' ' • fa fa ^ ' ■ ' - fa ' I - ' ' r ,■ ^ •-- 1? ^*^fa -i ** 4 *'^- :V* * 4 * “ .' • ~ V* ' - ' - * • K ;**«* ?#> v * * i ' •. ' •. n ■ i ■ * pMfc* ^# 4 * t>'%% * V '* i- ♦ - '4 X * - ‘ ‘ - -,* 4 * - rt y ' v ;- ' ' 4 |* ' * • ' 4 ■ * '* ' • ' 4 , 4 r * ' V y * *'■ y ' 4 y 4 ■: ■: i ■ i i ■ * mmmmmmm - 1 ■ • •X ',,4 •* * Z' 4 - * v 4 - . . 1 ^ || ||| wm* ~V m rife* ^ • 44 7 ]W v: ^ ' V' - % v. ~ 4 . v -' v^V* > * -4 : 4 >;X- * ■' ' 4 'X- ‘ ~ K * ■*-* *' : ‘ : *■■•■>■*>* **.*"* • r ^4 4 vX|r ' y^y'* • ' V y ' 4 ' • "*■ - * • ' ' - 4 ■ * - • ' • Ns jrf^ ^~V - v #v. VV. v;, . V\4x v. V4*4 - , - , - 4> v_ ,._ v. > - • '- -^4 - v ,V-^ - - ^ 4 - - ^ " ^ y - " 4 - • ' 1 • - - ' 4 • -'? - - ’ • ' ' "i -4 - 4 4^4 -,4 4 , •■ - - - - - ■< *, - - v ; . . < J - • r yJkmMmm it 1 ' '*: #*f^.#*,##**f****** ************ **** yt*#» ‘ . . . " - * > - ' - * • ' - ‘ . ^ SPRING. Wayside Blossoms OF PROSE and POETRY dF" Selected from the Choicest Productions of Every Clime, with a View to Acquaint Older Boys and Girls with the Best in Literature. TOGETHER WITH Dialogues, Character Ballads and Exercises FOR HOME AND SCHOOL ENTERTAINMENT. . — m - — Superbly Illustrated with Full-Page Illustrations by the Best Artists. 3 . ©. & GO. CHICAGO. feb i s ’37 g.Mfis * /Y ■ hoover LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. ’ April The Bull 41 August — The Virgin 73 Autumn 227 December — The Sea Goat 103 Down in the Fields 161 February — The Fishes 25 God Gave Me Children 139 I'm Sum min’ Up My Mercies 167 It is Nothing to Me 153 January — The Water Bearer 17 July— The Lion 65 June — The Crab 57 Learning To Read Was Awful 115 March— The Ram 33 May— The Twins 49 Music Hath Charms 109 My Hen and I 132 November — The Archer 97 O Baby with Soft Eyes of Blue 145 October — The Scorpion 89 Ready Sympathy 217 September— The Balance 81 Spring— Frontispiece 2 Summer 195 The Brook Don’t Seem To Ripple Like It Used Ter’. 11 The Falling Leaves 243 The Rain Wagon 125 ’Tis Beauteous Night 119 To the End of the Chapter 189 What Will It Matter ? 181 Who Sent the Valentine ? 175 Winter 205 997564 5 TABLE OF CONTENTS. A Boy’s Wecome to Spring Abraham Lincoln Mark Lemon. A Little Boy’s Thoughts April — The Bull Margaret Johnson. Asleep at the Switch Ckas. Hoey. August — T he V irgin Margaret Johnson. Autumn Grace Courtland. Baby and I Elizabeth B) Bohan. Bessie’s Christmas Eve Lark Gertrude M. Jones. Boys Charge of the Rum Brigade Mary S. Wheeler. Christmas Bells Loula K. Rogers. Clear the Way Cover Them Over with Flowers Cracked Dead at Thirty December — The Sea Goat Margaret Johnson. Discontent Disproved Examinations Wm. M. Giffen. Father and Mother February — The Fishes Margaret Johnson. For New Year’s Eve Lizzie M. Hadley. For the Childrens’ Sake Mrs. L. G. Me Veagh God of Nations Rev. Jos. Cook. Good-Night and Good-Morning Lord Houghton. His Old Yellow Almanac Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Hold On Boys Idyl of a Public School 70 134 114 40 35 72 220 114 147 46 61 202 156 101 179 9 102 160 175 19 176 24 229 87 55 163 137 6 In Memoriam Is It Right ? January — The Water Bearer Margaret Johnson. July — The Lion Margaret Johnson. June — The Crab Margaret Johnson. Launch of the Ship Longfellow. March — The Ram Margaret Johnson. Maternity E. Harriet Howe. May — The Twins Margaret Johnson. Memory Jas. A . Garfield. Men Wanted Music Hath Charms My Hen and I My Mercies John W. Beebe. Nothing Like Trying November — The Archer Margaret Johnson. October— The Scorpion Margaret Johnson. Only An Emigrant Only A Song Ready Sympathy G. Weatherly. Scott and the Veteran Bayard Taylor. September — The Balance Margaret Johnson. Since Nellie Went Away Chas. Eugene Banks. Soliloquy of Arnold Edward C. Jones. Squeers’ School Chas. Dickens. Stay on the Farm Thanksgiving in Ye Olden Time The Black Regiment Geo. Henry Baker. The Blue and the Gray The Children of Story Land Thc Consecrating Influence of the War for Free- dom Jas. A. Garfield. The Count’s Daughter The Decorating Mania The Demon of the Fire Edgar Allen. Poe. The Easter Wreath Clara J. Denton. The Engineer The Falling Leaves 7 127 152 16 64 56 141 32 138 48 118 170 108 133 166 245 96 88 106 68 216 157 80 10 91 219 69 99 76 112 248 200 28 122 51 237 111 242 The Flight of the Birds E. C. Stedman. The Irishwoman’s Letter Mary Denison. The Little Black Eyed Rebel The Little Tin Cup Thomas Frost. The Lucky Horse Shoe Jas. T , Field. The Mistletoe Bough The New School House The Nineteenth Century Teacher The Old The Power of Monosyllables ..J. Addison Alexander. The Rain Wagon Clara Doty Bates. The Spider and the Fly Laura Garland Catr. The Stylish Church The Tin Bucket and the Willow Basket Brigade .. They Say Time Enough ’Tis Home Where’er Our Flag Is To the End of the Chapter ; Two Little Hands Ulysses Fobt. Buchanan. Uncle Nate’s Funeral Will Carleton. Unsolved Mysteries F. J. Burdette. Watch Your Words What Santa Claus Thinks • ■ What thh old Man Said Alice Robbins. What Try Does Fev. Chas. Spurgeon. What We Learn at School What Will it Matter When I’m a Woman When Santa Claus Comes Where Do You Live Were the Gypsies Go Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt Women Wanted .• Zekle’s Courtship 156 78 185 22 170 207 60 197 27 . 176 . 124 . 20 93 . 142 117 86 75 . 188 . 183 . 83 . 191 . 178 . 67 . 165 . 128 . 194 . 45 . 180 245 . 38 43 t. 164 . 59 . 210 WAYSIDE gbOSSOMS ' — I' • • r-a DEAD AT THIRTY. Just for the sake of being called a good fellow, Just for the praise of the sycophant crowd, That smoked your cigars, quaffed your rich wines and mellow, You are sleeping, to-day ’neath the sod in your shroud. Just for the sake of being called clever — dashing — By human hogs living outside of a pen, i'he rain on your cold bed is ceaselessly splashing, While you should be living — a man among men ! Just for the sake of being pointed at — looked at — By the false, insincere, hypocritical crew, That grows on the follies of weak brains — like yours You are as dead as the dreams your boyish soul knew. Y ou feigned a contempt for the eagles of yellow. And scattered them broadcast, with boisterous mirth — Just for the sake of being called a good fellow ! You are nothing, to-day, but a boxful of earth. 9 SINCE NELLIE WENT AWAY. HENRY CHESTER. The homestead ain’t ez bright an’ cheerful ez it used to be, The leaves ain’t growin’ half so green upon the maple tree — The brook don’t seem ter ripple like it used ter, down the hill — ■ The bobolinks appear ter hev a some’at sadder thrill ; The waivin’ corn hez lost its gold, the sunshine ain’t so bright, The day is growin’ shorter jest ter make a longer night; There is somethin’ gnawin’ at my heart I guess hez come to stay; The world ain’t been the same to me since Nellie went away. The old piano over there I gave her when a bride — It ain’t been played upon but once since she took sick and died; An’ then a neighbor’s girl come in an’ struck up “ Old Black Joe,” An’ “ When the Swallows Homeward Fly,” an’ some- how, don’t you know, It almost made me crazy, wild with anguish an’ des- pair — I saw her sittin’ at the keys, but knew she wasn’t there, io An’ that is why I never want to hear the old thing play — The music don’t sound natural since Nellie went away. The parson tells me every man hez got ter have his woe — His argument is good, perhaps, for he had orter know — But then it’s hard for everyone ter allers see the right _ In turnin" pleasure into pain an’ sunshine into night ; I guess it’s all included in the Maker’s hidden plan— It takes a heap o’ grief an’ \yoe ter temper up a man. I sympathize with any fellow when I hear him say, The world don’t seem the same to him since some one went away. The scripture says that, in His own sweet way, if we but wait, The Lord’ll take our burdens an’ set crooked matters straight; An’ there’s a hope that all the grief an aching heart can hold, Will be offset by happiness a hundred million fold, When we hev reached the end o’ life’s eventful voy’ge at last, An’ all our pain an’ misery is buried in the past. An’ so I’m lookin’ for’ard to the dawnin’ of a day When mebbe it won’t seem so long since Nellie went away. MEMORIAL MORNING. CHAS. EUGENE BANKS. “ Virginia, open the casement there, I hear the strains of a martial band In the street below, let me catch the air. The doctor? how; shall I not command? “ There, child, forgive me, old age is quick To anger, in patience a very snail; But I’ll to the window ; life’s shriveled wick Shall blaze once more e’er it utterly fail. “ Ah ! so ; the curtain a trifle down ; Ho? Halt you there where sunlight plays So merrily over your locks of brown — They had just such curls in the dear old days.. “ My sweet twin darlings. It can not be — What’s that they are playing? ‘The Tender and True?’ You are like your father as like can be, And they both came back to me, both in you.. “They are not forgotten! The Nation halts In its greedful rush for an hour or so To shrive itself of its baser faults, Lest it altogether forgetful grow. “Nay, nay, I am querulous, thoughts like these Dishonor Love’s festal, and surely I Should honor a custom that strips the trees For love of the dead who are not to die. “ For yonder where Donelson frowns above The Cumberland waters, my darlings lie In each other’s arms, in the clasp of love, The gray and the blue, and they met to die. “ God sits in judgment. To honor bound Were both my boys though they walked apart. But they sleep to-day ’neath a single mound, Sleep shoulder to shoulder and heart to heart. “ As in one low cradle they used to sleep, My blush-rose babies. What, tears, my child? For the Nation’s dead let the Nation weep, And kneeling above them be reconciled! “ If the palm leaves whispered their lullaby, Or the North wind shouted their cradle song What matter? their duty to do and die: Their deeds, not motives, to us belong. “ What to me, if the flags that my heroes bore Were barred and spangled or azure thread, If blue or gray were the coats they wore? They were all my world and my world is dead. “Where mounds are many go scatter your flowers Ye prosperous people; where mounds are few, Where the lone loon calls to the lonely hours, Where the sensitive aspen tree scatters the dew, “ On plain or mountain, by river or wood, Wherever a soldier is sleeping to-day, Let fall the blossoms in fragrant flood, For sons of one mother are the Blue and the Gray.” 15 JANUARY— THE WATER BEARER. BY MARGARET JOHNSON. Lifted he his mighty pitcher, sparkling to its dewy brim ; Quoth the traveler, “ Clouds are rising on the blue horizon’s rim ! ” Dismally the wind went moaning through the with- ered branches bare, Whirled the cock upon the steeple, swept the dry leaves here and there, And a little damsel, hurrying blithely on her home- ward way, Hushed her song, and glanced with anxious forehead at the gathering gray. Tilted he the brimming vase till ran the' crystal from its lips, Letting one by one the big drops through his hollowed fingers drip : “ Well-a-day, the storm is on us! ” quoth the traveler looking down, Closer drew his cap, and wrapped him closer in his cloak of brown, And a little hurrying maiden with her satchel swifter sped, While the thickening drops fell faster on the. scarlet- hooded head. Half in sport, and half in sudden anger, weary of his care, With his giant arm he dashed the cracking vase into the air: All the landscape, blurred and blotted in the pouring rain and sleet, Swam before the drenched and draggled traveler, toiling through the street. Rose the wind in moaning gusts, and drove aslant the pelting rain, 16 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS Bowed the trees before the tempest, writhing as in mortal pain. Roared a torrent in the gutters, gurgled every chok- ing spout, Scarce was heard the traveler’s muttering in the up- roar and the rout. And a little dripping damsel, blown and beaten to and fro, . Through the storm went running till her eyes and 'cheeks were all aglow. Peeping down to view' the havoc made by mischief- working might, Straight he burst into a giant roar of laughter at the sight. li Ho, the sun is shining!” cried the traveler, glanc- ing where there shone, . Indistinct, his own reflection in the wet and glistening stone. Twinkled every dripping tree-top, by the sudden radiance kissed, Glittered proud the ancient cock upon the steeple in the mist. And a little breathless maiden, looking through a nar- row pane, Smiled to see an arch of glory shine athwart the fall- ing rain. EXAMINATIONS. BY W. M. GIFFIN. The other night I went to bed, But not to sleep, for my poor head Was filled with a most awful dread, Examinations. I thought of this, and then of that; x 9 Of set and sit ; which goes with sat ? I fear my brain has run to fat. Examinations! Next came the base and rate per cent., Of money to an agent sent, And with that word all of them went, Examinations ! Then my lessons I try to spell ; Which words have two, and which one L? Oh, my poor brain ! I cannot tell. Examinations ! Where is Cape Cod, and where Pekin ? Where do the rivers all begin ? A high per cent. I cannot win. Examinations ! Who was John Smith? What did he do? And all the other fellows, too ? You must tell me, I can’t tell you. Examinations ! Oh, welcome sleep ! at last it came ; But not to rest me, all the same ; For in my dreams this is my bane — Examinations ! ANOTHER SPIDER AND FLY. LAURA GARLAND CARR. Come try my new swing ! ” said a cunning old spider, As she fastened a thread round a columbine stalk, To a trim little fly that lit down beside her To brush off the dust while they had a short talk. « See this now ! I touched with my foot that tall aster ! . Now back— there I jostled that lovely sweet pea ! O such jolly iun ! see I go fast and faster ! Hop in, little neighbor, there’s room here by me ! “ It can’t be so nice as to fly,” he made answer, While thoughtfully stroking his fair gauzy wings. « poh ! flies! I’ve had them! They are nice, but my land, sir ! You can’t till you try, know the pleasure of swings.” The spider and swing— they wentfaster and higher ; The blossoms they nodded and all things looked gay, And our charmed little fly soon lost all desire Save just once to swing in that rollicking way. ‘ He’ll come now, I know,” said the cunning old spinner, And her cruel eyes gleamed as she danced out Then looking back slily she thought of the dinner That plump fly would make when she had him all tight. « She’s gone ! ” thought the fly. “ Now I guess I will try it.” . And all in a flutter he hurried right in. >t “ Nice, isn’t it, dear? Now don t you deny it ! And the spider sprang out with a horrible grin. Whew ! swoop comes a swallow ! he seizes the derider, 21 And off to his nest in the barn roof has flown; So now little silver wings laughs at the spider, And swings if he pleases, or lets it alone. THE LITTLE TIN CUP. THOMAS FROST. Whoa, Betty! How do, sir? Is this here the ’svlum for folks as is mad? It air? Wal, my Lucy’s to hum, sir; not ravin’; oh no — just a fad — And ef I’d my own way I wouldn’t be thinkin’ o’ fetchin’ her here; But it ain’t no use argyin’ matters when sister-in laws interfere. You see it were this how: last harvest we parted with baby — little Chick; The pootiest child in the kentry; the rompinest, ’fore he got sick; And his mother, poor gal, took it badly when we telled her as baby was dead; For she didn’t shed tears like she’d orter, but sot thar a-shakin’ her head. And when baby was put in the parlor, she crep’ sof’ly up to the box, And we heerd her say, “ Go to sleep, darlin’,” as she brushed back his bootiful locks. But nex’ day she was sleepin’ herself, sir, when they come from the taown with the hearse, So we went to the graveyard without her, and saved her the ’sterics, or worse. 22 Wal, when we got back from the fun’ral, thar was Lucy a-gettin’ the tea; On the table was three cups and saucers, for her and the sister and me; But I can’t tell the turn as it give me to see on cloth, polished up, Just as bright as it shined on his birthday, our poor Chickey’s little tin cup! Then the sister she starts in a cryin’, and says she with her face very white, “Lucy, dear, don’t you know that the baby won’t want any supper to-night?” Then, poor gal, she jist lifts up her finger and she points it at baby’s old place, And she says, “ Don’t the tin cup look dirty along o’ that dazzlin’ face ? ” Ev’ry morning she’s up with the daybreak, a-scrubbin’ that poor bit o’tin; And she’s still at it, scourin’ and rubbin’ when the shadders of evenin’ comes in ; But it’s black, sir, as black as the kittle — compared with the child as sits there, Shinin’ bright with the glory o’Heaven; still as death in his little high chair ! So I’ve come, sir, to ask you to take her and larn her that Chick’s gone away To a place whar no suff’rin’ kin enter, no rust, nor disease, nor decay; But ef God sent this stroke as a mercy — ef the doc- tors all gives Lucy up — She will bring back a heart that ain’t broken, and polish the little tin cup. FEBRUARY— THE FISHES. BY MARGARET JOHNSON. The waters curved into a pool, The murmuring reeds above it bent; Beneath the willow branches cool, A Fisher stood, with eyes' intent. Sing hey, the Brook, the babbling Brook ! The Fishes feel the treacherous hook ; The whispering rushes lean and look ; Sing hey, the bonny Brook! His glistening, speckled spoil he cast Into a basket, one by one, And down the reedy shore he passed, And left them lying in the sun. Sing hey, the Brook, the murmuring Brook, Their little lives are almost done; The sighing rushes lean and look ; Sing hey, the bonny Brook! The Fisher’s child, a tiny lass, With, eyes as blue as is the sea, Came creeping through the meadow grass, And gazed upon them wondering^. Her tender bosom heaved with sighs, She gazed at them with pitying eyes As misty as the morning skies; Sing hej-, the bonny Brook ! With dainty fingers, one by one, She dropped them just within the brim, And watched the bubbles in the sun Come dancing to the reedy rim. Sing hey, the Brook, the laughing Brook ! Through waters cool they circling swim ; The whispering rushes lean and look; Sing hey, the bonny Brook ! 2 4 THE OLD. ANON. Give me the old songs — those exquisite bursts of melody which thrilled the lyres of the inspired poets and minstrels of long ago. Every note has borne on the air a tale of joy and rapture — of sor- row and sadness! They tell of days gone by, and time hath given to them a voice which speaks to us of those who once breathed these melodies — of what they now are, and what we soon shall be. My heart loves those melodies ; may they be mine to hear till life shall end, and, as I “ launch my boat ” upon the sea of eternity, may their echoes be wafted to my ear, to cheer me on my passage from the scenes of earth and earth-land ! Give me the old paths, where we have wandered and culled the flowers of love and friendship, in the days of “ Auld Lang Syne sweeter , far, the dells whose echoes have answered to our voices, whose turf is not a stranger to our footsteps, and whose rills have in childhood’s days reflected back our forms, and those of our merry playfellows, from whom we have been parted, and meet no more in the old nooks we loved so well. May the old paths be watered with heaven’s own dew, and be green forever in my memory ! Give me the old house upon whose stairs we seem to hear light footsteps, and under whose porch a merry laugh seems to mingle with the winds that whistle through old trees, beneath whose branches lie the graves of those who once trod the halls and made the chambers ring with glee. And oh ! above all, give me the old friends — hearts bound to mine in life’s sunshiny hours with a link so strong that all the storms of earth might not break it asunder — spirits congenial, whose hearts through life have throbbed in unison with our own ! Oh, when death shall still this heart, I would not ask for aught more sacred to hallow my dust than the tear of an old friend. May my fu- neral dirge be chanted by the old friends I love so fondly, who have not yet passed away to the spirit’s bright home. THE COUNT’S DAUGHTER. A TALE OF NUREMBURG. O’er the gray old German city The shadow of mourning lay : More tenderly kissed each mother Her little child that day. With a deeper prayer each father Laid his hand on his first-born’s head, For in the castle above them Lay the Count’s little daughter, dead. Slow moved the great procession Down from the castle gate, To where the black-draped cathedral Blazed in funereal state. And they laid the little child down, In her robes of satin and gold, 28 ilii'WP To sleep with her dead forefathers In their stone crypt, dark and cold. At midnight the Countess lay weeping ’Neath her gorgeous canopy, She heard as it were a rustling, And little feet come nigh. She started up in the darkness, And with yearning gesture wild, She cried, “ Has the Father heard me? Art thou come back, my child ?” Then a child’s voice, soft and pleading, Said, “ I’ve come, O mother dear, To ask if you will not lay me Where the little birds I can hear ; “The little birds in their singing, And the children in their play, Where the sun shines bright on the flowers All the long summer day. “ In the stone crypt I lie weeping, For I cannot choose but fear, Such wailings dire and ceaseless From the dead Counts’ coftins I hear “ And I’m all alone, dear mother, No other child is there ; Oh, lay me to sleep in the sunshine, Where all is bright and fair. “ I cannot stay, dear mother, I must back to the moans and gloom ; I must lie there, fearing and weeping, Till you take me from my tomb.” 29 Then the Countess roused her husband, Saying, “Give to me, I pray, That spot of green by the deep fosse, Where the children love to play. “ For our little one lies weeping, And asks, for Christ’s dear sake, That ’mid song and sunlight and flowers, Near children her grave we make.” And the green spot was made a garden, Blessed by priests with book and prayer, And they laid the Count’s little daughter ’Mid flowers and sunlight there. And to the children forever The Count and Countess gave As a playground, that smiling garden By their little daughter’s grave. — Mrs. R. S. Greenough. HIS OLD YELLOW ALMANAC. ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. I left the farm when mother died, and changed my place of dwellin’ To daughter Susie’s stylish house, right in the city street. And there was them, before I came, that sort of scared me, tellin’ How I would find the town foiks’ ways so difficult to meet. They said I’d have no comfort in the rustlin’, fixed-up throng, And I’d have to wear stiff collars every week-day right along. I find I take to city ways just like a duck to water, I like the racket and the noise, and never tire of shows ; 3 ° And there’s no end of comfort in the mansion of my daughter, And every thing is right at hand, and money freely flows, And hired help is all about, just listenin’ for my call, But I miss the yellow almanac off my old kitchen wall. The house is full of calendars, from attic to the cellar, They’re painted in all colors, and are fancy-like to see; But just in this particular I’m not a modern feller, And the yellow-covered almanac is good enough for me. I’m used to it, I’ve seen it round from boyhood to old age, And I rather like the jokin’ at the bottom of each page. I like the way the “ S ” stood out to show the week’s beginnin’ (In these new-fangled calendars the days seemed sort of mixed), And the man upon the cover, though he wa’n’t ex- actly winnin’, With lungs and liver all exposed, still showed how we are fixed; And the letters and credentials that were writ to Mr. Ayer I’ve often, on a rainy day, found readin’ very fair. I tried to find one recently; there wa’n’t one in the city, They toted out great calendars in every sort of style ; I looked at ’em in cold disdain, and answered ’em in pity; “ I’d rather have my almanac than all that costly pile.” And, though I take to city life, I’m lonesome after all, For that old yellow almanac upon my kitchen wall. MARCH — THE RAM. BY MARGARET JOHNSON. His golden horns and fleece of gold Shone dazzling in the sunset light. W ith Helle and her brother bold He skimmed the air in dizzy flight.’” The raindrops down the window slide, The hoarse wind moans in muffled rage ; Within, two fair heads, side by side, Bend low above the enchanted page. All heedless of the storm, they strav In sunny fields of ancient Greece, And with the fabled children play, And see the Ram with golden fleece. “ Hark, Amy ? ” “ ’ Swift they flew and far, Till “Farewell, Phrixos!” Helle cried; Ai ’ r - “ I would have held you, Amy dear ! ” “ Oh, how could Phrixos lose her so? Please read the rest. I want to hear What happened to the Ram, you know.” And all unheeded moans the gale, While still they walk in Fairyland, And ponder o’er the ancient tale They can but dimly understand. “ ‘ So lived the Ram and so he died Within the palace-walls at peace ; And people flocked from far and wide To seek and win the Golden Fleece.’ ” A charmed silence fills the room, The firelight flickers on the floor, The rain sounds softly through the gloom; A footstep pauses at the door. “You here, my dear?” a clear voice says. “ I’ve hunted for you everywhere!” Then Ralph, in laughing earnest, lays His hand on Amy’s shining hair. “ No wonder that you looked in vain, Mamma, for we have been to Greece — We did not mind about the rain — And I have found the Golden Fleece.” ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH. CHARLES HOEY. ( Abridged .) The first thing I remember, was Carlo tugging away . .. With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pull- ing as much as to say, “ Come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now depend upon you, Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you are sending them to ; Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of the father and son; Think of the lover and loved one too, think of them doomed every one, To fall, as it were by your hand, into yon fathom- less ditch, Murdered by one who should guard them irom harm, who now lies asleep at the switch. I sprang up amazed, scarce knew where I stood, sleep had o’ermastered me so ; 35 I could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep river dashing below ; I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the tempest were fanned ; But what was that noise in the distance ? That, I could not understand. 1 heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some muffled drum, Then nearer and nearer it came, till it made my very ears hum ; What is this light that surrounds me, and seems to set fire to my brain ? What whistle’s that, yelling so shrilly? Ah! I know now ! it’s the train ! We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to the place ; So I stood with this demon before me, its heated breath scorching my face ; Its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like the eyes of some witch ; The train was almost upon me before I remem* bered the switch. I sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast down the track, The switch resisted my efforts, some demon seemed holding it back ; On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like a flash ; I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing after the crash. How long I lay unconscious ’t was impossible to tell, [a hell ; My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost For 1 then heard the piteous moaning and shriek- ing of husbands and wives, 36 And of the day we all shrink from, when 1 must account for their lives. Mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes glar. ing madly and wild ; Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like a child ; Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they sped ; , , , ,, And lips that could form naught but ‘ Mamma, were calling for one perhaps dead. My mind was made up in a moment, the river should hide me away ; When, under the still burning rafters, I suddenly noticed there lay , 4 _ A little white hand ; she who owned it was doubt- less an object of love To one whom her loss would drive-frantic, though she guarded him now from above. I tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one side ; How little she thought of her journey when she left for this dark, fated ride ; I lifted the last log from off her, and while search- ing for some spark of life, Turned her little face up in the starlight, and rec- ognized— Maggie, my wife. O Lord ! thy scourge is a hard one, at a blow thou hast shattered my pride ! . My life will be one endless nightmare, with Mag- gie away from my side ! How often I’d sat down and pictured that some day I, p’raps, might be rich— But all of my dreams had been shattered, while I lay there asleep at the switch. 37 I fancied I stood on my trial, the jury and judge I could see, And every eye in the court room was steadily fixed upon me ; And fingers were pointed in scorn, till I felt my face blushing blood-red, And the next thing I heard were the words, “ Hanged by the neck until dead.” Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my hand caught right hold of a dress, And I heard, “What’s the matter, dear Jim? You’ve had a bad nightmare, I guess!” And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a scar from the ditch, I’d been taking a nap in my bed, and had not been “ asleep at the switch.” WHEN SANTA CLAUS COMES. A good time is coming, I wish it were here; The very best time in the whole of the year. I’m counting each day on my fingers and thumbs The hours that must pass before Santa Claus comes. Good-bye for a while, then, to lessons and school ; We can talk, laugh, and sing, without breaking the rule. No troublesome spellers, no writing, nor sums, There’s nothing but playtime, when Santa Claus comes. I suppose I shall have a new dolly, of course, My last one was killed by a fall from her horse ; While for Harry and Jack, there’ll be trumpets and drums, To deafen us with when Santa Claus comes- 38 I'll hang up my stocking to hold what he brings; 1 hope he will fill it. with lots of good t hings ; He must know how dearly I love sugar plums, I’d like a big box full, when Santa Claus comes. And now that the snowflakes begin to come down And the wind whistles sharp, and the branches are brown, I don’t mind the cold, though my fingers it numbs, ’Cause it brings the time nearer when Santa Claus ffc APRIL— THE BULL. BY MARGARET JOHNSON. “ Huzza! ” From box and balcony Rang out the loud exultant cry: “Huzza! the Matador!” From floor to roof a glittering maze Of gorgeous robes and faces fair, With lustrous laces gleaming rare, And veils of fluttering gossamer, And fans that set the air astir, And flowers that bloom and gems that blaze Filled all the amphitheatre. Below them in the sunlit space Beneath the tranquil April skies, Two combatants stood face to face: A milk-white bull, with fiery eyes, Huge, frantic, mad with rage and pain, His great head bowed to charge the foe, And, poising with a cool disdain His weapon for the fatal blow, A youth, decked out in gorgeous wise. A murmurous hush, a breathless pause — The ladies leaned far out to see. A flash of scarlet drapery — A plunge — a bellowing roar — a cloud Of flying dust! Then burst the applause, With cheer on cheer of wild delight That rolled the echoing circle round. And while, low fallen upon the ground, His victim struggled hard with death, The hero of the noble fight, 40 Rained on with flowers from fingers white ’Mid ringing Bravos, smiled and bowed. A child sobbed softly in the crowd. “ Alas, poor bull!” below her breath She wept. “ Alas, poor pretty bull ! ” With sad eyes grieved and pitiful, And down beside him in the sand, One blossom, wet with tearful dew, One little crimson rose she threw, And hid her sweet eyes with her hand. And still all tongues the victor sang, “ Huzza ! ” the thundering plaudits rang, “Huzza! the Matador!” WHERE DO YOU LIVE? I knew a man, and his name was Horner, Who used to live on Grumble Corner — Grumble Corner in Cross-Patch town — And he never was seen without a frown. He grumbled at this, he grumbled at that ; He growled at the dog, he growled at the cat; He grumbled at morning, he grumbled at night ; . And to grumble and growl was his chief delight. He grumbled so much at his wife that she Began to grumble as well as he ; And all the children, wherever they went, Reflected their parents’ discontent. If the sky was dark and betokened rain, Then Mr. Horner was sure to complain ; And if there was not a cloud about, He’d grumble because of a threatened drought. His meals were never to suit his taste ; He grumbled at having to eat in haste ; The bread was poor, or the meat was tough. Or else he hadn’t had half enough. No matter how hard his wife might try To please her husband, with scornful eye He’d look around, and then, with a scowl At something or other, begin to growl. One day as I loitered along the street, My old acquaintance I chanced to meet, Whose face was without the look of care, And the ugly frown that he used to wear. “ I may be mistaken, perhaps,” I said, As, after saluting, I turned my head, “ But it is, and it isn’t, Mr. Horner, Who lived so long on Grumble Corner !” I met him the next day; and I met him again, In melting weather, in pouring rain, When stocks were up and stocks were down, But a smile, somehow, had replaced the frown. It puzzled me much ; and so, one day, I seized his hand in a friendly way, And said: “ Mr. Horner, I’d like to know What can have happened to change you so?” He laughed a laugh that was good to hear, For it told of a conscience calm and clear, And he said, with none of the old time drawl: 44 « Why, I’ve changed my residence, that is all!” [Horner, 44 Changed your residence?” 44 Yes,” said 44 It wasn’t healthy on Grumble Corner, And so I moved ; ’twas a change complete ; And you’ll find me now on Thanksgiving Street !” Now, every day, as I move along The streets so filled with the busy throng, I watch each face, and can always tell Where men and women and children dwell ; And many a discontented mourner Is spending his days on Grumble Corner, Sour and sad, whom I long to entreat To take a house on Thanksgiving Street. — Independent. WHAT WE LEARN AT SCHOOL. (For five little children.) (All.) Fathers, mothers, see us now, As we make a pretty bow. Next we’ll tell you, each in turn, What it is we here do learn. (ist-) First we’re taught in kindly way, We our teacher should obey : When we strive to do the right We are happy morn and night. (2d.) And we try to keep in mind, We to others should be kind ; 45 For we know that all through life We must shun dispute and strife. (3d.) Then, to meet another need, Ev’ry one learns how to read. As you all can see at once No one means to be a dunce. (4th l Now we spell, and now we write, j ’Till we know each word at sight; Thus you see how well we learn Each new thing to which we turn. (5th.) Now to add and take away, This we learn from day to day ; How to bound our State we know ; East or south, the way we go. (All.) But we have no time to tell All the things we’ve learned so well, So we ask you, one and all, At our school again to call. BOYS. Sturdy little farmer boys, tell me how you know When tis time to plow the fields, and to reap and mow. Do the hens with yellow legs Scold you when you look for eggs ? Do you drive the ducks to drink, waddling in a row ? Do the pigs in concert squeal, When you bring their evening meal? Tell me, little farmer boy, for I’d like to know. 46 Nimble little sailor boy, tell me how you know How to navigate your ship when the tempests blow. Do you find it pretty hard Clinging to the top-sail yard ? Don’t you Tear some stormy day overboard you’ll go? Do they let you take a light When you go aloft at night ? Tell me little sailor boy, for I’d like to know. Little boys, of every kind, tell me how you know That ’tis time ere school begins, rather ill to grow, Does the pain increase so fast It is terrible at last ? Don't you quickly convalesce, when too late to go? Do you think I am a dunce? Wasn’t I a school boy once? Tell me all you little boys, for I’d like to know. MAY — THE TWINS. BY MARGARET JOHNSON. All the world was white with blossom,, Sweet the fields with breath of May, Silver-throated larks were singing, Silver-clear the bells were ringing In the village far away; “ Tell us whom you love !” they cried. Pressing eager to my side. “ Whom you love the best of any!” Eyes alight with boyish glee, Ankle deep in daisies standing, Thus my secret heart demanding, Came my bonny lads to me, Weary growing of their play, At the closing of the day. “ What his name is,” grave I answered, “ ’Twere not fair for me to tell. But, though I must not confess it, You, perhaps, may chance to guess it, For you know my dear Love well; He is straight and tall and slim, Stout of heart and lithe of limb. “ Brown his hair is — rumpled, curly, Blue his eyes — dear honest eyes ! Sunburned face with dimple merry, Fond of fun and frolic, very! Fearless, frank — not overwise, And his age — just ten to-day!” Pealed their merry ringing laughter; “Ah,” they cried, “but we are two!” Looked askance at one another, 48 Recognizing each his brother, In the picture that I drew : — “ You have only half confessed; Can yon love us both the best?” “Nay,” I said, “ my blue-eyed tyrants, I have answered. Be content!” And with happy jest and laughter, Long our shadows following after, Homeward through the dew we went, And the bells rang far away, For the closing of the day. THE DEMON OF THE FIRE. BY EDGAR ALLEN POE. In the deepest death of midnight, While the sad and solemn swell Still was floating, faintly echoed From the forest’s chapel bell; Faintly, faltering, floating, O’er the sable waves of air That were through the midnight rolling, Chafed and billowy with the tolling. In my chamber, I lay dreaming, And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed Of a heart foredoomed to care. As the last long lingering echo Of the midnight’s mystic chime, Lisping through the sable billow Of the thither shore of time, Leaving on the starless silence Not a shadow or a trace, In a quivering sign departed From my couch, in fear, I started — Started to my feet in terror For my dream’s phantasmal error Painted in the fitful fire A frightful, fiendish, flaming face. On the red hearth’s reddest center, From a blazing knot of oak, Seemed to grin and gibe the phantom. As in terror, I awoke. And my slumbering eyelids straining As I struggled to the floor — Still in that dread vision seeming, Turned my gaze toward the gleaming Hearth, and then, oh, God ! I saw it, And from its flaming jaws it Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, Bubbling, gurgling stream of gore. Speechless, struck with stony silence. Frozen to the floor, I stood, Till my very brain seemed hissing With that hissing, bubbling blood; Till I felt my life-stream oozing, Oozing from those lambent lips, Till the demon seemed to name me. Then a wondrous calm o’ercame me, And I fell back on my pillow, In apparent soul eclipse. Thus, as in death’s seeming shadows, In the icy pall of fear I lay stricken, came a hoarse and Hideous murmur to my ear, Came a murmur, like the murmur Of assassins in their sleep, » Muttering, “ I Iigher, higher, higher, I am demon of the fire, l am arch fiend of the tire, And each blazing roof’s my pyre, And my sweetest incense is The blood and tears my victims wt. r “ Mow I revel on the prairie, How I roar amidst the pines, How I laugh as from the village O’er the snow the red flame shines. How I hear the shriek of terror, With a life in every breath. How I scream with lambent laughter As I hurl each crackling rafter Down the fell abyss of fire, Until higher, higher, higher, Leap the high priests of my altar, In their merry dance of death. “ I am monarch of the fire, I am royal king of death. World encircling with the shadow Of its doom upon my breath, With the symbol of hereafter Gleaming from my fatal face, I command the eternal fire. Higher, higher, higher, higher Leap my ministering demons, Like phantasmagoric lemans, Hugging universal nature In their hideous embrace.' 5 Then a sombre silence shut me In her solemn shrouded sleep, And I slumbered like an infant lu the cradle of the deep, 53 Till the belfry from the forest Trembled with the matin stroke; And the martins from the edge Of their lichen hidden ledge Shimmered through the russet arches, While the light in torn files, marches, Like a routed army struggling Through the serried ranks of oak. Through my open fretted casement Filtered in a tremulous note, From the tall and shady linden, Where the robin swelled his throat, Tiny wooer, brave breasted robin, Quaintly calling for his mate From my slumber, nightmare ridden, With the memory of that dire Demon, in my central fire, In my eyes’ interior mirror Like the shadows of a fate. But the fiendish fire had smoldered To a white and formless heap, And no knot of oak was blazing As it blazed upon my sleep. But on the red hearth’s reddest center, Where that demon’s face had shown, The shadowy lightning seemed to linger, And to point with spectral finger To a Bible, massive, golden — On a table, carved and olden, And I bowed and said “ All power Is of God and God alone.” GOD OF NATIONS. REV. JOSEPH COOK. God of the nations, rise, Fix on Thyself our eyes, Wisdom, Love, Might: Draw Thou as noontide nigh, Flood Thou the earth and sky; Keen, white, pure, vast and high, Let there be light. God of our fathers’ day, Make us as wise as they, Thy truth our guide : Ours be Thy bugle call, One plan Thou hast in all, As the new ages fall, In us abide. God make our eye-sight clear, Duty as freedom dear; Right all our wrongs : Strong in Truth gladly heard, Loyal to all Thy word, Nations with hope deferred, Fill Thou with songs. God in all faces shine, So make Thou all men Thine, Under one dome; Face to face, soul to soul, East to West, pole to pole, As the great ages roll, Be Thou our home. 55 JUNE — THE CRAB. BY MARGARET JOHNSON. The waves ran laughing from the land, And whispered to the sea. A Baby lay on the silver sand, With a roseleaf shell in his roseleaf hand, And a dainty thing was he. From the crown of his silken head, I ween, To his bare white foot, there never was seen A daintier thing than he. O, soft he cooed in his baby speech, And laughed in his baby glee, And put out a dimpled hand to reach For something lying upon the beach Close down beside the sea — A curious, crooked thing, I ween. With spreading claws and a body green — A King of Crabs was he. O sweet the Baby called and cooed, And beckoned tenderly. And still the Crab, in sleepy mood, Would not, by dainty arts be wooed — A sullen thing was he. Then came a sound of flying feet — The baby smiled with wonder sweet, His mother’s face to see. She caught him, frowning, from the sand* And fled across the lea. But still he reached a roseleaf hand To something crawling down the strand Sidelong into the sea. And all the waves at play, With whispered laughter, ran away And told it to the sea. WOMEN WANTED. Women are wanted. Ah, yes! Women who know their own business better than their neigh- bors’. Women who are true and pure. Women who will not weary in well-doing, who' will neither flag nor flinch. Women who know their mission. Women who will daily do loving ser- vices, gentle little kindnesses — and do them unosten- tatiously. Women who will see that bare pantries are supplied, and that the shelterless find homes. Women are greatly wanted. Women who will not drift with the tide, but will courageously stem the current. Women who live to please God, not themselves. Women with noble, generous souls, whose hearts will utter “Godspeed,” as workers grow faint and hands grow weary. Women who will not allow their noble impulses to be crushed by the customs of society. Women who will be the stepping-stones to lift people up — not stumb- ling-blocks to hinder and cause them to fall. Wo- men who listen to the still, small voice and heed its admonitions. Women with clear brains and ready hands and willing hearts, who know their “ life work,” and do it. Yes, women are wanted. Women who know how much power there is in a gentle, encouraging word, how much force there is in a hopeful proph- ecy. Women who will sow their loving acts broadcast, believing that kind words never die. Women who extend a helping hand all along life’s pathway. Women with clear understanding, quick perception, and good judgment. Women of patience. Women of forethought, of discrimina- tion, and great generosity. Women who will brave the scorn of this world to be crowned of God. $9 THE NEW SCHOOLHOUSE. Things aint now as they used to be A hundred years ago, When schools were kept in private rooms Above stairs or below ; When sturdy boys and rosy girls Romped through the drifted snow, And spelled their duty and their " abs,” A hundred years ago. Those old schoolrooms were dark and cold When winter’s sun ran low ; But darker was the master’s frown A hundred years ago ; And high hung up the birchen rod, That all the school might see, Which taught the boys obedience, As well as Rule of Three. Though ’twas but little that they learned, A hundred years ago, Yet what they got they ne’er let slip, — ’Twas well whipped in, you know. But now the times are greatly changed, The rod has had its day, The boys are won by gentle words, The girls by love obey. The schoolhouse now a palace is, And scholars kings and queens ; 60 They master algebra and Greek Before they reach their teens. Where once was crying, music sweet Her soothing influence sheds; Ferrules are used for beating time, And not for beating heads. Yes, learning was a ragged boy, A hundred years ago ; With six weeks’ schooling in a year, What could an urchin know? But now he is a full-grown man, And boasts attainments rare, He’s got his silver slippers on, And running everywhere. THE CHARGE OF THE RUM BRIGADE. MARY S. WHEELER. All in league, all in league, All in league onward, All in the Valley of Death, Walked the Six Hundred. “ Forward the Rum Brigade ! Cheers for the Whisky Raid ! ” Into the Valley of Death ^Talked the Six Hundred. “ Forward the Rum Brigade ! ” Were all their friends dismayed? Yes; and the soldiers knew Each one had blundered. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to drink and die . 61 Into the Valley of Death Walked the Six Hundred. Drunkards to right of them, Drunkards to left of them. Drunkards in front of them, One million numbered. Oaths fell like shot and shell, Rum did its work so well. Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Walked the Six Hundred. Garments torn — cupboards bare Children with naught to wear; Sleeping in gutters their Fathers are lying, while All the world wondered. Plunged into want and woe, Onward they madly go. Weeping in anguish, Wives sit, for well they know, Shattered and sundered, None will come back who go Of the Six Hundred. Curses to right of them, Curses to left of them, Curses behind them Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at by those who sell, They, who had paid so well, Well had been plundered. Clenched teeth and livid brow, Delirium tremens now, Thus young and old men fell Into the jaws of Death, 62 Into the mouth of Hell, Not one was left of them, Left of the Six Hundred. How did their glory fade ! O, the wild charge they made ! All the world wondered. Weep for the charge they made! Weep for the Rum Brigade ! Fallen Six Hundred. JULY- THE LION. BY MARGARET JOHNSON. O, many, many years ago — Or ever fell the winter’s snow — (Thus have the poets sung) When summer ruled the happy year. And no man knew the name of Fear, When nights were fair and days were long,. And Hope was new, and Love was strong, When this old world was young — There roamed through field and forest wild A Lion and a little child. O many years ago ! Wherever shown the boy’s bright head, Wherever danced his airy tread, There huge and stately, gaunt and grim, His mighty playmate followed him From dawn to sunset glow. When weary grew the little feet, The Lion’s back became his seat, And high he rode in glee ; He slept his rosy sleep beside The gentle monster’s shaggy hide, Or, waking, with his great ears played, And on their tawny velvet laid His warm cheek lovingly. So rolled the happy moons away, Until the child grew tired one day Ere yet the sun was low, And, sinking down upon the ground, He slept, his dimpled hands yet wound Within the Lion’s tangled mane, Slept sound, nor ever woke again — O many years ago ! 64 i Then broke a brave and gentle heart. Vain all the Lion’s loving art, His dumb and wondering woe; One cry he gave of mortal pain Till all the forest roared again And at his playmate’s side Stretched out his mighty limbs and died — O many years ago! Ah me ! So tender were the Strong, When nights were fair and days were long! (So have the poets sung). So mighty Innocence to woo The fiercest nature and subdue So brave was Truth, so simple Faith, So strong the Love that feared not Death, When this old world was young. ONLY A SONG, It was only a simple ballad Sung to a careless throng; There were none who knew the singer. And few that heard the song. Yet the singer’s voice was tender And sweet, as with love untold. Surely those hearts were hardened That it left, so proud and cold. But one, in a distant corner, A woman worn with strife, Heard in that song a message From the springtime of her life Fair forms rose up before her, From the midst of vanished years She sat in happy blindness, Her eyes were filled with tears. Then when the song was ended, And hushed the last sweet tone. That listener rose up slowly, And went her way alone. 68 Once more to her life of labor She passed ; but her heart was strong, And she prayed: “ Heaven bless the singer, And oh, thank God for the song.” HOLD ON, BOYS. Hold on to your tongue, when about to swear, lie, speak harshly, or use an improper word. Hold on to your hand, when it is about to pinch, or strike some one, and take what is not your own. Hold on to your feet if they want to kick a liv- ing thing, or run away from study or work, into mischief or crime. Hold on to your temper when you are angry, excited, or imposed upon, or when all are angry with you. Hold on to your temper — you will feel sorry to lose it. Hold on to your heart when evil associates seek your company, and invite you to join in their games and revelry. Hold on to’ your good name at all times ; for it is of more value than gold, high position, or fine clothes. Hold on to truth, for it will serve you well, and do through all time. Hold on to virtue ; it is above all price to you, under all circumstances. Hold on to your good character, for that is, and ever will be, your best wealth. STAY ON THE FARM. Come boys, I have something to tell you, Come near, I would whisper it low ; You are thinking of leaving the homestead, Don’t be in a hurry to go. The city has many attractions, But think of the vices and sins ; When once in the vortex of fashion, How soon the course downward begins. 69 You talk of the mines of Australia, They’ve wealth in red gold, no doubt, But ah, there is gold on thefarra, boys, If only you’ll shovel rt out. The mercantile life is a hazard, The goods are first high and then low; Better risk the old farm a while longer, Don’t be in a hurry to go. < The farm is the safest and surest, The orchards are loaded to-day, You are free as the air in the mountains, And monarch of all you survey. Better stay on the farm a while longer. Though profit comes in rather slow ; (Remember you have nothing to risk, boys, Don’t be in a hurry to go. A BOY’S WELCOME TO SPRING. Hurrah for the jolly old Spring time! I know it’s coming for sure, By the mud I cover my boots with, And forget to wipe off at the door. And this is the week of vacation That comes with the spring-time, you know, Oh, dear, how the days fly like minutes, But mother thinks they are slow. I know that we make the house muddy, And nearly distract her with noise ; But this is the spring time vacation, And we must enjoy it like boys. We know it is spring when the hooples, And tops, balls, and marbles, are out ; 70 When boys that have moped all the winter, Begin to stir lively and shout. We are now all ready for marbles, New patches adorn all our knees'; Our fingers are nimble and limber, Don’t have to wear mittens, or freeze. There’s leap-frog, we’ve played at all winter It’s good for the muscles and blood, We take to it fresh in the spring time, What’s softer to sit in than mud ? The girls are all talking of flowers, And blue birds, and breezes, and brooks, And are hunting up all the sweet verses About “ lovely spring,” in their books. It comes pretty hard on a fellow, When he don’t hear the first robin sing, Or find the first flower, to tell him “ He don’t care a bit about spring.” Don’t every glad shout give it welcome ? Don’t every glad leap tell our joy ? Yes! Hurrah for the jolly old Spring time, What more could you ask from a boy ? AUGUST— THE VIRGIN. BY MARGARET JOHNSON. Heigho ! how loud the robins red are singing, The buttercups shine bravely in the sun; W orld, you are fair with all your blossoms springing, I wish the summer late had just begun ! Beginnings always are the best and sweetest ; Night lies too close behind the sunset pink; And of my books, the happiest and completest Ends sorrowfully, after all, I think. Heart, we are young! What do we know of sorrow? The world is very full of it, they say, And life and love their truest meaning borrow From Grief, whose wet eyes turn to Heaven alway. Yet when I pause, regretful, backward turning To sunny childhood’s April smiles and tears, I feel my heart leap with a swift yearning To know the secrets of the coming years. I dream — O happy dream! — of joy and blessing. Hope is so sweet — what can fulfillment be? If grief must come — ah well! no need of guessing; The future secrets are not yet for me. X only know how joyous is the present, How glad the summers answer to the spring; I only know the past was fair and pleasant, I only know the song the robins sing. And very tender are the hearts that love me, And very dear the hopes of womanhood, And very blue the sweet skies are above me, And the earth is beautiful — and God is good. 72 How can I be but glad in very living? I leart, we are young! Life you are very fair! My hand is yours, your many faults forgiving, I walk with you, dear Life, I know not where! Sing, robin, all your blithest carols sing me ! Shine, blossoms, bravely in the August sun ! Come loitering years, I fear not what you bring me. My own glad summer now is just begun ! ’TIS HOME WHERE’ER OUR FLAG IS. ’Tis home where’er flag is, Dear hearts, remember that ! You may be at Pekin, Paris, Madrid, or Ararat; But wheresoe’er waves that fair, That bonnie banner blue, With stars bedight, with stripes so bright. There’s home, sweet home, for you ! Sweet home where’er our flag is, Honor ’neath its stars, If waved from foreign crag ’tis, That foreign crag is ours ! Columbia’s dower gives peerless power To guard her children true; And wheresoe’er our colors flare, There’s home for me and you ! 75 jj Dark as the clouds of even, Banked in the western heaven, Wading the breath that lifts All the dead mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land — So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event. Stands the black regiment. Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment. *. “ Now,” the flag-sergeant cried, “ Though death and hell betide. Let the whole nation see I 76 If we are fit to be Free in this land; 01 bound Down, like the whining hou:« i — Bound with red stripes of pain In our cold chains again!” O, what a shout there went From the black regiment! “Charge!” Trump and drum awoke ; Onward the bondmen broke ; Bayonet and saber-stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle’s crush. With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns’ mouths they laugh , Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course ; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel — All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment. “ Freedom !” their battle-cry — “ Freedom !” or “ leave to die !” Ah ! and they meant the word, Not as with us ’tis heard, Not a mere party shout ; They gave their spirits out, Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood. Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe ; Glad to breathe one free breath, 77 Though on the lips of death ; Praying alas ! in vain ! So they could once more see That burst of liberty ! This was what “ freedom” lent To the black regiment ! Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well ; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. O, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true ! Hail them as comrades tried ; Fight with them side by side ; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment ! THE IRISHWOMAN’S LETTER. M. A. DENISOK. An sure I was told to come in till your honor. To see would ye write a few lines to Pat. He’s gone for a soger is Misther O’Connor, Wid a stripe on his arm, and a band on his hat. And what’ll ye tell him ? shurc it must be aisy For the likes of yer honor to spake with a pen. Tell him I m well, and mavourneen Daisy (The baby yer honor) is better again. For whin he wint off so sick was the crayther, She niver hilt up her blue eyes to his lace : 78 And when I’d be crying he’d look at me wild like, And ax “ Would I wish for the counthry’s dis- grace ?” So he left her in danger, and me sorely gravin, And followed the flag wid an Irishman’s joy ; And it’s often I drame of the big drums a batin And a bullet gone straight through the heart of my boy. Tell him to send us a bit of his money, For the rint and the docther’s bill, due in a wake, And sure there’s a tear on your eyelashes, honey, I’ faith had no right with such fradom to spake. I’m over such trifling, I’ll not give ye trouble, I’ll find some one willing, oh what can it be? What’s that in the newspaper folded up double? Yer honor don’t hide it, but rade it to me. Dead ! Patrick O’Connor! oh, God it’s some ither, Shot dead ! shure ’tis a wake scarce gone by, And the kiss on the chake of his sorrowin’ mother, It hasn’t hed time, yer honor, to dry. Dead ! dead ! O God, am I crazy ? Shure it’s breaking my heart ye are telling me so, And what in the world will I do wid poor Daisy ? 0 what can I do ? where can I go ? This room is so dark, — I’m not seein’ yer honor, 1 think I’ll go home, — and a sob hard and dry, Rose up from the bosom of Mary O’Connor, But never a tear welled up to her eye. SEPTEMBER. — THE BALANCE. BY MARGARET JONNSON, He counted out the clinking coin. And heaped it shining in the scale, “A very goodly pile ! ” said he, “ These figures tell a pleasant tale,” And smiled to see the evening sun Burn redly on the coin he spun. “You are not covetous, good dame, Else had you never seen my gold, And yet I trow you scarce would scorn This gleaming heap, if truth were told.” She laughed and shook her proud young head. “A goodly pile, indeed ! ” she said. “ Y ou love your yellow treasure too, I know, for — hark ! ” her fair cheek glowed. “ I too have weighed my growing wealth — The scale these selfsame numbers showed. Yours is a pretty sum and round, Yet I can match it pound for pound.” “Forsooth! ” he cried in merry scorn, “ Come, prithee bring the riches out, That we may weigh them ‘ pound for pound,’ And prove your word beyond a doubt. Unless so locked away they be That you yourself have not the key.” 80 “ Nay, friend,” she laughed with happy eyes, “ I keep my treasure safely hid, But not within the moldy ground Or underneath an iron lid. I count it secretly apart, And wear it always next my heart.” She caught her baby from the floor, A creeping, cooing, dimpled thing, That struggled in its mother’s arms To reach the gold, with lusty spring, And babbled at the dazzling sight, A wordless language of delight. She pressed the velvet cheek to hers, And kissed the silken, sunny head, “Come, are you ready? shall we weigh The treasure, pound for pound?” she said, And then with tender triumph smiled, And in the balance laid her child. ULYSSES. [The following eloquent tribute to General Grant is from the pen of Robert Buchanan, and was written a few weeks previous to the hero’s death.] One sunset I beheld an Eagle flying ‘Mong the lone mountains of the Hebrides — Faintly he falter’d on, half spent and dying, Between the kindled crags, the darkening seas. Before the wind he sail’d on feeble pinions, From chasm to chasm, from lonely peak to peak ; King had he been for years of those dominions, And kingly seem’d he still, tho’ worn and weak 83 Piteous it was to see that bird imperial, Whose flight had known no bounds, yvhose strength no chain, Drifting in desolation to his burial Somewhere in those cold regions of the rain. Yet have I lived to see a sight more sorry, Here in the mighty land where men are free- ^ The eagle- warrior, lone with all his glory, Floating thro’ clouds, close to a sunless sea ! The shape that on the wind of tribulation Hover’d, and ruled the tempest like its lord, The soldier-hero who redeemed a nation, And cut man’s chains asunder with his sword. The silent leader, who arose victorious Out of a flood of hate, a sea of death, Now, fallen on darkness and a time inglorious, Flutters so near the ground, with failing breath ! Oh, God ! it seems but only yester even The trumpet of Euroclydon was blown, The storm-cloud gather’d, and the fiery levin Lighted the world, and flash’d from zone to zone ! ’Mid sounds of lamentation and of weeping, Cries of the waking who had slept so long, Upcircling swiftly thro’ the tempest sweeping, The eagle rose, with flight supreme and strong. His voice was in the storm, above the thunder. His war-cry thrill’d the land from shore to shore; Not till the battle cloud was cloven asunder, He sought his eyrie, and look’d down once more ! Feeble and weary, yet thro’ all disaster, Silent and self-contain’d, serene and proud, Master of men, and of his own soul master, Behold him drifting now, from cloud to cloud ! So wearily his slow, sad flight he urges, Unrestful, fearless-eyed, as heretofore, Then pauses, calmly hst’ning to the surges Thund’ring so near, on some eternal shore. The people raise their pitying eyes to view him, Weary he is and weak, yet will not rest, Tho’ Washington is brightly beck’ning to him From the yet widening blue of yonder West ! But lo ! a Form, with radiant robes around her, Uprises, follow’d by a shadowy train, Crowns him with love who once with glory crown’d her, Blesses the hands that broke her last strong chain ! Smile then, Ulysses! Tho’ thy Troy hath ended, Tho’ all thy life’s long Odyssey is done, By Lincoln and the martyr-hosts attended, Columbia kneels before her soldier-son ! What tho’ a little space, when homeward sailing, Thou saw ’st the treacherous isles where sirens dwell? The sweetest songs they sang were unavailing To keep God’s warrior underneath their spell. Thou wast not made to herd with things polluted, Grasp dust of gold, and fawn at Circe’s knee ; Thv flight was sunward, not thro’ chasms rooted With leaves that fall from Mammon’s upas-tree! 85 Rest, wanderer, in the sun, Columbia kisses Her soldier’s honor’d brow, and clears its gloom — And this white lily of love she brings, Ulysses, Was plucked upon thy brother Lincoln’s tomb! TIME ENOUGH. Two little squirrels, out in the sun, — One gathered nuts ; the other had none ; “ Time enough yet,” his constant refrain, “ Summer is still just on the wane.” Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate : He roused him at last, but he roused him too late ; Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud, And gave little squirrel a spotless white shroud. T wo little boys in a schoolroom were placed : One always perfect, the other disgraced ; “ Time enough yet for learning,” he said, “ I will climb by and by, from the foot to the head.’* Listen, my friends ; their locks are turned gray ; One, as a governor, sitteth to-day, The other, a pauper, looks out at the door Of the almshouse, and idles his days, as of yore. T wo kinds of people we meet every day ; One is at work, the other at play. Living, uncared for, dying unknown, The busiest hive hath ever a drone. 86 FOR THE CHILDREN’S SAKE. MRS. L. G. MCVEAGH. Look at the children clustered there, Busy with books, or wild with play, Which of our darlings can we spare To keep the sidewalk in good repair Or to pave, with stone, the public way? Shall it be yours, with the forehead fair, And blue eyes lifted fond and sweet? Shall it be mine, whose dark brown hair Must be laid low, that our dainty feet May not be soiled by the muddy street? Somebody’s girls and somebody’s boys, Rum is crushing there, every day, First it murders their infant joys, And steals a father’s care away. Snatches food from lips that pale, Strips the shoes from the tiny feet, Blackens with blows the shoulders frail, But — it brings in money to mend the street. Oh men ! Oh brothers ! with ballots to cast, Ye are come to the kingdom, for such an hour, The hour has struck, and we stand at last Where God has granted to you the power. After all of our helpless years, When full to the brim was our cup of woe, The answer comes, to our prayers and tears, And it rests with you. Will you strike the blow: Now, by the love that you bear your own, For the sake of each little child you meet, Vote “yes” — vote “yes,” if never a stone Is laid to better the village street, Where safe from peril, and gay and sweet The children come with their dancing feet. 87 OCTOBER.— THE SCORPION. BY MARGARET JOHNSON. A very little weight sometimes will turn A mighty balance, even of Life and Death, What pains and perils, we may never learn, Have passed us in the drawing of a breath. * ***** * Within an Eastern forest, far away, Where heavy odors filled the languid air, And giant boughs with mossy draperies gray Shut greenly out the burning noonday glare. Beneath the silent, overhanging trees, Where motionless the shadows lay and deep. His fair limbs pillowed on the moss at ease, A drowsy boy had thrown himself to sleep. His gathered store of ferns and blossoms pied Lay dropped beside his rosy open palm. The song upon his lips had scarcely died When slumber hushed them into smiling calm. So slept he softly while an hour went by, Nor guessed that danger lurked within the wild, But dreamed of dew and rain and clouded sky And freshly breathing winds, and dreaming, smiled. The silent yellow sunshine sifted down And touched the quiet face with wavering sheen. A single knot of ferns and grasses brown The glad young life and eager Death between. A noise that sharply broke the silent deep — A nut jarred down by squirrels in their play — The boy sprang, bright-eyed, from his happy sleep, Took up his song, and singing, went his way. And through the tangled grass, where he had slept With sting upraised, a deadly Scorpion crept. 88 SOLILOQUY OF ARNOLD. EDWARD C. JONES. The plan is fixed ; I fluctuate no more Betwixt despair and hope. As leaves the shore The hardy mariner, though adverse fate May merge his bark, or cast him desolate Upon a savage coast, so, wrought at last Up to a frenzied purpose, I have passed The Rubicon. Farewell, my old renown! Here I breathe mildew on my warrior crown; Here honor parts from me, and base deceit Steps to the usurper’s throne ; I cannot meet The withering censure of the rebel band, And therefore to the strong I yield this heart and hand. What else befits me ? I have misapplied The nation’s funds, and ever gratified Each vaulting wish, though justice wept the deed ; And here, beneath the load of pressing need, I must have gold. How else the clamorous cry Of creditors appease, and satisfy Demands which haunt me more than dreams of blood, And claims which chill more than Canadian flood? Stay ? My accounts betray the swindler’s mark. Go? And my path, though smooth, like Tar- tarus is dark. These rocky ridges, how they shelve on high, Each a stern sentinel in majesty. 9i Yes, ’tis your own Gibraltar, Washington ! And must the stronghold of his hope be won ? Won? Twenty thousand scarcely could invest That sure defence, which o’er the river’s breast Casts a gigantic shadow ; but my plan Dispenses with the formidable van, And Clinton may my garrison surprise, With few sulphurous clouds to blot these azure skies. And yet a pang comes over me — I see Myself at Saratoga ; full and free Goes up the peal of noble-hearted men ; Among the wounded am I numbered then, And my outgushing feelings cling to those Who periled all to face their country’s foes. Ah ! when that wound a soldier’s pride in- creased, And gratulation scarce its paean ceased, I thought not then, oh, God ! the stamp of shame Would stand imprinted thus upon my hard- earned fame. Avaunt, compunction ! Conscience to the wind ! Gold, gold I need — gold must Sir Henry find ! A rankling grudge is mine, for why not I Commander of their forces? To the sky Ever goes up the peal for Washington. Is he a god, Virginia’s favored son ? Why should the incense fume forevermore? Must he my skill, my prowess shadow o’er? Ere this autumnal moon has filled his horn, His honors must be nipped, his rising glories shorn. 92 Ah ! he securely rests upon my faith — Securely, when the specter dims his path ! How unsuspecting has he ever been ; Above the false, the sinister, the mean ! But hold such eulogy — I will not praise ; Mine is the task to tarnish all his bays. West Point, thy rocky ridges seem to say, Be firm as granite, crown the work to-day, Blot Saratoga, hearth and home abjure, Andre I meet again — the gold I must secure. THE STYLISH CHURCH. 'iWell, wife, I’ve been to church to-day, been to a stylish one ; And seein’ you can’t go from home, I’ll tell you what was done. You would have been surprised to see what I saw there to-day, The sisters were fixed up so fine, they hardly bowed to pray. I had on these coarse clothes of mine, Not much the worse for wear; But then they knew I wasn’t one they call a millionare, [the door, So they led the old man to a seat, away back by JTwas bookless and uncushioned, reserved there for the poor ! Pretty soon in came a stranger with gold ring and clothing fine, They led him to a cushioned seat, far in advance of mine ; I thought that wan’t exactly right, to set him up so near, , . , , , When he was young and I was old, and very hard to hear ! I couldn’t hear the sermon, I sat so far away, So through the hour of ^service, I could only “ watch and pray.” Watch the ’doin’s of the Christians, sitting near me round about, . . Pray tnat God would make them pure within, as they were pure without. . While I sat there looking all around upon the rich and great, , , . I kept thinking of the rich man, and the beggar at the gate ; , , How by all but dogs forsaken, the poor beggar s form grew cold, And the angels bore his spirit to the mansions built of gold. How at last the rich man perished, and his spirit took its flight From the purple and fine linen to the home oi endless night. There he learned as he stood gazing at the beggar in the sky, „ . , , A ,. „ “ It isn’t all of life to live, or all of death to die ; I doubt not there were wealthy sires, in that religious fold, Who went u| from their dwellings like the Pharisee Then returned home from their worship, with then- heads uplifted high. To spurn the hungry from their door, with naught to satisfy. 94 Out, out, with such professions ! they are doing more to-day To stop the weary sinner from the gospel’s shining way Than all the books of infidels, than all that has been tried Since Christ was born in Bethlehem, since Christ was crucified. I’m old, I may be childish, but I love simplicity ; I love to see it shinin’ in a Christian piety ; Jesus told us in his sermons, on Judea’s mountain wild, He that wants to go to heaven, must be as a little child. Our heads are growing gray, dear wife, our hearts are beating low ; In a little while the Master will call for us to go; When we reach the pearly gateways, and look in with joyful eyes We’ll see no stylish worship, in the temple in the skies. NOVEMBER. THE ARCHER. BY MARGARET JOHNSON. O, blithely over the hills he came, His yellow locks they shone like flame, Upon the north wind streaming. Across his stalwart shoulders slung, His bow and quiver lightly swung, With frost of jewels gleaming. He stepped into the circle green, The Archers shot with arrows keen, Their skill and valor trying. The slender youths with sparkling eyes, Strained nerve and will to gain the prize, Each with the other vying. Then sprang the Archer from his place, A smile upon his glowing face, His bright locks backward flinging. He bent his flexile bow with care, His arrows cleft the dazzled air, With shrill, incessant singing. They smote the leaves from off the trees, Their rushing raised a might}' breeze, That drove the clouds a-flying ; Their feathers floated white and dun, And made a mist before the sun In windy splendor dying. His bow-string snapped. In mute amaze, The Archers followed with their gaze, As, in a bright derision, His ringing laughter echoing shrill, He bounded backward toward the hill, And vanished from their vision. THANKSGIVING IN YE OLDEN TIME. A life more happy seemed to fill The homestead ’neath the sheltering hill ; A gentle stir of winds at play, That kept in mind Thanksgiving Day. Upon the roof-tree sloping down, Of late had come, a glistening crown Of snow, and dropped beneath the eaves, The woodbines red, and withered leaves. And thus the homestead peaceful stood Amidst November quietude. Inside, the housewife plied her art With busy hand, and anxious heart ; For three whole days, a conflict dire Is waged ’twixt eatables and fire. Still does the crane not cease to groan, Still does the oven hold its own. Now, conscious of her skill and might, The house-dame with her skirts drawn tight, And cap askew, with flying strings, The closet fills with dainty things. The children peep with eyes aglow To see her place the pies in row, And steal to get with smack and sniff, Of steaming conserves, just a whiff. The day has come ! The blushing morn Now hears the lumbering stage-coach horn 99 That ’mid the echoings of the hills, The homestead with a tremor fills. First at the door, the grandsire gray Puts forth his staff, his steps to stay ; The toddler, prattling at his knee Thrusts forth his head, the coach to see. The stalwart son, who bides at home Into the doorway too, has come ; His wife and baby now appear, Hark ! ’tis the sound of wheels they hear. The stage at last, with stately sweep, Comes round the curve, and from it leap The city sons who left the farm, And join the group with greeting warm. Quick bounding at the prick of goad A pillioned nag trots up the road, And pausing at the humble stoop Adds two new comers to the group. The meeting house looms white and bare High on the hill, above them there. And in its steeple thumps and sways The bell that calls to prayer and praise. The feast, at last! The grace is said, And up bobs every eager head. And bright eyes, like some greedy power, Go seeking what they may devour. The turkey at the feast is lost, The chickens get their drum sticks crossed. And empty plates just filled with pies The good wife marks with smiling eyes. Each finds his limit reached at last ; The apples come, the nuts are passed. The mugs of cider, brimming stand, And jokes fly round on every hand. So goes the day till evening comes, And on the hob the kettle hums ; The roasting apple puffs its cheek, And children play at hide-and-seek. Perhaps this day, in years to come May find them wanderers from home. And with joy-haunting memories cheer The shadows of that changeful year. COVER THEM OVER WITH FLOWERS. Cover them over with beautiful flowers, Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours, Lying so silent by night, and by day, Sleeping the years of their manhood away. Give them the meed they have won in the past Give them the honors their future forecast, Give them the chaplets they won in the strife, Give them the laurels they lost with their life. Cover the hearts that have beaten so high, Beaten with hopes that were doomed but to die ; Hearts that have yearned for the home far away. Once they were glowing with friendship and love, Now those great spirits are soaring above. Bravely their blood to the nation they gave, Then in her bosom they found there a grave. Cover the thousands who sleep far away ; Sleep where their friends cannot find them to-day. They who on mountain, and hillside, and dell, Rest where they wearied, and lie where they fell. Softly the grass blade creeps round their repose, Sweetly above them the wild floweret blows, Zephyrs of freedom fly gently o’erhead, Whispering prayers for the patriot dead. ior When the long years have rolled slowly away, E’en to the dawn of earth’s funeral day ; When at the angels’ loud trumpet and tread, Rise up the faces and forms of the dead, When the great world its last judgment awaits, Then the blue sky shall fling open its gates, And the long columns march solemnly through ; Blessings for garlands shall cover them o’er, Fathers, husbands, brothers, and lovers, Cover them over, these brothers of ours, Cover them all with beautiful flowers. DECEMBER— THE SEA GOAT. BY MARGARET JOHNSON. He butted back with angry horns The waves that broke against his side, He lashed them with his glistening tail . Until there blew a mighty gale ; Tumultuous rose the tide. The sea plants shut their trembling leaves, The fishes fled to nooks remote, And every creature shook to hear The raging of the angry Goat. With broken wings, a hapless ship Did roll beneath the wintry sky ; To stormy wind and boisterous main, The faithful mariners in vain Sent out a piteous cry ; 102. Old Neptune thundered from his throne, And Triton blew a warning note ; With plunging hoofs and furious horns, Still in the tempest raged the Goat. Then from her cave, a pale sea-maid, With green and gleaming locks, did glide, And crossing on her breast her hands, All whiter than the white sea-sands, Went singing down the tide. ( ) crystal clear the liquid strain That rippled from her silver throat — The melody that lulled the waves And hushed the fury of the Goat. Oh, blithely sailed the happy ships ; And oh, a blithe and merry tune, While soft the sea-maid’s music rang, The happy mariners they sang Beneath the wintry moon ; The glimmering fishes circled near , The blossoms waved like flames afloat ; The sea-maid, laughing, bound her hair Serenely by the sleeping Goat. ONLY AN ^MIGRANT. Only an emigrant lying there On the rock-bound coast of Halifax bay, With the salt sea damp on his yellow hair, And his face aghast in death’s dismay ! Only an emigrant ! One of five hundred ; Hurled to his doom when some one blundered. When the rich go down we may reckon the cost! And value their lives and what they are worth ; But who will weep for the emigrant lost — This clod of clay that cumbered the earth ? Drive the nails in his coffin-lid : And let his corpse from our sight be hid. But list, I pray. Leagues on leagues away, In a turf-thatched hut on the Irish shore, There are human hearts which are breaking to-day ; And bright hopes dashed for evermore, And eyes half blinded with passionate tears, And the dreary outlook of desolate years. Only an emigrant lying there, Lifeless and mute in Halifax bay, But his soul was strong and his skies were fair When he left his home — a month to-day. He fondled his child and kissed his wife Ere he sought new scenes in the battle of life Brawny his hands and brave his heart, And firm his belief that the hour would come When those with whom he dreaded to part Should join him again in a western home, Hopeful and happy and rich, and free, In a better land beyond the sea. 106 Only an emigrant’s family there In the Irish home where the news has sped, But the terrible look of utter despair Makes the face of the living as sad as the dead ; For the light of their lives went out that day, When the ship struck the rocks in Halifax bay. Only an emigrant lying there, With his parted lips grown ashen gray, With the sea damp on his yellow hair, And his face aghast in death’s dismay ! O merciful God ! take his soul to thee, In the better land beyond the sea. “MUSIC HATH CHARMS.” Four of us out in the meadow, Four of us under a tree; Here’s faithful Flo, her playmate Beau, And my violin, and me. We are the two performers — They are the waiting crowd; And they sit and stare, with so grava an air, I could almost laugh aloud. You really ought to watch them While the tuning-up takes place ! Oh, the dismal howls and indignant growls — The misery on each face ! My best tunes scarcely please them, Though I play rather well — for me ; But they love me so, they would scorn to go, And leave me alone, you see. Birds above in the branches Listen and catch the tone ; Then away they thrill with a sound so shrill That it nearly drowns my own. They care not who is playing, Those happy birds in the tree : But faithful Flo and her playmate Beau Listen for love of me ! 108 mm THE ENGINEER. Trust to dreams, Bill? I do! Foolish — still, Do you mind that culvert — number eight? I dreamt the train was there, Dusting it, too. I’ll swear ! — We were more’n twenty minutes late! Right on the edge Of that trussle bridge I saw my little pet gal, little Jane ! — She’s the very one that’s dead, But I saw her — her head And her blue eyes— just as plain as plain ! All of a sweat I whistled brakes, you bet ! But she never smiled or spoke ! She floated to me quick, Kissed me on the cheek, And vanished then ! — Then I woke. Say what you will, Dreams have their meaning, Bill. Pardner, if I should go up, tell my wife— God ! the culvert — gone ! Jump, Bill! I’ll hold on To the brakes here ! Save your life ! Can’t get me loose, Friends — it’s no use! ’Twon’t be long, though— let me lay. I’m easy so, when still. Somebody’s call — ah, here’s Bill ! Don’t fret, pardner— I had to go this wa^ 6 hi Nobody hurt but me? That’s good ! Bill, you’ll see The old woman? Tell her, don’t complain. There’s money in the bank — She’s other things to be thank — Ah! stoop down. Kiss your father, little Jane. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. By the flow of the inland river Whence the fleets of iron have fled ; Where the blades of the grave grass quiver, Asleep in the ranks of the dead ; Under the sod and the dew Waiting the Judgment Day ; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat; Each with the battle blood gory In the dust of Eternity meet. Under the sod and the dew Waiting the Judgment Day^ Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go ; Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the" friend and the foe. 1 1 2 Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment Day; Under the roses, the Blue, Under the lilies, the Gray. So with an equal splendor The morning sun rays fall ; With a touch impartially tender On the blossoms blooming for all. Under the sod and the dew Waiting the Judgment Day ; Bordered with gold the Blue, Mellowed with gold the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On forest, and field of grain ; With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drops of rain. Under the sod and the dew Waiting the Judgment Day; Wet with the rain, the Blue, Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding The generous deed was done In the storm of the years that are fading No braver battle was won. Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the Judgment Day ; Under the blossoms, the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war-cry sever, Nor the winding rivers be red ; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead Under the sod and the dew, ii Waiting the Judgment Day ; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. A LITTLE BOY’S THOUGHTS. I thought when I had learned my letters That all my troubles were o’er ; But I find myself mistaken ; They have only just begun. Learning to read was awful, t But nothing like learning to write. I’d be sorry to have you know it — But my copy book is a sight ! The ink. gets over my fingers, The pen cuts all sorts of shines. And won’t do at all as I bid it, The letters won’t stay on the lines, But go up and down all over As though they were dancing a jig ; They are there in all shapes and sizes — Medium, little and big. The tails of the g’s are so contrary, The handles get on the wrong side Of the d’s and q’s and the h’s, 114 LEARNING TO READ WAS AWKOI Though I’ve certainly tried, and tried T °I Teilf ^em look just right. It is dreadfu I really don t know what to do • 1 T/ ettln ^ almost distracted— My teacher says she is, too. There’d be some comfort in learning o' °-r Id through; instead that, there are books waiting Ouite enough to craze my held. Ihpres the multiplication table And grammar, and oh ! dear me ! S n ° g °u° d pIace for topping VV hen one has begun, I see. 5 My teacher says, little by little n 1 v nT Untain - to P s we climb ; it isn t all done in a minute, But only a step at a time. ^he says that all the scholars, All the wise and learned men, H ?deach to begin as I do B that s so, where’s my pen ? THEY" SAY. But h can S fhp'' ah WCU su PP° se they do, But can they prove the story true? Suspicions may arise from nought But malice, envy, want of thought ; Why count yourself among the “ they,” Who whisper what they dare not say? And y hH y \ bUt ^ hy !l he taIe reh earse And help to make the matter worse? No good can possibly accrue *rom telling what may be untrue- And is it not a better plan To speak of all the best you can ? They say ! well, if it should be true, Why need you tell the tale of woe? Will it the bitter wrong redress, Or make one pang of sorrow less? Will that the erring one restore Henceforth, to “ go and sin no more ” ? They say ! Oh ! pause and look within, See how the heart inclines to sin. Watch ! lest in dark temptation’s hour, Thou too, should sink beneath its power. Pity the frail — weep o’er the fall ; But speak the good, or not at all. MEMORY. BY JAMES A. GARFIELD. ’Tis beauteous night; the stars look brightly down Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow. No light gleams at the window, save my own, Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me. And now, with noiseless step, sweet Memory comes And leads me gently through her twilight realm. What poet’s tuneful lyre has ever sung Or artist’s delicate pencil e’er portrayed The enchanted, shadowy land where Memory dwells? It has its valleys, cheerless, lone and drear, Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress tree; And yet its sunlit mountain tops are bathed In heaven’s own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs, Robed in the dreamy light of distant years, Are clustered joys serene of other days. Upon its gentle, sloping hillsides bend The weeping willows o’er the sacred dust Of dear, departed ones ; yet in that land Where’er our footsteps fall upon the shore, They that were sleeping rise from out the dust Of death’s long, silent years, and round us stand, As first they did before the prison-tomb Received their clay within its voiceless halls. The heavens that bend above that land are hung With clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill, Surcharged with sorrow, cast their somber shade Upon the sunny, joyous land below. Others are floating through the dreamy air, White as the falling snow, their margins tinged With gold and crimson hues. Their shadows fall Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes, Soft as the shadow of an angel’s wing. When the rough battle of the day is done, And evening’s peace falls gently on the heart, I bound away, across the noisy years, Unto the utmost verge of memory’s land, Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet, And memory dim with dark oblivion joins, Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell Upon the ear in childhood’s early morn ; And, wandering thence along the rolling years, I see the shadow of my former self Gliding from childhood up to man’s estate. The path of youth winds down through many a vale. And on the brink of many a dread abyss, From out whose darkness comes no ray of light, Save that a phantom dances o’er the gulf 121 And beckons toward the verge. Again the path Leads o’er the summits where the sunbeams fall; And thus in light, in sunshine and in gloom, ■Sorrow and joy, this life-path leads along. THE DECORATING MANIA. Charles and his city wife came home About Thanksgiving day ; She’s a smart gal an’ all for style, And style ain’t much my way. She looked about our sitting-room (I own it’s sort o’ bare), And said she soon could give our house A fashionable air. “You needn’t purchase things,” says she With a superior smile, “I’ll use your common household goods, For them are all the style.” And with a little gilt and such, She fixed us up so fine, That when I looked about the house I hardly knew ’twas mine. Well! pa and me, at first were pleased But pa soon cried in wrath, “Where is the old snow-shovel gone? I want to make a path.” And there it was a’ painted up With many a bud and rose, And hanging on the parlor wall By sky-blue ribbon bows. 122 And soon it was my turn to fret When ironing dav came round ; I had two favorite flatirons, But only one 1 found. I went into the sitting-room Arjd there I found the mate All gilded up to look like gold, And made a paper-weight. And when pa bought a steak, I found Of broiler I had lack ; The gridron was fixed to be A fine newspaper rack. And all the tins for jelly-cake Had been well washed from grease, And painted up like plaques, to stand Upon the mantel-piece. But wnen pa round his old arm-chair That hugged the kitchen fire, A’ painted white, and hung with bows, The way some folks admire. And standing in the sitting-room, Too nice and fine to use, He said that fashionable styles He henceforth should refuse. So pa and me we both agreed That fashion hadn’t paid, And that we’d use our common things For what they most seemed made. So down came shovels, down came pans, And oft' came every bow, And things are now more comfortable, If not so much for show. 123 THE RAIN-WAGON. MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES. The air was hushed and breathless, The day had been very warm. And a heavy black cloud in the West Threatened a thunder-storm. We could hear the terrible rumble And roar as the thunder burst ; And Teddy was grave, and left his play, Afraid from the very first. At last down came the shower In a full flood from the sky, And the lightning dazzled us with its blaze And Teddy began to cry. “ What is it ” he asked, “ that rattles So dreadfully overhead ? ” “The rain-wagon, going over abridge, ” The little nurse-girl said. \h, that was a pretty notion, A wagon made of the rain, Perhaps it ran on an iron track As runs a railroad train. And the sound that followed the lightning, And echoed so far and loud, Was only the roar of the wagon wheels When it came to a bridge of cloud. That comforted little Teddy ; He did not cry again ; But rather grew to like to hear The wagon made of the rain. Not all the truths of science That the searching world has taught, I am sure could have soothed that childish fear. Like the nurse-girl’s happy thought. 124 IN MEMORIAM. BY W. J. LAMPTON. Dead, Are tlie blue and the gray ; Dead, And the terrible fray Is ended. Dead, Are the shot and the shell ; Dead, Is the conflict they tell ; And splendid The deeds of the men who died For opinion, crucified. Dead, Are the gray and the blue ; Dead, Are the false and the true : Dead, Are the brothers, who fought ; Dead In the cause each one thought Was right ; Dead, And the night Of the past is gone, And the radiant dawn Of peace Has broken along the line Of the hills, and the glad sunshine Of the newer day — of war’s surcease, Has flooded the earth with glory, And the story Is told In the flowers we bring ; 127 In the fold Of the grand old Flag as we fling It out to the breeze, Today, among the trees, Which wave Above the brave, Who sleep beneath The laurel wreath, The sweet June rose, the blue hare bell, The cypress and the asphodel. Dead, And with these sons have died Sectional hate and the pride Which killed. And stilled Is all save a country unified. WHAT THE OLD MAN SAID. ALICE ROBBINS. ■“Well? yes, sir, yes, sir, thankee! so-so, for my time o’ life : I ’m pretty gray, and bent with pains that cut my nerves like a knife ; The winters bear hard upon me ; the summers scorch me sore ; I ’m sort o’ weary of all the world : and I’m only turned threescore. “ My old father is ninety, and as hearty as a buck : You won’t find many men of his age so full of vigor and pluck. 12S He felled the first tree cut in the place, and laid the first log down ; And living an honest, temperate life, he’s the head man of the town. “ But you see, when I was twenty or so, I wanted to go to the city ; And I got with a wild set over there, that were neither wise nor witty, And so I laid the foundation, sir, of what you see to-day, — Old little past the prime of life, and a general wast- ing away. “ ’T ain’t a natural fever, this, sir ; it ’s one no doctor can cure. I was made to bear strong burdens, ox-like and slow, but sure ; And I only lived for my pleasures, though I had been a Christian bred, I lived for self, sir, and here ’s the end — crawling about half dead ! “Well, well! ’t won’t do to think on ’t. I try to forget my pain, My poisoned blood, and my shattered nerves, my wreck of body and brain , Only, I saw you drinking, just now, — drinking that devil’s drain ; There’s where I liked to have stepped into hell, and gone by the fastest train. “You don’t like my blunt speech, mebbe ; well, ’tis n't the nicest out ; Only, when a man’s looked over the brink, he knows what he’s talking about; X2 9 And if, with his eyes wide open, he ’s walked straight into the flame, And nothing less than the mercy of God has turned his glory to shame, “ Then > when he says there ’s a drunkard’s hell you d better believe it’s true. I’ve fought with the devil hand to hand, and tested him through and through. We know, who ’ve bartered body and soul, what body and soul are worth ; And there s nothing like to a drunkard’s woe in all God’s beautiful earth. “ Wife, children ! Haven’t I had them ? Yes ! no man has had sweeter than I ; But children and wife are dead and dust— why what could they do but die ? Don t ask me to tell you of them, because it blots out God’s mercy even ; And it don’t seem sure, though I’ve left my cups, that my sin can be forgiven. “ I tell you it’s hard for a shattered hulk to drif^ into harbor safe, And I feel sometimes, with my threescore years like a hopeless, homeless waif. But there s one thing certain ; I’ve overcome, and I U fight while I draw a breath, When I see a fine young fellow like you going down to the gates of death. u You’ll laugh, perhaps, at an old man’s zeal? 1 laughed in a young man’s glee ; But God forbid, if you reach threescore, you should be a wreck like me !” 130 library OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS Look what my dear old hen’s been after ! At home, in a queer old cattle-shed, She used to “ lay ” on a broken rafter, Up in the roof above my head. But now on the deck, quite proud and quiet, She sits in a basket filled with straw ; And, just to improve our salt meat diet, Lays the prettiest eggs that you ever saw . We’re only “ steerage,” but I’ve been saying The “ first-class ” haven’t a hen like mine ; She’s a beautiful hen, and so good for “laying” — Why, the very first week she laid me nine ! On a long sea voyage in misty weather It’s rather tiring sometimes, you see ; But we’re very good company together — I talk to her and she clucks to me. We talk of the dear old home behind us, And the strange new country we’re going to ; Nobody seems in the least to mind us, What we are saying or what we do. Father is dead, and so is mother, And Bridget is married across the sea : Bridget’s my sister — I have no other — And so she has sent for my hen and me. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. [MARK LEMON TO LONDON PUNCH. J You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln’s bier. You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer., His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face. His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please ; You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil’s laugh. Judging each step as though the way were plain ; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph Of chief’s perplexity, or people’s pain : Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you ? Yes! He had lived to shame me from my sneer. To lame my pencil, and confute my pen ; To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men. My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, Noting how to occasion’s height he rose ; How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true ; How iron-like his temper grew by blows. How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be; How in good fortune and in ill, the same ; I 34 Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. He went about his work — such work as few Ever had laid on head, and heart, and hand — As one who knows, where there’s a task to do ; Man’s honest will must heaven’s good grace command ; Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work his will, If but. that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. So he went forth to battle, on the side That he felt clear was Liberty’s and Right’s, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature’s thwarting mights — The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron bark, that turns the lumberer’s axe, The rapid that o’erbears the boatman’s toil ; The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer’s tracks. The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear; Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train ; Rousrh culture — but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. So he grew up a destined work to do, And lived to do it. Four long-suffering years’ Ill-fate, ill feeling, ill-report lived through, And then he heard the hisses changed to cheers, The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood; Till, as he came on light, from darkling days And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, A felon hand between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest — And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest! The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When the vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame. Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high ; Sad life cut short, just as its triumph Came. A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin’s hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore ; But thy foul crime like Cain’s, stands darkly out. Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate’er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven; And with the martyr’s crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven. 136 1 IDYL OF A PUBLIC SCHOOL. Ram it it in, cram it in — Children’s heads are hollow ; Slam it in, jam it in — Still there’s more to follow ; Hygiene and history, Astronomic mystery, Botany, geometry, Greek, and trigonometry — Ram it in, cram it in, Children’s heads are hollow. Rap it in, tap it in — What are teachers paid for ? Bang it in, slap it in — \Vhat are children made for ? Ancient archaeology, Aryan philology, Calculus and mathematics, Rhetoric and hydrostatics — Hoax it in, coax it in, Children’s heads are hollow. Scold it in, mould it in, All that they can swallow ; Fold it in, hold it in, Still there’s more to follow ; Faces pinched, and sad and pale, Tell the same undying tale — Tell of moments robbed from sleep, Meals untasted, studies deep. Those who’ve passed the furnace through, With aching brow will tell to you How the teacher crammed it in, Rammed it in, jammed it in, Rubbed it in, clubbed it in, 137 MATERNITY. E. HARRIET HOWE. God gave me children, so He fed, in part, The quenchless longings of a loving heart ; And taught me how to love, and He doth choose My loved for me, and so I never lose ; And, for my children, O what love divine This dear pre-natal pledge, “ They shall be mine ! Thrilling my soul with life inspiring flame ; Twin born with Love, so all my children came. When near my heart their first faint pulses beat, It seemed an angel spoke a secret sweet, With a strange meaning other words above To fit my girlish heart for mother love ; Trembling at thought of life’s great mystery My timid soul His way alone would see : Alone, and kneeling in the twilight dim, The asked of God, I gave again to Him. I even dared to pray, so bold I grew, That He would keep me to my trust as true, As His own Virgin Mother when she bare, The Incarnate Life beneath her bosom fair ; And often through those waiting days there came, Dear thoughts of Him who bore the sweetest name,. Who made for us the badge of motherhood — The deepest sorrow, and the highest good. I leaned by day upon His promise strong, And heard by night the angels’ cradle song. And looking ever in His tender face, Could say, “ Thou knowest it is all of grace ! ” So, in the promise of His love I rest, Since faith will always say, “ He knoweth best. ” And trust my flock shall gathered be at last, Safe in the fold above, when life is past. 138 If LAUNCH OF THE SHIP. r HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. {Abridged!) All is finished, and at length has come the bridal day of beauty and of strength ! To-day the vessel shall be launched ! with fleecy clouds the sky is blanched ; and o’er the bay, slowly, in all his splen- dors dight, the great sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old, centuries old, strong as youth and as uncontrolled, paces restless to and fro, up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest; and, far and wide, with ceaseless flow, his beard of snow heaves with the heaving of his breast. He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, with her foot upon the sands, decked with flags and streamers gay, in honor of her mar- riage day ; her snow-white signals, fluttering, blending, round her like a veil descending, ready to be the bride of the gray old sea. Then the master, with a gesture of command, waved his hand ; and at the word, loud and sudden there was heard, all around them and below, the sound of hammers, blow on blow, knocking away the shores and spurs. And see ! she stirs ! she starts ! she moves ! she seems to feel the thrill of life along her keel ! and, spurning with her foot the ground, with one exulting, joyous bound, she leaps into the ocean’s arms, And lo ! from the as- sembled crowd there rose a shout prolonged and loud, that to the ocean seemed to say, “ Take her, O bridegroom old and gray ! take her to thy pro- tecting arms, with all her youth and all her charms!” Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! Through wind and wave, right onward steer ; the moistened eye, 141 the trembling lip are not the signs of doubt or fe Thou, too, sail on, O Sh.p of State ! sail on , 0 Union, strong and great ! Humanity, with all its fears with all its hdpes of future years is hanging breathTess on thy fa F te! We .know what Master laid thy keel, what workmen wrought thy ribs ot steel who made each mast and sqil and rope, what anvils rang, what hammers beat, in what a forge, and* what^a heat, were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden s ? u .nd and shock, ’tis P of the wave, and not the rock ; Us but the flap, ping of the sail, and not a rent made by the gale In spite of rock and tempest roar, in spite of false lights on the shore, sail on ! nor fear to br jast the sea ; our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee . Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o'er our fears, are all with thee . are all with thee ! THE TIN BUCKET AND THE WILLOW oacmvc-T RRIfiADF. Have you seen as I have seen in the early morning gray Ere the sunbeams riped the mountain tops, The workman on his way, To his busy scenes of labor, with trowel, or with spade? He’s one of Heaven’s nobility, and belongs to the brigade. While the merchant in his palace, in dreams gloats o’er his gold, While the loafer in the market house, lies slumber- ing in the cold, 142 Our hero with his bucket bright, goes whistling to his trade. God bless him ! and all the noble men who belong to the brigade. Then in the early morning gray, when laggards lie in bed, The maid with basket on her arm, goes forth to earn her bread ; Her modest mein commands respect, though in calico arrayed, What a noble wife she’ll make for him who belongs to the brigade. God bless the honest sons of toil who with the lark arise, [skies; And hasten to their labor, ere the sun illume the God bless the modest maidens all, who ply their daily trade, If I were hunting for a wife, it would be in this brigade. 43 BABY AND I. ELIZABERH B. BOHAN. We’re sailing to dreamland — baby and I, Our boat is nearing the shore ; His head is at rest on my loving breast, We list to the dipping oar. Shall we land together In the dreamland heather, O baby, with soft eyes of blue ? Shall we roam the meadows And play with the shadows ? Sleep darling, I’m waiting for you. We’re sailing to dreamland — baby and I, How white are the dreamland sheep, How purple the hills, how blue are the rills ! O, hasten, my darling to sleep. The birds — how delightful, O, sleep, a whole nightful, They want you — the birds and the flowers, And the gay bntterflies They will dazzle your eyes When you enter the dreamland bowers. We’re sailing to dreamland — baby and I, O, cool and calm is the night ; His rosy lips coo, his breath, sweetest dew, Fills my heart with love and light, O, soft is the pillow, And playful the billow That rocks us to dreamland, my own. Are little feet ready ? Then steady — there — steady, Thy mother must still land alone. 144 BESSIE’S CHRISTMAS EVE LARK. GERTRUDE MANLY JONES. Sweet Bessie Bronner, an heiress, and pet, The pride of her home, and the queen of her set, Has a frown on her face, and is restless, and vexed, At the hold on her mind, of one troublesome text, And impatient, she peers through the big window pane In the deepening dusk, as she murmurs again : “ ‘ Inasmuch as ye did it not ’ — pshaw, what have I To do with ‘ these little ones, ’ of the Most High ! “ Perhaps, ” still she muses, “ some poor little one Dreams to-night of a Santa, who never will come ; What a lark it would be — if I only did dare ” — Here her eyes flash as bright as the gems in her hair, As with quick resolution she rings for old Jim, The tried, faithful footman, the slave of her whim. “ Order the carriage, Jim, please, right away ; Not one word of this, to any one say ; “ Get ready to follow me ; for you alone, Shall be for one evening, my sole chaperon.” 147 Then upstairs she runs, for her purse and her toque. Over her evening dress, draws a warm cloak, And then, to the “ swell, ” who later should call To accompany her to a holiday ball, A very short note does she hastily pen : “ Shall be ready to fill my engagement at ten.” Then down to the city, through gay, brilliant streets. Where her carriage is crammed with toys and sweets. “ Now, to Rag Muffin Quarter ; ” and old Jim, aghast. Protesting in vain, gives the order at last. Our Bessie alights from her coach in the dark, Her heart beating fast, at her venturesome lark, And, followed by Jim with his arms full of toys, She climbs an old stair, guided up by the noise. Tossing her cloak and cap on the floor, She timidly knocks at a half opened door, Then enters the room ill-lighted and bare, Appalled at the squalor, and poverty there ; A half dozen children in silent surprise, Stare at the lady, with wondering eyes. Who was this creature in shimmering silk, With glittering jewels, and skin white as milk ? Their rapt admiration brings smiles to her face, And she says — with a courtesy of old-fashioned grace — « I am Santa Claus’ wife, and it’s now Christmas time : 148 Please accept these few toys with his love and mine.” Like the flash of a meteor, brilliant, and queer, To dazzle a moment, and then disappear, From one room to another speeds light-hearted Bess With her quaint little bow and startling address, Quick followed by laughter and shrieks of delight As the dolls, guns and wagons are dragged into sight. The last door is opened, and wond’ring Bess stands With her gay greeting checked, and with close clasping hands. On a cot in the corner, a wretched boy lies, With fever-flushed face, and with wild, restless eyes. Beside him, a little girl, haggard and old, In the dim candle light ; and the room was so cold. Then a voice broke the silence with pitiful ring : “ Oh, you are an angel, and so you can sing ! For two days and nights, Bennie’s raved and he’s cried For the song that our mother sung ’way ’fore she died. ‘Jesus lover’ — he mutters, all day and night, And he begs me to sing ; and I’ve tried with my might, Bat I can’t sing, for hunger, and pain in my head ; And he won’t go to sleep ; Oh, I wish we were dead !” With a heart that was aching, and eyes that were dim, H9 Our Bess began singing the old gospel hymn : “ Jesus lover” — in beauty, the youthful voice rang, And the lad watched, intently, her face while she sang. Rough women and children out of the rooms pour, And gather in silence, about Bennie’s door ; And hard-looking men from below leave their beer, And stand around, wondering, such music to hear. Perchance, some sin-burdened bosom is wrung, As once more they hear it, “ the song mother sung. ” The old hymn is ended in silence most deep, For poor restless Bennie had fallen asleep. To the child, Bessie whispered, “ Here’s money my dear, For food and for fire, and holiday cheer ; My doctor — please God — shall save Bennie’s life ; Good-bye ; don’t forget me — old Santa Claus’ wife. — And the girl, all unconscious of danger or harm, With a fortune in gems on her white neck and arm, Smiled up at her audience sweetly, and bowed, As she passed safely out through the grim, silent crowd. Bessie Bronner then went to her holiday ball, And found there the lights, flowers, music and all ; She was danced, wined, and flattered, and into her ear, Was whispered soft nonsense she never did hear, For the whole thing seemed vapid, insipid and mean, * 5 ° And her mind wandered off to a different scene. * * * * * In the tenement house to this day are still rife, Strange stories of Santa Claus’ beautiful wife : And the gay swells of fashion are puzzling yet, What lost them the queen of their rollicking set : For one taste of unselfishness, spoiled the gay girl, For Fashion’s caprices, and Revelry’s whirl, On that bright Christmas eve, in a Santa Claus role, The butterfly girl found a woman’s sweet soul. Dalton, Ga. IS IT RIGHT? ■“ It is nothing to me,” the beauty said, With a careless toss of her pretty head; “ The man is weak if he can’t refrain From the cup they say is fraught with pain.” But it was something to her in after years When her eyes were drenched with burning tears, And she watched in lonely grief and dread And started to hear a staggering tread. “ It is nothing to me,” the merchant said, As over his ledger he bent his head; “ I am busy to-day with tare and tret And have no time to fume and fret.” But it was something to him when over the wire A message came from a funeral pyre, A drunken conductor had wrecked a train, And his wife and child were among the slain. “ It is nothing to me,” the mother said, “ I have no fear that my boy will tread The downward path of sin and shame And crush my heart, and darken his name.” But ’twas something to her when that only son From the path of right was early won, And madly cast in the flowing bowl, A ruined body and sin-wrecked soul. 152 « It is nothing to me,” the young man cried, In his eye was a flash of scorn and pride, “ I heea not the dreadful tales ye tell, I can rule myself, I know full well.” But ’twas something to him when in prison he lay A victim to drink, life ebbing away, He thought of his wretched child and wife And the mournful wreck of his wasted life. “ It is nothing to me,” the voter said, « The party’s loss is my geatest dread So he gave his vote for the liquor trade, Though hearts were crushed and drunkards made. But ’twas something to him in after life, When his daughter became a drunkard’s wife, And her hungry children cried for bread And shuddered to hear their father’s tread. Is it nothing for us to idly sleep, While the cohorts of death their vigils keep, To gather the young and thoughtless in And grind in our midst a grist of sin? Is it nothing — yes, all for us to stand And clasp by faith our Saviour’s hand, And learn to labor, live and fight For truth and justice and the right. THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS. E. C. STEDMAN. Whither away, Robin, Whither away ? Is it through envy of the maple leaf, Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast. Thou wilt not stay ? The summer days were long, yet all too brief The happy season thou hast been our guest ; Whither away ? Whither away, Blue-bird, Whither away ? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, The hue of May. Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring ? Whither away ? Whither away, Swallow, Whither away ? Canst thou no longer tarry in the North, Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest — Not one short day ? Wilt thou — as if thou human wert — go forth And wanton far from those who love thee best? Whither away ? CLEAR THE WAY. Men of thought, be up and stirring night and day, 156 Sow the seed — withdraw the curtain, clear the way ! Men of action, aid and cheer them as ye may. There’s a fount about to stream, There’s a light about to beam, There’s a warmth about to glow, There’s a flower about to blow, There’s a midnight blackness changing into gray, Men of thought, and men of action, clear the way. Once the welcome light was broken, who shall say What the unimagined glories of the day ? What the evil that shall perish in its ray ? Aid the dawning tongue and pen, Aid it hopes of honest men. Aid it paper — aid it type, Aid it for the hour is ripe, And our earnest must not slacken into play. Men of thought, and men of action, clear the way ! Lo ! a cloud about to vanish from the day And a brazen wrong crumble into clay. Lo ! the right’s about to conquer, clear the way ! With the right shall many more Enter smiling at the door ; With the giant wrong shall fall Many others, great and small, That for ages long have held us for their prey, Men of thought, and men of action, clear the way ! SCOTT AND THE VETERAN. BAYARD TAYLOR. An old crippled veteran to the War Department came, of fame — He sought the Chief who led him on many a field T S7 8 The Chief who shouted “ Forward! ” where’er his banner rose, And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes. “ Have you forgotten, General,” the battered sol- dier cried, “ The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when 1 was at your side ? Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at Lun- dy’s Lane ? ’Tis true I’m old and pensioned, but I want to fight again.” “ Have I forgotten?” said the Chief; “ my brave old soldier, no ! And here’s the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so ; But you have done your share, my friend ; you’re crippled, old, and gray, And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to-day." “ But General,” cried the veteran, a flush upon his brow, « The very men who fought with us, they say, are -aitors now ! They torn the flag of Lundy’s Lane, our old red, white and blue, And while a drop of blood is left, I’ll show that drop is true. “ I’m not so weak but T can strike, and I’ve a good old gun, To get the range of traitors’ hearts, and prick them, one by one. Your Minie rifles and such arms, it ain’t worth while to try ; 158 I couldn't get the hang 'o them, but I’ll keep my powder dry !” “ God bless you, comrade !” said the Chief, — “ God bless your loyal heart ! But younger men are in the field, and claim to have a part ; They’ll plant our sacred banner firm, in each re- bellious town, And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it down !” “ But, General !” — still persisting, the weeping vet- eran cried, “ I’m young enough to follow, so long as you’re my guide ; And some you know, must bite the dust, and that, at least, can I ; So give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to die ! “If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in command Put me upon the rampart with the flag-staff in my hand : No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the shell may fly, I’ll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die ! “ I’m ready, General, so you let a post to me be given, Where Washington can look at me, as he looks down from heaven, And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, Gen- eral Wayne, — [Lundy’s Lane!’ ‘There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at I 59 “ And when the fight is raging hot, before the traitors fly, When shell and ball are screeching, and bursting in the sky, If any shot should pierce through me, and lay me on my face, My soul would go to Washington’s, and not to Arnold’s place !” DISCONTENT. Down in the fields one day in June, The flowers all bloomed together, Save one who thought to hide herself — And drooped, that pleasant weather. A robin, who had soared too high, And felt a little lazy, Was resting near a buttercup, Who wished she was a daisy. The buttercups must always be The same all-tiresome color, While daisies dress in gold and white Altho’ their gold is duller ! “ Dear Robin,” said this sad young flower, “ Perhaps you won’t mind trying To find a nice white frill for me Some day when you are flying.” 160 “You silly thing," the robin said, “ l think you must be crazy ; I’d rather be my honest self, Than any maae-up daisy. “You’re nicer in your own bright gown; The little children love you ; Be the best buttercup you can, And think no flower above you. “ Tho’ swallows leave us out of sight, We’d better keep our places ; Perhaps the world would go all wrong With one too many daisies!” GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING. LORD HOUGHTON. A fair little girl sat under a tree, Sewing, as long as her eyes could see ; Then she smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, “ Dear work, good-night, good-night! Such a number of rooks flew over her head, Crying, “ Caw ! caw !” on their way to bed ; She said, as she watched their curious flight,^ “ Little black things, good-night, good-night !” The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, The sheep’s bleat ! bleat ! came over the road, All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, “ Good little girl, good-night, good-night !” She did riot say to the sun, “ Good-night !” Though she saw him there like a ball of light For she knew he had God’s time to keep All over the world, and never could sleep. 163 The tall pine fox-glove bowed his head, The violets curtsied and went to bed ; And good little Lucy tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. And, while on her pillow she softly lay, She knew nothing more, till again it was day ; And all things said to the beautiful sun, “ Good-morning ! good-morning ! our work is be- gun !” WHERE THE GYPSIES GO. BY MRS. S.- M. B. PIATT. “ Mamma, the sun went down too soon ; ^ There are more things I want to hear.” « Look through the window. There’s the moon, This is the time to dream, I fear.” “ But tell me where the gypsies go When there is snow.” “ I’ve told you all I know.” “ But it Is ever so little ! Tell me all That other people know.” “ Come, sit Here in the shelter of my shawl, And let’s guess where the gypsies go When there’s snow.” “ I cannot guess.” “ Then how can I ? I only know they vanish quite When the dark leaves go blowing by, ? Somewhere, or somewhere, out of sigh’.' “ But tell me where the gypsies go When there is snow.” “ My child, these gypsies seem to me Brown, grown up fairies, that belong 164 Only to summer. It may be They die out to some bird’s last song “ Please tell me where the gypsies go When there is snow.” “ Well, there are barns with clover hay, And lonesome lofts, where mice may creep ; For all I know, the gypsies may Go — just where you should go — to sleep. To sleep — that’s where the gypsies go When there is snow.” WHAT SANTA CLAUS THINKS. Hi ! another one ! What’s the world about ? Don’t these people know that I am most worn out ? Millions of ’em coming year by year ; Every youngster wretched if I don’t appear. First they want a rattle, then a ring to bite; Then a box of sugar plums, then a doll or kite ; Next a story book to read, then a bat and ball, Santa’s back is broad and strong, he must bring them all. Gratitude they talk about ; not a bit for me. First you know they get so wise, cry out “ Fiddle- de-de£.” No such chap as Santa Claus, can’t deceive us so. Never find a six inch sock hanging in the row. Here’s this jolly little chap, scarcely here a week. Don’t I know he rules the house, though he looks so meek ? [too, Both his eyelids shut up tight, mouth wide open, S’pose he got a look at me, wonder what he’d do? 165 Sleep away my little man, trouble comes with years, You are bound to get your share in this vale of tears. Rattle, is it? Well, all right! Yes, I’ve got my pen, Finish out your precious nap, and I’ll be round again. MY MERCIES. I’m summin’ up my mercies, Bess, That’s come to me this year, How much I have to thank Him for, How little cause to fear. Now first an’ foremost in the start, My faith was rather lean ; I tried to stand in my own strength, An’ then my heart wa’nt clean. I tried to put myself to rights By doin’ of good works, Just like the old Crusaders did, Who went to fight the Turks. I tried to make myself believe That I was doin’ right; So every mornin’ charged myself, An’ credit give each night. I kep’ my book, the Lord kep’ His, Till a’ter a while you see, The Lord, He showed me His account, I found they didn’t agree. I found the cred’ts I’d give myself, He’d charged the same to me, Makin’ me owe Him twice as much ’S ever I thought ’t would be. 166 • library of THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS But the parson set me thinkin’; He preached from where it saith, (The word was full of spirit,) “ By grace ye’re saved through faith. He said, “) r ou must b’lieve wi’ the doin’ Though slow to grasp the word, I’d made a mistake an’ knew it, So brought my case t’ the Lord. I've since been givin’ an’ doin’, The best year of my life, I live at peace with my Maker, He keeps me from all strife. My barns have increased with plenty, I’ve lost no cows nor sheep; I’m trustin’ Him, the Good Shepherd, Who watches while we sleep. I’ve had more to give the Lord, Bess, Than e’er I had before; But I first had to give myself — I wish it had been more. He gave me husband an’ children, My home, all I possess; All He asks in return for it — . A heart full o’ thankfulness. Now, Bess, the children are sleepin’. An’ all the stock is fed; Perhaps ’t will be doin’ us justice, If we should go to bed. Altho’ I’m not rich like some folks, I’m happy all the day; The Lord is so rich in mercy — Dear Bess, let’s kneel an’ pray. 169 MEN WANTED. Men wanted. Men who are honest and pure. Men who are wholesome and truthful. Men who will not be bribed. Men who are sound to the heart’s core. Yes, men are wanted. Men who are unwilling to eat the bread of idleness. Men who will scorn to wear what they have not honestly paid for. Men who know what ought to be done and will do it. Men who will give good counsel, who will set a good example, who will sympathize with the grieving, and succor the distressed. Men who will scorn to do a base thing even for a friend. Men who know how to obey before they undertake to command. Men who do more than they talk. Men who do good to their friends to keep them, to their enemies to gain them. Men who believe in syste- matic giving, and advocate it. Men whose hearts are moved by the sadness of others, who are touched by a hungry face, and cold, bare feet. Yes, indeed, men are wanted. Men who are brave and tender, who are not ashamed to wipe tears away. Men whose acts will bring smiles to wan faces. Men who hush lamentations and are rewarded with sweet songs of thanksgiving. THE LUCKY HORSESHOE. JAMES T. FIELDS. A farmer traveling with his load Picked up a horseshoe in the road, And nailed it fast to his barn-door, That Luck might down upon him pour ; That every blessing known in life 170 Might crown his household and his wife, And never any kind of harm Descend upon his growing farm. But dire ill-fortune soon began To visit the astonished man, His hens declined to lay their eggs ; His bacon tumbled from the pegs, And rats devoured the fallen legs ; His corn, that never failed before, Mildewed and rotted on the floor; His grass refused to end in hay ; His cattle died, or went astray ; In short, all moved the crooked way Next spring a great drouth baked the sod, And roasted every pea in pod ; The beans declared they could not grow So long as nature acted so ; Redundant insects reared their brood To starve for lack of juicy food ; The staves from barrel sides went off As if they had the whooping-cough, And nothing of the useful kind To hold together felt inclined; In short, it was no use to try While all the land was in a fry. One morn, demoralized with grief, The farmer clamored for relief ; And prayed right hard to understand What witchcraft now possessed his land ; Why house and farm in misery grew Since he nailed up that “ lucky” shoe. While thus dismayed o’er matters wrong An old man chanced to trudge along, To whom he told, with wormwood tears, How his affairs were in arrears, And what a desperate state of things A picked-up horseshoe sometimes brings. The stranger asked to see the shoe, The farmer brought it into view, But when the old man raised his head, He laughed outright and quickly said, “ No wonder skies upon you frown — You’ve nailed the horseshoe upside down Just turn it round, and soon you’ll see How you and Fortune will agree.” The farmer turned the horseshoe round, And showers began to swell the ground ; The sunshine laughed among the grain, And heaps on heaps piled up the wain; The loft his hay could barely hold, The cattle did as they were told ; His fruit trees needed sturdy props To hold the gathering apple crops ; His turnip and potato fields Astonished all men by their yields ; Folks never saw such ears of corn As in his smiling hills were born ; His barn was full of bursting bins — His wife presented him with twins; His neighbors marveled more and more To see the increase in his store. And now the merry farmer sings, “There are two ways of doing things; And when for good luck you would pray. Hang up your horseshoe the right way.” 172 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS ' DISPROVED. JULIA H. THAYER. “Poh-poh! Who sends the valentine In our refined, enlightened day? Back to its pagan gloom consign This worship at a worthless shrine,” I heard the wise old cynic say. “ Youth has outgrown the childish toy, The highly-colored heart and flowers And Cupid’s foolish darts employ No more the nobler aim and joy Of this exalted race of ours.” But softly ’mid the meerschaum’s smoke That circled his didactic head A far, faint dream of life awoke, And when the steel-blue cloudlets broke A sun-like face its radiance shed. The one, One face — the very same. The years were gone— love was divine ! And to his cold, blanched lips there came Again the blush of that dear name, His first, last, only Valentine. Alas ! for us, so worldly-wise ! Like dead leaves, ’round us fade and fall Our sophistries, in poor disguise, While shapes we scarcely recognize Remain the vernal things of all. There is no unbelief. The heart Of Truth beats strong, with master-stroke, Above the dissonance of Art, And theories that act a part Are certain, too, to end in smoke. 175 FATHER AND MOTHER. Young America has some very queer ways; one is the habit of calling certain of his relations, “ the governor,” “ the old man,” “ the old woman,” “her highness.” Who are these people that he speaks of in such a would-be funny way ? Why, they are the ones who have worked hard for years that he might have an easy time, who have worn blue jean and eaten johnny cake, that he might wear broad- cloth and dine expensively. They are, of all peo- ple in the world, the ones whom he ought to delight to honor. They are his father and mother. What do you suppose is the reason he doesn’t call them so? Perhaps it is because he is ashamed of them. Perhaps their grammar is a little crooked; well, it sounds better than his slang. Their manners may be a little stiff and old fashioned, but does his rowdyism make him appear any better? Ah! Master America, I fear you have some foolish notions in your head ! I fear those notions are in the place where your common sense ought to be. I don’t ask you to take any advice from me, but just be ready to tell why you are not proud of that trembling mother who has spent her strength in caring for you. If you do not cherish her in her declining years you are not worthy of the noble parents who so tenderly cared for you in yonr helpless infancy. THE POWER OF MONOSYLLABLES. J. ADDISON ALEXANDER. Think not that strength lies in the big round word, Or that the brief and plain must needs be weak; 176 To whom can this be true who once has heard The cry for help, the tongue that all men speak When want, or woe, or fear is in the throat. So that each word gasped out is like a shriek Pressed from the sore throat, or a strange, wild note Sung by some fay or fiend ! There is a strength Which dies if stretched too far, or spun too fine ; Which has more height than breadth, more depth than length. Let but this force of thought and speech be mine, And he that will may take the' sleek, fat phrase Which glows and burns not, though it gleam and •shine ; Light, but not heat — a flash without a blaze. Nor is it mere strength that the short word boasts ; It serves far more than fight or storm can tell — The roar of waves that clash on rock-bound coasts ; The crash of tall trees when the wild winds swell ; The roar of guns ; the groans of men that die On blood-stained fields. It has a voice as well For them that far off on their sick beds lie. For them that weep, for them that mourn the dead, For them that laugh, and dance, and clap the hand ; To joy’s quick step, as well as grief’s slow tread, The sweet, plain words we learnt at first keep time ; And though the theme be sad, or gay, or grand. With each, with all, these may be made to chime^ In thought or speech, or song, or prose, or rhyme. UNSOLVED MYSTERIES. R. J. BURDETTE. There are some unsolved mysteries in the prob- lem of life that give me cause for reflection and anxiety. If I were rich I believe I would build me a lonely cell with a storeroom like a wholesale grocery, where I might have plenty of help in studying the problems of life. For often and often I wonder and wonder : Why you always put teaspoons into the vase up- side down ? Why is it so wrong to eat pie with a knife? What Washington said to General Lee at the battle of Monmouth ? Why a man who “ has gone out of politics ” never misses a convention ? What the State would do for penitentiaries if all the rascals should suddenly step up and con- fess ? Why a woman falls like a flash not two inches from the banana skin she steps on, while a man falls like a cyclone half way round the block, howling like a demon at every plunge ? Why “ pure bear’s oil ” is cheaper when pork is away down ? Why a man frequently tries to make himself necessary when he would serve humanity much better by making himself scarce ? Why Tom Thumb was always billed as “ 23 years old ” until the day he died, when he made a jump of more than his lifetime? Whatever became of the “ blue glass ” remedy ? 178 I don’t believe in philosophy wasting its time on trifles. If the wise men want something useful and practical to ponder over, here are the prob- lems. CRACKED. Twas a set of resolutions, as fine as fine could be, And signed in painstaking fashion, by Nettie, and Joe and Bee. And last in the list was written, in letters broad and dark, To look as grand as the others, Miss Baby Grace, her mark. “We’ll try always to help our mother; We won’t be selfish to each other; We’ll say kind words to every one, We won’t tie pussy’s feet for fun, We won’t be cross and snarly too, And all the good we can, we’ll do.” “ ^ s j us t as easy to keep them,” the children gladly cried. But mamma smiled, as she answered, “ Wait dar- lings, until you have tried.” And truly the glad New Year, wasn’t his birthday old, y When three little sorrowful faces, a sorrowful story told. 9 W9 ‘ i “And how are your good resolutions?” we asked of Baby Grace, Who stood with a smile of wonder, on her dear little dimpled face; Quick came the merry answer, she never an instant lacked, “ I don’t fink much of ’ems broken ; But I dess ’ems about all cracked.” BY AND BY. What will it matter, by and by, Whether my path below was bright, Whether it wound through dark or light, Under a gray or a golden sky, When I look back on it, by and by? What will it matter, by and by, Whether unhelped I toiled alone, Dashing my foot against a stone, Missing the charge of the angel nigh, Bidding me think of the by and by? What will it matter, by and by, Whether with laughing joy I went Down through the years, with glad intent; Never believing, nay, not I, Tears would be sweeter, by and by? What will it matter, by and by. Whether with cheek to cheek I’ve lain Close by the pallid angel, Pain ; Soothing myself through sob and sigh, “ All will be elsewhere, by and by?” 180 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS What will it matter? Naught, if I Only am sure the way I’ve trod, Gloomy or gladdened, leads to God; Questioning not of the how, the why, If I but reach Him by and by. What will I care for the unshared sigh, If, in my fear of slip or fall, Closely I’ve clung to Christ through all; Mindless how rough the path might lie, Since he will smooth it by and by? Ah ! it will matter, by and by, Nothing but this — that joy or pain Lifted me skyward, helped me gain, Whether through rack or smile or sigh, Heaven— home— all in all, by and by! TWO LITTLE HANDS. Once on a summer day divine, Two little hands fell into mine; How pink they were ! how frail and fine, Each one a crumpled velvet ball, So soft and so absurdly small, Ah, me ! to hold within them all Life’s tangled and msyterious skein, The mingled threads of joy and pain Whose hidden ends we seek in vain. ^3 O! fast the years have fled away; Two little hands, at work or play Still bide with me the livelong day; Now on some willful mischief bent, And now to loving service lent, Now folded — sleepy and content — The dimpled fingers curled, like those Sweet jealous leaves that cling and close About the red heart of a rose. I kissed them with a passionate sigh; The