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 "BURLINGTON, N. C. 
 
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 7 STEPHEN B. WEEKS 
 
 CLASS OF 1886; PH.D. THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY 
 
 
 
 
 
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 LIBRARY 5 
 ie OF THE § 
 || UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA |f 
 f|| THE WEEKS COLLECTION jf 
 ‘ OF ‘ 
 E CAROLINIANA h 
 
 Gua, —__— (EE 
 eet a e 
 | This book must not 
 
 be taken from the 
 
 Library buildings: 
 
 THIS TITLE HAS BEEN MICROFIIME 
 
 i ih I 
 
 
 
 F.N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
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 | 
 
 
 
 Form No. 471 
 
aa 2 POA APE AAT IA 
 F Dil oe 
 im te peek 
 Pe , Pitter 
 a : SF, 
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 i. tute j 
 
 
 
 
 Picked Up 
 4 _ Here and [there 
 
 By G. D. STUTTS 
 Burlington, N. C. 
 
 Price 25 cents. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 RALEIGH; 
 EDWARDS & BROUGHTON PRINTING CO. 
 1907. 
 
INTRODUCTION. _ 
 
 “Picked Up Here and There’’ is now before the public for 
 you who love the old time songs, many of which were thought by 
 the older people to be lost, but | have picked them up here and there 
 as best | could for your benefit. Hoping they will meet your kind 
 
 approbation, | am, Yours, etc., = 
 GAD, a Uiaiss a 
 
 O-tbermiels0r stytiscicie INNO 
 
‘70/6 
 
 ‘THINGS YOU OUGHT TO KNOW. 
 
 Young and old you ought to know 
 
 .How children were raised fifty years ago, 
 
 Barefooted they would go to school 
 
 _ When daylight came they rose from bed, 
 
 They obeyed every word their parents 
 Sasaid ; 
 
 To feed and milk they then were sent 
 
 To. obey all things they were intent. 
 
 They then were off basket on arm, - 
 
 _ They said or done no one no harm, 
 
 No tinbuckets they had to toat . 
 Barefooted, blue speller, sometimes no 
 coat. 
 
 Two or three miles they had to walk, 
 
 But lost no time in play or talk, 
 
 But straightforward went with basket 
 and book 
 
 To the old log schoolhouse across the 
 brook. 
 
 They hung their coats and shawls on 
 eos 
 
 And went to the fire to warm feet and 
 legs, 
 
 Frostbitten feet, no shoes or socks, 
 
 They were home-made pants and home- 
 made frocks. 
 
 Then all would stand up in a ring, 
 
 To spell by heart was a great big thing; 
 
 To hear a hard word go all around, 
 
 Whoever spelled it turned the others 
 _ down. : 
 
 Then would come a short recess, 
 
 To comb the hair and fix their dress, 
 
 And then come in again to books, 
 
 And greet the teacher with pleasant 
 looks. 
 
 Then the house did fairly roar, 
 Large cracks in the side with only one 
 
 door 
 
 But the scholars we called them in that 
 day 
 
 Never went out till the teacher would 
 asa: 
 
 S 
 
 To learn their books and obey the rule. 
 
 _ Picked Up Here and There 
 
 “Dismiss for dinner, get your bonnets 
 and hat 
 
 Kat your meals, play round town and 
 Gat”: j 
 
 No baseball bats were used them days, 
 
 But good amusing country plays. 
 
 Everything went lovely in them days, 
 
 Children were not allowed their ways, 
 
 For when the teacher dismissed at night 
 
 Hvery child pushed home with all his 
 might. 
 
 To help their parents do up the things, 
 
 While the voice of -fowls and cattle 
 rings, 
 
 Turkey, geese, and flocks of ducks, 
 
 Guineas potrack and whippowills chuck. 
 
 When all was fed, to the house they go 
 Where mother was working with cotton 
 or tow, 
 
 To. make her 
 clothes, 
 Till the clock struck ten, her wheel and 
 
 card goes. 
 
 husband and _ children 
 
 When Sunday came these boys and girls 
 Dressed up, but had no bangs or curls, 
 They went in plain old country style, 
 And always met you with a smile, 
 
 Then on the Sabbath, these plain folks 
 all, 
 
 Went without umbrella or parasol, 
 
 Instruction from preachers they went 
 to gain, 
 
 From evil their lips did refrain. 
 
 When the preacher gave out the hymn 
 to sing, 
 
 Those log-house churches would fairly 
 ring, 
 
 They stood up to sing and knelt to pray, 
 
 In them good old bygone days. 
 
 Oftimes they’d get happy and shout, 
 And praise the Lord all along the route, 
 Old time religion they did possess, 
 
 And did not shout to show their dress. 
 
 No buggies or bicycles were used those 
 days, 
 
 But they rode to church in different 
 ways, . 
 
 Some in wagons, some on horseback, 
 
 But none were seen in a two-horse hack. 
 
They would hitch their horses in the 
 
 shade, 
 
 And their honest debts they kept them 
 paid. 
 
 And I would have you all to plainly 
 know 
 
 That’s the way things worked fifty 
 
 years ago. 
 
 But what a change has taken place, 
 
 In every home, in every place, 
 
 At school, at church, in country, in 
 town, 
 
 It seems all things have turned around. 
 
 You meet a boy on the street, 
 
 Knee pants, plug hat, fine shoes on feet, 
 Short dresses on girls, you know it’s so, 
 It was not that way fifty years ago. 
 
 You see them now with a satchel of 
 books 
 
 With proud and haughty and scornful 
 looks, 
 
 The teachers now they have no rules, 
 
 Instead of manners, they’re raised up 
 
 fools. 
 
 About four hours is all they teach 
 
 Per day, the poor they hardly ever reach; 
 Once a day is about all they recite 
 And dismiss two hours before ’tis night. 
 
 And now when you go on preaching day 
 To hear what the preacher has to say, 
 Pride and the Devil comes in too 
 
 And you hardly can get a pleasant pew 
 
 In the Amen Corner you see a few 
 All seated on a cushioned pew, 
 
 And when the preacher reads his song 
 Then you hear this musical throng. 
 
 When the song is sung the preacher will 
 say: 
 
 “The congregation 
 pray!” 
 
 Oh! my, Oh! me, it was not so 
 
 In the log-house church fifty years ago. 
 
 please stand and 
 
 About the hour the service is o’er 
 Then they make a rush for the door. 
 Arm in arm, girls and boys 
 Expressing their eccentric joys. 
 
 If a person feels happy and wants to 
 shout 
 
 A Presbyterian will lead them out. 
 
 You older people know it’s so— 
 
 It was not done fifty years ago. 
 
 The Baptists too whenever they meet 
 Have ceased to wash each other’s feet, 
 The Methodists, last, but not the least, 
 Hold no Class Meetings and Love Feast. 
 
 Things nowadays move on by steam, 
 Men ride on plows and guide the team, 
 Electric cars and electric lights, 
 
 And many curious, wonderful sights. 
 
 To attract the attention of old and 
 
 young, 
 Of every land and every tongue, 
 Old men and women you certainly know 
 It was not that way fifty years ago. 
 
 The people them days had good horse- — 
 sense 
 
 Used no barb wire to build a fence, 
 
 But split the rails and ploughed their 
 ground 
 
 And did not tie their milk cows down. 
 
 So now you see the way things goes, 
 
 Children better than grown folks knows. 
 
 They'll dispute your words, and you 
 well know, 
 
 They did not do it fifty years ago. 
 
 I wrote this poem on Easter Day, 
 
 While the little birds poured forth their 
 lay, 
 
 April, Nineteen Hundred and One, 
 
 The seventh day I’m nearly done. 
 
 And now I hope all those who read 
 
 These few verses will take heed 
 
 To what old greyhead has to say 
 
 About young folks having things their 
 way. 
 
 Behold what things have come to pass 
 
 These days among the common class, 
 
 As soon as children can lisp and walk 
 
 They are first to the table and lead in 
 talk. 
 
 There they wring and twist about 
 
 And almost run their parents out. 
 
 When the meals are ready they rise and 
 80, 
 
 It was not thus fifty years ago. 
 
 They think it manly to curse and swear, 
 
 In the presence of mothers who have it 
 to bear 
 
 And gamble and drink you older ones 
 know 
 
 They did not do .t fifty years ago. 
 

 
 
 
 
 And now if any one can add 
 
 _ Anything to this poem I would be glad 
 
 _ For people are changing every day, 
 
 _ Each fellow wants everything in his 
 
 ei- Way. 
 e F 
 
 The Almighty Dollar makes things go, 
 If you have that you are Mister So-and- 
 4°80, 
 
 If you have it not, mark what I say, 
 You son-of-a-gun, get out of the way. 
 
 Money bribes the whole affair, 
 
 From peasant to the millionaire, 
 Lawyers, doctors, other professions too, 
 It’s not confined to just a few. 
 
 So now I close, and ask you true, 
 
 Does anything here not suit you, 
 
 If what I have wrote you find not so 
 
 Just say they knew nothing fifty years 
 - ago. 
 
 So now I bid my readers adieu, 
 
 Pay me a nickel and read it through, 
 
 And if you are not satisfied, 
 
 Just say the old man certainly lied. 
 GD STUTTS. 
 
 THE MODEL CHURCH. 
 
 Well, wife, I’ve found the model church, 
 And worshiped there, today ; 
 
 It made me think of god old times, 
 Before my hair was gray. 
 
 The meeting-house was finer built 
 Than they were years ago, 
 
 But then, I found when I went in, 
 It was not built for show. 
 
 The sexton did not sit me down 
 Away back by the door, 
 
 He knew that I was old and deaf, 
 And saw that I was poor. 
 
 He must have been a Christian man, 
 He led me boldly through 
 
 The crowded aisle of that grand church 
 To find a pleasant pew. 
 
 I wish you’d heard that singing, wife, 
 It had the old-time ring; 
 
 The preacher said, with trumpet voice, 
 “Tet all the people sing!” 
 
 “Qld Coronation” was the tune, 
 The music upward rolled, 
 
 Until I thought the angel-choir 
 Struck all their harps of gold. 
 
 My deafness seemed to melt away, 
 My spirit. caught the fire ; 
 
 JI joined my feeble, trembling voice 
 With that melodious choir, 
 
 2 
 
 And sang as in my youthful days, 
 “Let angels prostrate fall; 
 Bring forth the royal diadem 
 And crown him Lord of all!” 
 
 I tell wou, wife, it did me good 
 To sing that hymn once more 
 I felt like some wrecked mariner 
 Who gets a glimpse of shore. 
 I almost want to lay aside 
 This weather-beaten form, ’ 
 And anchor in the blessed port 
 Forever from the storm! 
 
 - The preacher! well, I can’t just tell 
 
 All that the preacher said, 
 I know it wasn’t written— 
 I know it wasn’t read; 
 He hadn’t time to read it, for 
 The lightning of his eye 
 Went flashing ?long from pew to pew 
 Nor passed a sinner by. 
 
 ‘Twas not a flow’ry sermon, wife, 
 But simple Gospel truth, 
 
 _ It fitted humble men, like me; 
 
 Tt suited hopeful youth; 
 
 To win immortal souls to Christ 
 The earnest preacher tried; 
 
 He talked not of himself or creed, 
 But Jesus, crucified. 
 
 How swift the golden moments flew, 
 Within this holy place! | 
 
 How brightly beamed the lght of 
 
 heaven 
 
 From every happy face! 
 
 Again I longed for that sweet time 
 When friend shall meet with friend, 
 
 “Where congregations ne’er break up, 
 And Sabbaths have no end.” 
 
 I hope to meet that minister— 
 That congregation, too— 
 In that dear home beyond the stars 
 That shine from heaven’s blue; 
 T doubt not T’ll remember, 
 Beyond ufe’s evening gray, 
 That happy hour of worship 
 In the model church, to-day. 
 
 Dear wife, the toil will soon be,o’er, 
 The vict’ry soon be won; 
 
 The shining land is just ahead, 
 Our race is almost run. 
 
 We're nearing Canaan’s happy shore, 
 Our home so bright and fair, . 
 
 Thank God, we’ll never sin again; 
 “There’ll be no sorrow there!” 
 
OUR PRESIDENT. 
 
 Hush! Hush! he sleeps. Let bitterness 
 have end, 
 With voiceless grief that speaks in 
 ~  elasping hand 
 And heart-born look, that true hearts 
 
 understand, 
 In silence mourn our Hero and our 
 Friend. 
 Our Well-belov’d, who loved the most 
 of all— 
 Our Man of cleanly life and gentle 
 deed, 
 Whose every day was full of kindly 
 heed . 
 For those he dealt with, were they great 
 or small— 
 
 Who learned from all, who held our weal 
 in thought 
 
 And grew in strength and wisdom as he 
 wrought— 
 
 Whose heart had naught of malice nor 
 of pride— 
 
 Who lived as Lincoln lived—hath died 
 as Lincoln died. 
 
 Cease! Cease awhile, ye myriad leaping 
 fires . 
 
 And busy wheels in every clanging mill: 
 
 That lifts in sad appeal its grimy spires! 
 A heart that gloried in you now is 
 still. 
 
 And, star-bright flag that thrills above 
 the waves 
 And glads our arching sky from shore 
 to shore, 
 Droop! Sadly droop along the shadowed 
 staves— 
 For One who gave you glory is no 
 more. 
 
 The great guns boom in tones of sullen 
 orief, 
 The murmuring streets are hung in 
 heavy pall. 
 A silent Nation mourns a noble Chief; 
 His people mourn for him who loved 
 them all. 
 —Arthur Guiterman, in N. Y. Times. 
 
 THE LAST WORDS OF THE PRESI- 
 DENT. 
 
 “God’s Will, Not Ours, be Done,’ He 
 Murmured. 
 
 “Good-bye all; bood-bye. It is God’s 
 will. Let his will, not ours, be done.” 
 Theae were the last words spoken by 
 President McKinley. 
 
 *. 
 
 His last words addressed directly to 
 his wife were: “God’s will, not ours be 
 done.” . 
 
 As he was sinking into unconscious- 
 ness he murmured lines from the hymn: 
 
 “Nearer, my God, to Thee, ~ 
 E’en though it be a cross 
 That raiseth me.” 
 
 Then after a moment’s wait his lips - 
 moved to say: 
 
 “Though like a wanderer, 
 The sun gone down. 
 Darkness be over me, 
 My rest a stone.” — 
 
 A short pause and then softly came 
 the words: 
 
 “Angels to beckon me, 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee.” 
 
 Just after he was shot and when in 
 the Emergency Hospital he was being 
 prepared for the operation, his last 
 words before he sank into unconscious: 
 ness under the influence of anaesthetics 
 were: 
 
 “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be 
 done, Thy will be done.’—New York 
 World. 
 
 THE BLIND MAN. 
 
 A sad and wandering man am I 
 Out of a world of woe, 
 
 No eye to view my rugged way, 
 Or teach me how to go. 
 
 In sorrow I must spend my days, 
 And wander without light, 
 Still marching on through hopes and 
 fears, 
 To me it’s almost night. 
 
 Oh, dreadful night, how long thou art, 
 And has thou just begun; 
 
 For me there is no morning star, 
 No moon, no rising sun. 
 
 The lofty mountains and the hills, 
 The forest gay and green, 
 
 The starry sky, the flowery fields, 
 By me no more are seen. 
 
 T hear the thunder and¢the storm, 
 And feel the wind and rain; 
 
 I hurry on my dismal way, - 
 Some shelter to obtain. 
 
 T hear, I feel, I smell, I taste, 
 But that sweet sense of sight 
 [s from me forever gone; 
 No more I see the light. 
 
Oh, thou who heard the blind man’s cry, 
 And gave me eyes to see, 
 _ Have mercy still and be my friend, 
 And lead and comfort me. 
 
 _ And when life’s gloomy days are o’er, 
 Oh, bid my darkness flee. 
 
 And give me life, with light and peace, 
 And let me dwell with thee. 
 
 THE DYING CALIFORNIAN. 
 
 Harken to me, brother, harken, 
 There is something I would say, 
 Ere the veil my eyes shall darken, 
 And I go from home away; 
 I am dying, brother, dying, 
 Soon you'll miss me from your berth, 
 And my silent form be lying, 
 ’Neath the ocean’s briny surf. 
 
 Lie up nearer, brother, nearer, 
 For my limbs are getting cold, 
 And thy presence seemeth dearer 
 When thine arms around me fold. 
 I am going, brother, going, 
 Yet my faith in God is strong, 
 I am willing, brother, knowing 
 That He doeth nothing wrong. 
 
 Tell my father, when you greet him, 
 That in death I prayed for him, 
 
 Prayed that I might one day meet him 
 In a world that’s free from sin. 
 
 Tell my mother God will help her, 
 Now that she is growing old, 
 
 Say her child did yearn to kiss her, 
 When his lips grew pale and cold. 
 
 Listen, brother, catch each whisper; 
 "Tis my wife I’d speak of, now. 
 Tell, oh! tell her how I missed her 
 When the fever burned my brow; 
 
 Tell her—brother, closely listen, 
 Don’t forget a single word—. 
 
 That in death my eyes did glisten 
 With the tears her memory stirred. 
 
 Tell her she must kiss the children, 
 ‘Like the kiss I last impressed. 
 Hold them as when last I held them 
 Closely folded to my breast; 
 Give them early to their Maker, 
 Putting all their trust in God, 
 And He never will forsaxe her, 
 For He says so, in His word. 
 
 Oh! my children; heaven bless them, 
 They were all my life to me, 
 
 Would I could once more caress them, 
 Ere I sink into the sea. 
 
 Twas for them I crossed the ocean. 
 What my hopes were Pll not tell, 
 For they’ve gained an orphan’s portion 
 
 Yet He doeth all things well. 
 
 Tell my sisters I remember 
 Every kindly parting word, 
 And my heart has been kept tender 
 By the thoughts their memory stirred. 
 Say I never reached the haven, 
 Where I sought the precious dust, 
 But lve gained a port called heaven, 
 Where the gold will never rust. 
 
 Tell them to secure an entrance, 
 For theyll find their brother there; 
 Faith in Jesus, and repentance, 
 Will secure for each a share. 
 Hark! i hear Him gently speaking, 
 *Tis His voice, I know full well; 
 When I’m gone, oh! don’t be weeping— 
 Brother, here’s my last farewell. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 It was many and many a year ago, 
 In a kingdom by the sea, 
 That a maiden lived whom 
 
 know 
 By the name of Annabel Lee; 
 And this maiden she lived with no other 
 thought 
 Than to love, and be loved by me. 
 
 you may 
 
 I was a child and she was a child, 
 In this kingdom by the sea; 
 But we loved with a love that was more 
 than love, 
 I and my Annabel Lee— 
 With a love that the winged seraphs of 
 heaven 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that long ago, 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 
 A wind blew out of cloud-land, chilling 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 
 So that her high-born kinsman came 
 And bore her away from me, 
 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre, 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not so happy in heaven, 
 Went envying her and me. 
 Yes! that was the reason (as all men 
 know } 
 In this kingdom by the sea; 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by 
 ICD, ye 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than 
 the love 
 Of those who were older than we; 
 Of many far wiser than we; 
 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
For the moon never beams without 
 bringing me dreams 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
 And the stars never rise but I feel the 
 bright eyes 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 And so, all the night-tide, I le down by 
 the side 
 Of my darling, my life, and my bride. 
 In her sepulchre there by the sea. 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 —Edgar Allan Poe. 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF JERUSALEM. 
 
 O happy little children 
 Of old Jerusalem, 
 Who first sang glad hosannas 
 Unto the Savior King. 
 Methinks He smiled in pity, 
 With tender, loving grace, 
 Lest ye should see the sorrow 
 That else might mar His’ face. 
 
 O had ye known, dear children, 
 What grief your King must bear, 
 Could ye have sung hosannas 
 His onward way to cheer? 
 Ye surely were the children 
 Who once lay on His breast, 
 As with kind arm encircling 
 Each little one He blest. 
 
 Thrice blessed little children! 
 Midst all His agony 
 
 Sweet to His soul the burden; 
 “For thee, for thee, I die.” 
 
 That sacred psalm, inspiring: 
 “Hosanna to the King,” 
 
 "Midst pain and shame and anguish, 
 Kept sweetly echoing. 
 
 O happy little children 
 Of old Jerusalem, 
 Who first sane glad hosannas 
 Unto the Savior King. 
 Methinks He smiled, in pity, 
 With tender, loving grace; 
 Lest ye should see the sorrow 
 That else might mar His face. 
 —Mary Welden. 
 
 A PRAYER FOR THE MASTER’S 
 PRESENCE. 
 
 By Margaret E. Sangster. 
 
 Lord Jesus, whom as Master 
 And Friend, I humbly serve, 
 From whom in spirit and in act 
 No hairbreadth would I swerve, 
 
 Give me Thyself, at morning 
 When tryst I keep with Thee, 
 And let me know the sweetness of 
 
 Thy gracious company. | 
 
 Lord Jesus, in the twilight, - 
 As sifting shadows fall, 
 And silence folds its gentle peace 
 In blessings round us all, 
 Before I sleep, dear Master, 
 Fain rested I would be, 
 By just a little word of grace, 
 A loving look from Thee. - — 
 
 Lord Jesus, Friend most steadfast, 
 Lord Jesus, Master kind, 
 Give me to serve Thee day by day, 
 With lowly heart and mind. 
 And still as drift the hours 
 In. ceaseless haste away, © 
 Be Thou forever in my soul, 
 My guest, my hope, my stay. 
 
 THE RICH AND THE POCR. 
 Written for the: Patriot. 
 The sun and moon and stars of heaven 
 Down all their treasures send, 
 To feed the poor man in his. cot— 
 The rich man in his trend. 
 Around them waves creation’s stores, 
 Above them arch the sky, 
 Below them is the earth of old 
 To lay them when they die. 
 
 The rich man’s life is but a scene 
 To him in fullest type, 
 
 When he can cast one long look back, 
 After his days are ripe, \ eee 
 
 And see the past from whence he came, 
 With all his voyage through— 
 
 Think could he live ten thousand years 
 He would have wealth to do. 
 
 The poor man toils on day by day, 
 And earns his pennies well; 
 
 He almost wishes life away, 
 His sorrows none can tell. 
 
 He sees no hope for earthly gain, 
 So thinks it for the best, 
 
 A lifetime servant here to be 
 And then go Home to rest. 
 
 These things have been since time began, 
 We can not tell the cause, 
 
 But some men will sometimes “make it’’ 
 In spite of stringent laws; 
 
 ‘While other men with forecast far 
 
 And talents very fine, 
 Would only make a waterhaul 
 If they’d a Klondike mine. 
 
Disperse the wealth of earth to all, 
 Each one his portion part— 
 In course of time it would come back 
 _ From whence it made its start. 
 -God save the man who helps the poor, 
 And serves his wealth aright; 
 But pity him who tries so long 
 To hold the dollar tight. 
 V. P. Hammer. 
 
 v 
 
 IN THE RAGGAGE COACH AHEAD. 
 
 ; Jamestown, N. C. 
 
 On a dark stormy night, as the train 
 rattled on, 
 All the passengers had gone to bed, 
 Except one young man with a babe on 
 
 his arm, 
 
 Who sat there with a bowed-down 
 ‘head. . 
 
 ‘The innocent one commenced crying 
 just then, 
 
 As though its poor heart would break. 
 One angry man said, “Make that child 
 stop its noise, 
 
 For you’re keeping all of us awake.” 
 
 “Put it out,’ said another; “don’t keep 
 it, in here, 
 We've paid for our berths and want 
 rest.” 
 But never a word said the man with the 
 
 child, 
 As he fondled it close to his breast. 
 
 “Where is it’s mother? Go, take it to 
 her—” 
 This a lady then solftly said. 
 “T wish that 1 could,’ -was the man’s 
 sad reply, 
 “But she’s dead in the coach ahead.” 
 ! 
 Every eye filled with tears when his 
 story he told, 
 Of a wife who was faithful and true. 
 He told how he’d saved up his earnings 
 for years 
 Just to build up a home for two. 
 
 How, when Heaven had sent them this 
 ~ sweet little babe, 
 
 Their voune happy lives were blessed. 
 
 In tears he broke down when he men- 
 tioned her name, 
 
 id in tears tried to tell them the 
 
 rest. 
 
 Every woman arose to assist with the 
 child ; 
 There were mothers 
 that train, 
 
 and wives on 
 
 9 
 
 And soon was the little ‘one sleeping in 
 __peace, 
 
 With no thoughts of sorrow and pain. 
 
 \ 
 
 Next morn’ at a station he bade all 
 good-bye. 
 “God bless you,” he softly said. 
 Each one had a story to tell in their 
 home 
 Of the baggage coach ahead. 
 
 While the train rolled onward a husband 
 sat in tears, 
 
 Thinking of the happiness of just a few 
 short years, 
 
 For baby’s face brings pictures 
 cherished hope that’s dead ; 
 
 But baby’s cries can’t wake her in the 
 baggage coach ahead. 
 
 of a 
 
 A LITTLE PILGRIM. 
 Or, Jesus Paid the Fare. 
 
 This anecdote, in rhyme, has a history, 
 the half of which I can not tell. It was 
 picked up by an old man in my district, 
 much worn; he read it, and with God’s 
 blessing it did him real good. He read 
 it to a dying woman, and through it she 
 was led to the Savior. It came into my 
 hands, and I had it printed, and 142,000 
 copies have already been circulated. 
 Many pleasant letters have been sent me, 
 telling glad tidings of its usefulness. 
 “Not by might, nor by power, but by my 
 Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts.” 
 
 J. RENNIE. 
 
 One summer’s evening, ere the sun went 
 down, 
 
 When city men were hastening from the 
 town, 
 
 To reach their homes—some 
 hand, some far— 
 
 By snorting train, by omnibus or car, 
 
 To be beyond the reach of city’s din— 
 
 A tram-car stopped, a little girl got in: 
 
 A cheery looking girl, scarce four years 
 
 near at 
 
 oO: 
 Although not shy, her manners were 
 not bold; 
 But all alone! one scarce could under- 
 stand. 
 
 She held a little bundle in her hand— 
 
 A tiny handkerchief with corners tied, 
 
 But which did not some bread and but- 
 ter hide; 
 
 A satin scarf, so natty and so neat, 
 
 Was o’er her shoulders thrown. 
 took her seat, 
 
 And laid her bundle underneath her arm, 
 
 She 
 
And smiling prettily, but yet so calm, 
 
 She to the porter said, “May I lie here?” 
 
 He answered instantly, ‘““O yes, my dear.” 
 
 And there she seemed inclined to make 
 her stay, 
 
 While once again the tram went on its 
 way. 
 
 The tall conductor—over six feet high, 
 
 Now scanned the travelers with a busi- 
 ness eye; 
 
 But in that eye was something kind and 
 mild, 
 
 That took the notice of the little child. 
 
 A little after, and the man went round, 
 
 And soon was heard the old familiar 
 
 10 
 
 sound 
 
 Of gathering pence, and clipping tickets 
 too— 
 
 The tram was full and he had much to 
 do. 
 
 “Your fare, my little girl,” at length he 
 said. 
 
 She looked a moment, shook her : little 
 head— 
 
 “My fare is paid, and Jesus paid for 
 me?” 
 
 He look’d bewildered—allthe people 
 smiled: 
 
 “I didn’t know; and who is Jesus, 
 child ?” 
 
 “Why, don’t you know He once for sin- 
 ners died, 
 
 For little children, and for men beside, 
 
 To make us good, and wash us from our 
 sin: 
 
 Is this His railway I am traveling in?” 
 
 “Don’t think it.is! I want—your fare, 
 vou know.” 
 
 “T told you Jesus paid it long ago: 
 
 My mother told me just before.she died, 
 
 That Jesus paid when He was crucified; 
 
 That at the cross His railway did begin, 
 
 Which took poor sinners from a world 
 of sin, 
 
 My mother said His home was grand and 
 fair, 
 
 I want to go and see my mother there— 
 
 I want to go to heaven, where Jesus 
 lives, 
 
 Won’t you go too? My mother said he 
 gives 
 
 A loving welcome—shall we not be late? 
 O let us go before He shuts the gate; 
 He bids us little children come to eine 
 
 
 
 The poor conductor’s eyes felt rather 
 dim, 
 
 He knew not why—he fumbled at his 
 coat, 
 
 And felt a substance rising in his 
 throat. 
 
 The people listened to the little child, 
 
 Some were in tears—the roughest only 
 
 smiled, 
 
 And some one whispered as they looked 
 amazed : 
 
 “Out of the mouth of babes the Lord is 
 praised.” 
 
 said the little thing; 
 
 “Tam a pilgrim,” 
 My mother used 
 
 “T’m going to heaven. 
 to sing 
 
 To me of Jesus and His Father’s love; 
 
 Told me to meet her in His home above, 
 
 And so to-day when aunt went out to 
 tea, 
 
 And looking out I could not father see, 
 
 I got my bundle—kissed my little kit, 
 
 (I am so hungry—won’t you have a 
 bit ?”’) 
 
 And got my hat, and then I left my 
 home, 
 
 A little pilgrim up to heaven to roam; 
 
 And then your carriage stopped, and I 
 
 could see 
 
 You looked so kind. I saw you beckon 
 me, 
 
 I thought you must belong to Jesus’ 
 train. 
 
 And are you just going home to heaven 
 again?” 
 
 The poor conductor only shook his 
 head ; 
 
 Tears in his eyes—the power of speech 
 had fled. 
 
 Had conscience by her prattle roused his 
 fears, 
 
 And struck upon the fountain of his 
 tears; 
 
 And made his thoughts in sad confusion 
 whirl; 
 
 At last he said, “Once I’d a little girl, 
 
 I loved her much; she was my little pet, 
 
 And with great fondness I remember yet 
 
 How much she loved me. But one day 
 she died.” 
 
 “She’s gone to heaven,” the little girl 
 
 replied ; 
 
 “She’s gone to Jesus—Jesus paid her 
 fare. 
 
 Oh, dear conductor, won’t you meet her 
 there?” 
 
 The poor conductor now broke fairly 
 down; 
 
 He could have borne the harshest look 
 or frown, 
 
 But no one laughed; but many sitting 
 by 
 
 Beheld the scene with sympathetic eye. 
 
 He kissed the child, for she his heart 
 had won. 
 
 “IT am so sleepy,” said the little one, 
 
 “Tf you will let me, I’ll lie here and wait 
 
11 
 
 Until your carriage comes to Jesus’ CHRIST’S LILIES. ~ 
 gate; 
 Be ee eo wake me up, and pull my By Margaret Floyd. 
 rock, : « Sle Boe 
 And ue ee gate give just one little Sane saad Coe a a 
 snock ! ? 
 on As she gently rocked th dl 
 And you'll see Jesus there!” Se uae Rea at 
 . a ae Beaenctes ay, 1 heetrong In the twilight, to and fro. 
 Pecoma put think as from the car I ,,+ 
 stept, Holy angels guard thy sleeping, 
 
 How oft a little one has found the road, Keep my child from harm and sin, 
 
 The narrow pathway to that blest abode; As he grows to manhood’s stature, 
 
 Through faith in Christ has read its title Fair without arid pure within.” 
 clear, 
 
 While learned men remain in doubt and °° We mothers fain would keep them, 
 ee. Knowing not that which is best, 
 
 A little child! the Lord oft uses such Only try to do our duty 
 
 To break or bend, the stoutest heart to And trust Jesus for the rest. 
 touch, : - 
 
 Then by His Spirit bids the conflict In his garden walks the Master 
 cease, In the tender evening light, 
 
 And once for ever enter into peace. Sees the violets and the Pune 
 
 And then along the road the news we And the lilies, tall and white. 
 
 bear, ’ az) 
 We’re going to heaven—that Jesus paid Pauses long beside the hlies, 
 bur fare! Snowy flowers he loves the best, 
 
 Then he gathers for his bosom 
 One more fair than all the rest. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL HANDS. So he sees our little children, 
 Pure and fair as lilies’white, 
 
 And he takes them to his bosom, 
 They are “precious in his sight.” 
 
 —Dickie Rhymer. 
 
 Beautiful hands are not always white, 
 Shapely and fair to see; 
 But are often cast in an humble mold, 
 
 And are brown as brown can be. d : 
 Let us cease our bitter weeping 
 
 For the babies gone away. 
 We shall find them in his keeping, 
 In the land of “cloudless day.” 
 
 Useful hands that are ready to take 
 Life’s duties one by one; 
 Hands that are willing to reap and glean 
 
 Till the reaper’s work is. done. 
 LIVE IT DOWN. 
 
 Lifting the burdens we find so hard 
 To bear through life’s long day; 
 ‘Brushing the dead leaves sorrow drops 
 From out the tangled way. 
 
 Has your life a bitter sorrow? 
 Live it down. 
 
 Think about a bright to-morrow, 
 Live it down. 
 
 Gentle hands, between whose palms You will find it never pays 
 . The weary face may le; Just to sit, wet-eyed and gaze 
 Beautiful hands, that softly tell On the grave of vanished days; 
 For sorrow “the reason why.” Lave wedowu 
 Hands whose touch remains for years; gilts: ea ete 
 Dear hands though folded low, s a eRe paring poe 
 Whose magic thrill ie wae You can win a brave heart’s guerdon, 
 Whispers, “We loved you so. ave oan 
 
 Make your life so free of blame, 
 
 That the luster of your fame 
 
 Shall hide all the olden shame; 
 Live it down. 
 
 Warm, human hands that once we held 
 So close within our own; 
 
 Though clasped, so cold, their silent clay 
 Still speaks in love’s low tone. 
 
 Telling the tired heart the song Has your heart a secret trouble? 
 
 It sang in years gone by. Live it down. _ 
 Beautiful hands are always found Useless grief will make it double, 
 
 Where the heaviest duties lie. Live it down. 
 
Do not water it with tears 
 
 Do not feed it with your fears, 
 
 Do not nurse it through the years; 
 Live it down. 
 
 Have you made some awful error? 
 Live it down. 
 
 Do not hide your face in terror, 
 Live it down. 
 
 Look the world square in the eyes; 
 
 Go ahead as one who tries 
 
 To be honored ere he dies; 
 Live it down. —Selected. 
 
 MY MOTHER’S OLD DAGUERREO- 
 
 TYPE. 
 
 by Herbert Lynn. 
 Grace Walker. 
 
 I wandered back to boyhood’s scenes and 
 sought a cottage gray, 
 
 And in an attic, long and. low, where I 
 was wont to play, 
 
 Within a faded leather trunk that bore 
 my father’s name, 
 
 I chanced upon a picture in a quaint old- 
 fashioned frame 
 
 Words Music by 
 
 Chorus—My mother’s old daguerreotype, 
 that picture dimmed with years; 
 Old recollections said and sweet, bedewed 
 my eyes with tears; 
 
 Her tenderly beloved face in wifanicy <1 
 could see, 
 
 And from that old daguerreotype she 
 seemed to smile at me. 
 
 Her dear, calm eyes they gazed at me 
 
 from out that ebon frame; 
 
 In dulcet tones she spoke to me and 
 seemed to call my name 
 
 As in the dear old by-gone days when I 
 
 was but a boy, 
 
 And she was there to comfort me, and 
 
 fill my lite with joy. (Chorus.) 
 
 *Tis many, many years since she was laid 
 at rest, 
 
 Within our hearts we knew she had a 
 place among the blest ; 
 
 And gazing there upon that face I felt 
 my sins the more, 
 
 To think upon the hallowed name my 
 gentle mother bore. (Chorus) 
 
 THE DRUNKARD’S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 Backward, turn backward, O time, in 
 your flight, 
 
 And make me a man again, just. for to- 
 night ; 
 
 Let me shake off these vile rags that I 
 wear, 
 
 Cleanse me from all this foul stain that 
 I bear ; 
 
 Oh let me stand where I stood long ago, 
 
 Freed from these sorrows, unknown to 
 this woe; 
 
 Freed from a life that is cursing my soul 
 
 Unto death while the years of eternity 
 roll. 
 
 Backward, turn backward, oh fast- flow- 
 ing stream, 
 
 Would that my life could prove only a 
 dream! 
 
 Let me forget the black sins of the past; 
 
 Let me ando all my folly so vast; 
 
 Let me live over the life that is gone; 
 
 Bring back the dark, wasted years that 
 
 are flown; 
 
 Backward, turn backward, O ae in 
 your flight, 
 
 And make me a man again, just for to- 
 night. 
 
 Back! Yes, turn backward, ye swift- 
 
 rolling years! 
 
 Why does your memory bring forth these 
 hot tears? 
 
 Why comes this vision of life lost in sin? 
 
 Why am I thinking of what might have 
 been? 
 
 Where is my home, once so happy and 
 bright? 
 
 Where is that face whose own presence 
 was. light? 
 
 Where are the children who climbed on 
 my knee? 
 
 Back, flowing tide! 
 
 ~ more to me! 
 
 bring them once 
 
 Yet the tide rushes on, this wild flight 
 of the years, 
 
 And the days only deepen my sorrows 
 and fears. 
 
 I call, but no answer comes back to me 
 now, 
 
 Naught but an echo as ven as my vow. 
 
 For ’neath the sad cypress tree, now in 
 
 the sod, 
 
 Lies the body whose soul has gone back 
 to its God, 
 
 And out of the silence no child voices 
 come, 
 
 As in days long ago in my sweet, happy 
 home. 
 
 Backwatd? Nay, Time rushes onward 
 
 and on; 
 
 *Tis the dream that comes back of the 
 days that are gone, 
 
 I yielded my strength when I could 
 have been strong; | 
 
I ou fly, but alas! I had lingered too 
 ong. ; 
 
 The hell hound had seized me—my will 
 was not mine, 
 
 Destruction was born in the sparkling 
 of wine! 
 
 So, in weakness, I totter through gloom 
 to the grave, 
 
 A sovereign in birth, but in dying—a 
 slave! Texas Advocate. © 
 
 _ WHAT A BOY COULD DO. 
 
 He was small for his age, worked in 
 a signal box and booked the trains. One 
 day the men were chafing him about be- 
 ing so small. One of them said: “You 
 will never amount to much, You will 
 never be able to null these levers; you 
 are too small.” 
 
 The little fellow looked at them. 
 “Well,* he said, “I can do something 
 that none of you can do.” 
 
 “Ah, what is that?” they all cried. 
 
 -i-don't know that I ought to tell 
 you.” 
 
 They were all anxious to know, and 
 urged him to tell them what he could do 
 that none of them were able to do. Said 
 one of the men: “What is it, boy?” 
 
 “T can keep from swearing and drink- 
 ing,” replied the little fellow. 
 
 _ There were blushes on the’men’s faces, 
 and they didn’t seem anxious for any 
 further information on the subject. 
 
 JUST AS THE SUN WENT DOWN. 
 
 Words and Music by Lyn Udall. 
 
 After the din of the battle roar, just at 
 the closing of day, 
 
 Wounded and bleeding upon the field, 
 two dying soldiers lay; 
 
 One held a ringlet of thin gray hair, one 
 held a lock of brown, 
 
 Bidding each other a last farewell, just 
 as the sun went down. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 One thought of mother, at home alone, 
 feeble and old and grey; 
 
 One of the sweetheart, he left in town, 
 happy and young and gay, 
 
 One kissed a ringlet of thin grey hair, 
 one kissed a lock of brown, 
 
 Bidding farewell to the Stars and Stripes, 
 just as the sun went down. 
 
 One knew the joy of a mother’s love, 
 one of a sweetheart fair, 
 Thinking of home, they lay side by side, 
 
 breathing a farewell pray’r; 
 
 3 
 
 18 
 
 One for his mother so old and grey, one 
 for his love in town; 
 They closed their eyes to the earth and 
 skies, just as the sun went down. 
 (Chorus) 
 
 A HOODOO COIN. 
 
 For those who believe in che fatality 
 of the number :3 the American quarter 
 dollar is about the most unlucky article 
 they can carry. On the said coin there 
 are 13 stars, 13 letters in the scroll 
 which the eagle holds in -its claws, 13 
 feathers are in its tail, there are 13 
 parallel lines on the shield, 13 horizontal 
 stripes, 13 arrowheads and 13 letters in 
 the words “quarter dollar.” 
 
 LEAD KINDLY LIGHT. 
 (President McKinley’s Favorite Hymn.) 
 
 Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling 
 gloom, 
 Lead thou me on! 
 The night is dark, and I am far from 
 home— 
 Lead thou me on! 
 Keep thou my feet; 1 do not ask to see 
 The distant scene one step enough for 
 me. 
 
 I was not ever thus nor prayed that thou 
 Shouldst lead me on: 
 I loved to choose and see my path, but 
 now, 
 Lead thou me on! 
 I loved the garish day, 
 fears 
 Pride ruled my will; remember not past 
 years. 
 
 and spite of 
 
 So long thy power hath blessed, me sure 
 it still 
 Will lead me on; 
 O’er moor and den; o’er crag and tor- 
 rent till 
 The night is gone; 
 And with the morn those angel faces 
 smile 
 Which I have loved long since, and _ lost 
 a while. 
 —John Henry Newman. 
 
 WHERE IS MY BOY TO-NIGHT? 
 j 
 Where is my wand’ring boy to-night— 
 The boy of my tenderest care, 
 The boy that was once my joy and light, 
 The child of my love and prayer? 
 
Chorus—_ 
 O where is my boy to-night? 
 O where is my boy to-night? 
 
 My heart o’erflows, for I love him, he 
 knows; 
 O where is my boy to-night? 
 Once he was pure as morning dew, 
 As he knelt at his mother’s knee; 
 No face was so bright, no heart more 
 true, 
 And none was so sweet as he. 
 
 O could I see you now, my boy, 
 As fair as in olden time, 
 When prattle and smile made home a 
 joy, 
 And life was a merry chime! 
 
 Go for my wand’ring boy to-night; 
 Go, search for him where you will; 
 But bring him to me with all his blight, 
 And tell him I Jove him still. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 Under a spreading chestnut-tree 
 The village smithy stands; 
 
 The smith, a mighty man is he, 
 With large and sinewy hands; 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp, and black and long; 
 His face is like the tan; 
 
 His brow is wet with aonest sweat— 
 He earns whate’er he can; 
 
 He looks the whole world in the face, 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
 You can hear his bellows blow; _ 
 
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
 With measured beat and slow, 
 
 Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children coming home from school 
 Look in at the open door; 
 
 They love to see the flaming forge, 
 And hear the bellows roar, 
 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 Like chaff from a threshing floor. 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church, 
 And sits among his boys; 
 
 He hears the parson pray and preach, 
 He hears his daughter’s voice, 
 
 Singing in the village choir, 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, 
 
 Singing in Paradise! 
 
 He needs must think of her once more, 
 How in the grave she lies; 
 
 And with his etd, rough fond. he wipes 
 A tear out of his eyes. 
 
 Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing, 
 Onward through life he goes; 
 
 Hach morning sees some task begin, 
 Each evening sees it close; 
 
 Something attempted, something done, 
 Has earned a night’s repose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee,. 
 friend, 
 For the lesson thou hast taught! 
 Thus at the flaming forge of life 
 Our fortunes must be wrought; 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought! 
 —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 my worthy 
 
 A PLEA FOR FACTORY PEOPLE. 
 
 1 
 Folks think we factory people 
 Are an unimportant set; 
 And the reason we are made thus 
 We have not found out yet. 
 
 2 
 But after we went to work in factories, 
 And bosses we had to obey, 
 We worked both late and early, 
 Drawing very little pay. 
 
 3 
 
 Well we confess, we’re unimportant 
 In one sense of the word, 
 
 For to the trump of earthly fame 
 Our names are never heard. 
 
 4 
 
 There are people in the factories 
 That are noble, true and kind, 
 And underneath their oily clothes 
 
 Beats a heart with loving mind. 
 
 5 
 
 That will divide with those in need 
 If we only have one dime, 
 
 We trust the Lord will give it back 
 To us some other time. 
 
 6 
 We claim no treasures here on earth, 
 In silver, gold, or rank, 
 We had rather give to the cause of God 
 Than to deposit in a bank. 
 

 
 7 
 
 And thus it is while at our work, © 
 When we card, or spin, or weave, 
 We try to be contented, 
 
 For we have no time to grieve. 
 
 8 
 While the roar of the lapper and slubber, 
 And speed and clash of the loom, 
 Puts soirow, care, and pan to flight, 
 And dispels a cloud of gloom. 
 
 9 
 Yes, we all forget our troubles, 
 And our trials here below, 
 
 As we listen to our shuttles 
 
 While they rattle to and fro. 
 
 10 
 
 Yes, we watch the busy shuttle, 
 As back and forth it speeds, 
 
 And with pleasure watch the cut mark, 
 While coming through the reeds. 
 
 eh 
 
 Oh, if I was a millionaire, 
 Or financially so stout, 
 
 Or could own the whole creation, 
 And ride in a fine turnout; 
 
 12 
 
 T could not then rest satisfied, 
 Unless I had to go, 
 
 And start my work to running 
 At the second whistle blow. 
 
 13 
 
 Then say you don’t like factory folks, 
 
 ~That’s sinful, brother, I declare; 
 If you should reach that heaven above 
 You will meet factory people there. 
 
 14 
 If we should meet each other, 
 Where the crystal water flows, 
 We will have no oil on our hands 
 Nor lint cotton on our. clothes. 
 
 ON THE BANKS OF THE WABASH. 
 
 Round my Indiana homestead waved the 
 cornfield, 
 In a gloomy distant woodland, clear 
 and cool, 
 Oftentimes my thoughts revert to scenes 
 of childhood 
 Where I first received my lessons 
 nature’s school. 
 But one thing there is missing in the 
 picture, 
 
 15 
 
 Without her face it seems so incom- 
 plete ; 
 I long to see my mother in the doorway 
 As she stood there years ago, her boy 
 to greet. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 Oh, the moonlight’s there to-night along 
 the Wabash, 
 From the fields there comes a breath 
 of new-mown hay, 
 Through the sycamores the candlelights 
 are gleaming 
 On the banks of the Wabash far 
 away. 
 
 Many years have passed since I strolled 
 by the river, 
 Arm in arm with sweetheart Mary by 
 my side, 
 It was there I tried to tell her that I 
 loved her, 
 It was there I asked of her to be my 
 bride. 
 Many years have passed since I strolled 
 through the church-yard, 
 She is sleeping there my angel Mary 
 dear, 
 I loved her but she thought I did not 
 mean it; 
 I'd give my future life if she was only 
 here.—Chorus. 
 
 A RAILROAD MAN’S PRAYER. 
 
 Not long since an old railroad man 
 who drifted in church where a revival 
 service was going on was asked to lead 
 in prayer. He said: 
 
 Oh! Lord, now that I have flagged 
 
 . Thee, lift up my feet off the rough roaa 
 and plant them safely on the platform of 
 the train of salvation; let me use the 
 safety lamp known as prudence, make all 
 the couplings on the train with the 
 strong link of Thy love, and let my hand- 
 lamp be the Bible, and Heavenly Father, 
 keep all the switches closed that lead off 
 on sidings, especially those with a blind 
 end. Oh! Lord, if it be Thy pleasure 
 have every semaphore light along the 
 line show the white light of hope, that I 
 may make the run of life without stop- 
 ping, and Lord give us the Ten Com- 
 mandments for a schedule and when I 
 
 ‘have finished the run on schedule time, 
 pulled into .ue great dark station of 
 death, may Thou the Superintendent of 
 the universe, say well done, thou good 
 and faithful servant, come and sign the 
 pay-roll and receive a check for eternal 
 happiness. Amen, 
 
TRUTH. 
 
 \ 
 
 Children, choose it, don’t refuse it, 
 "Tis a precious diadem; 
 Highly prize, never despise it, 
 For you will need it when you are 
 men. 
 
 Watch and guard it, do not discard it, 
 ’Tis more precious far than gold, 
 
 Love and cherish, keep and nourish, 
 For you will need it when you are old. 
 
 Then endeavor, now and ever, 
 
 Keep this blessed treasure nigh. 
 Always own it, never leave it, 
 
 For you will need it when you die. 
 
 GREAT LAKE RAILROAD. 
 
 Passengers’ Time Table. 
 Ly. Disobedient Ave... 080% 7.00 a. m. 
 
 Inver Givaretteville i... oo ta 7.30 a.m 
 iv.opecrel cin. lLunnel ssa 8.00 a.m 
 Ly. Liars’.Cross Roads........ 8.05 a.m 
 Lv. Pop (Watering tank).... 8.35.a.m 
 TaidersVillaces ie... aise 9.00 a.m 
 Livesoaloonville ieee. eee 9.45 a.m 
 Lyi cloppleton™. on2..ch nc ieee ee 10.00 a. m. 
 Lyv:, ‘Cheater Heights. 11a. cane 10.30 a. m. 
 Lv. Gambler’s Inn 6 ees 11,008) 2m: 
 Ly. Thief (Flag station) . 11.40 a.m. 
 Ar. Drunkards* +laverne= 2 sas 12.00. m. 
 
 One hour for dinner and sight-seeing. 
 Lvs: Drunkards*layern<. eee 1.00 p. m. 
 Ly. Blasphemers’ Furnace.... 1.45 p.m. 
 Ly, (Quarrel; Towat..1. eeu: 2.40 p.m. 
 
 Ly. Murderers V alley i327 ue 3.30 p.m 
 Ly, Jail: Cityabanding. =e. .8 4.00 p.m 
 Lv. Court-house Crossing... .. 5.10 pm 
 
 30 minutes to make up special train to 
 Hangman’s Gap. 
 
 Ly, -Roverty. Lanes aa. eee 6.00 p. m. 
 Ly. Mortgageville saa a.n are. 7.00 pas 
 Ly. Suicide Junction 37.¢...¢06) 8.15 p.m. 
 Ly... Big Spreetown. ©... 3280. 9.45 p.m. 
 Ly. Delirium Rapids......... 11.00 p. m. 
 
 Ar. at Great Lake, or Perdition (outer 
 darkness) at midnight. 
 
 “The fearful, and unbelieving, and the 
 abominable, and murderers, and whore- 
 mongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters and 
 all liars, SHALL HAVE THEIR PART 
 IN THE LAKE which burneth with fire 
 and brimstone: which is the 
 death.” 
 
 *Some become weary and fatigued in 
 seeing such unexpected scenery, and 
 decide to take the Lightning Express at 
 Suicide Junction, after which there are 
 no more stops until they reach the Fear- 
 ful Lake. 
 
 o> 
 
 second ° 
 
 There are no return tickets on this 
 line as all trains run in one direction. 
 
 This line is well equipped with sleep- 
 ers for the accommodation of (DOE 
 formal church members. 
 
 It is an old established line, very often 
 called “The Popular Route.” 
 
 Sacred writ recognizes it as_ the 
 “Broad Way,” and “many there be” pass 
 over it. It also mentions it as a “Way 
 that seemeth right unto a man, but the 
 end thereof are the ways of death.” 
 
 ORIGINAL DIXIE. 
 
 Southerners, hear your country call you! 
 
 Up! lest worse than death befall you! 
 
 To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! 
 
 Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted, 
 
 Let all hearts be now united! 
 
 To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! 
 Advance the flag of Dixie! 
 
 Hurrah! hurrah! 
 
 For Dixie’s land we’ll take our stand, 
 To live or die for Dixie! 
 To arms! to arms! 
 
 And conquer peace for Dixie! 
 To arms! to arms! 
 
 And conquer peace for Dixie! 
 
 Hear the Northern thunders mutter! 
 
 Northern flags in South winds flutter! 
 To arms! ete. 
 
 Send them back your fierce defiance! 
 
 Stamp upon the accursed alliance! 
 To arms! ete. 
 
 Advance the flag of Dixie! ete. 
 
 Fear no danger! shun no labor! 
 Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre! 
 To arms! ete. 
 Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,’ 
 Let the odds make each heart bolder! 
 To arms! ete. 
 Advance the flag of Dixie! ete. 
 
 How the South’s great heart rejoices 
 At your cannon’s ringing voices; 
 To arms! etc. 
 For faith betrayed and pledges broken, 
 To arms! ete. 
 Advance the flag of Dixie! ete. 
 
 Strong as lions, swift as eagles, 
 Back to their kennels hunt these beagles! 
 To arms! ete. 
 Cut the unequal bonds asunder! 
 Let them hence each other plunder! 
 To arms! ete. 
 Advance the flag of Dixie! ete. 
 
Swear upon your country’s altar, 
 Never to submit or falter; 
 
 To arms! ete. 
 Till the spoilers are defeated, 
 Till the Lord’s work is completed. 
 Zoe forarms! ‘ete. 
 Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. 
 
 Halt not till our Federation - 
 Secures among earth’s powers its station! 
 To arms! ete. 
 Then at peace, and crowned with glory, 
 Hear your children tell the story! 
 __ fo arms! ete. 
 Advance the flag of Dixie! ete. 
 
 If the loved ones weep in sadness, 
 Victory soon shall bring them gladness; 
 To arms! ete. 
 Exultant pride soon banish sorrow; 
 Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. 
 To arms! ete. 
 Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. 
 
 OLD COTTAGE HOME. 
 
 I’m thinking to-night of my old cottage 
 home 
 That stands on the brow of the hill, 
 Where in life’s early morning I once 
 loved to roam, 
 But now all is quiet and still. 
 
 Chorus— 
 Oh my old cottage home, 
 That stands on the brow of the hill, 
 Where in life’s early morning I once 
 loved to roam, 
 But now all is quiet and still. 
 
 Many years have gone by since in prayer 
 there I knelt, 
 With dear ones around the old hearth, 
 But my mother’s sweet prayers in my 
 heart still are felt, 
 I treasure them up while on earth. 
 
 One by one they have gone from my old 
 cottage home, 
 On earth I shall see them no more, 
 But I hope we shall meet round the 
 beautiful throne 
 Where parting will come never more. 
 
 ST, PETER AT ‘tHE GATZ. 
 
 or 
 “The Last Shall be First, and the First 
 Shall be Last.” 
 
 St. Peter stood guard at the golden gate, 
 With a solemn mien and an air sedate, 
 When up to the top of the golden stair 
 A man and a woman, ascending there, 
 
 17 
 
 Applied for admission. 
 stood 
 
 Before St. Peter so great and good, 
 
 In hopes the city of peace to win, 
 
 To ask St. Peter to let them in. 
 
 They came and 
 
 The woman was tall and lank and thin, 
 
 With a stragty beardlet on her chin, 
 
 The man was short and thick and stout, 
 
 His stomach was built so it rounded out, 
 
 His face was pleasant and all the while, 
 
 He wore a kindly and gentle smile, 
 
 The choirs in the distance the echoes 
 awoke, | 
 
 And the man kept still while the woman 
 Spoke. 
 
 “Oh, thou who guardest the gates,” said 
 she, 
 
 “We come hither beseeching thee 
 
 To let us enter the heavenly land, 
 
 And play our harps with the angel band. 
 
 Of me St. Peter there is no doubt, 
 
 There is nothing from heaven to bar me 
 out, 
 
 I’ve been to meeting three times a week, 
 
 And almost always I’d rise and speak. _ 
 
 “T’ve told the sinners about the day 
 When they’d repent of their evil way; 
 I’ve told my neighbors, I’ve told ’em all, 
 *Bout Adam and the primal fall; 
 
 I’ve shown them what they had to do 
 
 If they’d pass in with the chosen few; 
 I’ve marked their path of duty clear, 
 
 Laid out the plan for their whole career. 
 
 “I’ve talked and talked to ’em loud and 
 long, 
 
 For my lungs are good and my voice is 
 strong, 
 
 So, Good St. Peter, youll plainly see 
 
 The gate of heaven is open to me. 
 
 But my old man, I regret to say, 
 
 Hasn’t walked straight in the narrow 
 Res 
 
 He smokes and swears, and grave. faults 
 he’s. got. 
 
 ‘And I don’t know whether he’ll pass vr 
 
 not, 
 
 “He never would pray with an earnest 
 vim, 
 
 Or go to a revival or join in a hymn; 
 
 So I had to leave him in sorrow there, 
 
 While I with the chosen united 
 prayer. 
 
 He ate what the pantry chose to afford, 
 
 Sure, it was not piled up on the board, 
 
 And if cucumbers were all he got, 
 
 It’s a chance if he merited them or not. 
 
 in 
 
_ “But, oh, St. Peter, I love him so, 
 
 To the pleasure of heaven, please let him 
 oO, 
 
 I’ve Bee enough—a saint I’ve been, 
 
 Won’t that atone? Can’t you let him in? 
 
 By my grim gospel I know it is so 
 
 That the unrepentant must fry below, 
 
 But isn’t there some way you can see, 
 
 That he may enter who is dear to me? 
 
 “Tt is a narrow gospel by which I pray, 
 
 But the chosen expect to find some way 
 
 Of coaxing, or fooling, or bribing you 
 
 So that their relations can amble thro’, 
 
 And say, St. Peter, it seems to me 
 
 This gate is not kept as it ought to be; 
 
 You ought to stand right by the opening 
 there 
 
 And never sit down in that easy chair. 
 
 “ANGI Sey, met. we ever) sight is 
 dimmed, 
 
 But I don’t like the way your whiskers 
 are trimmed; 
 
 They are out too wide, and outward toss, 
 
 They’d look better narrow—out straight 
 ACTOSS ; 
 
 Well, we must be going our crowns to 
 
 wan 
 So open St. Peter, and we’ll pass in.” 
 
 a 
 
 So St. Peter sat and stroked his staff, 
 But spite of his office he had to laugh, 
 Then said with a fiery gleam in his eye: 
 “Who’s tending this gate—you or 1?” 
 And then he arose in his stature tall. 
 And pressed a button upon the wall, 
 And said to the imp who answered the 
 bell, 
 “Escort this lady around to hell.” 
 
 The man stood still as a piece of stone— 
 
 Stood sadly, gloomily there alone, 
 
 A life-long settled idea he had 
 
 That his wife was good and he was bad. 
 
 He thought if the woman went down 
 below, 
 
 That he would certainly have to go; 
 
 That if she went to the regions dim, 
 
 There wasn’t a ghost of a show for him. 
 
 Slowly he turned. by habit bent, 
 
 To follow wherever the woman went, 
 
 St. Peter standing on duty there, 
 
 Observed that the top of his head was 
 bare. 
 
 He called the gentleman and said: 
 
 “Friend, how long have you been wed?” 
 
 “Thirty years!” (with a heavy sigh). 
 
 And then he thoughtfuly added, “Why?” 
 
 18 
 
 St. Peter was silent with head bent down, 
 He raised his head and scratched his 
 crown, 5 
 Then seemed a different thought to take, 
 Slowly half to himself he spake: 
 “Thirty years with that woman there; 
 No wonder that man hasn’t any hair, 
 Swearing is wicked, smoke’s no good; 
 He smoked and swore—lI should think he 
 would. 
 
 “Thirty years 
 sharp? 
 
 Ho, Angel Gabriel, give him a harp, 
 
 A jeweled harp with a golden string! 
 
 Good sir, pass in where the angels sing. 
 
 Gabriel, give him a seat alone— 
 
 One with a cushion—up near the throne; 
 
 Call up the angels to play their best, 
 
 Let him enjoy the music and rest. 
 
 “See that on the finest ambrosia he 
 feeds, 
 
 He’s had about all the hell he needs; 
 
 It isn’t hardly the thing to do 
 
 To roast him on earth and the future 
 too.” 
 
 with that tongue so 
 
 They gave him a harp with golden 
 strings, 
 
 A glimmering robe and a pair of wings, 
 
 And he said as he entered the realm of 
 day, 
 
 “Well, this beats cucumbers anyway.” 
 
 And so the scriptures had come to pass, 
 
 That, ‘The last shall be first, and the 
 first shall be last.” 
 
 BONNIE BLUE FLAG. 
 
 “Bonnie Blue Flag,” a song which stirs 
 us with emotion: 
 
 We are a band of brothers, and native 
 to the soil, 
 Fighting for the property we gained 
 by honest toil; 
 And when our rights were threatened, 
 the ery rose near and far, 
 Hurrah! for the Bonnie Blue Flag that 
 ‘bears a single star. 
 
 Chorus— ; 
 Hurrah! hurrah! for Southern rights. 
 hurrah! 
 
 Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that 
 bears a single star. 
 
 First, gallant South Carolina so nobly 
 made the stand, 
 Then came Alabama who took her by 
 the hand; 
 

 
 é 
 
 is 
 nie 
 
 r. 
 
 Impelled by her example, 
 
 = 
 5, 
 e 
 oi 
 
 
 
 ier 
 
 Next quickly Mississippi, Georgia and 
 Florida, 
 
 i ~All raised on high the Bonnie Blue 
 
 Flag. thut bears a single star. 
 
 And here’s to brave Virginia! the old 
 Dominion State 
 That with the young Confed’racy at 
 length has linked her fate; 
 now other 
 States prepare 
 To hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag 
 that bears a single star. 
 
 Then here’s to our Confed’racy for 
 strong we are and brave, 
 Like patriots of old, we’ll fight our 
 _ heritage to save; 
 And rather than submit to shame, to die 
 we would prefer, 
 So cheer for the Bonnie Blue Flag 
 that bears a single star. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 In all the world, go where you will, 
 You'll never find another, 
 
 Who'll stick to you through good or 
 And love you like a mother. 
 
 ill, 
 
 In all the world where’er you roam, 
 With sister, wife or brother, 
 
 You'll never know so sweet a home, 
 As that one made by mother. 
 
 In all the world though wealth com- 
 mands, . 
 For you the work of others; 
 You'll never find a pair of hands 
 To toil for you like mother’s. 
 
 In all the world, although you should, 
 In riches nearly smother; 
 
 You'll taste no cooking half so good, 
 As that prepared by mother. 
 
 In all the world, though friends sincere, 
 And more to you than brothers; 
 You'll never for a moment hear 
 A voice so kind as mother’s. 
 
 In all the world, although you break 
 The tender hearts of others; 
 
 There is no heart can ever ache 
 
 _ For you as much as mother’s. 
 
 In all the world, though you create 
 A pleasure for another; 
 
 You can give none a joy so great, 
 As you can give to mother. 
 
 19 
 
 In all the world, although a wife, 
 May you in goodness smother ¥ 
 
 There’s none who'll sacrifice a life 
 For you as quick as mother, 
 
 In all the world, though you in bliss. 
 May soon forget another; 
 
 There is no one whom you will miss 
 When she is gone, like mother. 
 
 BRUSH OFF YOUR OWN DOOR-STEPS 
 FIRST. 
 
 In speaking of a person’s faults, 
 Pray don’t forget your own: 
 
 Remember those with homes of glass, 
 Should never throw a stone. 
 
 Tf we have nothing else to do, 
 But talk of those who sin; 
 
 "Tis better we commence at home, 
 And from that point begin. 
 
 We have no right to judge a man, 
 Until he is fairly tried; 
 
 Should we not like his company, 
 We know the world is wide. 
 
 Some have faults, but who have not; 
 The old as well as young; 
 
 Perhaps we may, for aught we know, 
 Have fifty to their one. 
 
 TU tell you of a better plan, 
 And find it works as well; 
 To try my own defects to cure, 
 
 Before of others tell. 
 
 And though I sometimes hope to be, 
 No worse than some I know; 
 
 My own shortcomings bid me let 
 The faults of others go. 
 
 Then let us all, when we begin 
 To slander friend or foe, 
 
 Think of the harm one word may do, 
 To those we little know. 
 
 Remember curses sometimes like 
 Littie chickens, roost at home; 
 Don’t speak of other’s faults until 
 You have fully tried your own. 
 
 THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. 
 
 I am all alone in my chamber now, 
 And the midnight hour is near, 
 And the faggot’s crack and the clock’s 
 dull tick, 
 Are the only sounds I hear; 
 And over my soul in its solitude, 
 Sweet feelings of sadness glide, 
 For my heart and my eyes are full when 
 I think 
 Of my little boy tha: died. 
 
I went one night to my father’s house, 
 Went home to the dear ones all, 
 And softly I opened the garden gate, 
 And softly the door of the hall. 
 
 My mother came out to see her son; 
 She kissed me and then she sighed, 
 And her head fell on my neck, and she 
 
 wept, 
 For my little boy that died. 
 
 I shall miss him when the flowers come, 
 In the garden where he played. 
 
 I shall miss him more by the fireside, 
 When the flowers have all decayed; 
 
 I shall see his toys and his empty chair, 
 And the horse he used to ride; 
 
 And they will speak with a silent speech 
 Of my little boy that died. 
 
 We shall go home to our Father’s house, 
 To our Father’s house in the skies, 
 Where the hopes of our souls should 
 have no blight, 
 
 Our love no broken ties; 
 
 We shall roam on the banks of the river 
 
 of peace 
 And bathe in its blissful tide, 
 And one of our joys of our heaven shall 
 be 
 My little boy that died. 
 
 WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER. 
 
 Dearest one, do you remember 
 When we last did meet? 
 
 When you told me how you loved me, 
 Kneeling at my feet? 
 
 Oh! how proud you stood before me 
 In your suit of grey, 
 
 When you vowed from me and country 
 Ne’er to go astray. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 Weeping, sad, and lonely, 
 Sighs and tears how vain: 
 
 When this cruel war is over 
 Praying then to meet again. 
 
 When the summer breeze is sighing, 
 Mournfully along, 
 
 Or when autumn leaves are falling 
 Sadly breathes the song. 
 
 Oft in dreams I see you lying 
 On the battle plain, 
 
 Lonely, wounded, even dying, 
 Calling but in vain. 
 
 If amid the din. of battle 
 Nobly you should fall, 
 Far away from those who love you, 
 None to hear you call; 
 Who would soothe your pain? 
 Ah! the many cruel fancies 
 Ever in my brain! 
 
 20 
 
 But our country called you, loved one; 
 Angels guide your way; 
 
 While our “Southern boys” are fighting 
 We can only pray. - 
 
 When you strike for God and freedom, 
 Let all nations see 
 
 How you loved our Southern banner, 
 Emblem of the free. 
 
 DRUMMER BOY OF SHILOH. 
 
 On Shiloh’s dark and bloody ground, 
 The dead and wounded lay; 
 
 Among them was a drummer boy, 
 Who beat the drum that day. 
 
 A wounded soldier held him up, 
 His drum was by his side, 
 
 He clasped his hands and raised his eyes, 
 And prayed before he died. 
 
 Look down upon the battlefield, 
 Oh thou our Heavenly Friend; 
 Have mercy on our sinful souls, 
 The soldier cried, ‘‘Amen,” 
 And gathered round the little group, 
 Each brave man knelt and cried; 
 They listened to the drummer boy, 
 Who prayed before he died. 
 
 Oh, Jesus, said the drummer boy, 
 Look down from heaven on me; 
 Receive me to thy fond embrace, 
 And take me home to Thee. 
 I love my country and my God, 
 To serve them both I’ve tried. 
 He smiled, shook hands, death seized the 
 boy, 
 Who prayed before he died. 
 
 Each soldier wept then like a child, 
 Stout hearts were there, and brave, 
 
 The flag his winding sheet, God’s book 
 They laid upon his grave, 
 
 They wrote upon a simple board, 
 These words: “‘This is the guide,” 
 
 To those that mourn the drummer boy, 
 Who prayed before he died. 
 
 Ye angels ’round the throne of grace, 
 Look down upon the braves, 
 
 Who fought and died on Shiloh’s plains, 
 Now slumber in their graves. 
 
 How many homes made desolate, 
 How many hearts have sighed, 
 
 How many like the drummer boy, 
 Who prayed before he died. 
 
 FAREWELL, OLD HOME. 
 
 Farewell, old home, I leave in tears 
 Dear mother, sister, brother ; 
 
 For many are the weary years 
 Ere we shall meet each other. 
 
Farewell, old oak, oft have I played 
 Beneath thy gentle wave; 
 
 Still live and let thy branches shade 
 Dear father’s lonely grave. 
 
 ‘Farewell oJc fields, where once, a boy 
 I loved sc well to roam; 
 
 Farewell, sweet flowers, my sister’s joy, 
 Still bloom and cheer their home. 
 
 _ Farewell, my dog, I leave you now, 
 .There’s sadness in your eye; 
 
 You can not speak but seem to bow 
 As if to say good bye. 
 
 Farewell, old horse, good, faithful friend, 
 No more we'll till the soil, 
 
 But may some other hand defend 
 Your weary limbs from toil. 
 
 Farewell, old grove of giant trees— 
 You wave your farewell too, 
 
 As bending to the evening breeze 
 You softly sigh, adieu! 
 
 Farewell, sweetheart, I cherish still 
 Your mem’ry in my heart, . 
 
 But fate’s decree and heaven’s will 
 Have destined us to part. 3 
 
 Farewell to all, God knows ’tis best, 
 He willed it long before, 
 
 But soon we all shall be at rest 
 Where parting is no more. 
 
 DOWN ON THE FARM. 
 
 When a boy J used to dwell, 
 In a home I loved so well, 
 Far away amid the clover and the 
 bees, 
 Where the morning glory vine, 
 Round my cabin porch did twine, 
 And the robin red-breast sang among 
 the trees. 
 There were brothers young and ga 
 And a father old and gray, 
 And a mother dear to keep us from 
 all harm, 
 There I passed life’s golden hours, 
 Roaming wild among the flowers, 
 In my »0yhood’s happy home, down on 
 the farm. 
 
 y> 
 
 Chorus— 
 Many weary hours have passed 
 Since I saw the old place last, 
 But memory dear steals o’er me like 
 a charm, 
 Every old familiar place, 
 Every kind and loving face, 
 In my boyhood’s happy home, down 
 on the farm. 
 
 21 
 
 And to-day as I draw near, 
 The old home I Jove so dear, 
 A stranger comes to meet me at the 
 door, 
 Round the place there’s many a change, 
 And the faces all seem strange, 
 Not a loved one now to greet me as 
 of yore, 
 My mother dear is laid 
 *Neath the elm tree’s pleasant shade, 
 And the golden summer’s sun shines 
 bright and warm, 
 In the old familiar place, 
 I can see a stranger’s face, 
 In my father’s old arm chair, down 
 on the farm. 
 
 MY SAILOR LAD. 
 
 Early spring when I was young, 
 
 The flowers bloomed and the birds they 
 sung, 
 
 My sailor lad and I, his bride, 
 
 Stood weeping by the ocean side. 
 
 The morning star was rising high, 
 
 And daylight shone on the eastern sky, 
 
 When we were to part at the dawn of 
 day, 
 
 The proud ship bore my love away. 
 
 Oh! scarce three months had we been 
 wed— 
 
 And oh! how swift the months they 
 sped— 
 
 He took his farewell leave of me, 
 To sail across the deep blue sea. 
 
 The long months past, he came no more, 
 
 To his weeping bride on the ocean shore. 
 
 The ship went down in a howling storm, 
 
 The waves rolled over my sailor boy’s 
 form. 
 
 My sailor boy lies beneath the wave, 
 
 And mermaids meet around his grave, 
 
 And the mermaids in the bottom of the 
 sea, 
 
 Weeping in sad tears for me. 
 
 Oh! that I were a resting too, 
 
 Beneath the waves of the ocean blue, 
 
 My soul on high, my body in the sea, 
 
 And my sailor boy resting .by the side 
 of me. 
 
 THE HILLS OF DAN. 
 
 The world is not one garden spot, 
 On pleasure-ground for man; 
 Few are the spots that intervene 
 Such as the “Hills of Dan!” 
 
Though fairer prospects greet mine eyes 
 In nature’s partial plan, 
 
 Yet I am bound by stronger ties 
 To love the Hills of Dan. 
 
 The breezes that around them play, 
 And the bright stream they fan, 
 Are loved as scenes of childhood’s day, 
 
 Amid the Hills of Dan. 
 
 Here, too, the friends of early days, 
 Their fated courses ran; 
 
 And now they find a resting place 
 Amid the Hills of Dan. 
 
 Ye saw the twilight of my dawn, 
 When first my life began; 
 
 And ye shall see wuat light withdrawn, 
 My native Hills of Dan. 
 
 Whatever fortune may ensue, 
 In life’s short changeful span, 
 Oft mem’ry shall turn back to view 
 My native Hills of Dan. 
 
 The love that warms this youthful breast 
 Shall glow within the man; 
 
 And when I slumber, may I rest 
 Amid the Hills of Dan. 
 
 KISS ME, MOTHER, KISS YOUR 
 DARLING. 
 
 Kiss me, mother. kiss your darling, 
 Lay my head upon your breast, 
 Fold your loving arms around me 
 I am weary, let me rest. 
 Scenes of life are swiftly fading, 
 Brighter seems the other shore; 
 I am standing vy the river, 
 Angels wait to waft me_o’er. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 Kiss me, mother, kiss your darling, 
 Lay my head upon your breast, 
 
 Fold your loving arms around me, 
 I am weary, let me rest. 
 
 Kiss me, mother, kiss your darling, 
 Breathe a blessing on my brow, 
 
 For [ll soon be with the angels— 
 Fainter grows my breath e’en now. 
 
 Tell the loved ones not to murmur; 
 Say I died our flag to save, 
 
 And that I shall slumber sweetly 
 In the soldier’s honored grave-—Cho 
 
 Oh! how dark this world is growing— 
 Hark! I hear the angel band— 
 
 How Tt iong to join their number, 
 In that fair and happy land! 
 
 Hear you uot that heavenly music, 
 Floating near so soft and low? 
 
 I must leave you—farewell, mother! 
 Kiss me once before I go.—Cho. 
 
 
 
 22 
 
 THE ORPHAN GIRL. 
 
 No home, no home, for a little girl, 
 At the door of the prince’s hall, 
 She trembling stood on the parlor step 
 And leaned on the marble wall. 
 
 Her clothes were thin, her 
 
 bare, 
 
 The snow had covered her head, 
 Give me a home she feebly said, 
 'A home and a piece of bread. 
 
 feet were 
 
 My father, alas, I never knew— 
 And the tears in her eyes so bright— 
 My mother sleeps in a new-made grave, 
 I’m an orhpan girl to-night. 
 
 The night was dark and the snow fell 
 fast-— 
 The rich man shut his door; 
 His proud heart frowned, he scornfully 
 said: 
 No room, no bread, for the poor. 
 
 The rich man sleeps on his velvet couch, 
 And dreams of his silver and gold; 
 
 The poor little girl on a bed of snow, 
 She murmurs, so cold, so cold. 
 
 Her clothes were thin, her feet were 
 
 bare, 
 
 The snow had covered her feet, 
 
 Her little torn dress all covered in snow, 
 Yes, covered in snow and sleet. 
 
 The hours rolled on, and midnight came, 
 It seemed as a funeral bell, 
 For oh! she was wrapped in a winding 
 sheet, ° 
 And the drifting snow still fell. 
 
 The morning came and the little girl, 
 Still lying at the rich man’s door. 
 Her soul had fled to a world above, 
 Where there’s room and bread for the 
 poor. 
 
 CAN NOT SING THE OLD SONGS. 
 
 IT can not sing the old songs 
 I sung long years ago, 
 
 For heart and voice would fail me, 
 And foolish tears would flow; 
 
 For by-gone years come over my heart 
 With each familiar strain. 
 
 T can not sing the old songs, 
 Or dream those dreams again. 
 
 I can not sing the old songs, 
 Their charm is sad and deep; 
 Their melodies would waken 
 Old sorrows from their sleep; 
 

 
 nd though all unforgotten still, 
 - And sadly sweet they be. 
 I cannot sing the old songs, 
 
 They are too dear to me.|| 
 
 I can not sing the old songs, 
 For visions come again 
 Of golden dreams departed 
 And years of weary pain; 
 Perhaps when earthty fetters shall 
 ||Have set my spirit free, 
 My voice may know the old songs, 
 For all eternity.|| 
 
 THE WHISKEY SELLER. 
 
 Of all the crimes that ever have been, 
 Selling whiskey is the greatest sin. 
 
 It causes more sorrow, grief and woe, 
 Than everything else besides I know. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 Get out of the way you whiskey seller, 
 You have ruined many clever fellow. 
 
 You have robbed that rich man of his — 
 
 store, 
 And sent him to beg from door to door; 
 You have caused his wife and children 
 to mourn, 
 Because they have no home of their own. 
 
 You have robbed the stout man of his 
 strength, 
 
 . And thrown him in the mud full length: 
 
 You have left him there to curse and 
 roll, 
 
 It is you that cares not for his soul. 
 
 You have robbed the stateman of his 
 brain, 
 
 And filled his heart with aching pain, 
 
 He is often in the gullies found, 
 
 A feeling upward for the ground. 
 
 You have robbed that miser of his gold 
 
 And sent him ragged in the cold, 
 
 You have sold him whiskey to make him 
 drunk, 
 
 And taken the money from his trunk. 
 
 You have robbed them children of their 
 bread, 
 
 They’re often hungry put to: bed, 
 
 Tt causes them more bitter cries, 
 
 And tears to flow from mother’s eyes. 
 
 You have robbed that pretty girl of her 
 beau, 
 
 And filled her cup with grief and woe, 
 
 You have also caused her to leave her 
 home, 
 
 And with the wild and wicked to roam. 
 
 23 
 
 DEAR. HEART. 
 
 Dear heart I find we’re growing old, 
 The years so quickly passed away, 
 Since first we met have left their trace 
 Upon us both in threads of gray. 
 
 The rose has faded from your cheek, 
 But never has your heart grown cold; 
 Nor do we .:ove each other less, 
 Dear heart, because we’re growing old. 
 
 To me your're fairer than you were, 
 The day I claimed you for my bride, 
 
 And held you fondly in my arms, 
 Unconscious of all else beside., 
 
 The faded cheek and whitened hair, 
 Has yet for me a charm untold, 
 
 That only strengthens with each year, 
 Dear heart, now we are growing old. 
 
 Full forty years have passed since then, 
 Years filled with only purest Joy— 
 
 No cloud has ever crossed our path, 
 Our bliss has been without alloy. 
 
 And when we reach the shining shore, 
 And pearly gates, to us unfold, 
 
 God grant we both may enter in, 
 Dear heart and never more grow old. 
 
 WHIP-POOR-WILL’S SONG. 
 
 Oh, meet me when daylight is fading, 
 And is darkening into the night; 
 When song-birds are singing their ves- 
 pers, 
 And the uay has far vanished from 
 sight ; 
 And then I will tell you, my darling, 
 All the love I have cherished so long, 
 If you will but meet at evening, 
 When you hear the first whip-poor- 
 will’s song. 
 
 Chorus— 
 Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, 
 When you hear the first whip-poor- 
 will’s song. 
 Meet me, oh, meet me, 
 When you hear the first whip-poor- 
 
 will’s song. 
 
 ‘Tig said that whatever sweet feelings 
 Are throbbing within a fond heart, 
 When listening to whip-poor-will’s sing- 
 
 ing, 
 For a twelve-month will never depart. 
 So then we will meet in the woodland, 
 Far away from the hurrying throng, 
 And whisper our love to each other 
 When we hear the first whip-poor- 
 will’s song. 
 
And in the long years of the future, 
 Tho’ our duties may part us awhile, 
 And on the return of the evening 
 We be severed by many a mile; 
 Yet deep in our bosoms we’ll cherish 
 The affections, so fervent and strong, 
 We pledged to each other this evening, 
 When we heard the first whip-poor- 
 will’s song. 
 
 PLL REMEMBER YOU, LOVE, IN MY 
 PRAYERS. 
 
 When the curtains of night are pinned 
 back by tne stars, 
 
 And the beautiful moon leaps the 
 skies, 
 And the dewdrops of heaven are kissing 
 the rose, 
 
 It is then that my memory flies 
 As if on the wings of some beautiful 
 dove, 
 In haste with the message it bears, 
 To bring you a kiss of affection and say: 
 “Vl remember you, 
 prayers. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 Go where you will—on land or at sea— 
 
 iil share all your sorrows and cares, 
 
 And when by my bedside I kneel down 
 to pray, 
 
 Ill remember you, love, in my prayers. 
 
 Tve loved you too fondly to ever forget 
 The love you have spoken for me, 
 And the kisses of affection still warm on 
 
 my lips, 
 When you told me how true you 
 would be, 
 I know not if fortune be fickle or friend, 
 Or if time on your memory wears; 
 I know that I love you, wherever you 
 roam, 
 And remember you, love, in my pray- 
 ers.—Chorus. 
 
 When héavenly »ngels are guarding the 
 good, 
 As God has ordained them to do, 
 In answer to prayers I have offered to 
 Him, 
 T know there is one watching you, 
 And may its bright spirit be with you 
 through life 
 To guide you un heaven’s bright stairs, 
 And meet with the one who has loved 
 you so true, 
 And remembered 
 prayers. 
 
 you, love, in her 
 
 love , in my 
 
 THE OLD CABIN HOME. 
 
 I am going far away, far away to leave 
 you now, 
 To the Mississippi river I am going, 
 I will take my banjo ’long and Ill sing 
 dis little song: 
 Away down in my old cabin home. 
 
 Chorus— 
 Here is my old cabin home, 
 Here is my sister and my brother, 
 Here lies my wife, the joy of my life, 
 And my child in the grave with its 
 mother. 
 
 I am going to leave this land with this 
 our darkey band, 
 To travel all this wide world over, 
 And when I get tired, I will settle down 
 to rest, 4 
 Away down in my old cabin home. 
 
 When old age comes on, and my hair is 
 turning gray, 
 I will hang up de banjo all alone, 
 I'll sit down by the fire, and Pll pass the 
 time away, 
 Away down in my old cabin home. 
 
 °Tis dar where I roam, way down on de 
 old farm, 
 Where the darkies are free, 
 Oh! merrily sound de banjo for de white 
 folks in de room, 
 Away down in my old cabin home. 
 
 THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM. 
 
 Why Thomas you look handsome now, 
 Your dress looks neat and clean; 
 IT never see you drink about, 
 
 Oh! tell me where you’ve been; 
 Your wife and children all look well, 
 You used to use them strange; 
 But vou are kinder to them now— 
 How came this happy change? 
 
 It was a dream, a warning voice, 
 That heaven sent to me, 
 That snatched me from the drunkard’s 
 curse, 
 Grim want and misery— 
 My wages were all spent in drink; 
 Oh! what a wretched view; 
 I almost broke my poor wife’s heart, 
 And starved my children too. 
 
 Oh! what was home or wife to me? 
 I heeded not her sigh; 
 
 Her patient smile has welcomed me 
 When tears bedimmed her eye; 
 
My children too have oft awoke; 
 Oh! father, they have said, 
 
 Poor mother has been weeping so 
 Because we have no bread. 
 
 My Mary’s form did waste away, 
 I saw her sunken eye— 
 
 On straw my babes in sickness lay, 
 I heard their wailing cry; 
 
 I laughed and sung in drunken joy, 
 While Mary’s tears did stream, 
 
 Then like a beast I fell asleep, 
 And had this warning dream: 
 
 I thought once more I staggered home, 
 There seemed a solemn gloom, 
 
 I missed my wife, where can she be? 
 And strangers in the room. 
 
 I heard them say, “Poor thing, she’s 
 dead, 
 She led a wretched life, 
 For grief and want have broke her 
 
 heart, 
 Who’d be a drunkard’s wife?” 
 
 I saw my children weeping round; 
 IT scarcely drew my breath; 
 
 They called and kissed her lifeless form, 
 Forever stilled in death. 
 
 “Oh, father, come and wake her up, 
 The people say she’s dead; 
 
 Oh! make her smile and speak once 
 
 more, 
 
 We'll never cry for bread.” 
 
 “She is not dead,” I frantic cried, 
 And rushed to where she lay, 
 
 And madly kissed her once warm lips, 
 Forever, cold as clay; 
 
 “Oh! Mary, speak one word to me, 
 No more I'll cause you pain; 
 
 No more I’ll grieve your loving heart, 
 Nor ever drink again.” 
 
 3) 
 ! 
 
 “Dear Mary, speak, ’tis Thomas calls 
 “Why so I do!” she cried; 
 
 I woke, and true my Mary dear 
 Was kneeling by my side; 
 
 . I pressed her to my throbbing heart, 
 While joyous tears did stream, 
 
 And ever since I’m heavenly blessed 
 For sending me that dream. 
 
 I HAVE NO MOTHER NOW. 
 
 I’ve no mother now, ’m weeping, 
 She has left me here alone : 
 
 She beneath the sod is sleeping; 
 
 - Now there is no joy at home. 
 
 Fears of sorrow long have started— 
 Her bright smile no more [ll see, 
 And the loved ones, too, have parted, 
 Where, oh! where, is joy for me? 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 Weeping, lonely, she has left me here, 
 Weeping, lonely, for my mother dear. 
 
 Oh! how well do I remember— 
 “Take this little flower,” she said, 
 “And when with the dead I’m numbered, 
 Place it on my grave for me.” 
 Dearest mother, I am sighing— 
 On thy tomb I drop a tear 
 For the little plant is dying, 
 Now I feel so lonely here.—-Cho. 
 
 I’ve no mother still ’'m weeping, 
 Tears my furrowed cheek now rave 
 While a lonely watch I’m keeping 
 O’er her sad and silent grave, 
 Soon I hope will be the meeting, 
 Then the gladness none can tell! 
 Who for me will then be weeping, 
 When I bid this world farewell?— 
 Chorus. 
 
 YOU ARE FALSE BUT PLL FORGIVE. 
 
 Fare thee well, for once I loved you 
 Even more than tongue can tell; 
 Little did I think you’d leave me; 
 Now I bid you all farewell. 
 You have wrecked the heart I cherished, 
 You have doomed me day by day; 
 You are false but Vl forgive you, 
 But forget you | never may. 
 
 When I saw your eyes in virtue, 
 I could scarcely believe my own; 
 When I heard your voice in anger, 
 It was death to every tone. 
 They have told you some false stories, 
 And you believed them all they say; 
 You are false but Pll forgive you, 
 But forget you I never may. 
 
 One more word and all is over; 
 Why are you unkind to me? 
 Tell me why you do not love me, 
 
 Turn aside how can it be? 
 
 No word, not one word of pleasure, 
 You believe them all they say. 
 You are false, but Ill forgive you, 
 
 But forget you I never may. 
 
 WHEN YOU AND I WERE YOUNG. 
 
 I wandered to-day to the hills, Maggie, 
 To watch the scenes below, 
 The creek and the creaking old mill, 
 Maggie, 
 As we used to long ago. 
 
The green grove has gone from the hill, 
 Maggie, 
 Where first the daisies sprung, 
 The creaking old mill is still, Maggie, 
 Since you and I were young. 
 
 Chorus— 
 And now we are aged and gray, Maggie, 
 The trials of life nearly done. 
 Let us sing of the days that are gone, 
 Maggie, 
 When you and I were young. 
 
 A city so silent and lopely, Maggie, 
 Where the young and the gay ‘and the 
 best, 
 In polished white 
 Maggie, 
 Have each found a place of rest. 
 
 mansions of stone, 
 
 They say I am feeble with age, Maggie, 
 My steps are less sprightly than then, 
 
 My face is a weil-written page, Maggie; 
 But time alone was the pen. 
 
 They say we are aged and gray, Madiig 
 As spray by the white breakers flung, 
 
 But to me you are as fair, Maggie, 
 When you and I were young. 
 
 THE FATAL WEDDING. 
 
 The wedding bells were ringing on 
 A moonlight winter night. 
 The church was decorated, all 
 Within was gay and bright. 
 A mother with her baby came 
 And saw the lghts aglow. 
 She thought of how those 
 chimed 
 For her three years ago. 
 T’d like to be admitted, sir, 
 She told the sexton old, 
 Just for the sake of baby to 
 Protect him from the cold. 
 He told her that the wedding there 
 Was for the rich and grand 
 And with the eager watching crowd, 
 Outside she’d have to stand. 
 
 same bells 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 While the wedding bells were ringing, 
 While the bride and groom were there 
 
 Marching up the aisle together as 
 The organ pealed an air, 
 
 Telling tales of fond affection, vowing 
 Never more to part— 
 
 Just another fatal wedding, 
 Just another broken heart. 
 
 She begged the sexton once again 
 To let her pass inside 
 
 For baby’s sake you may step in, 
 The gray-haired man replied. 
 
 26 
 
 If: any one knows reason why 
 This couple should not wed 
 
 Speak now or how your peace forever, 
 Soon the preacher said. 
 
 I \foust object, the woman cried 
 With voice so meek and mild, 
 
 The bridegroom is my husband, sir, 
 And this our little child. 
 What proof have you, the 
 
 asked ; 
 My infant, she replied. 
 She raised her babe, then enclt to pray, 
 The little one had died. 
 
 preacher 
 
 The parents of the bride then took 
 The outcast by the arm, 
 
 We'll care for you through- life, 
 
 said, 
 
 You’ve saved our child from harm, 
 
 The outcast wife—the bride and parents 
 Quickly drove away. 
 
 The father died by his own hand 
 Before the break of day. 
 
 No wedding feast was spread that night. 
 Two graves were made next day, 
 
 One for the little baby and 
 In one the father lay. 
 
 The story has been often told 
 By fireside, warm and bright, 
 
 Of bride and groom—the outcast, and 
 That fatal wedding night. 
 
 they 
 
 DO THEY THINK OF ME AT HOME? 
 
 Do they think, of me at home? 
 Do they ever think of me? 
 I who shared their every grief, 
 I who mingled in tneir glee; 
 Have their hearts grown cold 
 strange; 
 To the one now doomed to roam; 
 I would give the world to know, 
 Do they think of me at home? 
 
 and 
 
 Do they think of me at eve; 
 Of the songs I used to sing? 
 Is the harp I struck untouched ? 
 Does a stranger wake the strings? 
 Will no kind, forgiving word 
 Come across the. raging foam; 
 Shall I never cease to sigh, 
 Do they think of. me at home? 
 
 Do they think of how I loved 
 In my happy youthful days, 
 Do they think of him who came, 
 But could never win their praise! 
 I am happy by his side, 
 And from mine he’ll never roam, 
 But my heart will sadly ask, 
 Do they think of me at home? 
 

 
 
 
 ther, dear, coine bathe my forehead, 
 _ For I’m growing very weak— 
 _ Mother let one drop of water V 
 _ Fall upon my burning cheek. 
 
 Tell my loving little schoolmates, 
 That I never more will play, 
 Give them all my toys, but mother 
 Put my little shoes away. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 I am going to leave you mother, 
 
 _ So remember what I say, 
 
 Oh! do it, won’t you? please mother, 
 _ Put my little shoes away. 
 
 Santa Claus he gave them to me 
 With a lot of other things, 
 And I think he brought an angel 
 
 _. With a pair of golden wings, 
 Mother I will be an angel 
 _ By perhaps another day, 
 So you wil then, dearest mother, 
 - Put my little shoes away.—Cho. 
 
 __ Soon the baby will be larger, 
 Then they'll fit his little feet; 
 Oh! he’ll look so nice and cunning, 
 - As he walks along the street. 
 Now I’m getting tired, mother, 
 Now soon [ll say to all good day, 
 Please remember what. I tell you, 
 Put my little shoes away.—Cho. 
 
 “WHAT SHOULD MAKE THEE SAD. 
 
 What should make thee sad, my darling? 
 Why those pearly tears I see? 
 Have I caused one thought of sorrow? 
 . Have I not been kind to thee? 
 ' By the stars that shine above us, 
 By their wondrous mystery, 
 By this heart that beats within me, 
 Still I love thee, love but thee. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 What should make thee sad, my darling? 
 Why those pearly tears I see? 
 
 Have I caused one thought of sorrow? 
 Have I not been kind to thee? 
 
 Be my heart thy throne forever, 
 Let all tears forgotten be, 
 
 Weal or woe estrange us never, 
 Still I love thee, love but thee. 
 
 O’er the bosom of the ocean 
 Shall the sea-bird cease to rove. 
 Sun and stars shall cease their motion 
 Wind and clouds forget to move, 
 Ere my love for thee shall falter 
 Or my faith forgotten be; 
 All things else on earth may alter, 
 Still I love thee, love but thee.—Cho. 
 
 27 
 
 Joyfully when first I found thee, 
 Bowed my soul at love’s behest ; 
 Now when sorrows gather round me, 
 Thou alone can’st make me blest ; 
 Be my heart thy throne forever, 
 
 Let all tears forgotten be, 
 
 - Weal or woe estrange us never, 
 
 Still I love tnee,; love but thee.—Cho. 
 THE OLD ARM CHAIR. 
 
 My grandmother she at the age of 
 eighty-three, 
 One day in May was taken ill and died, 
 And after she was dead the will of course 
 was read 
 By a lawyer as we all stood by his 
 side: 
 To my brother it was found, she had left 
 a hundred pound, 
 The same unto my sister, I declare; 
 But when it came .o me the lawyer said 
 I see 
 She has left to you her old arm chair. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 And how they tittered, how they chaft’d, 
 
 How mv brother and sister laughed, 
 
 When they heard une lawyer declare, 
 
 Granny had only left to me her old arm 
 chair, 
 
 I thought it. hardly fair, still I said I 
 did not care, 
 And in the evening took the chair 
 away ; 
 neighbors they me  chaffed, my 
 brother at me laughed, 
 And said, “It will be useful, 
 some day, 
 When you settle down in life, find some 
 girl-to be your wife, 
 Youll find it very handy I declare; 
 On a cold and frostly night, when the 
 fire is burning bright, 
 You can sit in your old arm chair.— 
 Chorus. 
 
 The 
 
 John, 
 
 One night tne chair fell down, when I 
 picked it up I found 
 The seat had fallen out upon the 
 
 floor, 
 And there to my surprise I saw before 
 my eyes 
 A lot of notes! two thousand pounds 
 or more; 
 
 When my Trother heard of this, the 
 fellow I confess 
 Went nearly mad with rage, and tore 
 his hair; 
 But I only laughed at him, and slyly 
 whispered Jim, 
 Don’t you wish you had the old arm 
 chair? 
 
J COME HOME, FATHER. 
 
 Father, dear father, come home with me 
 now, 
 The clock in the steeple strikes one; 
 You said you were coming right home 
 . from the shop, 
 As soon as your day’s work was done. 
 Our fire has gone out—our house is all 
 dark— 
 And mother’s been watching since tea, 
 With poor brother Benny so sick in her 
 arms, 
 And no one to help her but me. 
 
 Chorus— 
 Come home! come home! come home! 
 Please father, dear father, come home. 
 —Hear the swe:t voice of the child, 
 Which the night winds repeat as they 
 roam! 
 Oh, who could resist this most plaintive 
 of prayers? 
 Please father, dear father, come home! 
 
 Father, dear father, come home with 
 me now, 
 The clock in the steeple strikes two; 
 The night has grown colder, and Benny 
 is worse— 
 
 But he has been calling for you. 
 Indeed he is worse—ma says he will die, 
 Perhaps before morning shall dawn; 
 And this is the message she sent me to 
 
 bring 
 “Come quickly, or he will be gone.”— 
 Chorus. 
 
 Father, dear father, come home with me 
 now, 
 The clock in the steeple strikes three; 
 The house is so lonely—the hours are so 
 long 
 For poor weeping mother and me. 
 Yes we are alone—poor Benny is dead, 
 And gone with the angels of light; 
 And these were the very last words that 
 he said: 
 I want to kiss papa good-night. 
 
 Chorus— 
 Come home! come home! come home! 
 Please father, dear father, come home. 
 
 PLL BE ALL SMILES TO-NIGHT. 
 
 Tl deck my brow with roses, the loved 
 one may be there, 
 
 The gem that others gave me, will shine 
 within my hair; 
 
 And even them that know me, will think 
 mv heart is light, 
 
 Though my heart will break to-morrow, 
 T’ll be all smiles to-night. 
 
 28 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 TU be all smiles to-night, love, [ll be all 
 smiles to-night, 
 
 Though my heart should break to-mor- 
 row, vig 
 
 Vll be all smiles to-night. 
 
 And when the room he entered, the bride 
 upon his arm, 
 
 I stood aud gazed upon him as if he were 
 a charm. 
 
 So once he smiled upon her, so once he 
 smiled on me. 
 They knew not what I suffered, they 
 
 found no change in me.—Cho. 
 
 And when the song commences, Oh! 
 how I will rejoice, 
 
 I'l] sing the song he taught me without 
 one faltering voice, 
 
 When flatterers come around me, they 
 will think my heart is light, 
 
 Though my heart will break to-morrow, 
 I'll be all smiles to-night.—Cho. 
 
 And when the dance is over, and all have 
 gone to rest, 
 
 think of him, dear mother, the one 
 that I love best- 
 
 once did love, believe me, but has 
 now grown cold and strange, 
 sought not to deceive me, false 
 frienas have wrought this change. 
 —Chorus. 
 
 Vl 
 He 
 
 FADED FLOWERS. we 
 Oh the flowers that I gathered in the 
 wildwood . 
 Have since lost their beautiful leaves; 
 And the many dear friends of my child- 
 hood 
 Have slumbered for years 
 graves. 
 Oh, the bloom of the flowers I remember, 
 And their smiles I shall never more 
 see, 
 For the cold chilly mists of December 
 Stole my flowers, my companion from 
 me. : 
 
 in their 
 
 Other roses may bloom on the morrow, 
 And many a friend have I won, 
 Yet my heart can not part with its sor- 
 
 row 
 When I think of the ones that are 
 gone, 
 It’s no wonder that I am _ broken- 
 hearted, 
 
 And stricken with sorrow should be; 
 
ee 
 
 ay 
 
 We have. met, we have loved, we have 
 ' parted, 
 Oh how dark looks this world and so 
 dreary. 
 
 ‘When we part from the ones that we 
 
 love; 
 But there’ s rest 6% the faint and the 
 _ weary, 
 And friends meet with lost ones above. 
 But in heaven .| can but remember, 
 When from earth my proud spirit 
 shall be free, 
 That no chilly winds of December 
 Can part my companions from me. 
 
 HARD TIMES, COME AGAIN NO 
 MORE. 
 
 Let us pause in life’s pleasures, and 
 
 count its many tears, 
 
 While we all sup sorrow with the 
 poor ; 
 There’ s a song that will linger forever in 
 our ears, 
 
 Oh! hard times come again no more. 
 
 Chorus— 
 *Tis the song, the sigh of the weary— 
 Hard times, hard times, come again no 
 more; 
 Many days you have lingered around my 
 cabin door— 
 Oh! hard times, come again no more. 
 
 . While we seek with mirth and beauty, 
 
 And music light and gay, 
 There are frail forms fainting at the 
 door; 
 Though their voices are silent, 
 Their pleading looks will say, 
 Oh! hard times, come again no more, 
 ‘Tis the song, ete. 
 
 There’s a pale drooping maiden 
 Who works her life away, 
 
 With a worn heart, whose better 
 
 are o'er; 
 
 Though her voice would be merry, 
 Tis sighing all the day, 
 
 Oh! hard times, come again no more. 
 
 "Tis the song, etc. 
 
 days 
 
 Tis a sigh that is across the 
 troubled wave, 
 ‘Tis a wail that is heard upon the 
 shore, 
 °Tis a dirge that is murmured 
 Around the lowly grave— 
 Oh! hard times, come again no more. 
 *Tis the song, ete. 
 
 wafted 
 
 29 
 
 SOUTHERN HOMESPUN DRESS. 
 
 Oh, yes, I am a Southern girl, and glory 
 in vne name, 
 
 And boast it with far greater pride than 
 glittering wealth and fame, 
 
 I envy not the Northern girl her robe 
 of beauty rare, 
 
 Though diamonds grace her snowy neck 
 and pearls bedeck her hair. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah! for the Sunny South so 
 dear, 
 
 Three cheers for the homespun dress, 
 
 The Southern ladies wear. 
 
 Now Northern goods are out of date, 
 
 and since Old Abe’s blockade, 
 
 We Southern girls can be content with 
 goods that’s Southern-made. 
 
 We scorn to wear a bit of silk, a bit of 
 Northern lace, 
 
 But make our homespun dresses up — 
 
 And wear them with much grace.—Cho. 
 
 My homespun dress is plain I know, my 
 hat’s Palmetto, too, 
 
 But then it shows what Southern girls, 
 for Southern rights will do. 
 
 And when this war is over and fighting 
 is no more, 
 
 T’ll cheose me then a _ lover 
 brave heart I adore.—Cho. 
 
 brave, a 
 
 T’ll choose me then a lover brave from 
 out that gallant band, 
 
 The soldier lad I love the best, 
 have my heart and hand. 
 
 He fought for freedom and his rights, 
 they were as dear as life, 
 
 And when he gets back home again Ill 
 ‘be his Southern wife.—Cho. 
 
 shall 
 
 dOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 ‘Mid pleasures and palaces, though we 
 may roam, 
 
 Be it ever so humble, there’s no place 
 like home; 
 
 A charm from the skies seems to hallow 
 us there, 
 
 Which seek thro’ the world, 
 met with elsewhere. 
 
 is ne’er 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 Home, home, sweet, 
 
 Be it, ever so humble, 
 like home. 
 
 sweet home, 
 there’s no place 
 
I gaze on the moon, as I trace the drear 
 wild, 
 
 And feel that my parent now thinks of 
 her child; 
 
 She looks on that. moon from our own 
 cottage door, 
 
 Through woodbines whose fragrance shall 
 cheer me no more.—Cho. 
 
 An exile from home, splendor dazzles in 
 vain; 
 
 Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage 
 again ; 
 
 The birds singing, that come at my call; 
 
 Give me them, sweet of mine, dearer 
 than all.—Cho. 
 
 If I return home, overburdened with 
 care, 
 
 The heart’s dearest solace ’m sure to 
 meet there; 
 
 The bliss I experience whenever I come, 
 
 Makes no other place seem like that of 
 
 sweet home.—Cho. 
 
 Farewell, peaceful farewell 
 happy home, 
 
 Forever ’m doomed a poor exile to 
 roam ; 
 
 This poor aching heart must be laid i 
 the tomb, 
 
 Ere it cease to regret the endearments of 
 home.—Cho. - 
 
 cottage, 
 
 HO! FOR CAROLINA. 
 
 Let no heart in sorrow weep for other 
 days; 
 
 Let no idle dreamers tell in melting lays 
 
 Of the merry meetings in the rosy bow- 
 ers; 
 
 For there is no land on earth like this 
 fair land of ours. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 Ho! for Carolina, that’s the land for me; 
 In her happy borders, roam the brave 
 
 and free; 
 
 And her bright-eyed daughters, none can 
 fairer be, 
 
 Oh! it is the land of love and _ sweet 
 liberty. 
 
 Down in Carolina grows the lofty pine, 
 
 And her groves and forests bear the 
 scented vine; 
 
 Here are peaceful homes, too, nestling 
 *mid the flowers— 
 
 Oh! there is no land on earth like this 
 fair land of ours.—Cho. 
 
 30 
 
 Come to Carolina in the summer time, 
 
 When her luscious fruits are hanging in 
 their prime, — 
 
 And the maidens singing in the leafy 
 bowers— i : 
 
 Oh! there is no land on earth like this 
 fair land of ours.—Cho. 
 
 All her girls are charming, 
 too, and gay, 
 Happy as the bluebirds in the month of 
 
 May ; 1 
 And they steal your ear, too, by their 
 magic powers— 
 Oh! there are no girls on earth that can 
 compare with ours.—Cho. 
 
 graceful 
 
 And her sons so true, in “‘warp and 
 woof” and “grain,” 
 
 First to shed their blood on freedom’s 
 battle plain; 
 
 And the first to hail from sea to moun- 
 tain bowers, 
 
 Strangers from all other lands to this 
 fair land of our.—Cho. 
 
 Then for Carolina, brave, and free, and 
 strong, 
 
 Sound the meed of praises 
 and in song” 
 
 From her fertile vales and lofty grand 
 towers— 
 
 “in story. 
 
 For there is no land on earth like this .. 
 
 fair land of ours.—Cho. 
 
 J GRAND#ATHER’S CLOCK. 
 My grandfather’s clock was too large 
 for the shelf 
 So it stood ninety years on the floor; 
 It was taller by half than the oid man 
 himse 
 Though it weighed not a pennyweight 
 more; . 
 It was bought on the morn of the day 
 that he was born, 
 And was always his pleasure and 
 pride; 
 But it stopped short—neyer to go again 
 When the old man died. 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 Ninety years without slumbering—tick, 
 
 tick, tick; tick, 
 life second’s 
 
 tick, tick, tick; 
 
 It stopped short—never to go again— 
 When the old man died. 
 
 His numbering—tick, 
 

 
 In watching its pendulum ingi 
 E a Bi p Swinging to 
 _ * Many hours had he spent when ; 
 - And in childhood ai atihbod ak 
 clock seemed to know, 
 And to share both his grief and his 
 LOY s 
 For it struck twenty-four when he en- 
 tered the door 
 With a blooming and beautiful bride. 
 But it stopped short—never to go 
 again— 
 When the old man died.—Cho. 
 
 My grandfather said tnat those he could 
 hire, 
 Not a servant so faithful he found, 
 For it wasted no ume and had but one 
 desire— 
 At the close of each week to be wound. 
 It was kept in its place—not a frown 
 upon its face, 
 And its hands never hung by its side, 
 But it stopped short—never to go 
 again— . 
 When the old man died.—Cho. 
 
 It rang an alarm in the dead of the 
 
 
 
 
 
 night 
 An alarm chat for years had _ been 
 dumb— 
 “And we knew that his spirit was pluming 
 for flight 
 
 That his hour for departure had come. 
 Still the clock kept time with a soft and 
 muffled chime, 
 As we silently stood by his side, 
 But it stopped short—never to go 
 .coin—— 
 When the old man died.—Cho. 
 
 SWEET SUNNY SOUTH. 
 
 Take me home to the place where I first 
 saw the light, 
 To the sweet sunny South take me 
 home; 
 Where the mocking-bird sang me to rest 
 every night; 
 Ah, why was I tempted to roam? 
 I think with regret of the dear home J 
 left, 
 Of the warm hearts that cherished me 
 then, 
 Of the wife and the dear ones of whom 
 Vm bereft— 
 And I sigh for the old place again. 
 
 Chorus— 
 Take me home to the place 
 
 little ones sleep— 
 Poor massa lies buried near by. 
 
 where my 
 
 ol 
 
 Oer the graves of the loved ones I long 
 to weep, 
 And among them to rest when I die. 
 
 Take me home to the place where the 
 orange trecs grow, 
 To my cot in the evergreen shade, 
 Where the flowers on the river’s green 
 margin may blow 
 Their sweets on the banks where we 
 played. 
 The path to our cottage, they say, has 
 grown green, 
 And ‘the place is quite lonely around, 
 And I know that the smiles and the 
 forms I have seen, 
 Now lie in the dark mossy ground.— 
 Chorus. . 
 
 Take me home, let me see what is left 
 that I knew, 
 Can it ve that the old house is gone? 
 The dear friends of my childhood indeed 
 must be few, 
 And I must lament all alone, 
 But yet I'll return to the place of my 
 birth, 
 Where my children have played at 
 the door, 
 Where they pulled the white blossoms 
 that garnished the earth, 
 Which will echo their footsteps 
 more.—Cho. 
 
 ho 
 
 THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 
 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes of 
 my childhood 
 When fond recollection presents them 
 to view. 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep tan- 
 gled wildwood, 
 And every loved spot which my in- 
 fancy knew. 
 The wide-spreading pond, the mill that . 
 stood by it, ; 
 The bridge and the rock where the 
 eataract fell; 
 The cot of my father, the dairy-house 
 
 nigh it, 
 And e’en the rude bucket that hung in 
 the well. 
 Chorus— 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron bound 
 bucket. 
 
 The moss-covered bucket that hung in 
 the well. 
 
That moss-covered bucket I hail as a 
 treasure, 
 For often at noon when I returned 
 from the field, 
 I found it the source of an exquisite 
 pleasure, 
 The purest and sweetest that nature 
 can yield. 
 How ardent I seized it with hands that 
 were glowing, 
 And quick to the ‘white- pebilen bottom 
 it fell; 
 Then soon rh the emblem 
 overflowing, 
 And dripping with coolness 
 from the well.—Cho. 
 
 of truth 
 
 it rose 
 
 How sweet from the green mossy rim 
 to receive it, 
 As poised on the curb it inclined to my 
 lips; 
 Not a full gushing goblet could on me 
 to leave it, 
 
 Though filled with the nectar that 
 Jupiter sips. ’ 
 And now far removed from. the loved 
 
 situation, 
 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
 
 As fancy reverts to my father’s planta- 
 tion, 
 
 And sighs for the bucket which hung in 
 the well.—Cho. 
 
 YOWLL MISS ME WHEN I’M GONE. 
 
 IT am growing old and feeble, my hair is 
 turning gray, 
 
 My limbs, once light and nimble, are stiff 
 and won’t obey; 
 
 My dancing days are over, my pleasures 
 they have gone; 
 
 For goodness, not for greatness, you'll 
 miss me when I’m gone. 
 What will you do without me when 
 
 winter time comes in, 
 
 Who’ll fold their arms about thee as I 
 have often done? 
 
 Who will hug you and caress you when 
 I above have flown? 
 
 You may know where you may find me, 
 but you’ll miss me when I’m gone. 
 
 Who will fix the hitle garden, who will 
 nurse the pretty flowers, 
 
 Who will fence the little yard in, where 
 we have sat for hours? 
 
 Our children all are married, they have 
 left us all alone, 
 
 And when J’m dead and buried, 
 miss me when I’m gone. 
 
 you'll 
 
 o2 
 
 Chorus— 
 
 When I’m gone, when I’m gone, 
 
 There is one heart will miss me, 
 When I’m gone. 
 
 When I’m gone, when I’m gone, 
 
 There is one kind heart will miss me 
 When I’m gone. 
 
 SOME TIME—SOMEWHERE. 
 
 Unanswered yet—the prayer your lips 
 have pleaded, 
 In agony of heart these many years? 
 
 Does faith begin to fail? Is hope de- 
 
 parting, 
 And think you atl in vain those fall- 
 
 ing tears? 
 
 Say not the Father has not heard your 
 prayer: 
 
 You shall have your desire some time, 
 somewhere. 
 
 Unanswered yet—though when you first 
 presented 
 one petition at the Father’s 
 throne 
 It seemed you could not wait the time 
 of asking, 
 So urgent was your heart to have it 
 known? 
 Though years have passed since then, da 
 not despair, 
 The Lord will answer ous some time, 
 somewhere. 
 
 This 
 
 Unanswered yet? Faith can not be un- 
 
 answered, 
 Her feet are firmly planted on the 
 Rock; 
 Amid the wildest storm she stands un- 
 daunted, 
 Nor quails before the loudest thunder 
 shock. 
 She knows Omnipotence has heard her 
 prayer, 
 And cries: “It shall be done—some time, 
 
 somewhere.” —Anon. 
 
 THE MONEYLESS MAN. 
 
 Is there no place on the face of the earth 
 
 Where charity dwelleth, where virtue 
 hath birth, 
 
 Where blossoms in kindness and mercy 
 heave. 
 
 And the poor and the wretched shall ask 
 and receive? 
 
 Is there no place on earth where a knock 
 from. the poor 
 
 Will -bring a kind angel to open the 
 door? 
 

 
 
 
 
 oa awe 
 
 re oe 
 
 - 
 
 hye Viper a eee ee a a ee e+) 
 
 . 
 
 _ Search in this wide world whenever you 
 
 we ean 
 
 oy Sen ee 3 
 You Il find no open door for a moneyless 
 
 man. 
 
 4 
 
 ~Go look in your hall where the chande- 
 
 _ ler’s light 
 
 Drives off with its splendor the darkness 
 of night, 
 
 Where rich hanging curtains in shadowy 
 folds, 
 
 Sweep gracefully down in their trim- 
 mings of gold; 
 
 And broad streaming mirrors take up 
 and renew; 
 
 In long sweeping vistas the bewildering 
 view : 
 
 Go there in your patches and find if you 
 can 
 
 A welcome smile for a moneyless man. 
 
 Then go to your church with its cloud 
 _ reaching spire, 
 Which gives back to the sun her same 
 look of red fire, 
 Where the columns 
 gorgeous within, 
 
 and arches are 
 
 And the walls seem as pure as a soul 
 
 without sin. 
 
 Walk down the long aisles, see the rich 
 and the great. 
 
 In the pomp and grandeur of their early 
 
 estate ; 
 Walk down in your patches and find if 
 you can 
 Who will open a pew for a moneyless 
 ‘ man. 
 
 Then go to your judge with his dark 
 
 flowing gown, | 
 With the: scales wherein law weigheth 
 equally down, 
 
 _ Where he frowns on the weak and smiles 
 
 on the strong, 
 
 And punisnes right, while he justifies 
 wrong ; 
 
 Where jurors their lips on the Bible 
 have. laid, 
 
 To render a verdict they’ve already 
 Ee made; 
 Go there to the court room, find if you 
 i can’ 
 Any law for the cause of a moneyless 
 man. 
 Then go to yon bank where mammon 
 hath told 
 Her hundreds, aye thousands, of silver 
 and gold, 
 Where safe from the hands of the 
 starving and poor, . aos 
 Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore. 
 
 , : a aa 
 
 Go up to the counter ah! there you may 
 
 stay. 
 
 Until your limbs grow old, until your 
 hair turns gray. 
 
 For you'll find at the bank not one of the 
 clan . 
 
 With money to lend to a moneyless man. 
 
 1 s : 
 Then go to vour hovel no raven has fed 
 
 ‘The wife that has suffered so long for 
 
 her bread. . 
 
 Kneel down by her pallet and kiss the 
 death frost 
 
 From the lips of the angel your poverty 
 has lost; 
 
 Then turn in your 
 God, 
 
 Bless while he smites you with his 
 chastening rod, 
 
 And yow'll find at the end of life’s little 
 span 
 
 There’s a welcome above for a moneyless 
 man. 
 
 agony upward to 
 
 NO MOTHER. 
 
 I hear the low winds weeping . 
 Through every bush and tree, 
 Where my dear mother’s sleeping 
 
 Away from home and me. 
 
 Tears from my eyes are flowing, 
 And sorrow shades my brow, 
 Cold, in her grave she’s sleeping; 
 
 IT have no mother now. 
 
 I see the pale moon shining 
 On mother’s white tomb stone, 
 
 The rose bush round it twining: 
 It’s just like me, alone. 
 
 It’s just like me a weeping, 
 Cold dewdrops down my brow. 
 It’s just like me a weeping, 
 I have no mother now. 
 
 My life is oh! so lonely, 
 My heart is troubled 50, 
 
 Her dearest presence only, 
 Could make me weep no more. 
 
 She’s gone from me to heaven, 
 Deep sorrow shades my brow, 
 The sacred tie is broken, 
 IT have no mother now. 
 
 Sad was the hour of parting, 
 She said in words so sweet; 
 
 My loved ones, T am dying, 
 ‘We must in heaven meet. 
 
Oh! yes, we’ll meet you, mother, 
 On that eternal shore; 
 
 And there we'll live together, 
 Where parting is no more. 
 
 Come now, ye orphan children, 
 Who sorrow here below, 
 
 And join me in a promise 
 That you to glory go. 
 
 Then when our labor’s ended, 
 And time shall be no more, 
 We'll go and live with mother, 
 Where parting is no more. 
 
 A FACTORY RHYME. 
 
 Now, while I have a leisure time, 
 
 [ll try to write a factory rhyme. 
 
 I live in Greensboro, a lively town, 
 
 And work in a factory, by name the 
 Crown. 
 
 Parhaps you'd like to know my name, 
 
 But you never will—I don’t write for 
 fame. 
 
 But ( write. to let all classes know. 
 
 How cotton-mill hands have to go. 
 
 ’Tis not the intent of my heart 
 
 To write anything that would start 
 
 Animosity between my employer 
 me, 
 
 But what I write let factory people see. 
 
 and 
 
 That while in factories we remain 
 We are looked upon as a set insane; 
 The upper tens who swell and fret, 
 Call us the “ignorant factory set.” 
 
 We were not bred in college walls, 
 
 Never played in theaters or danced in 
 opera halls, 
 
 Nor eat ice cream, nor drank lemonade, 
 
 Nor smoked cigars, Havana made. 
 
 Nor went to picnics every other day, 
 
 Nor went on excursions without pay, 
 
 Nor wore fine clothes and derby hats, 
 
 Nor rode bicycles and played with ball 
 and bats. 
 
 But now I’ll tell you what we do, 
 And factory hands know it’s true; 
 We rise up early with the lark 
 
 And work from dawn till after dark. 
 
 We have hard times you all well know, 
 To church we hardly get to go; 
 
 When the Sabbath comes we are tired 
 down 
 From working 
 round. 
 
 hard the whole week 
 
 34 
 
 We are looked upon as the lowest grade 
 
 Of the whole creation God has made. ~ 
 
 And Vil have you all to ne’er forget, 
 
 We are called the “poor, ignorant factory 
 set.” 
 
 We pay high prices for all we eat— 
 Molasses and coffee, bread and meat; 
 And should we fail our money to get, 
 We are the ‘lying factory set.” 
 
 The merchants love to see us at work, 
 
 But our company on Sunday they will 
 shirk ; 
 
 But when pay-day comes our money to 
 vet, 
 
 Then we are the 
 
 ‘ 
 
 ‘paying factory set.” 
 
 darkies call us 
 trash,” 
 
 And say we never have a bit of cash; 
 
 But T’U have all colors ne’er forget 
 
 We are the “moneyed factory set.” 
 
 The “white factory 
 
 Kdueation we have none, ; 
 Father nor mother, daughter ‘nor son, 
 And that is why cue people fret 
 
 And eall us the “ignorant factory set.” 
 
 And now you've read this 
 through 
 
 And know what I’ve written is true, 
 
 And I hope all Christians will ne’er for- 
 get 
 
 To pray for us, the “ignorant factory 
 sete. 
 
 rhyme all 
 
 But in the end we hope to see 
 
 These people as happy as they can be, 
 
 And when the judge on his throne shall 
 Sits 
 
 We hope he will say, “come in, happy 
 factory set.” 
 
 ANSWER TO “THE MONEYLESS 
 MAN.” 
 
 There are places, not secret, where vir- 
 true has birth, 
 
 Where charity dwells on this beautiful 
 earth, 
 
 Where merey and kindness are joined 
 hand in hand, 
 
 And pity’s tear falls 
 heart’s command. 
 
 There are doors that the least gentle 
 ~oek will unbar, — 
 
 And others that swing on the hinges 
 ajar, 
 
 Giving egress to angels who lovingly 
 sean 
 
 The woes and the wants of the money- 
 less man. 
 
 at the warm 
 
Does he work? Does he strive? 
 ‘faithful and true? 
 
 Is he 
 
 Does he know what man has done and — 
 
 what he mav do? 
 
 Or does he creep on with the sluggard’s 
 slow pace. 
 
 And refuse to take part in ambition’s 
 proud race? 
 
 _ Does he drink, while his neighbor, with 
 whole heart and soul, 
 
 Is giving his strength to be first at the 
 
 goal? 
 
 If such be his crimes, pity him if you 
 can, 
 
 Content to be scorned as a moneyless 
 man. 
 
 Labor, taught by the brain with its 
 strong, skillful hand, 
 
 Has reared princely palaces over the 
 land, 
 
 And the man who will work will sooner 
 or late, 
 
 Cease to sigh like a vagrant, at some 
 rich man’s gate. 
 
 With purple and crimson his walls may 
 
 - be hung, 
 
 While the chandelier’s 
 table be flung! 
 With a heart brave and free, ere he 
 
 measures life’s span, 
 He'll forget that ere he was a moneyless 
 man. 
 
 light o’er the 
 
 There are churches whose loftiest turret 
 and spire 
 
 Have sprung from the depths of some 
 poor boy’s desire, 
 
 There are colleges, hospitals, founded by 
 those 
 
 Who knew at the outset stern poverty’s 
 Woes ; 
 
 But they labored, undaunted, with hand, 
 heart and brain, . 
 
 And we know that such labor is never 
 
 in vain. 
 
 That man with his millions, when first 
 he began, 
 
 Was known upon “’Change”’ as a money- 
 less man. 
 
 Did he call on the ravens for meat and 
 for bread? 
 Or expect that his wife was by miracle 
 fed : , 
 While he spent all his leisure looking 
 for banks 
 
 That would lend out their gold for a 
 poor devil’s thanks ? | 
 
 Or a court where the law w’s 80 cheap 
 
 and so free 
 
 That a client was welcome with never 
 
 a fee? 
 
 No—if he had been of this base, shiftless 
 clan, oe 
 
 He, too, would have died as a moneyless 
 man. / 
 
 Nor do the portals of paradise open for 
 
 one 
 
 Who has left any work that he could 
 do undone} 
 
 Its honors, its pblisses, await the true 
 men 
 
 Who, with ten talents trusted, have 
 
 inad° other ten. 
 
 “He is worse than a heathen who does 
 not provide 
 
 For his own,” and the judge of all lives 
 may decide 
 
 That brave, earnest labor being part of 
 life’s plan, 
 
 Heaven has no reward for this moneyless 
 man. 
 —Mrs. Florence Anderson Clark. 
 
 THE HOME IN MOTHER’S ABSENCE. 
 
 A home without a mother, 
 
 Is hardly home at all, 
 A watch must have’a balance wheel, 
 Although the watch be small. 
 
 To regulate the household, 
 Better than any other, 
 
 Though she is not the motive power, 
 The balance wheel is “mother.” 
 
 The center of domestic love, 
 The radiating center, 
 How bright she shines on those dear 
 ones, 
 Whom God hath kindly sent her. 
 
 All things must have a head you know, 
 For every school a teacher, 
 
 A general for the fighting host, 
 And for the church, a preacher. 
 
 “Order is heaven’s first law,” ’tis said, 
 Domestic order, no man 
 
 Has ever seen, complete and true, 
 On earth, without a woman! 
 
 “Now, poor bachelor,” says one, 
 “What can you know about it,” 
 
 T’ve been a calm observer, sir, 
 And why should any doubt it! 
 
 Although I never owned a mill, 
 T’ve seen its operation; 
 
 And soon, I know, ’twould go to wreck 
 Without some regulation. 
 
A TRAMP’S ELOQUENT LECTURE. 
 
 A.tramp asked for a free drink in a 
 saloon. The request was granted, and 
 when in the act of drinking the prof- 
 fered beverage, one of the young men 
 present exclaimed: 
 
 “Stop, make us a speech. It is a poor 
 liquor that doesn’t unloosen a man’s 
 tongue.” 
 
 The tramp hastily swallowed down the 
 drink, and as the rich liquor coursed 
 through his blood he straightened him- 
 self and stood before them with a grace 
 and dignity that all his rags and dirt 
 could not obscure. 
 
 “Gentlemen,” he said, “I look to-night 
 at you and myself, and it seems to me 
 I look upon the picture of my lost man- 
 hood. This bloated face was once as 
 handsome as yours. This shambling 
 figure once. walked as proudly as yours, 
 a man in the world of men. I, too, once 
 had a home and friends and position. I 
 had a wife as beautiful as an artist’s 
 dream, and I dropped the priceless pearl 
 of her honor and respect in the winecup, 
 and, Cleopatra-like, saw it dissolve and 
 quaffed it down in the brimming draught. 
 I had children as sweet and lovely as 
 the flowers of spring, and saw. them fade 
 and die under the blighting curse of a 
 drunken father. I had a home where 
 love lit the flame upon the altar and 
 ministered before it, and I put out the 
 holy fire and darkness and desolation 
 reigned in its stead. I had aspirations 
 and ambitions that soared as high as the 
 morning star and broke and bruised their 
 beautiful wings, and. at last _ strangled 
 them that I might be tortured with their 
 eries no more. To-day I am a husband 
 without a wife, a father without a child, 
 a tramp with no home to call his own, 
 a man in whom every good impulse is 
 dead. And, all swallowed up in the 
 maelstrom of drink.” 
 
 The tramp ceased speaking. The glass 
 fell from his nerveless fingers and shiv- 
 ered into a thousand fragments on the 
 floor. The swinging doors pushed open 
 and shut again, and ‘when the little 
 group about the bar looked up the tramp 
 was gone-—New Orleans Picayune, 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 
 
 The Omaha Republican gives the fol- 
 lowmg history of the production which 
 the London Spectator pronounces the 
 finest poem ever written in America. In 
 the early part of the war on a stormy 
 night, right in the dead of winter, there 
 
 36 
 
 died at the Commercial Hospital, in Cin- 
 cinnati, a young woman, over whose head 
 only summers had passed. She had once 
 been possessed of an enviable share of 
 beauty and had been as she herself said, 
 “flattered and sought for the charms of 
 her face,’ but alas! she had fallen from 
 woman’s high estate. Highly educated 
 and with accomplished manners, she 
 might have shone in the highest society. 
 But the evil hour that procured her ruin 
 was the one from which went out the 
 innocence of childhood; and having spent 
 
 a young life in disgrace and shame, the 
 
 poor and friendless one died the melan- 
 choly death of a broken-hearted outcast. 
 Among her personal effects was found 
 in manuscript “The Beautiful Snow,’ 
 which was carried to Enos B. Reed, a 
 gentleman of culture and literary taste, 
 who was at that time of the National 
 Union. In the columns of that paper 
 on the morning of the day following the 
 girl’s death, the poem appeared in print 
 the first time. When the paper contain- 
 ing the poem came out, the body of the 
 victim had not yet received burial. The 
 attention of Thomas Buchanan Reed, one 
 of the first American poets, was so taken 
 with the stirring pathos that he immedi- 
 ately followed the corpse to its final 
 resting place. Such are the plain facts 
 concerning her whose “Beautiful Snow” 
 will long be remembered as one of the 
 
 brightest gems in American literature. 
 
 Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow! 
 Filling the sky and the earth below, 
 Over the housetops, over the street, 
 Over the heads of all the people you 
 meet. 
 Dancing, flitting, skipping along; 
 3eautiful snow! it can do nothing 
 wrong. 
 Flying to kiss the fair lady’s cheek, 
 Clinging to lips in a frolicksome freak; 
 Beautiful snow from the heavens above, 
 Pure as an angel, gentle as love. - 
 
 Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow! 
 
 How the flakes gather and light as they 
 go 
 
 Whirling about in their maddening fun; 
 
 It plays in its glee with every one. 
 
 Chasing, laughing, hurrying by, - 
 
 It lights on the face and phen les the 
 
 eye, 
 And’ playing dogs with a bark and au 
 bound 
 
 Snap at the crystals that eddy around; ; 
 
 The town is alive and its heart’s aglow 
 To welcome the coming of the beautiful — 
 snow. 
 
 Wren ria aly 
 pin WAS) a : 
 P ws. 
 3 — e 
 
 es 
 Bee 
 
 ; 
 ts 
 oo 
 “< 
 
 ete ee 
 
 A. 
 
 at 
 
oT 
 
 How wildly the 
 along, - 
 Hailing each other with humor and song, 
 How the gay sleds like meteors pass by, 
 Bright for a moment, then lost to the 
 
 eye; 
 Ringing, swinging, dashing they go, 
 Over the crest of the beautiful snow— 
 Snow so pure when it fell from the sky, 
 As to make one regret—to see it lie 
 To be trampled and tracked by thou- 
 sands of feet, : 
 Till it blends with the filth of the hor- 
 rible street. 
 
 crowd goes swaying 
 
 Once I was as pure as the snow, but I 
 fell, 
 
 Fell like a snowflake, from heaven to 
 hell ; 
 
 Fell to be trampled on as filth in the 
 street, 
 
 Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on and 
 beat: ; 
 
 Pleading, cursing, dreading to die! 
 
 Selling my soul to whoever would buy;, 
 
 Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread; 
 Hating the living, fearing the dead, 
 Merciful God! Have I fallen so low! 
 And yet I w:s once like the beautiful 
 
 snow. 
 
 Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, 
 
 With an eye like a crystal, a heart like 
 its glow. 
 
 Once I was loved for my innocent grace, 
 
 Flattered and sought for the charms of 
 my face; 
 
 Father, mother, sister, all, 
 
 God and myself have lost by my fall! 
 
 ‘The vilest wretch that goes shivering 
 b 
 
 Will mae a wide sweep lest I wander 
 too nigh. 
 
 For all that is on or above me, I know 
 
 ‘There’s nothing so pure as the beautiful 
 snow. 
 
 How strange it should be that the beau- 
 tiful snow 
 
 Should fall on the sinner with nowhere 
 to go, 
 
 How abate it should be when night 
 comes again 
 
 If the snow and the ice struck my des- 
 perate brain! ; 
 
 Fainting, freezing, dying alone, 
 
 Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a 
 moan 
 
 To be heard on the street of a crazy 
 town, : 
 
 , Gone mad in the joy of a snow coming 
 
 down, 
 
 
 
 To be and to die in my terrible woe, 
 With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful 
 snow. 
 
 Helpless and foul as the trampled snow, 
 
 Sinner, despair not, Christ stoopeth low 
 
 To rescue the soul that is lost in its sin, 
 
 And raise it to life and enjoyment again.- 
 
 Groaning, bleeding, dying for Thee, 
 
 The crucified on the accursed tree, 
 
 His accents of mercy fell soft on thine 
 ear 
 
 Is there .mercy for me? 
 my prayer? 
 
 O God! in the stream that for sinners 
 did flow, 
 
 Wash me, and I shall be whiter than 
 snow. 
 
 Will He heed 
 
 THE TRAMP. 
 
 How many men there are that ride in 
 fortune’s car; 
 And bolt and bar the door against the 
 poor, 
 Because they’ve lots of gold their hearts 
 turn icy cold. 
 They ought to be condemned for it ’m 
 sure. . 
 Now speaking of the race that tramp 
 from place to place, 
 There are some of them who are men 
 from top to toe, 
 So if they are in need of this circum- 
 stance take heed, 
 And remember that a poor tramp has 
 to live. 
 
 So if you meet a tramp that bears mis- 
 fortune’s stamp, 
 If he’s worthy of your aid, why freely 
 give, 
 Give to him a hearty grip, wish him 
 luck upon his trip, 
 And remember that the poor tramp 
 has to live. 
 
 I lately saw a tramp, whom people called 
 a scamp, 
 And upon him set their dogs lest he 
 might steal. 
 And as he turned away I saw him kneel 
 and pray, 
 And I know that God above heard his 
 appeal, 
 For little do we know, as 
 through rain and snow, 
 That once he was as happy as a king; 
 Till fortune’s cruel dart had pierced his 
 manly heart, 
 And took away his home and every- 
 thing. 
 
 he tramps 
 
I once heard a tramp relate the sad story 
 ‘of. his fate, 
 And how he was an outcast shunned 
 
 apy all, 
 He lived a happy life, had a loving child 
 and wife; 
 But, alas, like Eve, this. woman had 
 to fall; 
 
 For she proved weak and frail, there’s 
 no use to tell the tale, 
 
 ‘How she turned his manly heart to 
 sad despair, 
 
 He never since has smiled on that hand- 
 some wife and child; 
 
 But sadly now he tramps from place 
 
 to place. 
 
 - DEATH OF THE DRUNKARD. 
 
 I saw him stand at the close of the day 
 Close by the grog-shop door, 
 His lips. were parched, his eyes 
 
 sunk ; 
 I viewed him o’er and o’er. 
 
 were 
 
 His infant boy stoo¢ by his side, 
 And lisping to him said: 
 
 Oh, father, mother’s sick at home, 
 And sister’s crying for bread. 
 
 He trembled, rose and staggered in, 
 As oft he’d done before, 
 
 And to the landlord faltering, said, 
 Oh! give me one glass more. 
 
 The host complied, with parched lips 
 He urged along the bowl. 
 He drank while . wife and 
 starved, : 
 And ruined his poor soul. 
 
 children 
 
 One year elapsed, I passed that way, 
 A crowd stood round the door, 
 
 IT asked the reason, one replied: 
 The drunkard is no more. 
 
 IT saw his funeral passing by, 
 No wife, no child was there. 
 
 They, too, had joined their mother earth, 
 And left this world of care. 
 
 \/ THE BLIND GIRL’S DEATH. 
 
 Father, they tell me that to-night 
 Youll» wed another bride. 
 
 That you will clasp her in those arms 
 Where my own mother died. 
 
 That she will lay her graceful head 
 Upon your loving breast, 
 
 While her’s now lying low in death 
 In life’s last hour did rest. 
 
 They say her name is Mary, too, 
 The same my mother bore. 
 
 But, father, is she good and true, 
 Like her you loved before. 
 
 And is her step as soft and light? 
 Her voice as sweet and mild? 
 
 And do you think she1l love me, too— 
 Your blind and helpless child? 
 
 Oh! father, do not bid me come 
 To-night, to meet your bride, 
 
 I could not meet her in the room 
 Where my darling mother died. 
 
 Her picture hangs upon the wall, 
 Her books are lying there; 
 There stands the harp her 
 
 touched, . 
 And there’s her easy chair— 
 
 fingers 
 
 That chair where by her side I knelt, 
 To say my evening prayer. 
 
 Oh! father, it would break my heart ; 
 I could not meet her there. * 
 
 Now, father, once before you go 
 To meet your promised bride, 
 Please sing the song my mother sang 
 The night before she died. 
 
 And let me kneel beside you here 
 And to our Saviour pray 
 
 That his right hand may guide you both, 
 All through life’s weary way. 
 
 The song was ended and the prayer; 
 “T’m weary now,” she.said, 
 
 He gently bore her in his arms, 
 And placed her on the bed. 
 
 And as he turned to leave the room, 
 One low glad moan was given, 
 
 He caught one beaming smile and then 
 His blind child was in heaven. 
 
 They laid her by Her mother’s side, 
 And raised a marble fair, : 
 
 And on it carved these simple pore 
 “There are no blind ones there.” 
 
 V NAOMI WISE. 
 
 Come all ye good’ people, I pray you 
 draw near, 
 
 A sorrowful -story you soon shall hear. 
 
 The story [ll tell you is about: Naomi 
 Wise, ; 
 
 How she was deluded by Lewis’s lies. 
 
When he first came to see her, fine tales 
 he did tell, . 
 
 He promised to marry her and use her 
 quite well. 
 
 But now he has brought her to shame 
 and disgrace, 
 
 Come friends and dear neighbors and 
 pity her case. 
 
 Come all you young ladies, as you go 
 passing by, 
 
 Don’t you be ruined by Lewis’s lies. 
 
 He promised to meet her at Adams’ 
 springs; 
 
 Some money to bring her, .and other fine 
 things. 
 
 But none of these he brought her, he 
 flattered the case, 
 
 He says, “we'll be married, it shall be 
 no disgrace. 
 
 Come, get up behind me, and we'll go 
 to the town; 
 
 And there we’ll be married, and in union 
 bound.” * 
 
 She got up behind him and away they 
 did go 
 
 To the banks of Deep River, where the 
 water did flow. 
 
 oo 
 
 Get down, my dear Naomi, I'll tell you 
 my mind, 
 
 I intend here to drown you, and leave 
 you behind. 
 
 Oh! think of your infant, and spare me 
 my life; 
 
 Let me live, full of shame, if I can’t be 
 your wife. 
 
 No mercy, no mercy, this rebel replies, 
 
 In Deep River bottom your body shall 
 lie. 
 
 This rebel, he choked her, as we under- 
 stand, 
 
 And threw her in water below the’ mill- 
 dam. 
 
 They found her floating where the water 
 was deep, 
 
 Which caused her neighbors and friends 
 all round her to weep. 
 
 They took her from the water; it was a 
 
 sad sight, 
 
 On the banks of Deep River she lay all 
 that night. 
 
 Next morning quite early a jury was 
 held, 
 
 And her good, honest neighbors the truth 
 they all tell. 
 

 
 
 

 
 Photomount ; | ne Sak : Ta i 2 ; oe ae 
 Pamphlet Se On agen 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Binder k 
 Gaylord Bros. 
 Makers oe eee 
 Syracuse, N. Y. | MO Dens 
 PAT. JAN 21, 1908 RRs 
 ) 
 ; 
 i 
 a