canadienne. 
 
 Changing Her Mind. 
 
 By ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES. 
 
 AS I rowled on my side-car to Santry Fair, 
 I chanced round a corner on Rose Adair, 
 Her shoes in her hands, as she took the track, 
 And a fowl in a basket upon her back. 
 " Step up, Miss Rose ! Och ! that bird's luck, 
 Attendin' the fair as Rose's duck, 
 As Rose's duck, as Rose's duck ! " 
 " No ! Shawn Magee, the bird's a goose, 
 And to travel with two, there's no sort of use." 
 
AND REGIT 'ATI OX S Xo. 26. 97 
 
 Christmas Exercises* 
 
 For School, Home or Ha.lL 
 
 Decorations : Evergreens besprinkled with bright red berries, 
 wild grapevines, cotton-batting, grains, bittersweet, leaves, appro- 
 priate mottoes, etc. 
 
 I. Song: '703; to the World." 
 
 II. Chorus Recitation : "Christmas Bells." H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 I heard the bells on Christmas day 
 Their old, familiar carols play, 
 
 And wild and sweet 
 
 The words repeat 
 Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 
 
 And thought how, as the day had come, 
 The belfries of all Christendom 
 
 Had rolled along 
 
 The unbroken song 
 Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 
 
 Till ringing, singing on its way, 
 
 The word revolved from jiight to day, 
 
 A voice, a chim^ 
 
 A chant, sublime, 
 Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 
 
 But in despair I bowed my head, 
 "There is no peace on earth," I said, 
 " For hate is strong, 
 And mocks the song 
 Of oeace on earth, c;ood-will to men ! " 
 
98 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Then pealed the bells more loud and deep, 
 "God is not dead, not doth he sleep ! 
 
 The wrong shall fail, 
 
 The right prevail, 
 With peace on earth, good-will to men!" 
 
 III. Dialogue: "A Christmas Gift." Ella M. Powers. 
 
 For a girl and boy. The girl should have an old doll in her arms, the boy 
 should carry a drum with broken head. 
 
 Girl. This doll, Kris Kringle brought last year, 
 Gone is one eye, her hair, her ear; 
 And now some new ones he must bring, 
 The kind that walk and talk and sing. 
 
 Boy. Here is a drum I had last year, 
 
 You see it sounds now very queer; 
 
 I left it out once in the rain, 
 
 I've begged for other new drums in vain. 
 
 Girl [seating herself at a table]. 
 
 Let's write a letter to Santa Claus, 
 Telling him what to bring, because 
 It must be hard to bring, you see, 
 The very things we want; Dear me! 
 
 [Girl, reaching for paper, ink and pen, writes. Presently she 
 
 reads:] 
 
 "I'll have a hundred wax dolls when you come, 
 And please bring a nice, rich sounding drum; 
 Bring hundreds of books and games, a store, 
 And a thousand candies and lots more." 
 The letter is done and now we'll away 
 And mail it to him right off to-day. 
 
 ' Boy. I guess he'll think 'tis very shocking, 
 
 To expect so much in one small stocking. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 99 
 
 IV. Recitation : "Christmas." Margaret E. Sangster. 
 
 'Tis a beautiful time when Christmas comes 
 
 All up the streets and down, 
 For hearts alight make faces bright 
 
 When Christmas comes to town. 
 Neighbor and friend in gladness meet 
 
 And all are neighbors dear, 
 When the Christmas peace bids evil cease 
 
 In the holiest day of the year. 
 
 The fair white fields in silence lie, 
 
 Invisible angels go 
 Over the floor that sparkles hoar 
 
 With the glitter of frost and snow. 
 And they scatter the infinite balm of heaven 
 
 Wherever on earth they stay, 
 And heaven's own bliss they pour 
 
 On the earth each Christmas Day. 
 
 'Tis a beautiful task our Christmas brings 
 
 For old and young to share, 
 With jingle of bells, and silvery swells 
 
 Of music in the air. 
 To make the sad world merry awhile, 
 
 And to frighten sin away, 
 And to bless us all, whatever befall, 
 
 Is the task of Christmas Day. 
 
 V. Recitation : "Christmas Gifts." 
 
 If I were you, dear little girl, — 
 
 But that I cannot be, 
 Because I do not wear a curl 
 
 And you don't look like me; 
 But if I were dear little you 
 There is one thing - I wouldn't do. 
 
100 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 A Christmas gift I wouldn't plan 
 • For every one I know; 
 To exercise is better than 
 
 To sit and sew and sew. 
 Two rosy cheeks on Christmas Day 
 Beat anything you can crochet. 
 
 I wouldn't pine to be so rich, 
 
 Or long for diamond rings, 
 Or stand at plate-glass windows which 
 
 Are filled with costly things. 
 I wouldn't lack for Christmas cheer 
 When joys are all so cheap, my dear. 
 
 I said, you know, if I were you ; 
 
 Of course, you know I'm not, 
 But I've met several parents who 
 
 Have talked to me a lot, 
 And all they want, I've heard them say, 
 Is just a kiss on Christmas Day. 
 
 VI. Song: "The Christmas Welcome." 
 
 Tune: "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp." 
 When the summer-time is passed, and the harvest housed at last, 
 And the woods are standing bare and brown and sere ; 
 When the frost is sharp at night, and the days are short and bright, 
 Comes the gladdest, merriest time of all the year. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Shout, boys, shout the hearty welcome ! 
 
 Greet old Christmas with a roar ! 
 
 He has met us with good cheer for this many a merry year, 
 
 And we hope he'll meet us all for many more! 
 
 Let the tempest rage without, let its blast be wild and stout, 
 What care we? Our hearts are stouter still and strong; 
 And within 'tis warm and light, and kind eyes are shining bright, 
 And the voices of our friends are in our song. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 101 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 There's rare and ancient rhyme tells that at the Christmas time, 
 Evil spirits flee away from all the earth, 
 
 That no wicked word may jar, and no sinful work may mar, 
 And no sorrow cast a shade on mortal mirth. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 VII. Acrostic : "Merry Christmas." 
 
 For 14 children, each one having suspended around neck a gold letter on 
 a blue ground. As each child recites he turns card so as to show letter. 
 When all are turned "Merry Christmas" will be formed. 
 
 First. 
 Merry the children, under the castle wall, 
 
 Sing carols gay, to cheer both great and small. 
 
 Second. 
 E ach Christmas, as it comes, brings us cold fingers, blue noses 
 and red cheeks, but we do not mind that, for it also gives 
 us snowballs^ snow houses and snow men. 
 
 Third. 
 i?ough blows the wind, snow showers far and near, 
 Drift without echo to the whitening ground. 
 Autumn has passed away ; and, cold and drear, 
 Winter steps in with frozen mantle bound. 
 
 Fourth. 
 R oil on, Old Year ! you have done your work well : 
 You have gathered up gold 
 To fill us with cheer ! Roll on, Old Year. 
 
 Fifth. 
 yes, the new years come and the old years go, 
 Slowly and silently to and fro. 
 
 Little by little, the longest day 
 And the longest life will pass away, 
 As the new years come and the old years go. 
 
102 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Sixth. 
 
 Christmas comes but once a year; 
 
 But coming, may it bring 
 
 Plenty of cheer and happiness, 
 
 And every pleasant thing. 
 
 Seventh. 
 High and low 
 
 The winter winds blow — 
 
 They fill the hollows with drifts of snow, 
 
 And sweep on the hilltops a pathway clear, 
 As they hurry the children along to school, 
 And whistle for Christmas and glad New Year. 
 
 Eighth. 
 R ing out, sweet bells, on this winter's night, 
 And tell the same old story : 
 Christmas has come with all its fun, 
 And skating, with its glory. 
 
 Ninth. 
 / n comes Christmas, like a king, 
 
 Dressed in white and crowned with gold, 
 In his kindly arms he brings 
 Gifts of love for young and old. 
 
 Tenth. 
 S leigh bells are ringing, 
 Children are singing 
 
 Carols that tell of the glad Christmas-tide. 
 Do we remember 
 The month of December 
 
 Brings us more joy than all months beside. 
 
 Eleventh. 
 The wild flowers are all warmly tucked up in their beds this 
 cold weather, and Mother Nature is rocking them to 
 sleep. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 103 
 
 Twelfth. 
 .Merry Christmas ! What a welcome sound ! It tells of holi- 
 days and frolics, snowballs and skating. 
 
 Thirteenth. 
 A happy Christmas to you ! 
 
 May it bring you all fair things, 
 With the sweetest, best remembrance, 
 That about its coming clings. 
 
 Fourteenth. 
 S weet memories come and nestle in our hearts, of bygone 
 Christmas times. 
 Ere this departs, may it give something dear to garner up, 
 and fill our hearts with cheer. 
 
 VIII. Recitation : "Christmas Bounded." 
 
 Christmas is bounded on the north by Happiness, Good Wishes, 
 Oyster Lake and the Isthmus of Cranberry Sauce ; on the east, by the 
 Peninsula of Turkey and Ocean of Goodies ; on the south by Mince 
 Pies, Jellies and Cakes ; on the west by Pleasant Words, from which 
 it is separated by the Mountains of Cheerfulness. The capitals of 
 Christmas are Peace and Good- Will, on the Christmas Tree River. 
 
 [Here there comes a loud knock at the door.] 
 
 IX. Chorus Recitation : "Let Santa Clans In." 
 
 Let old Santa Claus come in, 
 With his grizzly-bearded chin, 
 And his wondrous pack of toys 
 For good little girls and boys. 
 Dear, kind Santa Claus, you'll see 
 What good children we can be. 
 
 "Merry Christmas !" he will say, 
 "All who willingly obey, 
 Good at school and fair at play, 
 Shall have something fine to-day." 
 [Child opens door. Enter Santa Claus.] 
 
104 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Santa Claus. How do you do, children? I've been listening 
 to your stories. Yes, I love all you children, wherever you may 
 live. Your letters have come to me, and ever since then my wife 
 and I have been busy. Think of the many presents we had to pre- 
 pare! And I had to get my reindeer ready and shine the little 
 sleigh. But here I am, all is prepared, and to-night, when you are 
 fast asleep, I shall come down the chimney and fill your stockings. 
 Now I must hurry away so that I can get back in time. Good-by, 
 children. 
 
 In Memory of Lincoln* 
 
 [Oration given by Judge John N. Baldwin, of Nebraska, at the New 
 York Republican Club's "Lincoln Dinner," Feb. 12, 1901.] 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN stands in no need of a vindicator or 
 a eulogist. "His life speaks its own best eulogy." There 
 need be no fear that if these commemorations should cease Lin- 
 coln would sink in public estimation or his deeds be lost in his- 
 tory. He had received the heart homage of the world before the 
 beauties of his character were pointed out by the critical wand of the 
 orator or the subtler insight of the poet; and not until poets cease 
 to sing of love, duty, justice, simplicity, sincerity and truth will 
 men cease to talk about Lincoln. 
 
 We all are familiar with the stressful action through which 
 Lincoln's character was developed, and the strange frontier coun- 
 try in which his imagination was unfolded. I believe that the 
 cardinal virtues of his life that have challenged the world's atten- 
 tion were simplicity, sincerity and truth, and I believe also that 
 the providence of God ordered and set the scenes of Lincoln's 
 early pilgrimage through life to create, form and fashion these 
 virtues. A family of four,, a loe - cabin, no wkidow. one room and 
 
'AND RECIT'ATTONS No. 26. 105 
 
 a door ; no furniture but rude logs ; no machinery but an axe ; no 
 light but the flames from burning brushes ; no steam but muscle 
 to drive the axe; no college but Bible lore, fairy tales and country 
 legends ; no art but the fields and forests ; no music but the song 
 of the lark; no painting but the sun dipping his golden plumage 
 in the west. 
 
 It was under these conditions that Abraham Lincoln was born, 
 his character framed, his imagination formed and his noble and 
 heroic soul entered upon life. Not by birth or opportunity was this 
 man made. In the strange twilight of the prairies, unheralded and 
 unknown, this strangely simple life began, yet the whole world 
 has heard the story, from his studies by the log light to the speech 
 at Gettysburg. In the solitude of the forests, in close communion 
 with nature and nature's God, in the rude, humble toil of the 
 frontiersman, was developed the innate self-hood of the man, the 
 power that touched with glory of transfiguration that simple, earnest, 
 sincere man as he uttered the closing appeal of his first inaugural. 
 We catch a glimpse of the effect of his communion with nature 
 in the words of a simple truth uttered in a speech of 1856. He 
 said: "In 1824 the free men of our State determined that those 
 beautiful groves should never reecho the dirge of one who has 
 no title to himself. By their resolute determination the winds that 
 sweep across our broad prairies shall never cool the parched brow, 
 nor shall the unfettered streams that bring joy and gladness to 
 our free soil water the tired feet of a slave; but so long as those 
 heavenly breezes and sparkling streams bless the land, or the 
 groves and their fragrance or their memory remain, the humanity 
 to which they minister shall be forever free." 
 
 Simplicity, sincerity and truth — each element necessary to the 
 existence of the other — so early and deeply imbedded in his strong 
 and simple nature, always continued to be Lincoln's noblest char- 
 acteristics. This great triumvirate of power and virtue kept step 
 with his advance, ruled him well, made him the founder of a great 
 party, the deliverer of a nation and the preserver of the Constitu- 
 tion. 
 
 I venture the suggestion that no man will ever write his his- 
 tory and entitle it, "The True Abraham Lincoln." Abraham Lin- 
 
106 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 coin! His simplicity and directness in thought, utterances and 
 writing! He began his studies with a wooden shovel for a slate, 
 logs and boards for paper; he died the greatest master of prose 
 ever produced by the English race. " His sincerity ! Enslaved by 
 poverty and deprivation, his young, darkly struggling heart longed 
 for freedom. He died the emancipator of a race! 
 
 The birth of George Washington was the sign of American 
 freedom. The death of Abraham Lincoln was its consummation. 
 When Washington died, part only was free. When Lincoln died 
 there was no slave. The same spirit of civil liberty that animated 
 Washington in his struggle to make this land free, and Lincoln 
 to make every man free, is to-day moving over the waters of our 
 governmental life. As the spirit of Christianity will some day en- 
 compass this earth, so will the spirit of civil liberty enter into the 
 formation of all government and control all nations. In the 
 work of libertyizing this world the American flag will always be 
 in the lead. On whatever land the Stars and Stripes are raised, 
 it will be for freedom ; whenever lowered, it will be for honor, and 
 whenever unfolded, it will be forever and forever. 
 
 If these counsels or this work be of men, it will be overthrown, 
 but if it is of God, ye will not be able to overthrow it. We do not 
 know but we believe that Abraham Lincoln's work was done 
 under a higher guidance than ours, and will not be overthrown. 
 We believe that in his last hour, when all the faculty of the broken 
 spirit had faded away and died into inanity, imagination, thought, 
 effort, enjoyment — then at last, the night flower of belief alone 
 continued to bloom, and refreshed with its perfume his last dark- 
 ness. We do not know, but we believe that when Death's cold touch 
 made him dreamless here forever more, instantly he felt the warm 
 touch of the Infinite and became Immortal. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 107 
 
 Sue Waters' s Housekeeping* 
 
 By THEO. WHITING. 
 Told by her little brother to the young man who came to call. 
 
 SAY, Mr. Gray, Sis is our housekeeper, nowadays. That's why 
 she can't come down yet. You see, Ma had to go over to 
 Aunt Kate's, and she's goin' to come home to-morrer, but I'll be 
 awfully sorry — I mean for her when she has to clean up after Sis. 
 You see, Sis has alers had so much work like readin' and posy 
 sewin' to do, that I never saw her in the kitchin much of any afore. 
 
 When Ma went away, the bread went too, awful quick, and Pa 
 said we'd better buy some; but Sis said something about "Time to 
 learn something likely to be useful," and then kinder giggled. I 
 don't see why, do you? Well, she made the bread, but she, nor 
 any of us, didn't eat it. She give me a nickel to carry it off so far 
 she'd never see it again, and I took a loaf at a time in my cart and 
 then busted a wheel off, it was so heavy. 
 
 We had some first-class biscuit though, one day. She told me 
 she was goin' to make some cream cookies, but she forgot to put 
 in any sugar, so Dad said we might put some butter on 'em and call 
 'em biscuit. The pies was the worst though. You see, there was 
 a lot of fractions, for the book told what to use for six pies and 
 two crusts for a pie. Sue wanted to make two chocolate pies, and 
 they need only one crust each, so she got me to get my slate and 
 pencil and do the figurin', and what do you think, I forgot to in- 
 vert my divisor and multiplied it by six and we had crust for thirty- 
 six pies. I found out it was my mistake when I looked over the 
 work next day, but you bet I never told Sue. The crust was good 
 though, and I ate it with 'lasses on it and it beat bread all to pieces. 
 
 That's why I like Sis's cookin'. I ain't been real hungry at 
 meal times once, 'cause there's always something of her cookin' 
 I can have. I can most always eat it, 'cept the bread and puddin'. 
 But there, I hear Sue comin' and I can't tell you about that, nor the 
 other things, and don't tell her I told you anything, 'cause she told 
 me not to tell folks ; but you are so near one of the fam'ly it's all 
 right, ain't it? 
 
108 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 And say, I advise you not to notice her red face nor blistered 
 hands, 'cause she told Ben Brown last night, that she enjoyed 
 housekeepin' very much and thought it must be nice to cook for 
 just two, and — but I must go. 
 
 Hello, Sis ! Mr. Gray's had to wait an awful long time, but 
 he don't mind, for we have been havin' such a good visit. Can I 
 have the rest of that f rostin' now ? You can't put it on that burned 
 cake, can you? 
 
 cMatthew the cMiner. 
 
 <By FRANK L. STANTON. 
 
 THE wind came over the southland pines 
 When the icy dews were falling, 
 With a breath of bloom from the vales and vines 
 And the cry of a far voice calling: — 
 
 "Matthew the miner, ride for life 
 
 To starving children and weeping wife! 
 
 Dream no more of golden store — 
 
 The wolf of hunger howls at your door! 
 
 Matthew the miner, ride for life 
 
 To starving children and weeping wife!" 
 
 And the strong man shivered, and bowed his head 
 
 And thought of his famished fold; 
 "Home — home, with empty hands!" he said, 
 
 And cursed his dreams of gold. 
 
 And breaking the strength of the soul at strife, 
 That cry — that pierced like a cruel knife: — 
 "To starving children and weeping wife, 
 Matthew the miner, ride for life!" 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 109 
 
 Did he weep ? It was never a time for tears ! 
 
 Once more for a drowning hold 
 On the banks of life ! "God keep my wife 
 
 And give me the gleam of gold !" 
 
 And all through the night and all through the day 
 He toiled, and taught his lips to pray, 
 While ever that cry from the depths of life: — 
 "To starving children and weeping wife, 
 Matthew the miner, ride for life!" 
 
 When lo ! in the dark he saw the gleam — 
 
 The glint of the golden ore ; 
 And pressed the sod, and cried to God: — 
 
 "They shall hunger and weep no more!" 
 
 Ended, the years of toil and strife — 
 Light in the darkness ! Light and life ! 
 To starving weans and weeping wife, 
 Matthew the miner, ride for life ! 
 
 Away! away! o'er the rocky hills 
 
 In fast and fearful flight! 
 Away! away! in the light of day, 
 
 And on through the gloom of night! 
 
 And the dreaming townsfolk heard this cry 
 Ring through the night as a steed dashed by: — 
 "Starving children and weeping wife — 
 Matthew the miner, ride for life!" 
 
 And the goal is gained and the welcome kiss 
 
 Of wife and children sweet ; 
 And he scatters the gold, a hundred fold — 
 
 A world's wealth — at their feet! 
 
110 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 But lo ! he mounts his steed again, 
 
 And away and away o'er mount and plain — 
 
 Down the valley and over the hill 
 
 They heard his cry, all strange and shrill — 
 
 That cry of pain and deep heart-strife: — 
 
 "Matthew the miner, ride for life!" 
 
 And unto this day the mine men say 
 
 That ghostly cry they heed, 
 And a phantom rider fares away — 
 
 Away on a phantom steed! 
 
 And over the storm and over the strife 
 They hear this cry, from death to life : — 
 "Matthew the miner, ride for life — 
 Ride for life!" 
 
 De Tired Pickaninny's Star-Song* 
 
 By SMARY BAILLIE. 
 
 DE night's a-comin' on, honey, 
 De air's a-growin' cool ! 
 It's time dat pickaninny 
 Was off to evenin' school. 
 
 You dunno wha' dat is, honey? 
 
 Well, jes' you use dem eyes! 
 De school you's gwine to, honey, 
 
 Is dar, up in de skies. 
 
 Dey's no black babies dar, honey, 
 
 Dar all de child'en's white; 
 Dere eyes, dear, am dos-e twinklin' stars 
 
 Dat lighten up de night. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. HI 
 
 An' how you gwine get dar, honey? 
 
 Why, all you'se got to do 
 Is close dem eyes so big and wise, 
 
 An' let you' mammy coo 
 
 An' rock you, till you' body 
 
 Gwine get so very light, 
 De angels gwine to tek you; 
 
 But you ain't gwine feel no fright, 
 
 For you can't help love dem angels, 
 
 And dey'll bar you up so high 
 Dat when dey sets you on you' feet, 
 
 You'll fin' you's in de sky! 
 
 An' when you looks aroun' you, 
 
 As fur's you' eyes kin peer 
 Dey's holes poked fro de hebins ; 
 
 What dem holes fur? Why, dear, 
 
 When lil' child'en goes to sleep 
 
 An' mounts 'way up dar, 
 De moon, de kin' school-massa, 
 
 Say, "Here, chile, peek fro dis star !" 
 
 So de child'en, dey peeps down, honey, 
 
 De moon fro de bigges' hole ; 
 An' de people gazin' up, honey, 
 
 Dunno each star's a soul ! 
 
 D'you know what dey larns dar, honey? 
 
 Dey larns what makes good, great men ; 
 Dey larns dat black and white men's hearts 
 
 Am jes' de same in de en'. 
 
 Dey larn — hush, hush, lil' baby, 
 
 Dat de duty ain't alius far; 
 Dey larns — why de angels has took him, 
 
 An' look— -why, dar's my star! 
 
112 
 
 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 (Attitudes Illustrated in Verse. 
 
 cArranged by SMARTHA E. 'BARBOUR, 
 
 Reflection: "Once upon a midnight dreary, 
 
 While I pondered, weak and weary over — " 
 
 Despair: "One more unfortunate, weary of breath, 
 Rashly importunate, gone to her — " 
 
 Respect: " 'Most noble and approved Good Masters, 
 
 That I have taken away this old man's daughter, 
 Is most true, true that — ' " 
 
 Suspense: "I leaned out the window, I smelt the white clover, 
 Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; 
 Now if there be footsteps, he comes, my own lover, 
 Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale 
 wait 
 Till I listen and hear 
 If a step draweth near, 
 For " 
 
 r Animated "There's a good time coming, boys, a good time comrng — 
 Attention: We may not live to see the day, 
 
 But earth shall glisten in the ray of " 
 
 Vehemence: 
 
 Indecision: 
 
 ' 'To arms ! To arms ! To arms !' they cry, 
 'Grasp the shield and draw the smord; 
 Lead us to Philippi's lord; 
 Let us conquer him or ' " 
 
 'Wait !' he said in a whisper, 'wait ! 
 
 We must break it to his mother.' 
 'Break it! What! My ears are quick and — 
 
 Familiar "It ain't the funniest thing a man can do, 
 Repose: Existing in a country when it's new, for " 
 
 Defiance; "William answered short, T cannot marry Dora, 
 By my life, I will not marry Dora.' " 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 113 
 
 When the Wind Goes Thro' the Maples* 
 
 <By ELLA m. TRUESDELL. (J 
 
 WHEN the wind goes thro' the maples, 
 It plays in the grandest tones; 
 Not as it sighs thro' the pine-trees, 
 
 In fall and winter; but moans 
 For the coming desolation 
 
 Of earth, like one desert vast, 
 When all we know of summer, 
 Seems like a dream that has passed. 
 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, 
 
 It is music sweet to hear; 
 'Tis more than chiming of brooklet, 
 
 Whose bells fall so silv'ry, clear. 
 It is more than robins' "cheery," 
 
 'Tis more than all song of birds, 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, — 
 
 It's gladness too deep for words. 
 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, — 
 
 Ah ! we pause and listen there, 
 It is above whitest daisies, 
 
 Above grasses green and fair. 
 'Tis bounded by cerulean tints, 
 
 It comes from heaven's own blue; 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, 
 
 It is heaven's language new. 
 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, 
 
 'Tis music sent from above; 
 It is like the angels' harping, 
 
 It is like their song of love. 
 
114 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 And yet it does more remind us, 
 
 Of diapasons so grand — 
 The music of the solemn waves, 
 
 All notes of the sea and land. 
 
 i 
 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, — 
 
 A chorus so glad of sound, 
 All nature's hymn it is singing, 
 
 Ah! who can this music bound? 
 The paeans of many nations, 
 
 With all things in jubilee, 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, 
 
 A song so joyous and free. 
 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, 
 
 We dream of our youth again, 
 Of the bliss we then were seeking, 
 
 All life but a clover plain. 
 Of roses beck'ning us onward, 
 
 Of the blue mounts and bright streams; 
 For the wind music of maples, 
 
 Does oft mingle with our dreams. 
 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, 
 
 It brings to us scent of sweet rose, 
 The violet of dark woodland, 
 
 Or the wayside pink that blows; 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, 
 
 Bowing low, as knights, they seem, 
 Each in his gold and emerald, 
 
 Where the sun on leaf does gleam. 
 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, 
 And the rain-bells tinkle, too, 
 
 It makes such a grand orchestra, 
 Without even song of dew, 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 115 
 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, 
 
 It cools the leaves and flowers, 
 It has its mission of healing, 
 
 No less than falling showers. 
 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples — 
 
 Like organ chords floating sweet, 
 You listen indeed to hear them, 
 
 They seem with such joy to greet. 
 Lost in them all pain and sorrow, 
 
 A message of life and light, 
 Of the new Jerus'lem waiting, 
 
 Of a day so fair, no night. 
 
 When the wind goes thro' the maples, 
 
 Then the Angelus does ring; 
 The story of the Christ-child, 
 
 The zephyrs to us bring. 
 We hear their matins and vespers, 
 
 We pause to praise and to pray; 
 In this cathedral worshipping, 
 
 There opens Heaven's own way. 
 
 T/ze Fountain. 
 
 By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 [James Russell Lowell, born Feb. 22, 1819.] 
 
 INTO the sunshine, full of the light, 1 
 Leaping and flashing 2 from morn till night ! 
 Into the moonlight, 3 whiter than snow, 
 Waving so flower-like 4 when the winds blow! 
 
 Into the starlight rushing in spray, 1 
 Happy at midnight, 5 happy by day ! 
 Ever in motion, blithesome and cheery, 2 
 Still climbing heavenward, 2 never aweary : — 
 
116 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Glad of all weathers, 6 still seeming best, 
 Upward or downward, 2 motion thy rest; — 
 Full of a nature nothing can tame, 7 
 Changed every moment, 6 ever the same. 7 
 
 Ceaseless aspiring, 8 ceaseless content, 9 
 Darkness or sunshine thy element; — 
 Glorious fountain! 6 Let my heart be 10 
 Fresh, changeful, constant, upward, 11 like thee ! 
 
 I. Right hand quickly thrust forward, front center at waist-line. 
 2. Upward spiral motion. 3. Let hand slowly descend. 4. Sway 
 from side to side. 5. Clasp hands at chest. 6. Both arms extended 
 front, palms up. 7. Both hands on chest. 8. Both arms extended 
 upward oblique. 9. Palms together at chest. 10. Both hands on 
 heart. II. Carry upward oblique. 
 
 Curfew* 
 
 By HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 [Henry W. Longfellow, born Feb. 27, 1807.] 
 
 C* OLEMNLY, mournfully, dealing its dole, 
 
 v3 The Curfew Bell is beginning to toll. 1 
 
 Cover the embers, 2 and put out the light ; 3 
 
 Toil comes with the morning, and rest with the night. 4 
 
 Dark grow the windows, 5 and quenched is the fire ; 2 
 Sound fades into silence, 6 — all footsteps retire. 7 
 No voice in the chambers, no sound in the hall! 8 
 Sleep and oblivion reign over all ! 9 
 
 The book is completed, 10 and closed, 11 like the day; 
 And the hand that has written it lays it away. 12 
 Dim grow its fancies; forgotten they He; 
 Like coals in the ashes, 2 they darken and die. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 117 
 
 Song sinks into silence, 13 the story is told, 
 
 The windows are darkened, 14 the hearth-stone is cold. 2 
 
 Darker and darker the black shadows fall; 15 
 
 Sleep and oblivion reign over all. 
 
 1. Shake head. The voice is deep, full and round. 2. Left 
 hand horizontal front, palm down. 3. Keeping left hand in same 
 position, extend right hand upward oblique. 4. Clasp hands in 
 front of body. 5. Both hands sweeping from upward front center 
 around to sides, palms outward. 6. Listening attitude. 7. Right 
 hand carried from mid-front to side. 8. Shake head. 9. Both 
 arms extended fullest length forward, palms down. 10. Hold right 
 hand mid-front, a little way out from body, palm up. II. Turn 
 palm over. 12. Carry hand around to side. 13. Both arms at 
 fullest length out at sides ; slowly drop at sides. 14. Extend right 
 hand upward oblique. 15. Both arms upward at front center; 
 slowly drop until at waist-line, hands spreading apart. 
 
 cMaster. 
 
 By <A. CONAN DOYLE. 
 
 MASTER went a-hunting, 
 When the leaves were falling; 
 We saw him on the bridle path, 
 
 We heard him gaily calling. 
 "Oh, master, master, come you back, 
 For I have dreamed a dream so black !" 
 
 A glint of steel from bit and heel, 
 
 The chestnut cantered faster, 
 A red flash seen amid the green, 
 
 And so good-by to master. 
 
 Master came from hunting, 
 
 Two silent comrades bore him; 
 
 His eyes were dim, his face was white, 
 The mare was led before him. 
 
118 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 "Oh, master, master, is it thus 
 That you have come again to us?'* 
 
 I held my lady's ice-cold hand, 
 They bore the hurdle past her; 
 
 Why should they go so soft and slow? 
 It matters not to master. 
 
 Time Doeth All Things Well. 
 
 By JEROME HARTE. 
 
 A LOVELY maiden came down the garden path amid the dewy 
 roses, her hands clutched upon her heart, her anguished eyes 
 strained in every direction. 
 
 "Ah, what shall I do ?" she moaned, lifting her glance to heaven. 
 "Alas, I have lost my heart !" 
 
 Love stepped from the dusky shadows of the rose bush and con- 
 fronted her. 
 
 "Here it is," he said kindly, and stood holding out her heart in 
 one hand ; his other, grasping a pearly arrow, thrown behind his 
 back. The maiden fell upon her knees, and trembling, caught the 
 heart in her hands. 
 
 "But it is broken!" she cried with straining eyes. "It is 
 broken !" 
 
 "I am sorry," Love said, his little face growing sober. "I didn't 
 mean to break it. Indeed I'm very sorry." 
 
 The maiden threw herself upon her face. "Oh, can it never be 
 mended?" she sobbed in pitiful despair. 
 
 Love's face brightened. "Why, yes," he said, "Father Time will 
 make it whole again ! He passes the garden gate in a little while. 
 Run and ask him to mend it for you." 
 
 The-maiden struggled to her feet and hastened down the path to 
 the garden gate. An old man was passing along the wide, white, 
 dusty road. His snowy hair fell upon his broad, bent shoulders and 
 a knotted stick aided his long rapid strides. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. , 119 
 
 "Stop a minute, good Father Time," called the girl, flying through 
 the gate and down the road ; "stop a minute and heal my heart !" 
 
 But Time heeded not, and the maiden ran after him, along the 
 road, through dust and stones, over hill and level, wildly calling and 
 waving her hands. The sun grew hot and oppressive, and clouds 
 came and rain fell, but the maiden still struggled onward, stagger- 
 ing with weariness, hoarse from calling. At length darkness de- 
 scended and the old man disappeared in the gathering gloom. 
 
 Then the maiden sank down, panting and helpless, and burst into 
 passionate weeping, "Alas ! Alas ! Time would not wait, and my 
 heart will be ever broken !" 
 
 Suddenly she looked up. The darkness seemed to have taken 
 wings ; golden sunlight streamed round her, and smiling Love stood 
 by. She glanced at the heart in her hand. Lo, there was no crack, 
 nor crevice upon its surface ! Love pointed to the mended heart. 
 
 "I told you Time would make it whole again," he said. 
 
 Washington cAcrostic. 
 
 [For ten young people with fans, on which are pasted or painted the letters 
 W, A. S, H, etc. When each has recited produce fan, which may have been held behing 
 back and spell out name. After each stanza wave fans back and forth in unison, up, 
 down, right, left; then fan promiscuously.] 
 
 pj/here 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 dare not hate, 
 Bequeath the name of Washington, 
 To make man blush there was but one! 
 
120 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 c#nd still, we trust, the years to be 
 
 Shall prove his hope was destiny, 
 Leaving our flag with all its added stars 
 Unrent by faction, and unstained by warsl 
 
 .Stand ! the ground's your own, my braves ! 
 Will ye give up to slaves? 
 Will ye look for greener graves? 
 
 Hope ye mercy still? 
 What's the mercy despots feel? 
 Hear it in that battle peal ! 
 Read it on yon bristling steel ! 
 Ask it, ye who will. 
 
 His rule of justice, order, peace, 
 Made possible the world's release; 
 Taught prince and serf that power is but a trust, 
 And rule alone, which served the ruled, is just. 
 
 /llustrious warrior, hail ! 
 
 Oft did thy sword prevail 
 
 O'er hosts of foes. 
 Come and fresh laurels claim ; 
 Still dearer make thy name 
 Long as immortal Fame 
 
 Her trumpet blows. 
 
 jVame at which tyrants pale, 
 
 And their proud legions quail, 
 Their boasting done, 
 While Freedom lifts her head. 
 No longer filled with dread, 
 Her sons to victory led 
 By Washington, 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 121 
 
 graven deep with edge of steel, 
 Crowned with Victory's crimson seal, 
 
 All the world their names shall read ! 
 Enrolled with his hosts that led, 
 Whose blood for us — for all — was shed. 
 Pay our sires their children's debt, 
 Love and honor — nor forget 
 Only Union's golden key 
 Guards the Ark of Liberty ! 
 
 While the stars of Heaven shall burn, 
 While the ocean tides return, 
 Ever may the circling sun 
 Find the Many still are One! 
 
 Traced there in lines of light 
 Where all pure rays unite, 
 Obscured by none ; 
 Brightest on history's page, 
 Of any clime or age, 
 As chieftain, man and sage, 
 Stands Washington. 
 
 Our first and best ! his ashes lie 
 Beneath his own Virginian sky. 
 Forgive, forget, O true and just and brave, 
 The storm that swept above thy sacred grave! 
 
 Now the true patriots see, 
 
 The foremost of the free, 
 
 The victory won, 
 In Freedom's presence bow, 
 While sweetly smiling now 
 She wreathes the spotless brow 
 Of Washington. 
 
122 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 What's in a cHame} 
 
 A Dialogue for Women. 
 
 By ELLERTON GAY. 
 Characters: Mrs. Belterre. 
 
 Gwendolen, her daughter. 
 Costumes: Mrs. Belterre in elegant morning dress. Gwen- 
 dolen in riding-habit. 
 
 Scene: Mrs. Belterre's boudoir. Time, n a.m. 
 
 Mrs. Belterre. How frightfully energetic you are, riding 
 so early, after dancing till three! 
 
 Gwendolen. It freshens one up so. It was a lovely ball. 
 
 Mrs. B. Quite the nicest of the season. You danced every- 
 thing? 
 
 Gwen. Yes, so did you ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Not everything. [Apologetically. 1 I would not 
 have danced if you had been partnerless. 
 
 Gwen. [smiling]. Your partners would not have suited me. 
 
 Mrs. B. Why? 
 
 Gwen. They are either too old or too young! 
 
 Mrs. B. [condescendingly]. What a nice-looking lad Peter 
 Glubb has grown. Quite nice manners, too ! 
 
 Gwen. [with suppressed indignation]. Lad! He is twenty- 
 two. 
 
 Mrs. B. Really ! It seems only the other day he was a small 
 boy, with a perpetual cold in his head, and no handkerchief. I 
 thought he did not seem pleased when I told him he had grown 
 since Christmas. 
 
 Gwen. He believed you had said it to snub him, as he has 
 been five-feet-eleven since he was eighteen. 
 
 Mrs. B. He dances beautifully. [Suddenly.] How many 
 did you have with him. 
 
 Gwen. [hesitatingly]. Five — I think. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh ! He is twenty-two and you are eighteen. 
 
 Gwen. And you are thirty-seven. What have our ages to 
 do with it? 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 123 
 
 Mrs. B. [absently]. What a name to bestow on the lady of 
 his choice ! Mrs. Peter Glubb ! 
 
 Gwen. I don't think it matters what one is called. Peter is a 
 gentleman. 
 
 Mrs. B. He is, and he does not sniff — much — now. He said 
 very flattering things to me. What could have been his reason? 
 
 Gwen. Why seek a reason? Doubtless they were sincere. 
 
 Mrs. B. Would he have said them if my wise little daughter 
 had already accepted the proposal that Mr. Ponsonby is waiting 
 an opportunity to make? 
 
 Gwen. There I have you, mother ! Talking of names, I 
 happen to know that Mr. Ponsonby was born "Smithers !" 
 
 Mrs. B. [hastily]. How did you hear that? 
 
 Gwen. From some one whose father knows about the stone 
 that was removed from the church wall, because it set forth that 
 the grandfather, John Smithers, had contracted to supply the gov- 
 ernment with oil for lighthouses, and had thereby made a fortune. 
 
 Mrs. B. The fortune was considerable and exists, though the 
 tombstone has disappeared. Has Mr. Glubb — Glubb ! — any tutor- 
 ing to do now. 
 
 Gwen. [demurely]. No. He has just left rTis last place. 
 
 Mrs. B. Poor boy, what an arduous position ! Lady Sophia 
 saw you dancing with him, and asked his name. How funny she 
 is; you would have laughed at her humorous grimace when I told 
 it! 
 
 Gwen. Lady Sophia is a vulgar old thing. 
 
 Mrs. B. She is charming, and such a mimic. Even you could 
 not have helped laughing at the inimitable way she took off dear 
 old Clarissa to the life. By-the-bye, Clarissa is Mr. Glubb's aunt; 
 what odd relations the poor boy has ! 
 
 Gwen. [hotly]. Peter did not make his relations. 
 
 Mrs. B. [sotto voce]. No, his relations made him — at least 
 some of them did. How nicely you stand up for your young 
 friend, dear; but your doing so might be misunderstood in some 
 quarters. 
 
 Gwen. If you mean by Mr. Ponsonby, that does not concern 
 me. 
 
124 . WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Mrs. B. Then it should, Gwen. The dear fellow is devoted to 
 you, and he is the match of the season. 
 
 Gwen. [impulsively]. Mother, Peter ■ 
 
 Mrs. B. [mimicking]. Father, Peter! Dear child, really I 
 think you must leave off calling Mr. Glubb by his ugly christian 
 name — a choice of evils — now that he is twenty-two. 
 
 Gwen. [blurting it out]. Peter proposed to me last night. 
 
 Mrs. B. [uneasily]. How very amusing! Of course you 
 laughed it off? 
 
 Gwen. No, I took it quite seriously. I love him. 
 
 Mrs. B. Love him! What an odd girl you are, Gwen. You 
 can't possibly mean you prefer to be Mrs. Peter Glubb, on nothing 
 a year, rather than Mrs. John Plantagenet Ponsonby, with ever so 
 many thousands ! You are no more fit to be the wife of a poor 
 man than the kitchen-maid downstairs is to be a duchess. 
 
 Gwen. I did not exactly accept Peter. 
 
 Mrs. B. [fondly] . There speaks my dear child ! 
 
 Gwen. I told him to talk to you. 
 
 Mrs. B. Quite right. I will speak to him kindly, and tell 
 him if you are both free in five years, and of the same mind, when 
 he has something to marry on, that I will not withhold my consent. 
 Never fear, I will let him down gently. 
 
 Gwen. He does not want to marry until he is in a position to 
 keep me. 
 
 Mrs. B. He is mighty modest! When will that be, on a 
 beggarly tutorship of £250 a year ; and precarious at that ? In 
 the meanwhile, darling, you will be nice to Mr. Ponsonby, won't 
 you ? His chestnut team is the best in London ; his coach the best 
 turned out; his town-house the best appointed; and his place in 
 Shropshire — though I confess it is absolutely raw with newness — 
 the best in the county; while he himself is 
 
 Gwen. [dispassionately]. Knockkneed! 
 
 Mrs. B. It is scarcely perceptible, except in knickerbockers, or 
 a kilt, and you can veto his wearing those garments. He has 
 
 Gwen. A sloping forehead! 
 
 Mrs. B. It shelves back a little, I admit, but he is quite nice- 
 looking. 
 
 Gwen. Not so handsome as Peter Glubb. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 125 
 
 Mrs. B. [crossly j. Don't harp on that odious name. It jars 
 on me terribly. 
 
 Gwen. I forgot to say Peter's uncle in Australia died some 
 time ago and has left him his money. 
 
 Mrs. B. [sceptically]. A couple of thousands? 
 
 Gwen. A couple of millions — I forget if it is two or three 
 millions. 
 
 Mrs. B. You don't mean it ! And you really love him, dear- 
 est? 
 
 Gwen. Yes, I have always been fond of him — though, of 
 course I should have hated to be poor. 
 
 Mrs. B. [with generous impulse]. It shall never be said that 
 I thwarted my only child where her affections are set. You are 
 sure about the uncle? 
 
 Gwen. Quite ; he — I mean Peter — is coming this morning, 
 and will tell you all about it. 
 
 Mrs. B. [reflectively]. I think there were some Glubbs in 
 Hereford who had a hyphen and another name ; has — ahem ! — 
 Peter — another name? 
 
 Gwen. Yes, he is called Merrion. 
 
 Mrs. B. Mrs. Merrion-Glubb ! That's not so bad! [A ring.] 
 This must be Mr. Merrion-Glubb, darling. 
 
 A Reasonable cMan. 
 
 Tra.nsta.ted from the French by Lucy Hayes Macqueen. 
 Monologue for a Man. 
 
 [Reciter enters, with letter in hand.] What is this? A letter 
 from my wife? Why does she write? I saw her only this morn- 
 ing. It is some feminine idea. She has exaggerated notions. I 
 hate exaggeration. [Puts letter in pocket.] I am going to tell you 
 about a little adventure of mine, no, it is more than an adventure, 
 it is a history; and yet it is hardly a history, for such a dignified 
 
126 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 name can not be given to what happened to me no later than this 
 very day. 
 
 I awoke this morning very happy — well, not exactly happy, still 
 in very good humor with myself and all the world. I do not be- 
 long to that class of persons who laugh, "He, he, he!" without 
 knowing what they are laughing about; neither do I belong to 
 that other class who cry "Oh, oh, oh !" without having the remotest 
 idea of what they are crying about. No, I am a serious man, well, 
 not exactly serious, but reasonable, yes, that is the exact word, — 
 reasonable. It is not because I am old that I am reasonable, in- 
 deed, I am younger than Ilook. Still, I am not young enough to be 
 idiotic like most young people who think they can do everything that 
 ever was done under the sun, who go into ecstacies over every flower 
 they see and cry out: "Oh, spring! Oh, the flowers!" Pshaw! 
 let us not exaggerate spring. It is simply the end of winter, or the 
 beginning of summer,— it is spring. 
 
 Again, I am not like old people who shake their heads and say 
 they do not like this and they do not like that, who say : [Indiffer- 
 ently.] "Spring! The flowers! Ah, well, the flowers grow on 
 plants. They come out after the leaves." Pshaw ! let us not exag- 
 gerate. 
 
 But I am digressing. To return to the little tale I was going to 
 relate. I must tell you that I bought a hat to-day, with an electric 
 lining. Not that I believe in modern inventions, but I saw this 
 particular hat, I bought it — at a reasonable price. For the rest, it 
 was very — no, it was reason — I mean it was a seasonable, decorous 
 hat. Then, this morning, I went out feeling very — no ; but feeling 
 well. The weather was fine and I said : "I will buy a newspaper." 
 Not that I am carried away with love of politics, nothing of the kind, 
 because many people cry out : "Politics ! there is nothing worth 
 calling politics except this, really nothing but this!" Again, I do 
 not belong to the opposite political faction who shout: "Don't be- 
 lieve that. It does not amount to anything. You must vote this 
 way, etc." Pshaw! let us not exaggerate. In politics it is not nec- 
 essary to believe — you follow me? Well, it is not necessary to be- 
 lieve that everything is good or bad simply because some one tells 
 you that everything is so. Do you understand ? 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 127 
 
 To return : I buy a newspaper, I open it, the wind blows hard, 
 no, not very hard, but still a pretty good gale, so I close my paper, 
 for after all it makes no difference whether I read it or not — it is all 
 the same. The newspaper men say so much is white, so much is 
 black. Why should all that be white and all this be black? I do 
 not agree with them. 
 
 Well, the wind blew harder and I felt it blowing my hat off my 
 head. I pulled that hat down tight over my ears. I know that it is 
 not becoming pulled down thus. Still it is not ugly. I have my 
 own ideas on the subject of beauty. When a man pulls down his 
 hat this way over his ears, he is not as handsome as Apollo, still it 
 (the hat) is useful stuck on in that way and whatever is useful and 
 convenient can never be ugly. Sculptors and artists tell us so much. 
 Still, if you listen to artists ! Do you know I was acquainted with 
 a musician once, and he would not even look at any music except his 
 own. He said all music except his, was good for nothing. But do 
 not let us speak of musicians; we would have to discuss them all 
 night. 
 
 Well, I walked along, and my newspaper was not altogether 
 closely shut on account of the wind which blew it open once in a 
 while. I was just about to step on the bridge — I do not now recall 
 just zvhat bridge — when I perceived a little woman ahead of me. I 
 tell you she was pretty. No, do not let us exaggerate, but she held 
 up her gown like this. [Affected gesture of holding up train.] She 
 was [looks volumes] no, she was not [another meaning look] — at 
 least, you know what she was. I do not belong to that class of per- 
 sons who cry out, "The ladies ! the ladies !" who have the subject 
 forever on their lips. Neither do I belong to that class who twirl 
 their moustaches and say, "Oh, these women ! these women !" I say 
 simply, "The ladies !" 
 
 I thought she was quite chic, this little woman. I can not say 
 that I was in love with her because there are too many people who 
 cry out : "Oh, love, love ! and who proceed to say to every woman 
 they meet : "I love you ! I love you !" Pshaw ! do not let us ex- 
 aggerate. 
 
 I held my newspaper in one hand and with the other I pulled that 
 hat down close over my ears because the wind was blowing hard. I 
 
128 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 walked like this beside the little woman. You will say that was not 
 the right thing for a married man to do. Yes, I am married— mar- 
 ried after a fashion. Oh, of course, I was married in a legitimate 
 way — had a license and all that — and I love my wife. Pshaw ! do 
 not let us exaggerate. I esteem my wife; no, I have sincere affec- 
 tion for her. Still, you know, I am not of that class of men, who cry 
 out on every occasion : "Marriage ! marriage ! It is a sacrament !" 
 Pshaw! it is only necessary to say [indifferently], "Marriage! mar- 
 riage !" 
 
 To be jealous is a great exaggeration. For instance, my wife 
 has a cousin named Oscar. He is a good boy, well, no, he is a man 
 like the rest of us. For a year past, our relations have been some- 
 what strained, that is, I know him without knowing him. You un- 
 derstand. You laugh and say: "Well, one is not obliged to enter- 
 tain one's wife's cousins at one's house." Pshaw ! let us not exag- 
 gerate. 
 
 Remember, my wife is always nervous. For two years past, 
 every time that I have ever addressed a reasonable remark to her, she 
 replied with a nervous attack. I do not wish to denounce marriage. 
 I know very well that marriage is a good thing for the family. One 
 says all when one says that. What is the family ? It is Mr. So and 
 So and Mrs. So and So and their children — when they have children. 
 I do not wish to denounce the family, nor propriety. It is proper to 
 possess as much as you can, for when you own a good deal you are 
 considered a safe and proper person to have around. Then, one can 
 not deny your propriety. But do not let us discuss propriety; it 
 would take up too much time. 
 
 Then, as I held my newspaper in one hand and my hat in the 
 other, a gust of wind blew my paper out of my left hand. I clutched 
 at the paper with my right hand, but in doing so, I let go of my hat. 
 The little woman began to walk very fast. I wished to follow her. 
 Another gust of wind came along. It raised my hat off my head. 
 In order to seize my hat, I let go of my paper and then I had neither 
 paper, hat, nor little woman. 
 
 I saw my hat fly like this [undulatory gesture] into the Seine as 
 I stood bare-headed on the bridge. A street gamin saw my plight 
 and laughed aloud. It was an exaggerated laugh. A passer-by as- 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 129 
 
 sured me that I would recover my hat by calling at the office for lost 
 articles, at Saint-Cloud. You know they drag the Seine and fish out 
 lost articles and deposit them in an office at Saint-Cloud? [Con- 
 sults watch.] It is not late, it is not early, it is just my time. Apro- 
 pos, I wonder what my wife can have to say to me? Some exag- 
 geration, I fear. [Opens letter and reads.] 
 
 "Life is impossible with you, so I am going away with Oscar." 
 [In a stupor.] You see, she exaggerates. Ah, well, there are many 
 people who in my position would cry aloud and say : "My wife !" 
 
 But I, no, I am going to find my wife and talk reasonably with 
 her. Though women and men and everything else under Heaven, 
 even Nature herself should become exaggerated, I shall find my hat, 
 I shall find my wife and I shall remain reasonable. [Exits slowly.] 
 
 A Water Color. 
 
 Monologue for a Woman. 
 
 [Enters, laughing.] How absurd it is! How utterly absurd! 
 Is it possible I can laugh still? It must be that I have no heart. 
 [Puts hand on heart.] Yes, it beats and beats calmly. So much 
 the^ better ; I am reassured. 
 
 What a craze men have for marrying widows. I am a widow. 
 Some one presented to me ayoung man, by name Louis de Monta- 
 lembert, neither good nor bad — rather more bad than good, per- 
 haps — rather distinguished looking, sporting an array of inoffensive 
 little orders, saying neither too much nor enough, with his hair 
 combed and recombed in most exquisite fashion. A sufficiently 
 presentable husband after all. All winter that man pays court to 
 me. It neither ends, nor does it become interesting. I meet him 
 everywhere I go and everywhere I do not go. As spring advances, 
 Louis rests in the background, and I remain as indifferent as I was 
 the first day. When July arrives I prepare to leave town. 
 
 " Where do you go ? " he asks. 
 
 " To Dieppe." 
 
 " Then I go also." 
 
130 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 He also! However, all the world is at liberty to go to Dieppe, 
 and I should not complain. But I had been here only eight days, 
 when, last evening, a visiting card was. brought to me. It was he! 
 I should have expected him, but I call the ocean to witness that I 
 did not. 
 
 " Most happy to see you again," he said, as his rose and white 
 visage appeared, for he is [laughing] — he was always rose and 
 white ! And he added, " You find it amusing here ? " 
 
 " Oh, well enough ! " 
 
 " You like the climate? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " How do you kill time ? " 
 
 " Oh, the promenades, the Casino, the bath — " 
 
 " The bath? Do you swim ?" 
 
 " Well enough ; and you ? " 
 
 "Oh,—/—!" And he said that "Oh, I.!*' with such a self- 
 satisfied air, that I already saw in fancy that carefully combed head 
 in salt water. 
 
 " What time do you bathe to-morrow ? " he asked. 
 
 " Six o'clock." 
 
 " Evening? " 
 
 " No ; morning." 
 
 " In the morning," he echoed, " at low tide ! What an idea ! But 
 I understand; you enjoy trying to swim and do not care to be seen 
 by the scoffers on shore." 
 
 I remained quite silent from amusement and surprise. He took 
 his leave. I confess I wondered what he was going to do next. 
 
 This morning at six o'clock I left the bath-house, as I had told 
 him. I threw a searching glance toward the men's side, and saw 
 but one bather. On the woman's side there was but one, and that 
 was I. The other bather, enveloped in his robe, walked across the 
 pebbles toward the sea, which seemed indisposed to admit him to 
 its embrace, for it receded in a manner quite abnormal. We plunged 
 in, the mysterious bather and I, always far apart. He left his robe 
 on the beach, and when I saw him I thought my eyes had deceived 
 me. Brightened by the rising sun, feet and part of his legs em- 
 bedded in the sand, the unknown had the appearance of a little 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 131 
 
 ball that rolled around aimlessly. " It is not he," I said to myself, 
 plunging into the sea, without taking any further notice of the man. 
 After a certain number of strokes I reached the boat that marked 
 the limit for prudent swimmers. At this hour the boat was empty. 
 I went around it, and what did I find behind it but a man, who, in 
 turning to face me, said : 
 
 " Madame, I have the honor to salute you." 
 
 " Ah, it is you ? " 
 
 He was there, the little ball, on the moment ! His hair, which 
 he had carefully kept dry, was still artistically arranged, and his 
 skin was always rose and white. 
 
 " Yes, it is I," he answered, " and I beg pardon for presenting 
 myself before you in so neglige a costume." 
 
 " But you could not very well wear your black coat. Do you go 
 far in this style? " 
 
 " Why, yes ; and you ? " and he began to eye me uneasily. 
 
 I continued to swim ahead and he kept near me, moving with 
 as much grace as he could muster. We were going beautifully when 
 suddenly : i " v - 
 
 " But — you know — you know — how — to swim ! " he finished, his 
 voice very choked and he quite oblivious of a great wave which 
 promptly submerged him. When he reappeared I repliedTgently : 
 
 " Oh, I swim ! " He seized the plank, advising me to do the 
 same. 
 
 " You are tired, already ? " This question would certainly have 
 raised every hair on his head had they not been so solidly glued to 
 his scalp by the salt waves. 
 
 " /.' tired? A swimmer such as I? I am never tired ! I will go — 
 to America ! " 
 
 " Very well," I answered, " let us go." [Make gesture of swim- 
 ming.'] 
 
 But he had talked better than he swam. He threw me by stealth 
 looks full of wrath and salt water. He murmured, "It is for you I 
 fear the fatigue." 
 
 He was obliged to speak and breathe and swallow salt water all 
 in a moment. I swam on calmly. 
 
132 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 " My departure waits upon yours. [Imitate movement of swim- 
 ming.} I shall be desolate if any imprudence — " 
 
 " Come on, do not be afraid/' I interrupted. 
 
 " I am not afraid," he cried, with a vigorous plunge to escape a 
 breaker, " and then we are alone." Ah, yes ; we were alone ! " I 
 wish," he continued, " that this marriage — you know what I would 
 say — " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " In short, I wish you would make up your mind to — " 
 
 I could not hear the end of this remark — Louis de Monta- 
 lembert had disappeared ! I made a dive after him, grasped him by 
 the head, and being a passable swimmer, was lucky enough to float 
 him to the boat, into which I lifted him, not without a good deal of 
 trouble. He was so heavy ! And ugly ! Heavens ! how ugly ! In 
 spite of the gravity of the circumstances I could not help laughing. 
 It is in such moments that one reads the heart clearly — I did not 
 love him — I never had loved him. Ah, he was no longer rose and 
 white — he was a most beautiful green ! How could I love a man 
 so green as that ! Once in the boat, I began to wonder what I 
 should do next. I saw two or three bathers on the shore coming to 
 our assistance. ;.S-uddenly I remembered that in a swoon one must 
 put the patient's head lower than his feet. It seemed absurd; but 
 as I knew nothing else to do, I seized him by the ankles and, climbing 
 on the seat, dragged him into a position as vertical as it was dis- 
 agreeable. I can assure you his head was as low as possible ! As 
 I held him so, I said to myself, " Never did a fiance find himself in 
 such a situation before his betrothed." It is incredibly funny ! 
 
 By this time the bathers had reached us. I was very tired, but 
 in good spirits, for it seemed to me that he was reviving. His arms 
 moved ; I called to the others, " He lives ! " 
 
 " Let him alone," they screamed, " let him alone! " 
 
 I let go, and he tumbled into the bottom of the boat. Ah, he 
 was no longer green — he was as red as a turkey-cock ! The blood 
 had begun to circulate, and had gone to his head. The boat took 
 us safely to shore, where there were already a number of people. 
 They had heard what had happened and began to congratulate me. 
 Much astonished, I inquired the reason of these compliments. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 133 
 
 Thereupon Louis de Montalembert, who had quite revived, and had 
 also donned a bath-robe, cried out : 
 
 " Why these compliments ? Why you have saved my life ! " At 
 that moment I heard behind me one of the bathing-masters mut- 
 tering : 
 
 " If it were I who had saved him, I'd have twenty-five francs; 
 it is the prize." 
 
 Louis continued. (By this time he was neither rose, nor white, 
 nor green, nor red — he was orange!) "Yes," he said, "you have 
 saved me ! What can I do to repay you ! " 
 
 I replied calmly, " Twenty-five francs. It seems that is the 
 prize." And as the crowd began to laugh.- I flew into my cabin, 
 and how I laughed myself. How could I e*,or marry a rainbow! 
 
 Ho<w Lucy Backslid* 
 
 <By <PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR. 
 
 DE times is mighty stirrin' 'mong de people up ouah way, 
 Dey 'sputin' an' dey argyin' an' fussin' night an' day; 
 An' all dis monst'ous trouble dat hit meks me tiahed to tell 
 Is 'bout dat Lucy Jackson dat was sich a mighty belle. 
 
 She was de preachhah's lavoured, an' he tol' de chu'ch one night 
 Dat she traveled throj de cloud o' sin a-bearin' of a light ; 
 But, now, I 'low he c'inkin' dat she mus' 'a' los' huh lamp, 
 Case Lucy done backslided an' dey trouble in de camp. 
 
 Huh daddy wants to beat huh, but huh mammy daihs him to, 
 Fu' she lookin' at de question f'om a ooman's pint o' view ; 
 An' she say dat now she wouldn't have it cliff 'ent ef she could ; 
 Dat huh darter only acted jes' lak any othah would. 
 
134 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Cose you know w'en women argy, dey is mighty ea?y ied 
 By dey hea'ts an' don't go foolin' 'bout de reasons of de hairi. 
 So huh mammy laid de law down (she ain' reckernizin' wrong), 
 But you got to mek erlowance fu' de cause dat go along. 
 
 Now de cause dat made Miss Lucy fu' to th'ow huh grace away 
 I's afeard won't baih no 'spection w'en hit come to jedgment day; 
 Do' de same t'ing been a-wo'kin' evah sence de worl' began, — 
 De ooman disobeyin' fu' to 'tice along a man. 
 
 Ef- you 'tended de revivals which we held de wintah pas', 
 You kin rickolec' dat convuts was a-comin' thick an' fas' ; 
 But dey ain't no use in talkin', dey was all lef in de lu'ch 
 W'en ol' Mis' Jackson's dartah foun' huh peace an' tuk de chu'ch. 
 
 W'y she shouted ovah evah inch of Ebenezah's flo' ; 
 
 Up into de preachah's pulpit an' f 'om dah down to de do' ; 
 
 Den she hugged an.' squeezed huh mammy, an' she hugged an' 
 
 kissed huh dad, 
 An' she struck out at huh sister, people said, lak she was mad. 
 
 I has 'tended some revivals dat was lively in my day, 
 An' I's seed folks git 'uligion in mos' evah kin o' way ; 
 But I tell you, an' you b'lieve me dat I's speakin' true indeed, 
 Dat gul tuk huh 'ligion ha'dah dan de ha'dest yit I's seed. 
 
 Well, f'om dat, 'twas " Sistah Jackson, won't you please do dis 
 
 er dat?" 
 She mus' alius sta't de singin' w'en dey'd pass erroun' de hat, 
 An' hit seemed dey wasn't nuffin' in dat chu'ch dat could go by 
 'Dout Sistah Lucy Jackson had a finger in de pie. 
 
 But de sayin' mighty trufeful dat hit easiah to sail 
 W'en de sea is ca'm an' gentle dan to weathah out a gale. 
 Dat's whut made dis ooman's trouble ; ef de sto'm had kep' away, 
 She'd had enough 'uligion fu' to lasted out huh day. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 135 
 
 Lucy went wid 'Lishy Davis, but w'en she jined chu'ch, you know 
 Dah was lots o' little places dat, of cose, she couldn't go ; 
 An' she had to gin up dancin' an' huh singin' an' huh play, — 
 Now hit's nachul dat sich goin's-on 'u'd drive a man away. 
 
 So, w'en Lucy got so solemn, Ike he sta'ted fu' to go 
 
 Wid a gal who was a sinnah an' could mek a bettah show. 
 
 Lucy jes' went on to meetin' lak she didn't keer a rap, 
 
 But my 'sperunce kep' me t'inkin' dah was somep'n' gwine to drap, 
 
 Fu' a gal won't let 'uligion er no othah so't o' t'ing 
 Stop huh w'en she teks a notion dat she wants a weddin' ring. 
 You kin p'omise huh de blessin's of a happy aftah life 
 (An hit's nice to be a angel), but she'd ravah be a wife. 
 
 So w'en Chrismus come an' mastah gin a frolic on de lawn, 
 Didn't 'sprise me not de littlest seein' Lucy lookin' on. 
 An' I seed a wa'nin' lightnin' go a-flashin' f'om huh eye 
 Jest ez 'Lishy an' his new gal went a-gallivantin' by. 
 
 An' dat Tildy, umph ! she giggled, an' she gin huh dress a flirt, 
 Lak de people she was passin' was ez common ez de dirt ; 
 An' de minit she was dancin', w'y dat gal put on mo' aihs 
 Dan a cat a-tekin' kittens up a paih o' windin' staihs. 
 
 She could 'fo'd to show huh sma'tness, fu' she couldn't he'p but know 
 Dat wid jes' de present dancahs she was ownah of de flo' ; 
 But I t'ink she's kin' o' cooled down ef- she happened on de sly 
 Fu' to noticed dat 'ere lightnin' dat I seed in Lucy's eye. 
 
 An' she wouldn't been so 'stonished w'en de people gin a shout, 
 An' Lucy th'owed huh mantle back an' come a-glidin' out. 
 Some ahms was dah to tek huh an' she fluttahed down de flo' 
 Lak a feddah f'om a bedtick w'en de win' commence to blow. 
 
136 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Soon ez Tildy see de trouble, she jes' tu'n an' toss huh haid, 
 But seem lak she los' huh sperrit, all huh darin'ness was daid. 
 Didn't cut anothah capah nary time de blessid night ; 
 But de othah one, hit looked lak couldn't git enough delight. 
 
 Wen you keeps a colt a-stan'nin' in de stable all along, 
 Wen he do git out hit's nachul he'll be pullin' mighty strong. 
 Ef you will tie up yo' feelin's, hyeah's de bes' advice to tek, 
 Look out fu' an awful loosin' w'en de string dat hoi's 'em brek. 
 
 • 
 Lucy's mammy groaned to see huh, an' huh pappy st'omed an' to', 
 But she kep' right on a-hol'in' to de centah of de flo'. 
 So dey went an' ast de pastoh ef he couldn't mek huh quit, 
 But de tellin' of de sto'y th'owed de preachah in a fit. 
 
 Tildy Taylor chewed huh hank'cher twell she'd chewed it in a hole, — 
 All de sinnahs was rejoicin' 'cause a lamb had lef de fol', 
 An' de las' I seed o' Lucy, she an 'Lish was side an' side ; 
 I don't blame de gal fu' dancin', an' I couldn't ef I tried. 
 
 Fu' de men dat wants to ma'y ain't a-growin' 'roun' on trees, 
 An' de gal dat wants to git one sholy has to try to please, 
 Hit's a ha'd t'ing fu' a ooman fu' to pray an' jes' set down, • 
 An' to sacafice a husban' so's to try to gain a crown. 
 
 Now, I don' say she was justified in follerin' huh plan; 
 But aldough she los' huh 'ligion, yit she sholy got de man. 
 Latah on, w'en she is suttain dat de preachah's made 'em fas' 
 She kin jes' go back to chu'ch an' ax fu'giveness fu' de pas'! 
 
 How Girls Fish* 
 
 THERE are generally about six of them in a bunch, with light 
 dresses on, and they have three poles, with as many hooks and 
 lines among them. As soon as they get to the river they look for a 
 good, place to get down the bank, and the most venturesome one 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 13? 
 
 sticks her boot heels in the bank and makes two careful steps down — ■ 
 then finds herself at the bottom, with both arms in the water, and 
 a general feeling that everybody in the wide world is looking at her, 
 / and she never tells anybody how she got there. The other girls, 
 profiting by her example, turn around and go down the bank on 
 their hands and toes, backward, then they scamper over the rifts 
 ' until they find a shallow place, where they can see the fish, and shout : 
 
 " Oh, I see one! " 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " Why, there." 
 
 " Let's catch him." 
 
 " Who's got the bait ? " 
 
 " You lazy thing, you're sitting on my pole ! " 
 
 All these exclamations are gotten off in a tone that awakens 
 every echo within a mile around, and sends every fish that hears 
 them into " gal-loping hysterics." Then the girls, by superhuman 
 exertions, manage to get a worm on the hook and throw it into the 
 water with a splash like the launching of a washtub, and await the 
 result. After a while 'a feeble-minded sunfish contrives to get fast- 
 ened on the hook of a timid girl and she gives vent to her tongue : 
 
 " Oh, my ! something's got my hook ! " 
 
 " Pull up ! pull up ! you little idiot ! " shout five excited voices, 
 as poles and hooks are dropped, and they run to the rescue. The 
 girl with a bite gives a spasmodic jerk which sends the unfortunate 
 " sunny " into the air the full length of the four-reel line, and he 
 comes down on the nearest curly head with a damp flop that sets 
 her clawing as though there were bumble-bees in her hair. 
 
 1' Oh, murder ! Take it away ! ugh ! Take it away ! the nasty 
 thing ! " Then they hold up their skirts and gather about that fish 
 as he skips over the logs, one all the time holding the pole in both 
 hands, with one foot firmly planted on the line, as though she had 
 an evil disposed goat at the other end. 
 
 Then they talk it over. 
 
 " How will it ever get off ? " 
 
 " Ain't it pretty ? " 
 
 " Wonder if it ain't dry ? " 
 
 " Poor little thing; let's put it back." 
 
138 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 " How will we get the hook from its mouth ? " 
 
 " Pick it up ! Pick it up ! " says one of the girls, as she backed 
 herself out of the circle. 
 
 " Good gracious ! I'm afraid ! There ! it's opening its mouth 
 at me." 
 
 Just then " sunny " wriggles off the hook and disappears be- 
 tween two logs in the water and the girls try for another bite. But 
 the sun comes down and fries the backs of their necks, and they get 
 three headaches in the party and they all get cross and scold at the 
 fish like so many magpies. 
 
 Finally, they get mad all over and throw the poles away, hunt 
 up the lunch baskets, climb up into the woods, where they sit around 
 on the grassland eat enough dried beef, and rusk, and hard boiled 
 eggs to give a wood-horse the nightmare, after which they compare 
 notes about beaux until sundown, when they go home and plant 
 envy in the hearts of all their dear friends by telling them what a 
 splendid time they had out fishing. 
 
 Grandmamma's Fan* 
 
 By EDITH S. TUPPE% 
 [The minuet may be danced at the end of each stanza.] 
 
 IVORY sticks and painted face, 
 Bits of yellow, tattered lace, 
 Tiny mirror set in place, 
 • Beauty sadly marred by age, 
 But a treasure I'll engage 
 When the minuet was the rage. 
 
 Fancy I can see her now: — 
 Powdered locks above her brow, 
 Sweeping courtesy, mincing bow, 
 Such a dainty, graceful maid — 
 One hand holds her stiff brocade, 
 Other wields the coquette's aid. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 2b. 139 
 
 O'er her little head well curled 
 Spreads the silken toy unfurled. 
 Now it's shut — anon it's twirled 
 To conceal a stolen glance, 
 Or a crimson blush perchance, 
 As she treads the stately dance. 
 
 Ghostly, fleeting vision fair, 
 Flashing eyes and powdered hair, 
 Marble shoulders glancing bare — 
 Time rolls backward for a space, 
 O'er this faded silk and lace, 
 Gleams the witch'ry of thy face. 
 
 Tobes Monument 
 
 By ELIZABETH KILHAM. 
 
 THE " seven-days' fight " was ended. Hundreds of our brave 
 boys lay with white, still faces upturned to the sky on the 
 slopes of Malvern Hill, or moaned away their lives in the marshes 
 along the Chickahominy. The worn, battered remnants of the Grand 
 Army of the Potomac were encamped at Harrison's Landing, on the 
 James, waiting for transports to take them back to Washington. 
 
 It was " after taps," a sultry, Southern summer night. On the 
 extreme edge of the encampment, on the side nearest the enemy, 
 a sentinel paused in his walk, and peered cautiously out into the 
 darkness. " Pshaw! " he said; " it's nothing but a dog." He was 
 resuming his walk, when the supposed quadruped rose suddenly, 
 and walked along two feet, in a manner so unmistakably human, that 
 the sentinel lowered his musket once more, and shouted, " Halt ! 
 Advance, and give the countersign ! " A faint, childish voice said ; 
 " Ain't got none, massa." 
 
 " Well, there, now ! " said the sentinel, " if it ain't just a little 
 
140 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 darky, and I guess I've frightened him half to death. Come here, 
 Snowball." 
 
 The child crept up, and said tremblingly, " 'Deed, massa, I ain't 
 got nuffin ter gib yer." 
 
 " Well, who asked you to give me anything? " 
 
 "Yer done ax me fer gib yer suffin jes' now; and I ain't got 
 nuffin 'cep' my close what I got on." 
 
 " Well, you needn't fret ; I don't want 'em. — Corporal of the 
 guard ! Post two." 
 
 The corporal hastened to " post two," and found the sentinel 
 with his hand on the shoulder of a little black boy, who, between 
 fear, fatigue, and hunger, was unable to give any account of himself. 
 " I'll take him to Capt. Leigh," the corporal said ; " he's officer of 
 the day. Maybe he'll be able to get something out of him." 
 
 The captain stood in front of his tent, looking out into the night 
 when the corporal and his charge approached. 
 
 " Captain," said he, " here's a boy just come into the lines." 
 
 " Very well, you can leave him here." 
 
 At the first sound of the captain's voice, the boy drew nearer 
 to him, as knowing instinctively that he had found a friend. 
 
 " You can go into that tent and sleep till morning," said the 
 captain. 
 
 " What is your name ? " was Cant. Leigh's first question the next 
 morning. 
 
 " Name Tobe." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 " Dat's all, Massa Cap'n." 
 
 " How old are you ? " 
 
 " Dunno, Massa Cap'n. Nobody nebber done tole me dat ar." 
 
 " Where have you come from ? " 
 
 " Come fum de back o' Richmon', Mass Cap'n." 
 
 " What did you come here for ? " 
 '/"All de res' ob 'm runned away; an' ole mass he wor so mad, 
 I wor jes' feared o' my life. 'Sides, I t'ought I mought fin' my 
 mammy ef I got 'mong der Unions." 
 
 " Where is your mother ? " 
 
 " Dunno, Mass Cap'n. Ole mass done sol' her down in Georgy 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 141 
 
 las' corn-shuckin', an' I ain't nebber heerd ob her sence. But I 
 t'ought mebby she mought ha' runned 'way, too, an' I'd fin' her wid 
 der Unions." 
 \ " Well, now, what are you going to do? " 
 
 " Dunno, Mass Cap'n. I'd like ter stay 'long wid you." 
 
 " What can you do ? " 
 
 " Kin wait on yer, Mass Cap'n ; kin shme up boots ; an' " — 
 brightening up as his eyes, wandering round, caught sight of the 
 horses — " kin clean de hosses right smart." 
 
 " You are not big enough to take care of a horse." 
 
 " 'Deed I is, Mass Cap'n; an' I ain't 'fraid o' no hoss. Ole mass 
 alius sent me ter tend ter de hosses dat nobody else couldn't manage. 
 Dey alius lets me handle 'em ef dey's ebber so debblesome. Jes' yer 
 try me, Mass Cap'n, an' see ef I telled yer de troof."* 
 
 " If I keep you with me you must be a good boy, and do as I 
 tell you." 
 
 " 'Deed I will, Mass Cap'n. I'se do ebery work yer say, sho's 
 yer born." 
 
 So when the troops left Harrison's Landing, Tobe went too, in 
 charge of the captain's horse and baggage ; and, when the steamer 
 was fairly under way, he brightened into a new creature as every 
 revolution of the wheel placed a greater distance between himself 
 and " ole massa." 
 
 It proved that Tobe had told the truth about his skill in taking 
 care of horses. Capt. Leigh's horse had never looked so well as 
 now, and the captain was delighted. Tobe turned out, moreover, 
 to be a very good boy. But the army is not the best place for boys. 
 So one day Capt. Leigh said, — 
 
 " Tobe, how would you like to go North ? " 
 
 "Whar's it at, Mass Cap'n?" 
 
 " I mean my home at the North." 
 
 " When is yer gwine, Mass Cap'n ? " 
 
 " I am not going at all now." 
 
 " Does yer mean ter sen' me away from yer, Mass Cap'n ? " 
 
 Capt. Leigh was touched, and answered him very gently, — 
 
 " Yes ; I want to send you away from me now, because it will be 
 
L42 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 better for you. But, when the war is over, I shall go home; and 
 then you can stay with me always, if you are a good boy." 
 
 " I alius does jes' de t'ings yer tell me, Mass Cap'n." 
 U*"" I know you do. And, just because you do what I tell you so 
 well, I want to send you to my home, to run errands for my wife, 
 and do what work she will give you in the house. And I have three 
 little children, — two little girls and a baby boy. I want you to go 
 with them when they go out to play, and take care of them. My 
 home is in a very pleasant place, in the country. Don't you think 
 you would like to go there ? " 
 
 " Ef yer goes too, Mass Cap'n." 
 
 " But, my boy, I can't possibly go now." 
 
 " I'se do jes' de t'ing yer say, Mass Cap'n. Ef yer tells me to 
 go, I'se go. An' I'se jest do ebery word the missus say, an' I look 
 af'r de chillens de bes' I knows, ontel yer comes dar. Only please 
 come right soon, Mass Cap'n." And, as the captain left the tent, 
 Tobe cried as if his heart would break. 
 
 Capt. Leigh found a brother officer who was expecting to go 
 home on a furlough, and who readily agreed to take charge of the 
 boy in whom his friend was so deeply interested. 
 
 But that night came an order for Capt. Leigh's regiment to march 
 at daylight. 
 
 " Tobe," said the captain, " you can go in one of the baggage- 
 wagons. Strap up my blanket. and poncho, and take them along; 
 and these boots, take particular care of them, for it's not often I 
 can get a pair of cavalry boots to fit as they do." 
 
 " Yer needn't be feared, Mass Cap'n ; I'se take care of 'em de bes' 
 I knows." 
 
 The main body of the raiders were reported on the line of the 
 South Mountains, making for Gettysburg. Scouting expeditions 
 were sent out from the Northern army in all directions ; and a body 
 of troops, including Capt. Leigh's regiment, was -ordered to pro- 
 ceed by the shortest route to Gettysburg, and head the rebels off. 
 One of the baggage- wagons broke down. The driver of another 
 wagon stopped to help his comrade. The troops passed on, and the 
 two wagons were left alone on the mountain. In one of them was 
 Tobe, with the captain's boots, over which he kept constant watch. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 143 
 
 The men worked busily at the wagon, and Tobe sat watching them. 
 Suddenly a trampling of horses' feet was heard, and a party of cav- 
 alry came round a turn in the road. 
 
 " That's good," said one of the men ; " there's some of the boys. 
 If they'll wait a few minutes, we can go along with 'em." 
 
 " 'Tain't none of our boys," said the other, after a keen glance ; 
 " them's rebs." 
 
 At the word, Tobe slid down in the bottom of the wagon under 
 some blankets, and lay silent and motionless with the boots clasped 
 in his arms. 
 
 As the soldiers advanced, the officer said, apparently in reply to 
 a question, " No, let the men go ; we can't do anything with pris- 
 oners here. But we'll look through the wagon, and, if the Yanks 
 have anything we want, ' all's fair in war.' " 
 
 They reined their horses by the wagon, and, after a few short, 
 sharp questions, proceeded to break open trunks and bags and ap- 
 propriate their contents. 
 
 The soldiers were about finishing their examination, when one 
 of them said, " What's that under the seat of that wagon? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing but a torn blanket," said another. " 'Tain't worth 
 taking. We have got all we want." 
 
 " There may be something under it, though." 
 / He pushed aside the blanket with his saber, and there lay Tobe, 
 endeavoring but unsuccessfully to hide the boots under him. 
 
 " Ah! " said the officer, " this is worth while. Here's just what 
 I wanted. Come, boy, hand over those boots, quick." 
 
 " 'Deed, massa," said Tobe, " I can't gib 'em ter yer. Dey 'longs 
 ter Mass Cap'n, an' he tole me take keer ob 'em mos' partic'lar." 
 
 " Can't help that. I've got to have them ; so pass them along." 
 
 " Please, massa," began Tobe ; but the rebel cut him short. 
 
 " Will you give me those boots ? If you don't do it, and in double- 
 quick time, too, I'll put a ball through your black skin. I won't 
 ask you again. Now, will you give them up ? " and he pulled out 
 his pistol. 
 
 " 'Deed, massa, I can't, case Massa Cap'n — " 
 
 There was a sharp click, a flash, a long, sobbing moan, and Tobe 
 
 ' 
 
144 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 lay motionless, the boots still clasped in his arms, and great drops 
 of blood slowly gathering upon them. 
 
 " Enemy in sight ! " shouted a picket, riding up. 
 
 The officer hastily gave an order ; and the rebels dashed off at 
 a furious speed a few moments before a party of Union cavalry, 
 with Capt. Leigh at their head, appeared, riding from the opposite 
 direction. 
 
 A few words sufficed for explanation. Capt Leigh laid his hand 
 on Tobe's shoulder, and spoke his name. At the sound of the voice 
 he loved so well, his eyes opened, and he said faintly, " Mass Cap'n, 
 I done de bes' I knowed. I kep the boots." 
 
 " O Tobe ! " groaned the captain, " I wish you had given them 
 up. I would have lost everything, rather than have had this." 
 
 " Mass Cap'n." 
 
 " Yes, Tobe, what is it ? " 
 
 " De little chillens, Mass Cap'n ; I meaned ter wait on 'em right 
 smart. Tell 'em " — His voice grew fainter, and his eyes closed. 
 
 " Yes, my boy, what shall I tell them ? " 
 
 " Tell 'em I didn't lose de boots ; I kep 'em de bes' — I knowed." 
 %--There was a faint sigh, a flutter of the eyelids, and the little life 
 was ended. 
 
 Very reverently Capt. Leigh lifted the boots, all wet and stained 
 with blood. " I will never wear those boots again," he said ; " but 
 I will never part with them. They shall be Tobe's monument." 
 
 In the hall of Capt. Leigh's house is a deep niche, and in it, on 
 a marble slab covered with a glass case, stands a pair of cavalry 
 boots with dark stains upon them, and on the edge of the slab, in 
 golden letters, is the inscription, — 
 
 " In memory of Tobe, 
 Faithful unto death." 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26 145 
 
 How 'Persimmons Took Cah oh der 
 
 Baby< 
 
 PERSIMMONS was a colored lad 
 'Way down in Lou'sianny ; 
 And all the teaching that he had 
 Was given him by his granny. 
 
 But he did his duty ever, 
 
 As well as you, it may be : 
 With faithfulness and pride always, 
 
 He minded missus' baby. 
 He loved the counsels of the saints, 
 
 And, sometimes, those of sinners,— 
 To run off 'possum-hunting, and 
 
 Steal " water-milion " dinners. 
 And fervently at meetin', too, 
 
 On. every Sunday night, 
 He'd with the elders shout and pray 
 
 By the pine-knots' flaring light, 
 And sing their rudest melodies, 
 
 With voice so full and strong, 
 You could almost think he learned then 1 
 
 From the angels' triumph-song. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " We be nearer to de Lord 
 
 Dan de white folks, — and dey knows it 
 See de glory-gate unbarred ! 
 Walk in, darkies, past de guard : 
 
 Bet you dollar he won't close it ! 
 
 " Walk in, darkies, troo de gate ; 
 
 Hear de kullered angels holler ! 
 Go 'way, white folks : you're too late : 
 We's de winnin' kuller. Wait, 
 
 Till de trumpet blow to follow." 
 
148 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 He would croon this over softly 
 As he lay out in the sun ; 
 
 But the song he heard most often, 
 His granny's favorite one, 
 
 Was, " Jawge Washington 
 Thomas Jefferson 
 Persimmons Henry Clay, be 
 Quick ! shut de do' ; 
 Get up off dat flo' ; 
 Come heah and mind de baby." 
 
 One night there came a fearful storm, 
 
 Almost a second flood : 
 The river rose, a torrent swoln 
 
 Of beaten, yellow mud. 
 It bit at its embankments, 
 
 And lapped them down in foam, 
 Till, surging through a wide crevasse, 
 
 The waves seethed round their home. 
 They scaled the high veranda ; 
 
 They filled the parlors clear, 
 Till floating chairs and tables 
 
 Clashed against the chandelier. 
 'Twas then Persimmons's granny, 
 
 Stout of arm, and terror-proof, 
 By means of ax and lever, 
 
 Pried up the veranda roof; 
 Bound mattresses upon it 
 
 With stoutest cord of rope ; 
 Lifted out her fainting mistress, 
 
 Saying, " Honey, dar is hope ! 
 You, Jawge Washington 
 Thomas Jefferson 
 Persimmons Henry Clay, be \i 
 Quick on dat raft! 
 Don't star' like a calf, 
 But take good cab ob baby ! " 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. a47 
 
 The frothing river lifted them 
 
 Out on its turbid tide ; 
 And for a while they floated on 
 
 Together, side by side ; 
 Till, broken by the current strong, 
 
 The frail raft snapped in two, 
 And Persimmons saw his granny 
 
 Fast fading from his view. 
 
 The deck-hands on a steamboat 
 
 Heard, as they passed in haste, 
 A child's voice singing in the dark, 
 
 Upon the water's waste, — 
 A song of faith and triumph, 
 
 Of Moses and the Lord ; 
 And, throwing out a coil of rope, 
 
 They drew him safe on board. 
 
 Full many a stranger city 
 
 Persimmons wandered through, 
 " A-totin ob der baby," and 
 
 Singing songs he knew. 
 At length some City Fathers 
 
 Objected to his plan, 
 Arresting as a vagrant 
 
 Our valiant little man. 
 They carried out their purposes : 
 
 Persimmons " 'lowed he'd spile 'em : " 
 So, sloping from the station-house, 
 
 He stole baby from the 'sylum. 
 
 And on that very afternoon, 
 
 As it was growing dark, 
 He sang, beside the fountain, in 
 
 The crowded city park, 
 A rude camp-meeting anthem, 
 
 Which he had sung before, 
 While on his granny's fragile raft 
 
 He drifted far from shore : — ' 
 
148 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Moses smote de water, and 
 
 De sea gabe away. 
 De chilleren dey passed ober, for 
 
 De sea gabe way. 
 O Lord! / feel so glad! 
 
 It am ahvays dark fo' day: 
 So, honey, don't yer be sad: 
 
 De sea'll give way. 
 
 A lady dressed in mourning 
 Turned with a sudden start, 
 
 Gave one glance at the baby, 
 Then caught it to her heart, 
 
 While a substantial shadow 
 That was walking by her side 
 
 Seized Persimmons by the shoulder, 
 And while she shook him, cried, — 
 
 " You, Jazvge Washington 
 Thomas Jefferson 
 Persimmons Henry Clay, 
 Be quick, splain yourself, chile, 
 Stop dat ar fool smile ! 
 Whar you done been wid baby?" 
 
 The Wonderful Tar Baby Story* 
 
 By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS, 
 
 " 1 v IDN'T the fox never catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus? " asked 
 JL_J the little boy the next evening. 
 " He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you bawn brer fox did. 
 One day after brer rabbit fool 'im widdat calamus root, brer fox 
 went ter wuk en get 'im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, 
 en fix up a contrapshun wat he call a tar-baby, en he tuck dish yer 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 14« 
 
 tar-baby en he sot er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes 
 fer ter see wat de news wuz gwinter be. En he didn't hat ter wait 
 long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come brer rabbit pacin' down de 
 road — lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. 
 Brer fox, he lay low. Brer rabbit come prancin' long twel he spy 
 de tar-baby, en den he fotch up on his behime legs like he wuz 
 'stonishe. De tar-baby, she sot dar, she did, .en brer fox he lay low. 
 
 " ' Mawnin' ! ' sez brer rabbit, sezee ; ' nice wedder dis mawnin'/ 
 sezee. 
 
 " Tar-baby ain't savin' nuthin', en brer fox, he lay low. 
 
 " ' How duz yo' sym'tuns seem ter segashuate? ' sez brer rabbit, 
 sezee. 
 
 " Brer fox, he wink his eyes slow, en lay low, en de tar-baby, she 
 ain't sayin' nuthin'. 
 
 " ' How you come on den? 'is you deaf?' sez brer rabbit, sezee. 
 ' Kase if you is, I can holler louder,' sezee. 
 
 " Tar-baby stay still, en brer fox, he lay low. 
 
 " ' You er stuck up, dat's w'at you is,' says brer rabbit, sezee, 
 ' en I'm gwinter kyore you, dat's wa't I'm a gwinter do,' sezee. 
 
 " Brer fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but tar- 
 baby ain't sayin' nothin'. 
 
 ' ' I'm gwine ter larn you howter talk ter 'spectubble fokes ef 
 hit's de las' ack/ sez brer rabbit, sezee. ' Ef you don't take off dat 
 en tell me howdy, I'm gwinter bus' you wide open/ sezee. 
 
 " Tar-baby stay still, en brer fox, he lay low. 
 
 " Brer rabbit keep on axin' him, en de tar-baby, she keep on 
 sayin' nuthin', twel present'y brer rabbit draw back wid his fis, he 
 did, en blip he tuck er side er de head. Right dars whar he broke 
 his merlasses jug. His fis stuck, en he can't pull loose; de tar hilt 
 'im. But tar-baby, she stay still, en brer fox, he lay low. 
 
 " ' Ef you den't lemme loose, I'll knock you again,' sez brer 
 rabbit, sezee, en wid that he fotch 'er a wipe wid de udder han' en 
 dat stuck. Tar-baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin, and brer fox, he lay low. 
 
 " ' Tu'n me loose, fo' I kick de natal stuffin' outen you,' sez 
 brer rabbit, sezee, but de tar-baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin'; she des 
 hilt on, en den brer rabbit loose de use er his feet in de same way. 
 Brer fox, he lay low. Den»brer rabbit squall out dat ef de tar-baby 
 
150 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 don't tu'n 'im loose he butt 'er cranksicled. En den he butted, eh 
 his head got stuck. Den brer fox, he sa'ntered fort, lookin' des ez 
 innercent ez wunner yo' mammy's mockin'-birds. 
 
 " ' Howdy, brer rabbit,' sez brer fox, sezee. ' You look sorter 
 stuck up dis mawnin', sezee, en den he rolled on de groun, en laft 
 twel he couldn't laff no mo. 'I speck you'll take dinner wid me dis 
 time, brer rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain't 
 gwineter take no skuses,' sez brer fox, sezee." 
 
 Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of 
 the ashes. 
 
 " Did the fox eat the rabbit? " asked the little boy to whom the 
 story had been told. 
 
 " Dat's all de fur de tale goes," replied the old man. " He mout, 
 en den agin he moutent. Some say jedge b'ar come 'long en den 
 loosed 'im, some say he didn't. I hear Miss Sally callin', you better 
 run 'long/' 
 
 M 
 
 Mrs. Middlerib's Letter. 
 
 R. MIDDLERIB paused with his coffee-cup raised half way 
 to his lips, as his wife took the letter from the servant. She 
 turned it over once or twice, gazed earnestly at the address, and 
 said: 
 
 " I wonder who it can be from? I can't make out the postmark. 
 It isn't Perryville ; it looks something like Tonawanda, but I don't 
 know anybody in Tonawanda. I wonder if it isn't intended for 
 York? Cousin Hiley Ann Jackson used to visit in York. Why 
 don't they make the postmarks plainer, I wonder? I believe it's 
 Indianapolis, after all. Then it's from Eleanor McPherson, whose 
 husband you met last summer in Canada. It isn't Indianapolis, it's 
 Lacon ; that's where Silas Marshall lives. That isn't an L, either. 
 No, it's New Philadelphia, 111. ; I can make it out now ; don't you 
 remember ! Uncle Abner Beasix went out there in the grindstone 
 business. I wonder if anything has — oh, pshaw ! it isn't New Phila- 
 delphia, either, it's- — what is it ? It's R ; R-o-m— oh, now I see, 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 151 
 
 R-o-m-e, Rome. Why it must be from — oh dear me, it isn't Rome, 
 either. I can't make it out at all." 
 
 And she turned it over and looked mournfully at the receiving 
 stamp on the back. 
 
 " Let me look at it," said Mr. Middlerib, who was beginning 
 to fidget with impatience. 
 
 " No," replied his wife, turning back to the postmark once 
 more. " I can see what it is now. It's Spartansburg, Ky. Sarah 
 Blanchard went there after she married. I expect' she wants to — 
 it isn't Spartansburg, either, it's Gridley ; that's where cousin 
 Jennie Buskirk lives; her husband went there and bougliLa grist 
 mill. I wonder if she's coming out this summer? I hope if she 
 does she won't bring the children. But it isn't from her, either. I 
 ihink that it is Mount Pleasant. Oh ! It's from Aunt Harriet Mur- 
 dock, and I know they've all been killed, and that dreadful cyclone ! 
 I can't open the letter, my hand trembles so. Do you know, the 
 last thing I said to her when she moved out West, I said — it isn't 
 Mount Pleasant, either, there are only five letters in it. I can't 
 make anything out of it. It is so tantalizing to receive a letter and 
 then not be able to tell who or where it is from." 
 
 " Did you ever try opening a letter to ascertain those facts ? " 
 asked her husband. 
 
 The lady looked at him with an expression of speechless disdain 
 upon her features, and half whispered, " If that isn't like a man," as 
 though anyj woman ever looked into a letter until she had guessed 
 all around her circle of relatives and friends and clear through the 
 United States postal guide, to decide whence and from whom it 
 came. 
 
 This particular postmark, however, was too " blind " for the 
 most ingenious expert to decipher, and at last, with a deep sigh 
 and a little gesture of despair, Mrs. Middlerib yielded to the in- 
 evitable, and resignedly opened the letter, pausing once or twice in 
 the act, however, to look longingly back at the tantalizing post- 
 mark. 
 
 " At last," groaned her husband, who by this time was burning 
 up with curiosity. 
 
 But she laid aside the envelope and looked at it a little while 
 
152 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 before she turned to the unfolded letter in her hand. Her husband, 
 by a desperate effort, controlled his rising wrath, and, in a voice 
 hoarse and strained, besought her to read the letter, as it was late 
 and he should have been down town half an hour ago. 
 
 She did not answer. She opened the letter, turned the first page 
 to look for the end of it, went back to the first page, settled herself 
 in an easy position, and said : 
 
 "Well, I 'will declare!" 
 
 Then she read on in silence, and Mr. Middlerib ground his 
 teeth. Presently she said : 
 
 " H'm." 
 
 She read three or four lines more with eager eyes and noiseless 
 lips, and suddenly exclaimed: 
 
 " I don't believe it ! " 
 
 Then she resumed her voiceless perusal of the document, and 
 a moment later astonished her husband by looking up at him and 
 asking : 
 
 " I wonder if that is so ? " 
 
 Mr. Middlerib replied in mocking tones that it must be or the 
 postmark wouldn't have said so, but her eyes were glued to the page 
 once more, and she made no response. 
 
 "Oh!" she fairly shrieked, "did you ever?" 
 
 The writhing man at the other end of the table said he never 
 had, but he would if this intellectual entertainment lasted much 
 longer^ 
 
 " It's too bad," murmured Mrs. Middlerib, turning a page of 
 the letter without raising her eyes. 
 
 " Well, what's too bad ? " he broke out, wrathfully. " Who is 
 the letter from and what is it all about ? Either read aloud or make 
 your comments as mentally as you read." 
 
 " I've half a mind to go," she said, in firm, decided tones. 
 
 "Oh, have you?" he interjected, with mild sarcasm, "shall I 
 go pack your trunks while you finish that letter ? " 
 
 " I don't see how they can do it," she said, after an interval of 
 silence. 
 
 "Why don't you look at the postmark, then?" he growled, 
 " maybe that would tell you."- 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 153 
 
 She read on, silent and unimpressed, for two or three lines 
 further, and then with an exclamation of astonishment, said : 
 
 " How very low ! "' 
 
 " Ah, well," her husband snarled, " I'm glad to learn something 
 about that letter at last. It's about your Uncle Marcus's family, 
 isn't it ? " 
 
 She did not hear nor heed. She glued her eyes to that precious 
 letter, and went on ejaculating at irregular intervals: 
 
 " H'm." 
 
 " Oh, that must be lovely ! " 
 
 " It can't be the same." 
 
 " I never heard of such a thing." 
 
 " Oh, my goodness ! " 
 
 Until her husband was fairly frantic with curiosity. Finally she 
 concluded the perusal of the important document, sighed, and with 
 profound and exasperating deliberation folded it carefully and re- 
 placed it in the envelope. 
 
 Mr. Middlerib looked at her in blank amazement. 
 
 " Well, by George ! " he said, " you are a cool one. Here I've 
 waited full fifteen minutes to learn what that blessed letter is about, 
 and all I know about it is that you couldn't make out the postmark. 
 By George, woman — " 
 
 " Why, whatever is the matter with you ? " she exclaimed, with 
 feigned surprise. " Here it is, if you want to see it. I didn't sup- 
 pose you cared to hear it." 
 
 " Didn't want to hear it ? " he shouted. " What do you suppose 
 I waited here and missed my train for, if I didn't want to hear that 
 blessed letter? " 
 
 " Why, it isn't a letter at all," she said, in the tone of a superior 
 being commiserating measureless and inexcusable ignorance ; " it 
 is a circular from Wachenheimer's about their millinery opening 
 next Thursday — " 
 
 The bang of the street door cut off the rest of the sentence. 
 
 " And what had occurred to vex him," she said to her neighbor, 
 who dropped in during the morning, " I can't for the life of me 
 imagine. Everything about the house had gone on smoothly, and 
 I can't recall a single irritating incident or circumstance." 
 
154 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 The benediction. 
 
 By FRANCOIS COPPEE, 
 
 IT was in eighteen hundred — yes — and nine, 
 That we took Saragossa. What a day 
 Of untold horrors ! I was sergeant then. 
 The city carried, we laid siege to houses, 
 All shut up close, and with a treacherous look 
 Raining down shots upon us from the windows. 
 " 'Tis the priests' doing ! " was the word passed round ; 
 So that, although since daybreak under arms, — 
 Our eyes with powder smarting, and our mouths 
 Bitter with kissing cartridge-ends, — piff, paff ! 
 Rattled the musketry with ready aim, 
 If shovel-hat and long black cloak were seen 
 Flying in the distance. Up a narrow street 
 My company worked on. I kept an eye 
 On every house-top right and left, and saw 
 From many a roof flames suddenly burst forth 
 Coloring the sky, as from the chimney-tops 
 Among the forges. Low our fellows stooped, 
 Entering the low-pitched dens. When they came out, 
 With bayonets dripping red, their bloody fingers 
 Signed crosses on the wall ; for we were bound 
 In such a dangerous defile not to leave 
 Foes lurking in our rear. There was no drum-beat, 
 No ordered march. Our officers looked grave; 
 The rank and file uneasy, jogging elbows 
 As do recruits when flinching. 
 
 All at once, 
 Rounding a corner, we are hailed in French 
 With cries for help. At double-quick we join 
 Our hard-pressed comrades. They were grenadiers, 
 A gallant company, but beaten back 
 Ingloriously from the raised and flag-paved square 
 Fronting a convent. Twenty stalwart monks 
 Defended it — black demons with shaved crowns, 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 155 
 
 The cross in white embroidered on their frocks, 
 
 Barefoot, their sleeves tucked up, their only weapons 
 
 Enormous crucifixes, so well brandished, 
 
 Our men went down before them. By platoons 
 
 Firing, we swept the place ; in fact, we slaughtered 
 
 This terrible group of heroes, no more soul 
 
 Being in us than in executioners. 
 
 The foul deed done, — deliberately done, — 
 And the thick smoke rolling away, we noted 
 Under the huddled masses of the dead 
 Rivulets of blood run trickling down the steps ; 
 While in the background solemnly the church 
 Loomed up, its doors wide open. We went in. 
 It was a desert. Lighted tapers starred 
 The inner gloom with points o£ gold. The incense 
 Gave out its perfume. At the upper end, 
 Turned to the altar as though unconcerned 
 In the fierce battle that had raged, a priest, 
 White-haired and tall of stature, to a close 
 Was bringing tranquilly the mass. So stamped 
 Upon my memory is that thrilling scene, 
 That, as I speak, it comes before me now, — 
 The convent built in old time by the Moors ; 
 The huge brown corpses of the monks ; the sun 
 Making the red blood on the pavement steam ; 
 And there, framed in by the low porch, the priest ; 
 And there the altar brilliant as a shrine ; 
 And here ourselves, all halting, hesitating, 
 Almost afraid. 
 
 I, certes, in those days 
 W r as a confirmed blasphemer. 'Tis on record 
 That once, by way of sacrilegious joke, 
 A chapel being sacked, I lit my pipe 
 At a wax candle burning on the altar. 
 This time, however, I was awed — so blanched 
 Was that old man. 
 
156 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 " Shoot him ! " our captain cried. 
 Not a soul budged. The priest, beyond all doubt, 
 Heard ; but as though he heard not. Turning round, 
 He faced us, with the elevated host, 
 Having that period of the service reached 
 When on the faithful benediction falls. 
 His lifted arms seemed as the spread of wings ; 
 And as he raised the pyx, and in the air 
 With it described the cross, each nfon of us 
 Fell back, aware the priest no more was trembling 
 Than if before him the devout were ranged. 
 But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice, 
 The words came to us, 
 
 "Vos benedicat 
 Deus Omnipotens! " 
 
 The captain's order 
 Rang out again, and sharply, " Shoot him down, 
 Or I shall swear ! " Then one of ours, a dastard, 
 Leveled his gun, and fired. Upstanding still, 
 The priest changed color, though with steadfast look 
 Set upward, and indomitably stern. . 
 "Pater et Films! " 
 
 Came the words. What frenzy, 
 What maddening thirst for blood, sent from our ranks 
 Another shot, I know not; but 'twas done. 
 
 The monk, with one hand on the altar's ledge, 
 Held himself up ; and, strenuous to complete 
 His benediction, in the other raised 
 The consecrated host. For the third time 
 Tracing in air the symbol of forgiveness, 
 With eyes closed, and in tones exceeding low, 
 But in the general hush distinctly heard, 
 " Et Sanctus Spiritus!" 
 
 He said; and, ending 
 His servise, fell down dead. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 157 
 
 The golden pyx 
 Rolled bounding on the floor. Then, as we stood, 
 Even the old troopers, with our muskets grounded, 
 And choking horror in our hearts, at sight 
 Of such a shameless murder, and a sight 
 Of such a martyr, with a chuckling laugh, 
 "Amen!" 
 
 Drawled out a drummer-boy. 
 
 The Lost Bride (Ginevra). 
 
 By SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 IF ever you should come to Modena, 
 (Where among other relics you may see 
 Tassoni's bucket, — but 'tis not the true one,) 
 Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, 
 Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati. 
 
 Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
 And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, 
 Will long detain you ; but, before you go, 
 Enter the house — forget it not, I pray you — 
 And look awhile upon a picture there. 
 
 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, 
 
 The last of that illustrious family; 
 
 Done by Zampieri, — but by whom I care not. 
 
 He who observes it, ere he passes on 
 
 Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, 
 
 That he may call it up when far away. 
 
 She sits, inclining forward as to speak, 
 
 Her lips half open, and her finger up, 
 
 As though she said, " Beware! " Her vest of gold 
 
 Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot 
 
158 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; 
 And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
 A coronet of pearls. 
 
 But then her face, 
 So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, — 
 The overflowings of an innocent heart, — 
 It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, 
 Like some wild melody. 
 
 Alone it hangs 
 Over a moldering heirloom, its companion, 
 An oaken chest, half -eaten by the worm, 
 But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
 With Scripture stories from the life of Christ; 
 A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
 The ducal robes of some old ancestors, — 
 That by the way, — it may be true or false, — 
 But don't forget the picture ; and you will not, 
 When you have heard the tale they told me there. 
 
 She was an only child, — her name Ginevra, — 
 The joy,, the pride of an indulgent father; 
 And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 
 Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
 Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 
 
 Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
 
 She was all gentleness, all gaiety, 
 
 Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. 
 
 But now the day was come, — the day, the hour; 
 
 Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time, 
 The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; 
 And, in the luster of her youth she gave 
 Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 159 
 
 Great was the joy ; but at the nuptial feast, 
 When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting, 
 Nor was she to be found. Her father cried, 
 " Tis but to make a trial of our love ! " 
 And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, 
 And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, 
 Laughing and looking back, and flying still, 
 Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 
 But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; 
 Nor from that hour could anything be guessed 
 But that she was not. 
 
 Weary of his life, 
 Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, 
 Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
 Donati lived, and long might you have seen 
 An old man wandering as in quest of something, — 
 Something he could not find, — he knew not what. 
 When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
 Silent and tenantless, — then went to strangers. 
 
 Full fifty years were passed, and all forgotten, 
 
 When, on an idle day, a day of search 
 
 Mid the old lumber in the gallery, 
 
 That moldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said 
 
 By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 
 
 " Why not remove it from its lurking place ? " 
 
 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way 
 
 It burst, — it fell, — and lo ! a skeleton, 
 
 With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, 
 
 A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
 
 All else had perished, save a wedding ring, 
 
 And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
 
 Engraven with a name, — the name of both, — 
 
 " Ginevra." 
 
160 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 There, then, had she found a grave ! 
 Within that chest had she concealed herself, 
 Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy, 
 When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there, 
 Fastened her down forever. 
 
 44 1 Was On the Merrimac/' 
 
 I WAS on the Merrimac — " " No more," the listener cried. 
 
 1 " The best is none too good for you. Come on, just step inside. 
 Now eat your fill at my expense and name your brand of wine. 
 For heroes such as you, my boy, the best is none too fine ! " 
 
 " I was on the Merrimac — " " I know," the listener cried. 
 " You rushed into that seething hell and death itself defied, 
 And now from Spanish dungeons you in some heroic style 
 Have slipped away and fooled them ; I can see it in your smile ! " 
 
 " I was on the Merrimac — " " Yes, yes," the listener said. 
 " The laurel wreath is waiting to. adorn your gallant head, 
 And Fame is sitting smiling, just as happy as can be, 
 All ready now to hand your name to immortality." 
 
 " I was on the Merrimac — " " Aha ! " the listener sighed. 
 " To think that you should get away and stem the roaring tide ! 
 To think that I should see the day I'd grasp a hero's hand, 
 Especially a hero such as formed young Hobson's band ! " 
 
 " I was on the Merrimac ! No interruptions, please, 
 
 Because some explanation now will set us at our ease. 
 
 I was on the Merrimac a day or two before 
 
 The government took charge of her down there in Baltimore ! " 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 161 
 
 The Schoolboys' Strike* 
 
 By % J. BURDETTE. 
 
 AMONG the sunny memories of my own school-days there glows, 
 bright and soft as summer sunset, the great strike at Hinman's 
 in Peoria, way back in 1853. Hinman's was the greatest school in 
 the West. The dear old man was Superintendent of Public Instruc- 
 tion, Board of Education, school trustee, county superintendent, 
 principal, assistant, and janitor. He had a pleasant smile, a firm 
 temper, and a slate frame. He also carried about his person a 
 grip that would make a blacksmith's vise crawl into the scrap 
 heap and hide itself. We used to have general exercises on Friday 
 afternoons, at which we were wont to recite in vociferous concert the 
 multiplication tables, the states and capitals, and such thrilling 
 rhetorical exercises as, "Will you walk? or ride?" and "They 
 tell us to be moderate, but they, they — are torevelin-pro-FU-sion." 
 It was thrilling. But after we had learned all these chants " by 
 heart," and could chant them off with our eyes shut Hinman in- 
 troduced an innovation — " speakin' pieces." Upon that we struck. 
 We endured it three weeks, and then we determined to boycott the 
 whole business. All the boys went into it. Bill Smith and Hub 
 Tuttle, Bob Gregg, Ed Easton, Steve Bunn, Bill Rodecker, Hen 
 Keener, and all the big boys, too. The first boy called on to " speak " 
 was to announce the strike, and as my name came pretty well up in 
 the alphabet, I stood a good chance of being the leader, a distinction 
 for which I was not at all ambitious, being of tender years and 
 of a ruddy countenance and sensitive feelings. But a boy named 
 Allen, who was called ahead of me, flunked, and said his piece, 
 " Hohenlinden," although we made such suggestive gestures at 
 him that he forgot half of it and broke down and cried. When 
 I was called I refused to speak. Being pressed for a reason, I said, 
 in faltering accents', that " there wasn't goin' to be no more speakin'." 
 When the old man, with unfeigned surprise, asked me who said so, 
 I said " all of us did." Then he said there would be " a little more 
 speakin' " before the close of the session, and so he led me out upon 
 
162 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 the rostrum. Then and there, with feelings which I now shudder 
 to recall, I did my first song" and dance act. I had often before 
 performed my solitary cachuca to the lascivious pleasing of " Old 
 Hinman's " slate frame, but never had I accompanied myself with 
 words. Boy like, I had selected for my piece a poem expressive 
 of those peaceful virtues I most heartily despised, so that my per- 
 formance, at the inauguration of the strike, ran something like this : 
 
 "Oh, not for me (whack) is the rolling (whack) drum, — 
 
 Or the (whack, whack!) trumpet's wild appeal (boo, hoo!), 
 Or the cry (boo, hoo!) of (whack) war when the (whack) foe is come, 
 Or the (ow!) brightly (whack) flashing steel (whack, whack)." 
 
 I can not convey to the most vivid imagination the gestures 
 which accompanied the seven stanzas of this beautiful poem. Suf- 
 fice it to say that they kept pace with the old man's peculiar system 
 of punctuation, until, at last, overcome with conflicting emotions, 
 I went sobbing to my seat, and wondered why an inscrutable Provi- 
 dence had given to the rhinoceros the hide that the eternal fitness 
 of things had evidently prepared for the schoolboy. 
 
 But I forgot my own sorrows and dried my tears, in the enjoy- 
 ment of the play, as my compatriots developed it. Mr. Hinman, 
 who had been unusually gentle and self-restrained with me, lost 
 his temper with the boy who followed me, and there was a sound of 
 revelry for the next hour. He shook the boys till their teeth rattled 
 so you couldn't hear them cry ; he hit Mickey McCann, the tough 
 boy, one whack with a skate strap, and Mickey ran out and rolled 
 in the snow to cool off ; he hit Jake Bailey across the thighs with a 
 slate frame, and it hurt so that Jake couldn't howl — he just opened 
 his mouth and gasped and forgot his own name ; he pushed Bill 
 Haskell into a seat and the bench broke ; he shook Dan Stevens 
 so that his feet didn't touch the floor for five minutes ; he ran across 
 the room and reached out for Lem Harkins, and Lem had a fit 
 before the old man touched him ; he whipped the two Knowltons 
 with both hands at the same time, and the Gibbon family, five boys 
 and a big girl, he hit all at once with a girl's skipping rope, and 
 they raised such a united wail the clock stopped ; he kept the at- 
 mosphere of that old schoolroom full of dust and splinters and 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 163 
 
 lint, weeping and wailing, until his arms ached and all our hearts 
 wearied of the inhuman strife and wicked contention, and then he 
 stood up before us, in a sickening tangle of strap and cane and 
 slate frame, rattan and skipping-rope, and asked, in clear, trium- 
 phant tones : 
 
 " Who say's there isn't going to be any more speakin' ? " 
 
 And the boys of that school rose up as of one being, and shrieked 
 in tones of anguish : 
 
 " Nobody ! " 
 
 And I, who led that strike, and was its first martyr, I have been 
 speaking ever since. 
 
 Deacon Adams to His Son* 
 
 WHAT'S them things in yer pockets, Jake, a-bulging out so? 
 -Hey? 
 What? Apples? After all my good advice, you mean to say 
 You've been stealin' apples ag'in on the Sabbath day? 
 
 A stealin' ! Hain't I told ye 'tis a sin to steal a pin ? 
 
 And stealin' apples on Sunday is a blamed sight meaner sin, 
 
 But you will keep a stealin' 'em, time and time and time ag'in. 
 
 Sweet apples, too, I'll ventur' ! The sickliest kind of trash ! 
 Such condemned foolish wickedness beats patience all to smash ; 
 I wouldn't had it happen — not for fifty cents in cash! 
 
 To steal sweet apples, Sundays, ain't no way to behave ; 
 If you dodge cholera morbus you'll live to be a knave. 
 And bring my wig and nat'ral hair in sorrow to the grave. 
 
 I've tried to fetch you up to go in a religious way, 
 
 And keep the Sabbath holy. You've often heard me say 
 
 I'd rather steal the whole week through than on the Sabbath day. 
 
164 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 You'd make a pretty deacon, wouldn't you? Look at me! 
 Did I get to be a deacon by petty larceny? 
 No, stealin' is too risky for genuine piety. 
 
 This is a wicked world, and pious men in self-defense 
 Must circumvent the wicked and cheat with diligence, 
 And make bad men the victims of misplaced confidence. 
 
 I don't see, Jacob, where you got your streak of thievery; 
 It ain't the Adams' style. The Adamses was just like me; 
 And on your mother's side, the Browns were famed for honesty. 
 
 I hope, I really hope, that you won't steal ag'in, my lad, 
 
 For if you should get ketched at it, 'twould make me very sad. 
 
 Hem ! Jacob — hain't you got a good sweet apple for your dad ? 
 
 'Dikkon s 'Dog. 
 
 <By DOROTHY LUNDT. 
 
 THE distinguishing trait of Grubbins was his unexpectedness. 
 Grubbins was Dikkon's dog. The two sat looking at each 
 other with a look of perfect understanding and full companionship. 
 
 " 'Pears to me yo' haven't took 's much exercise as common to- 
 day, Grubbins. Don't yo' feel like racin' down a cat or s'uthin', so's 
 to get up a moughty good appetite fer yer Christmas grub ? " 
 
 The men chuckled. The idea of Grubbins's appetite requiring a 
 tonic was a deeply humorous one. Dikkon opened the door, and 
 Grubbins, with a short approving sniff of the freshening air, trotted 
 out. 
 
 " Dikkon, ma lad, I'll gie ye a hint for a Christmas gift," said 
 McAllison. " It was the Colonel himself was sayin' but the nicht's 
 nicht, that the next complaint of Dikkon's dog that came tae his ears, 
 the beastie wad hae a bullet an' a ditch, an' nae mair said ! " 
 
 " He will, will he? An' what mought he be, that's been with the 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 165 
 
 old regiment only six months, an' not half the Use to it then or now 
 that my old dog — " 
 
 " Hold hard, Dikkon ! Whist, me boy ! It's the short cut to the 
 guard-house you're takin'," said Mooney. " Bedad, the Colonel's 
 bark is a dale worse nor his bite, we ahl know, an' Grubbins is tryin' 
 at times, his bist frinds know. Take it lasht shpring when Grubbins 
 gobbled up little Miss Marion's taffy." 
 
 " Miss Marion, she's the apple o' the Colonel's eye an' the light 
 of it; an' I pity dog or man that sets her cryin' many times as she 
 cried the other day when Grubbins caught on to her taffy the cook 
 had set out to cool, an' — There they go now! See 'em? " 
 
 " Faith, it's small blame to the Colonel, for it's a sunbame little 
 Miss Marion carries in the eyes of- her, an' the heart of her ; an' 
 she kindled it from the wan that wint away wid her mother whin 
 they laid her, an' the ould Colonel's heart wid her, in her grave a 
 year agone ! " 
 
 And indeed three-year-old Miss Marion was a winsome sight to 
 see, as in her wee blue-hooded rain-cloak, a golden-haired kobold, 
 she danced across the parade by her soldierly grandfather's side, 
 leading tenderly a tiny terrier, also blue-blanketed, and mincingly 
 remonstrant at the wet grass that brushed his dainty paws. 
 
 The other men made their way out for a whiff of fresh air before 
 retreat should sound, leaving Mooney and Dikkon alone. 
 
 " It's a moughty queer world," Dikkon said, " where an old 
 yaller dog will stand to one man for what a pretty little baby does to 
 another." 
 
 " Manin' yersilf an' the Colonel ? " 
 
 " Meanin' just that. OF Grubbins is about as much to me, I 
 reckon, as little Miss Marion yon is to the ol' Colonel. Fer th' same 
 reason. All that's left to me o' somethin' I loved. 
 
 "I reckon I never told ye how I met up with Grubbins? I 
 was in the Tennessee mountings, when we wor down there with 
 Grant. Nigh where we wor camped there wor a cabin. A girl lived 
 thar all alone. Her dad an' five brothers had gone into the Union 
 army, and they never com' back. Her name wor Marcella. She 
 had right pretty blue eyes, an' a cough. Grubbins wor her dog ; a 
 five-year-old then, an' 's ornery 's he is now. We got to be right 
 
1G6 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 good friends, she'n I ; I hadn't nary a red but my pay ; no more she. 
 But I promised ter kem back an' marry her oncet the fightin' wor 
 over. 'Twas in May, '65, I got back there. The cabin do' was tight 
 shet. An' the windows. Ez I kem up I heard Grubbins howl. 
 The neighbors hed jest took care o' her an' left her, an' gone 
 back ter get the coffin. She had changed considerable, thin as a 
 shadder. She had wound grass round my ring to keep it on her 
 finger — it wor a hoss-hair ring. I braided it. 
 
 " I stayed for the fun'ral. Grubbins an' I sot by her all day an' 
 all night. When the grave wor filled in, Grubbins he turned an' 
 reached up his big yaller paw ter me, an' his eyes said, ' Reckon 
 it's we two now, ol' man ? ' An' I shuk his paw, an' I says, ' Yes, 
 Grubbins, 's long as we both live.' An' when I 'listed ez a reglar, 
 Grubbins 'listed 'long o' me." 
 
 " An' wid ahl his ecsyncrasities, Grubbins is a credit to the ould 
 rigiment ! An' — Saints be good ! phwat's that ? " 
 
 It was a wild commotion on the parade ground. There were 
 growls, and snarls, and doleful squeals ; rushing footsteps, thwacking 
 blows, a child's sobs, a stern and angry voice, and — a short, enraged 
 howl in Grubbins's unmistakable accents. 
 
 Dikkon and Mooney were in the middle of the parade. In little 
 Maid Marion's arms, pressed close to her tear-stained face, was a 
 squealing huddle of very muddy blue blanket. Grubbins, his yellow 
 eyes afire, a stout cord round his neck, was in the grasp of a 
 soldier. 
 
 " Take away that nasty beast — do you hear ? " said the Colonel! 
 " I've overlooked his tricks hitherto, because his master is an old 
 Soldier and a good one. But when it comes to killing my grand- 
 daughter's pet on the open parade — " 
 
 " Shure the little baste isn't dead at ahl, sorr! He's just dis- 
 fracshured a bit, in shpots, sorr, but a shtrip or two o' plashter '11 
 make him as good as iver he was, sorr, — an that's no good at ahl ! 
 An' Grubbins mint no harm, sorr. He'd niver sane the loike before, 
 an' was just investigatin', an' when he found it wad bite — " 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Mooney ! Take charge of that dog ! He 
 has done his last mischief. You will have him hanged within an 
 hour. Not a word, I tell you ! Come, sweetheart," and the Colonel 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 167 
 
 lifted Marion, dog and all, and set her on his stalwart arm. " Hush, 
 hush, dear ! The bad dog shan't hurt little Fido any more. Come 
 home, baby ; come and find Christmas." 
 
 As he turned, he stopped abruptly. Dikkon stood squarely 
 facing him. 
 
 " Take back that order, Colonel. Give me back my old dog ! 
 Give him back, I tell you ! or I'll — " 
 
 " Arrest that man ! Clap him in the guard-house. He's prob- 
 ably drunk or mad. The court-martial can decide which." 
 
 " Dear, dear ! I believe I'm half a madman myself when Marion 
 comes into a question," said the Colonel at dinner. " More than ever, 
 since there have been those Apache rumors." There rang out on the 
 windy darkness the long-drawn howl of a dog, followed by a 
 sharp, sudden shot, and another and another. 
 
 "What is that? Martha, bar the doors and windows," shouted 
 the Colonel. He caught up his sword and buckled it as he ran. 
 
 A little later Mooney went to light the smoky lamp in the guard- 
 house cell. 
 
 The Colonel stood 'just without the door. Across the threshold 
 of the stables lay the body of an Indian ; three others, bound hand 
 and foot, crouched sullenly in the midst of their guard. The 
 faint, far echo of galloping ponies was dying away, through the 
 wind, over the plain. 
 
 " Let me understand this," said the Colonel. He was looking 
 down at the dead Indian, at whose belt there dangled a child's scalp. 
 The child had had golden hair. 
 
 Corporal Perkins stepped forward. 
 
 " It was like this, sir. The half-breeds had probably told them 
 Christmas was a good time to attack ; they must have crept up 
 through the brush behind the stables. There was a board loose at 
 the back o' the stables ; this fellow " — he indicated the dead Indian — 
 " crept through it. Their scheme was to stampede the horses 
 first, so there'd be no way of escape. It'd ha' worked well if — " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " If Grubbins— " 
 
 " Grubbins ? " 
 
 " Yis, sorr ! " It was Mooney, now, standing sheepish, at the 
 salute. 
 
168 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 " Yer orders was to hang the dog in an hour, sorr ; but when the 
 min was a-thrimming the barrick-room clock wid Christmas grane, 
 sorr, they shtopped it intoirely, sorr, an' — " 
 
 " Grubbins was in the stables ? The dog gave the alarm ? " 
 
 " Yis, sorr. An' he hild this divil past mischief, sorr, till the 
 senthry — " 
 
 " Where is the dog? " 
 ■ " Shure,he's waitin' his doom, sorr, like his mashter, in the guard- 
 house beyant. Says Dikkon to me, this afthernoon, says he, ' What 
 the shwate little lady up yonder is to the Colonel,' says he — and 
 little did he think that but for Grubbins, this night, them divils that's 
 gallopin' away yon might ha' been — this blissid minnit — " 
 
 Apparently by accident, Mooney's foot touched the golden hair 
 that fluttered from the dead Indian's belt. 
 
 " Release Dikkon," said the Colonel briefly. " Send him up to 
 me to report. We shall want all our available men before we can 
 round these rascals up." 
 
 " Yis, sorr. An' Grubbins, sorr ? " 
 
 " Don't you know how to treat the dog that saved the garrison? " 
 
 " Yis, sorr. I think so, sorr." 
 
 The smoky lamp in the guard-house had almost burned itself 
 out, and an old yellow dog was whining for notice, and importunately 
 licking a man's clenched hands and tear-drenched, hidden face — - 
 licking and whining, and shambling eagerly all about a man who 
 lay prone in the dust, on the floor. 
 
 " Now I'm loony, for sho' ! Or p'raps it's his ha'nt. I didn't 
 know dogs had ha'nts." 
 
 There are footsteps and the light of lanterns. 
 
 " Was it becos the angels couldn't find any wings to fit yo', Grub- 
 bins, that they fixed yo' up that-a-way ? " 
 
 There in the full lantern-light stood an old yellow dog. His 
 neck was hung with Christmas greens. A small American flag was 
 wired to his tail, and was wiggling joyously. His eyes met his 
 master's. With one mighty leap he was in his master's breast. 
 
 " Come away, b'ys," said private Mooney. " Grubbins '11 be 
 wantin' to exhplain matthers to Dikkon, and, begorra' we'll be in 
 the way." 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 169 
 
 She Never Was a c Boy. 
 
 <By S. E. RISER. 
 
 WHEN I come home the other night, 
 With an ugly-looking eye 
 That I had got into a fight, 
 
 Poor ma commenced to cry; 
 But when I told pa how it was, 
 
 He clapped his hands for joy, 
 And told me I done bully, 'cause 
 Once he had been a boy. 
 
 " Boys will be boys," I heard him say, 
 
 " They won't be otherwise. 
 And the one that learns to fight his way, 
 
 Is the one that wins the prize ; 
 When I was his age fightin' was 
 
 My greatest earthly joy — " 
 But ma she kept on cryin', 'cause 
 
 She never was a boy. 
 
 My golly, but I'd hate to be 
 
 A girl with fluffy hair, 
 And always prim as A, B, C, 
 
 With clothes too clean to wear ! 
 When ma was small I s'pose she was 
 
 Red-cheeked and sweet and coy — 
 But, oh, the fun that missed her 'cause 
 
 She never was 3 boy ! 
 
170 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 A Phenomenal cMemory. 
 
 YOU'D better put them down on a piece of paper," said Mrs. 
 S^— , when about to give her first order. 
 
 " Oh, no," said Mr. S- — , " my memory is good." 
 
 " Well, then," began Mrs. S— ', " a spool of 60 Coates' black 
 
 thread." 
 
 '.' Yes," said Mr. S ; - " . 
 
 " A yard of not too light and not too dark calico." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " A small hammer, a can of peaches of the Pasadena brand, 
 dozen small pearl buttons, two yards cardinal ribbon, silk on one side 
 and satin on the other." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. S-^— , thoughtfully. 
 
 " A pair of slippers for the baby, a dozen lemons, a good tooth- 
 brush, a pineapple, two ounces of sky-blue Germantown yarn, an 
 ounce phial of homeopathic nux vomica pellets, a-^— " 
 
 " Wait a second," said Mr. S 1 - — -, counting on his fingers and 
 
 looking perplexed. 
 
 "And a bottle of vanilla extract, and a yard of triple box- 
 plaited crepe lisse ruching, and three yards of small-checked nain- 
 sook, and — " 
 
 But Mr. S had seized his hat and was running for the 
 
 station. 
 
 What the poor man brought home was a yard of bed-ticking, 
 three yards of black crape, a bottle of vinegar, eight yards of nan- 
 keen, a scrub-brush, a pound of green yarn, sixty spools of " coat 
 thread," a yard of very light and a yard of very black calico, and 
 a pint bottle of homeopathic pills. 
 
 " There, my dear," he said, triumphantly, throwing down his 
 numerous packages, " I don't think you'll find a thing missing. 
 Who says a man can't do shopping? My memory never played me 
 false yet." 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 171 
 
 44 
 
 Good Night." 
 
 By REGINALD WHITFIELD KAYLOR. 
 [From Four O'Clock.] 
 
 y. 
 
 1FELT in no mood for entertaining, and when the bell vibrated 
 through the lower hall and eventually reached the top floor, I felt 
 tempted to lock my sitting-room door so that a chance caller might 
 imagine there was no one at home. But I didn't, and when I 
 heard- footsteps ascending the stairway I decided that; whoever it 
 might be he should be treated decently at all events. Because I 
 was a Southerner I felt that hospitality was every man's due, and to 
 treat a guest shabbily, even though he be an unwelcome one, was 
 an unpardonable crime. And then I did not know who it might 
 be so laboriously climbing the stairs. I was expecting no one, and 
 I was in no mood for congeniality. Of course it was my heart that 
 bothered me. The truth of the matter was, I had no heart. I had 
 lost it nearly two months before ; and the person who now held it was 
 such an audaciously close-mouthed little body that affairs were 
 decidedly awkward. I didn't know where I was or where I was 
 likely to be. 
 
 Of course we talked of other things — lots of things. And she 
 was very kind to me in a way. She was just as kind to Harry King 
 — even kinder, it seemed to me, when we both happened to be there at 
 the same time, which wasn't often. I should have disliked young 
 King most heartily if I hadn't known that she was the custodian of 
 his heart also, and would give him no more satisfaction than myself. 
 
 But King had the advantage of me — he was bolder. I knew he 
 would ask her first. What would her answer be? " Yes," of course 
 — to King, I mean. He was better looking, quite a handsome fellow 
 in fact ; while I — well, I was never noted for any excess of beauty. 
 
 Then he had better prospects, and, though we were rivals, I must 
 acknowledge that he was an exceptionally decent kind of a chap. 
 We were not particularly intimate ; he had called at my rooms to 
 play whist, but we had never been alone since we had met two years 
 before. 
 
172 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 When I opened my door in response to the rap, I found the 
 hallway in utter darkness, but I recognizedthe voice. 
 
 " Good evening, Mr. Harlow." 
 
 " Oh ! why, how are you, King ? Come in ; I couldn't see you. 
 Let me take your coat and hat." 
 
 " Thanks," he said : " I was up this way and saw your light, 
 so decided to drop in for a few moments. Hope I'm not keeping 
 you at home ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ; glad you came. Awfully cold out, isn't it? " 
 
 " Beastly, and the wind seems to go right through one, but it's 
 nice and warm here." 
 
 " Perhaps it's too warm," I said. " Let < me open a window, it 
 will freshen the room a bit. I'm a slave to tobacco. May I roll 
 you a cigarette ? " 
 
 " No, thanks; I never smoke them." 
 
 " Fill you a pipe, then ? — I have some very fair tobacco here," 
 and in answer to his nod I filled my choicest meerschaum. It 
 was my greatest weakness, this meerschaum. And here I was 
 actually offering it to a fellow I would have locked out. When I 
 finished filling it, I handed it to King with a lighted match. He 
 took a few whiffs in silence, then remarked with evident pleasure : 
 
 " Cool smoke ! — Well colored, too." 
 
 " It's my favorite pipe. I ruined three others before I mastered 
 the art of coloring," and I drew my Turkish tabourette over toward 
 him and showed him my collection with comments and criticisms. 
 He either divined my weakness and humored it, or else he was a 
 crank on the same subject, for he most assuredly appeared interested. 
 After pipes came politics, a subject quite as congenial as the pre- 
 ceding one. We touched the hem of religion. Then we told each 
 other what we didn't know about some literary folk, not all ; we 
 were both too bright for that. Ten minutes went to art. Poor, 
 slighted art ! Could you have\ heard, you would have wept tears 
 enough to wash your brushes and moisten your colors for a long time 
 to come. 
 
 Conversation is all well enough, so is tobacco. But on a cold, 
 blusterous night, a glass of hot punch, stiff and well brewed, is 
 better still. So I concocted one after a recipe that had been in our 
 
AND RECITATIONS NO. 26. 173 
 
 family for a great many years. The recipe was written by a great- 
 uncle of mine, who left it as one of his .most priceless belongings. 
 And on the distribution of his things, this old, yellow, ink-faded 
 recipe came to me, while my older brother received his bible, and 
 worried me for over a year in a vain endeavor to trade. After 
 our punch, we smoked another pipe, and King rose to go. 
 
 " Don't hurry," I said, " it's early yet." 
 
 " Oh, I've overstayed my time as it is," he replied. 
 
 I helped him into his coat, and reached for his outstretched hand. 
 
 " By the way, Harlow, I had a motive for calling to-night — a 
 delicate one, if you will. I am going east in a few days. Of course 
 you know that I have loved Dorothy quite as well as I know that you 
 have. To-night I asked her to marry me. I knew that she loved 
 one of us, and the only way to find out which one was to ask her." 
 
 " Then you wish my congratulations," I replied, tightening my 
 hold upon his hand. I had never let it go since he began. I tried 
 to smile as I said it, but no doubt failed to impress King, for he 
 looked at me strangely, I thought, and his fingers did the tightening 
 this time. 
 
 " Oh, no, old fellow," he said, " allow me to congratulate you. 
 Good night." 
 
 Sandalphon 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONQFELLOW 
 
 [The Publishers of this book have issued. " Sandalphon " arranged as a 
 musical recitation, in sheet music form, with a specially designed title-page. 
 The composition may be performed also as a piano solo, independently of the 
 poem. Price, $1.] . 
 
 HAVE you read in the Talmud of old, 
 In the legends the Rabbins have told 
 Of the limitless realms of the air, 
 Have you read it, — the marvelous story 
 Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, 
 Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? 
 
 How, erect, at the outermost gates 
 Of the City Celestial he waits, 
 
 With his feet on the ladder of light, 
 
174 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 That, crowded with angels unnumbered, 
 By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered 
 Alone in the desert at night? 
 
 The Angels of Wind and of Fire 
 Chant only one hymn, and expire 
 
 With the song's irresistible stress; 
 Expire in their rapture and wonder, 
 As harp-strings are broken asunder 
 
 By music they throb to express. 
 
 But serene in the ' rapturous throng, 
 Unmoved by the rush of the song, 
 
 With eyes unimpassioned and slow, 
 Among the dead angels, the deathless 
 Sandalphon stands, listening breathless 
 
 To sounds that ascend from below; — 
 
 From the spirits on earth that adore, 
 From the souls that entreat and implore 
 
 In the fervor and passion of prayer; 
 From the hearts that are broken with losses, 
 And weary with dragging the crosses 
 
 Too heavy for mortals to bear. 
 
 And he gathers the prayers as he stands, 
 And they change into flowers in his hands, 
 
 Into garlands of purple and red; 
 And beneath the great arch of the portal, 
 Through the streets of the City Immortal 
 
 Is wafte"d the fragrance they shed. 
 
 It is but a legend, I know, — 
 A fable, a phantom, a show, 
 
 Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; 
 Yet the old mediaeval tradition, 
 The beautiful, strange superstition, 
 
 But haunts me and holds me the more. 
 
 When I look from my window at night, 
 And the welkin above is all white, 
 
 All throbbing and panting with stars, 
 
AND RECITATIONS NO. 26. 175 
 
 Among them majestic is standing 
 
 Sandalphon the angel, expanding 
 
 His pinions in nebulous bars. 
 
 And the legend, I feel, is a part 
 
 Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, 
 
 The frenzy and fire of the brain, 
 That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, 
 The golden pomegranates of Eden, 
 
 To quiet its fever and pain. 
 
 When the Northern Bands played Dixie 
 
 FRANK L. STANTON 
 
 THERE was something that was misty — like a tear-drop — in my 
 eye, 
 When the Northern bands played Dixie as Southern troops 
 marched by. 
 Ten thousand voices cheering shook the windows of the sky, 
 When the Northern bands played Dixie as Southern troops marched 
 
 by! 
 And well-a-day, my Captain, and ne'er turn down your hat 
 To hide the tear that answered a stirring tune like that ! 
 A soldier is a soldier; but, in the light of God, 
 No tune has ever thrilled me like that — on Northern sod ! 
 
 I've heard it on our battle-fields where Lee has led the way 
 And the Federal guns were gleaming at breasts that wore the gray; 
 It stirred the ranks of " Stonewall " — but now, from land to land, 
 They cheer it when they hear it come ringing from the band ! 
 
 It's one great country, brethren ; there's not a barrier wall ; 
 The flag our fathers fought for is streaming over all ! 
 No North — no South, save only a green dividing line 
 Arched by a cloudless heaven where stars of Freedom shine. 
 
 Then let the bands send Dixie in music on the gales, 
 
 While Yankee Doodle echoes in flowery Southern vales. 
 
 And well-a-day, my Captain, and ne'er turn down your hat, 
 
 For Dixie's in the North now, and we shout, " Hurrah/' for that ! 
 
176 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Village Coward 
 
 MARY BERRI CHAPMAN 
 
 T 
 
 RAID-CAT, 'fraid of a snake! 
 
 'Fraid of the noise the toad-frogs make 
 An' the log acrost the stream. 
 
 'Fraid-cat, 'fraid of the dark! 
 
 Cross your heart and die. 
 If ever you run past dead man's park 
 
 Then break your word and cry ! 
 
 'Fraid-cat, 'fraid of the girls, 
 
 Little Sammy Sim — 
 Baby eyes an' sissy curls — 
 
 Stick your tongue at him ! 
 
 'Fraid-cat, every one laughed 
 
 When he marched away; 
 Many's the " stay-at-home " that chaffed 
 
 At Sammy Sim that day. 
 
 'Fraid-cat, 'fraid of the girls, 
 
 But not of blood and shell; 
 Arid the men that followed the tumbled curls 
 
 Shrank not in the fire of hell. 
 
 A volunteer for a daring deed, 
 
 A cheer in the face of death, 
 A laughing word for his wounds that bleed, 
 
 A smile with the failing breath. 
 
 And a shaft of marble above the sod 
 
 Is all that tells of him, 
 But if ever a brave boy found his God, 
 
 It's little Sammy Sim ! 
 
AND RECITATIONS No, 26. 177 
 
 Her Garden. 
 
 By STANLEY SCHELL 
 
 Quaint English dialect woman monologue. 
 
 Scene : Speaker is seated on porch making lace on a pillow. 
 She is facing her garden. Visitors stop to admire the flowers and 
 charm of the place. 
 
 Speaker: Old English peasant woman. Several persons sup- 
 posed to be present looking at her garden and making comments. 
 
 Ay, they'm nice, aint 'em? I grows 'em all myself. [Smiles 
 sweetly then listens to what is being said supposedly.'] 
 
 Yes. All the chil'ern have been gone this many a year and 
 there be only me and my husband left now. He do work at the 
 farm there, and he can do a day's work wi' the best of 'em. I gets 
 plenty of time for my garden and for a bit o' lace making. As for 
 the house, tain't so bad now that landlord has put water in. 
 
 [Has a grateful expression as she rises and comes forward. 
 Stands listening.] 
 
 Not a drop save in the rain water barrel. Nine and twenty year 
 ha' us lived here, and every bucket to be carried all the way from 
 the pump over there by them cottages ! Tis too far off for 'ee to 
 see en. My husband would bring a pailful when he came home 
 from work, and I carried the rest. [Gazes around garden, sighs a 
 little, listens.] Ya think the cottage is pretty? 
 
 So all the folk do say ; but there be the drizzlin' mist off" the sea, 
 and the drashy dirty fog off Dartimoor, and the thatch be rotted, 
 and the walls wants mending, and the landlord's put the water in 
 and won't do nort more. 'Tis a damp old house; but we'm just got 
 to put up wi' it and be thankful we'm got summat. There's nort to 
 grumble at in the summer when the sun do shine, and I've got my 
 flowers ; but in the winter it be that cold up on the hill, and dark 
 indoors too and no one apassin' by to cheer'ee up wi' a word. But 
 the dark days go past somehow. It be then as I think of the 
 chil'ern. 
 
 [Lonely look creeps into eyes and forlornness in droop of body 
 and hang of hands. Listens.) 
 
 Far away? Ay, ma'am. Far, far, away from here, 
 
178 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Ay, my darters be in London; married and doin' well, and 
 'tisn't often they has time to come and see me. Tis a bit too 
 quiet for 'em like. 'Tis an out o' the way old spot howsbeever. 
 And my son be in the navy and lives down to Plymouth and we 
 don't see he very often. I've got my man sure and sartain if the 
 chil'ern all scattered about — my man and my flowers. We'm got 
 the sunshine today too, havn't us? 
 
 [Waves her hand gently as she moves back toward house and 
 exits smilmg like a happy child:) 
 
 The Mumpy Mumps. 
 
 By LUCILE CRITES 
 I've got awful lumpy lumps; 
 I've got awful bumpy bumps; 
 And the doctoring old doctor 
 Says, I've got the mumpy mumps! 
 
 I can't eat, 'cause I can't chew, 
 There ain't nothing I can do, 
 Father says they'll soon be over,< 
 'Cause he had 'em one time, too. 
 
 Brother Tom gave me a nickel 
 Just to eat a sour pickle, 
 Oh, it made my face all crooked ! 
 And the tears began to trickle. 
 
 Having mumps makes me feel old 
 (Since my family don't scold) 
 Mother doesn't make me wash my face 
 Because I might take cold. 
 
 ,Gee, I hate these lumpy lumps, 
 And I hate these bumpy bumps ; 
 And the doctoring old doctor, 
 'Cause he can't cure mumpy mumps, 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 179 
 
 Beginning to Clean Out. 
 
 Humorous Woman Monologue 
 By BERTHA E. BUSH 
 
 Yes, Henry, I think you are quite right. Our house is too full 
 of things. We ought to have a big clearing up and throw away 
 everything we don't use. Let's begin to-day ! I'm so glad it's 
 rainy, so that you can't work and the children are at school. We'll 
 go over the drawers and closet in the spare room and dispose of a 
 lot of things. 
 
 Now you begin at the dresser while I set the room to rights 
 What's in the little drawer? Oh, letters and papers. You can put 
 most of them in the wastebasket. 
 
 Mercy me, no ! You mustn't put that in ! That's Bobby's writ- 
 ing set that he got for a prize in school when he was five years 
 old. Oh, I don't know that he cares about it, now that he is 
 fourteen ; but I care ! Look at the cunning, sprawly writing. 
 
 No, those can't be burned up. These are the notes I took at 
 the State Federation of Women's Clubs when I was a delegate. 
 And that's my old diary I kept when I was in the eighth grade. 
 No, you can't burn those up. 
 
 Goodness, what are you throwing now ! Those are Cecilia's 
 merit cards. She thinks everything of them — or did before she got 
 into high school. No, we can't destroy those. 
 
 Oh, Henry, take that out of the waste-basket right away! Only 
 a ten-year-old calendar? Yes; but the picture of the little boy on it 
 looks exactly like Bobby when he had curls. I wouldn't lose it for a 
 five-dollar gold piece. And those are Madge's letters from Europe 
 and too interesting to throw away. And those Bobby's and Cecilia's 
 compositions. Henry, I believe you'd better let me clear out that 
 drawer and you take the lower ones. 
 
 What are those white things ? Those are petticoats. No ; we 
 haven't worn them for three or four years ; they are too full for 
 the present styles. Shall we dispose of them? Why, Henry, see 
 all the good goods in them ; how extravagant you are ! I've always 
 been meaning to make them over, but when I've needed a new one 
 it has been easier to buy one that didn't need making over. 
 
180 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 And that's the dress Cecilia wore when she was graduated from 
 the eighth grade. No, she can't wear it now, but I'll make it up 
 some day and use the embroidery. And those are baby clothes that 
 were so cunning I had to keep them. Bobby's little shirt ! Cecilia's 
 nightgrown ! She could hardly get two fingers in the sleeve now. 
 The little dress she wore when she was christened, and Bobby's first 
 little white mittens. Oh, I couldn't throw away those ! How un- 
 feeling you are ! Henry, I guess you had better let me clear out the 
 dresser alone, and you and I will go at the closet. 
 
 Now just look at that pile of old hats ! If there's anything in 
 this world it's foolish to keep, it's old hats ! Get them down every 
 one, Henry. No ;. I -can't burn up the white plush one ; it cost ten 
 dollars just for the shape. I'm going to have it cleaned and re- 
 blocked some day. You may put that back, Henry. Yes, I think 
 I must keep this little, close one; it's so convenient. And that big 
 one I want for a picnic hat. And the wide one is so becoming I 
 mean to trim it over. And the black one? Oh, I guess I'd better 
 keep it; I really need a black hat. There's that old hat of yours 
 you can bum up. You want to keep it? Well, it is a pretty good 
 one. 
 
 Let's go at the closet hooks. Oh, I don't believe it's any use 
 taking down the dresses. It just makes me feel distracted. No; 
 we don't wear them now, but they are all so good to make over, 
 and just think if we ever needed them ! There's that old suit of 
 yours. We might dispose of that. You want to keep it to go 
 fishing in? All right. 
 
 Henry, I don't feel like cleaning out to-day. Let's stop. It 
 makes me feel bad to throw so many things away, 
 
 The Conquerors. 
 
 By M. S. LANCASTER 
 
 Ma, I'm home from school and I'm so hungry — can't I have a 
 piece of this fried chicken, here in the ice box? 
 
 No, son, wait until supper, it will be ready by 5.30. [Shakes L. 
 finger.'] 
 
 I can't wait ma, I'm so empty, I'm most starved. [Rubs 
 stomach. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 181 
 
 No Frank, you can't have any — if I give you a piece, Willie 
 will want one, too. 
 
 Well, I don't care, I'm goin' to have this wing, or cry. 
 
 Well, then take it, I don't want you to tune up, but don't let 
 Willie see you eating it. I'm going over to Mrs. Wilcox's. I'll be 
 back in a minute or two. 
 
 Gee, this is good. Hello, Willie, I got some chicken. Don't 
 you wish you had some, but you can't have any 'till supper — ma 
 said so. 
 
 Well, it ain't fair. Give me a bite; if you don't, I'll cry. 
 [Rubs R. eye.] 
 
 You're on the right trail, Bill, but you're telling the wrong per- 
 son. Give that speech to mamma, and you'll get the chicken. She 
 hates cry babies. I know by experience. [Licks fingers and throws 
 away bone.] 
 
 Betsy Bobhity's Bun. 
 
 Oh, Betsy Bobbity baked a bun, 
 A beautiful bewitching one, 
 
 So light it fairly shone with pride, 
 With currants a-plenty safe inside. 
 
 And Patsy Poppity peeled a peach, 
 A pear, a plum, and put them each 
 
 In a tiny pie with frosted top, 
 
 As fine as those in the baker's shop ! 
 
 Young Poppity Pup came racing by, 
 The little red table caught his eye, 
 
 Then, never a bit cared he, not he, 
 That he had not been asked to tea ! 
 
 He ate up Betsy Bobbity's bun, 
 With all the currants, ev'ry one, 
 
 The three ties at a single bite, 
 
 And everything there was in sight ! 
 
182 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Apartment Hunting. 
 
 Comedy Monologue for a Woman. 
 By STANLEY SCHELL 
 
 Characters: Mrs. Cogswell, speaker present; Mrs. Anderson, 
 her mother, supposed to be with her, the manager of the Queen 
 Anne, a very swell hotel apartment house on Fifth Avenue. 
 
 What a charming entrance hall — so large, so garden like — I love 
 palms, and the paintings are simply charming. I wonder who the 
 artists are — (uses lorgnette and gazes at different pictures) . . . 
 Oh, yes. I believe you have apartments for rent. . . . You have 
 one on the fourteenth floor? How perfectly lovely that is . . . 
 corner? . . . just what we are looking for . . . may we see it? 
 . . . Thanks, yes, now . . . that's what we are here for. [Enters 
 elevator.'] How do you get the babies up? . . . only one . . . two 
 months old . . . you surely couldn't expect . . . only married a 
 year. . . . Just Ma, and John and baby and me ... a maid? 
 . . . Oh, yes, of course, I forgot — she doesn't count, however . . . 
 six rooms and bath we want to get — yes. . . . This it? — Oh, the hall 
 is hideous — and what very, very small rooms. . . . Another apart- 
 ment above the larger rooms? Let's go and see it. . . . Oh, how 
 charming . . . this hall just suits . . . isn't it lovely — such a deep 
 place for the hat rack and such a fine nook for baby's carriage. 
 . . . Oh, don't you? ... in the basement — damp place for a car- 
 riage. . . . No ? Above engine . room, how perfectly lovely — the 
 pedestal and Psyche can stand there then . . . $300 a month? 
 How moderate — here's the parlor — ma — isn't it a dear with all those 
 lovely cupids on the paper and the mental — lovely — lovely — lovely — 
 and the view— just look at the view — and four windows right on 
 the Park . . . and 1-2-3-4-5-6, yes, 6 windows on the street with 
 lots of sunshine — now let's see how we'll furnish the rooms. . . . 
 This room is lovely for library and dining room — and this will do 
 for for me and baby — such a lovely place for my bed — and here 
 for baby's crib and here for the dresser and in here is a good 
 room for John — simply charming. . . . His bed can stand just here 
 — ah, I know the other place is better but his bed must be just 
 where I can see him before I close my eyes at night — and this 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 183 
 
 room is just the place for you — you can put your bed here and — 
 oh, you'll prefer to arrange your own room — of course, you would 
 you dear old ma . . . and here is the maid's room with every con- 
 venience just for herself — she'll be out of the way — and how John 
 will love this bath — room — he just dotes on water — outside — I'm 
 sure he'll spend more time at home when we live here. 
 
 Now, let us see the chef — I want to see the kind of person that 
 does the cooking — and the kitchen — all this most important — [enters 
 elevator]. It is most important to see how clean the kitchen and 
 cooking utensils are kept — [enters kitchen']. 
 
 It's wonderful — and — large — and so many people — men with 
 white caps on— I didn't realize the place was so big above — it's 
 certainly bigger below — all things seem to get large underneath — 
 Isn't the chef a dear — and what dainty menus, — and the copper 
 cooking vessels I'd feel I was in heaven if I had all those — perfectly 
 satisfied — [enters elevator — getd off on ground floor] — is this where 
 we get off — oh, yes, now I remember. . . . Thank you very much 
 for showing us that dear apartment and the kitchen. — I'll speak 
 to my husband about it as soon as he comes home tonight — I don't 
 want to see another apartment until I tell him all about it — and 
 only $300 a month. . . . Good morning. [Turns to mother when 
 near exit] — Wouldn't it be swell to be able to rent such an apart- 
 ment and live like that every day and have all those perfectly 
 delicious menus? When Jack gets rich, I know we'll do so, won't 
 we ? Exit. 
 
 When Jack Proposed. 
 
 I meant to be quite self-possessed and cool 
 And not behave exactly like a fool ; 
 
 Intended to be calm and dignified, 
 
 And say to him : "Perhaps I'll be your bride." 
 
 And yet in spite of all I thought to do. 
 
 My plans so fondly cherished ne'er came true, 
 
 I simply laid my head upon his breast, 
 And he can tell you all about the rest. 
 
 o 
 
184 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 The Gossips. 
 
 Humorous Scotch Encore for Woman. 
 
 Ye hae no' heard aboot Mistress Mackintosh's tuth? No? Ye 
 dinna care to hear naught aboot it ? Eh ! Puir body ! She wor 
 in a sair way. She had a bad tuth-ache, and sae she went tull a den- 
 tist's to get it poo'd oot. And when it were poo'd oot, it left a 
 great big gap i' her moo', and she wanted the gap fillin' in. And 
 ye'll mind, the dentist he hadna ony fause tuth by him jist then. 
 
 Noo, it was aboot the time of the war and theere were a lot o' 
 human tith knocking aboot, and sae the dentist he pit her a human 
 tuth in her moo', and she went hame, and she went to bed, and, 
 puir body ; she says it was between yan and twa in the mornin', she 
 thocht she saw a great lang soldier-laddie standin' by her bed-side. 
 And he were glowering doon upon her, and he says, "Mistress 
 Mackintosh, ma'am, that's my tuth you've got in yer heed.' And 
 she says, "No, it isna. It's yon I bocht at a dentist's this mornin'." 
 
 And he says, "I dinna care wheer ye bocht it, it's my tuth! I 
 come for it." And wi' thot, he pit his finger i' her moo' and began 
 rummaging aboot to get at the tuth, and a' at yance she closed her 
 tith upon it wi' a gay, firm snap! and — she wakened up, and if it 
 wasna Mister Mackintosh's finger that she'd getten i' her moo', and 
 were chewin' ! 
 
 And noo he's ganging aboot wi' his arm i' a sling, a-sayin' as it 
 were a' done oot o' spite, because he wadna buy a chest o' drawers 
 for her at a roup the ither day. But I dinna think that likely, for 
 I dinna believe that a woman wad gang for to bite her ain flesh and 
 bluid. 
 
 Ye no like her? Eh! puir body! No wah ilse do. She a crazy 
 bit. She niver yet saw the good in na mon. 
 
 Will ye have a drink o' tay? No, then ye'll gang along hame 
 noo, yer mon is waitin' fer ye, good day to ye, Mrs. MacMaims. 
 
 'Cause He'd Nothing Else to Do, 
 
 By HERBERT GREY 
 'Twas a pleasant summer morning, 
 Just the day om might enjoy. 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 185 
 
 He woke and looked out early, 
 
 Thinking how his time to employ ; 
 Then said he : "In such fine weather, 
 
 I don't care for work, do you?" 
 So he went to see his sweetheart, 
 
 'Cause he'd nothing else to do ! 
 
 Well, they rambled forth together, 
 
 Down the lane, beneath the trees; 
 
 So gently stirred the shadows 
 
 Of their branches in the breeze : 
 And whene'er their conversation 
 
 Languished for a word or two, 
 Why, of course, he gently kissed her, 
 
 'Cause he'd nothing else to do ! 
 
 But before the day was over, 
 
 He somehow made up his mind 
 To "pop the question" to her, 
 
 If her heart to him inclined; 
 So he whispered, "Sweet, my darling, 
 
 Will you marry me, yes or no ?" 
 "Well," said she, "perhaps I may, dear, 
 
 When I've nothing else to do!" 
 
 Aunt Hanner Hayseed Joins a Lodge. 
 
 A Monologue By WALTER BEN HARE 
 
 Copyright, 1922, by Walter Ben Hare 
 
 Come in, Cyrinthy, and set down. [Hobbles to right and greets 
 hcr.~\ I'm glad you come to see me. At last I can unbosom my 
 troubles into a sympathetic ear. 
 
 Set down. Me? I can't set down. I shouldn't wonder ef I'd 
 never set down agin in the whole course of my natural existence. 
 
 Yes, I'm awful feeble. 
 
 That bruise over my eye? That's one of the things that's 
 troublin' me. 
 
186 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Only one, however? There's others, Cyrinthy, too numerous to 
 mention. No I didn't meet with no accident, it was worse'n that. 
 I look like I'd been run over by a threshin' machine, I know it. I 
 feel like it too. I got a misery in every place possible, and in some 
 places that I never dreamed of. 
 
 Yes, my ankel's sprained, too. And I can't taste food-vittels no 
 more. My tongue's lost its power of taste. 
 
 What happened to me? Ain't you heard? [Pause.] I've jined 
 the lodge. 
 
 I never dreamed it 'ud be anything like it was. I couldn't 
 imagine such a thing. The things I seen and the things they made 
 me do is past all imaginin'. 
 
 Tell you? Glad to. I have to tell someone or bust! First, they 
 said they'd put me in the ante-room. I thought that was real nice 
 of 'em having a room named all in my honor, 'cause the folks here 
 in the village has been calling me Auntie Hanner for twenty years. 
 It was a smahMand of a hall-bedroom with cheers around in a row 
 and pegs to hang yer things up on. I sot there by myself about half 
 an hour while the sistern were havin' a meetin' in the lodge room. 
 
 At last two of the sistern come out and said they was ready fer- 
 ine. I got up ca'm and dignified and started into the other room, 
 _but_I was yanked back quicker'n scat. I thought jinin' a lodge was 
 sump'm sweet and serious, like when I jined the Congregationalists, 
 but I larned different purty quick. 
 
 They tied a handkerchief 'round my eyes. 
 
 What? Yes, they did, actually. And it 'twan't clean 'nuther. 
 Then one of the sistern gave a loud bang at the door and started to 
 talk Bible talk to someone on the inside. The first thing I knowed 
 they was leadin' me into the presence 6i the Royal Queen Bee and 
 they told me that she was settin' on her golden throne a-waitin' to 
 receive me. 
 
 Well, I dunno nothin' about her bein' a Bee, but one thing I 
 know, and that is that I got stung. Take my word for it, Cyrinthy, 
 I was treated like a slave and a heap worse. They ran me around 
 till I lost my breath, they pulled me over a rough road and dropped 
 me into a bee-hive, they dipped me into a crick and they interduced 
 me to their royal billy-bumper. My, I was mad ! With my eye all 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 187 
 
 bunged up with a bruise and my ankle twisted and me half dead 
 with fright, and they said it was making me a true and loyal sister 
 out of me. If they treat their sistern like that, I wonder what 
 they'd do to their mothers. 
 
 Is that all ? No ! They told me to bend over and pick a little 
 flower, and I bent. But it was a fatal bend. I was struck from 
 behind half way between the altar and the Queen Bee. I tore the 
 blind .off 'n my eyes and rushed outa that room and down the stairs 
 and home again without even stoppin' to git my bunnet and shawl. 
 And I ain't set down since. They said sump'm about givin' me the 
 grip, but what they did give me was worse'n the grip and the influ- 
 enza to boot, and I'm done with lodges forever! Forever! 
 
 Good-bye, Cyrinthy. Don't tell your husband. You know it's 
 all secret. 
 
 "De Conjure Man. '' 
 
 By CHARLES C. JONES 
 
 Dey's a Cunjure Man in a place I knoAv, 
 
 But I ain' gwine go to see ; 
 An' he live down dar on de Long Bayou 
 
 By dee beeg ol' cypress tree; 
 An' he's black ez soot, an' his eyes is red, 
 
 An' his fingers long an' slim, 
 An' his teefs fell out o' his ol' bald head ; 
 
 An' I got no use f o' him ! 
 
 Say de Cunjure Man : "What you plague me fo' ?" 
 
 So I'se glad I come by day, 
 But I say : "Suh, please, dey's a yalleh Joe 
 
 Try to steal mah M'liss away." 
 "Don' you name no names ! Jes' you pay me right," 
 Say de Cunjure Man so quick; 
 "Den you come back yere wif de mawnin' light, 
 
 An' we mek some niggah sick!" 
 
188 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Den he show two sacks, when I come again, 
 
 What is had tobacco in ; 
 An' I don' know what dey is in 'em den — 
 
 Mebbe piece o' bat-wing skin, 
 An' de lid peeled off from a lizard's eye 
 
 When dey ain' no moon or sun, 
 An' some dead man's hair — but I ain't gwine try 
 
 Fo' to peek ner projick none! 
 
 An' he sidle clost, an' he say : "Dese two 
 
 Wjf de half-charm each I fill, 
 Now you fin' de door whut he mus' come froo, 
 
 An' you slip one 'neath de sill ; 
 But de oder sack what's de res' o' dis, 
 
 In de runnin' water f row ; 
 An' de man what try fo' to steal yo' M'liss 
 
 Gwine to stay roun' yere no mo' !" 
 
 "Caze de curse o' de wanderin' foot, it bide 
 
 Fo' to wrop him like a coat: 
 Ef he once step foot 'crost de sack you hide, 
 
 Den ez long ez t'odder float, 
 It will dog him on, an' he cain't turn home! 
 
 Ef de buzzard sail de sky, 
 Or de squinch-owl screech, he mus' roam en' roam 
 
 Twel he done lay down to die !" 
 
 So I tuk mail foot in mah hand dat day 
 
 An' I done it all up slick ; 
 Ner I ain' fo'got how de Cunjure say 
 
 Us'll make some niggah sick. 
 An' we done dat, too ! But it jes' do prove 
 
 How de bes' o' plans goes wrong: 
 'Caze de charm don wuk fo' to mek Joe move, 
 
 But he tuk mah M'liss along! 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 189 
 
 Aunt Mandy's Mating. 
 
 By CA THERINE RHODES DA VIS 
 
 Copyright, 1912, by the Shortstory Publishing Co. Copyright secured in Great 
 Britain. Used by Edgar S. Werner & Co., by special permission and arrangement with 
 the Shortstory Publishing Co. All rights reserved. 
 
 Humorous negro dialect woman monologue in two parts. 
 Aunt Mandy, a colored laundress, speaks. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 Howdy, honey, how you does dis mawnin' ? Feelin' good ? Dat's 
 fine ! Dat's de way I laks to fin' yo\ No'm, I ain't so pyert, mlse'f . 
 Dat good-fer-nothin' Lize-Jane, she done had de cholry-marvels all 
 night, an' kep me up awaitin' on her till I'se mos' tuckered out dis 
 mawnin'. 
 
 Dat's a offul purty way yo' got o' fixin' yo' hair up, chile. Hit 
 makes yo' look so indifferent. 
 
 Wall, honey, we sho' did have a fine discohse at church las' 
 night. Brer Abram, he's a mighty smaht niggah, an' sich a pohtable 
 man, honey. When he riz up dar in de sanctimony, wid his long 
 black princess coat, I sez to myse'f : "He sho' is a han'some niggah." 
 He sez : "Dearly beloveds, my tex' am a easy one. It am one yo' 
 can all 'membah, an' hits one I wants yo' all to live by. Hit anr 
 dis : 'Be hones' an' fraud no man.' Chile, dat niggah sho' did 
 preach frum dat tex'. I disremembers now jes' where yo'll fin' hit 
 in de Book; but he sho' did tell dem niggahs 'bout dey se'ves. He 
 cum along home side o'me an' he went to tellin' me 'bout how mis- 
 able a life he wuz a leadin' since Mis' Abram, she done went and 
 died from assumption uv de lungs. I tole him go 'long off wid his 
 lonesomeness, I ain't bothered 'bout hit. But dat fool niggah, he 
 say it ain't good fo' man to be 'lone. He done been a tellin' me 
 kyant nobody cook lak me. He say he want er git me to reside 
 ovah his table an' make his life a blossomin' pergolory an' be his 
 seamster, too. 
 
 When you helped me get my divorce off Davy when he ran off 
 with that yellow girl, I sed I never, never would marry again, but 
 
190 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 men kin 'suacle an' 'su-u-ade. Dey des 'suades an' suades tell a pa' 
 weak-minded 'oman ain't got no min' at all. 
 
 You say his wife ain't bin dead a year yet? Sis' Abram's 
 deader'n nit ! She's dead ez she'll ever be ! 'Tain't no use'n me 
 lettin' dis chance slip by. Too many yaller girl a traypesin' roun' 
 after Brer Abram, chile. De book, hit say "a bird in han' 's wuf 
 a hun'ed in a cage." An' hit say to strike when de i'un's hot. I 
 'low I better not take no chances on dat pohtable preacher niggah. 
 He might make another indecision. So, I fetch dis here enyellup 
 an' dis paper fo' you to write me a letter, honey, an' I wants yo' to 
 do you' best. He's a edjicated niggah, chile. Say dis as I tells hit 
 to yo'. 
 
 Deah Reve'nd Abram : 
 
 De hours am slow an' weary sense yo' done went away. Your 
 honeyful words been buzzin' in my yeahs. I been 'flectin' on you' 
 pohtable 'pearance, an' yo' condescendin' offer to encumber me wid 
 yo'se'f. I ain't findin' it in my heart to infuse yo'; so I seat myse'f 
 an' takes my pen in hand, to write you dese few lines to let yo' know 
 I will except yo' offer. 
 
 I'se been amournin' fo' you' presence jes laik a little mou'nin' 
 dove, mournin' fo' hits mate. 
 
 Frun you' own true love, 
 
 Mis' Mandy Carter. 
 
 Mist' Abram 1 , he done went an' bought dis here paycock blue 
 ca'fsmere and dis cream lace fo' to ornify me fo' de weddin' [Pre- 
 sumably shoivs cashmere and lace to listener.] An' dis here mis- 
 quiter — honey : you is sich a good seamter. 
 
 An' my gal, Pearline, an' his gal, Rubifoam, dey's gwine to be 
 de fiower-gals, an' my tother gal, Exsy, she gwine be maid of honoh, 
 her full name is Esxema. We des say Exsy fo' short. All my 
 chilluns got quality names. My baby girl, we calls her Angy fo' 
 short ; but her full name is Angina Pectoris. Dat name come outen 
 a medicine book. Mist' Abram, he says his boy's name Agamenon; 
 but when he's little, he be so pesterin' bad, alius an' forever into 
 
AND RECITATIONS No. 26. 191 
 
 trouble, dat dey des tuck to callin' him Trouble, till dey des say 
 Troub fo' short. You gwine show me 'bout dat weddin' gown, 
 ain't you, honey? 
 
 Part II. 
 
 Chile, you was at my weddin', wasn't you? Did you token 
 notice ob dat weddin' bell ? An' arter dey sund de hymn "One 
 more mourner done cum through,'' did you hear dat preacher say 
 "S'lute the bride? You seed dat bride take dat pohtable preacher 
 out dah doah ? Honey, I des does love an' adoah dat niggah ; but he 
 not gwine s'lute a dis bride 'fo' all dem white folks. Xo, sah; he 
 do his salutin' at home. 
 
 Look a-yonder, honey! See dem clouds? 'Never you see de 
 sky a disgrainnin' an' de clouds a havin' convulsions, yo' can sho' 
 look out fo' some kin' uv weather. An' I got to be moseyin' on 
 kyase Mist' Abram, he done been tellin' me not to inspose myse'f. 
 Fo' I goes, honey, I wants to ax you to order me a dime can o' 
 constipated lye. A cook? No, chile, I don't know whar you'd fin' 
 one. Dis yistiddy, dey wux three white womans out our way astin' 
 if we knowed any colored ladies that wants to cook. You see, 
 honey, we'se all got husbands an' our husban's don' permit us to 
 work. 
 
 You know dat triflin' yaller gal, Vashti? Dat'n what paints her 
 ugly self and wears specs? She say she haf to wear 'em kase of 
 her vision of eyesight. She des apein' white folks. Don't need 'em 
 no moah'n I does ! She been a tryin' to tote Mist' Abram 'way 
 f rum home. What'd I do ? I done a plenty. I bent her to a frazzle 
 an' tuk a broom an' knocked dat pohtable niggah down an' beat 
 him up so good he been feelin' pohly ever since. 
 
 Honey, don' you ever let nobody run over you. none o' dese 
 photographer-womens what work on writtin' machines 'n' nobody ! 
 You stan' up fo' yo'se'f, honey — yo' man'll like yo' heap better, 
 chile ; I des does love an' adoah dat niggah. 
 
192 WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 Song of Good~By. 
 
 By FRANK L. STANTON 
 
 To-day, alas, the golden pitcher is broken : 
 
 The last sad words I drearily repeat; 
 Yet take from me, dear heart, this latest token: 
 
 A flower my memory leaves at thy dear feet ! 
 
 The only one ! . . . Perchance 'twill deck thy bosom 
 When I afar shall from thy presence be; 
 
 A mockingbird sang sweet upon a blossom 
 And dashed it down to me. 
 
 I am the one that heard the bird-songs ringing, 
 When never bird sang in the sunshine fair; 
 
 I am the one that saw the summer springing 
 When winter made a garland of his hair. 
 
 I am the one who said : However lowly 
 
 Thy steps may tread, there will still be a hand 
 
 To lead thee to the pleasant paths and holy, 
 And to the lovelier land. 
 
 Remember this : Through long years I shall miss you, 
 When lie our paths, as they must lie, apart; 
 
 I shall grope weary through the dark to kiss you 
 And listen for the beating of your heart ! 
 
 But if, some day, you only shall remember 
 One beautiful and crowned supernal day; 
 
 Then shall my loneliest life's unloved December 
 Beam like a perfect and immortal May!