"ASK MAMMA."
A bachelor squire of no great possession, long come to what should have been years of discretion, determined to change his old habits of life, and comfort his days by taking a wife. He had long been the sport of the girls in the place,—they liked his good, simple, quiet, cheery, fat face; and whenever he went to a tea-drinking party, the flirts were in raptures—our friend was so hearty! They'd fasten a cord near the foot of the door, and bring down the jolly old chap on the floor; they'd pull off his wig while he floundered about, and hide it, and laugh till he hunted it out; they would tie his coat-tails to the back of his seat, and scream with delight when he rose to his feet; they would send him at Christmas a box full of bricks, and play on his temper all manner of tricks. One evening they pressed him to play on the flute, and he blew in his eyes a rare scatter of soot! He took it so calmly, and laughed while he spoke, that they hugged him to pardon their nasty "black joke." One really appeared so sincere in her sorrow, that he vowed to himself he would ASK her tomorrow,—and not one of the girls but would envy her lot, if this jolly old bachelor's offer she got; for they never had dreamed of his playing the beau, or doubtless they would not have treated him so. However, next day to fair Fanny's amazement, she saw him approach as she stood at the casement; and he very soon gave her to know his desire, that she should become the dear wife of the squire. "La! now, Mr. Friendly, what would they all say?" but she thought that not one of them all would say nay: she was flustered with pleasure, and coyness, and pride to be thus unexpectedly sued for a bride. She did not refuse him, but yet did not like, to say "Yes," all at once— the hot iron to strike; so to give the proposal the greater eclat, she said, "Dear Mr. Friendly,—you'd best, ask mamma!" Good morning, then, Fanny, I'll do what you say; as she's out, I shall call in the course of the day. Fanny blushed as she gave him her hand for good-bye, and she did not know which to do first—laugh or cry; to wed such a dear darling man, nothing loth; for variety's sake in her joy, she did both! "O, what will mamma say, and all the young girls?" she thought as she played with her beautiful curls. "I wish I had said Yes at once,—'twas too bad—not to ease his dear mind—O, I wish that I had! I wish he had asked me to give him a kiss,—but he can't be in doubt of my feeling—that's bliss! O, I wish that mamma would come for the news; such a good dear kind soul, she will never refuse! There's the bell—here she is…. O, mamma!"—"Child, preserve us! What ails you dear Fanny? What makes you so nervous?" "I really can't tell you just now,—bye and bye Mr. Friendly will call—and he'll tell you—not I." "Mr. Friendly, my child what about him, pray?" "O, mamma,—he's to call—in the course of the day. He was here just this minute,—and shortly you'll see he'll make you as happy as he has made me. I declare he has seen you come home—that's his ring; I will leave you and him, now to settle the thing" Fanny left in a flutter: her mother—the gipsy—she'd made her as giddy as though she'd been tipsy! Mr. Friendly came in, and the widow and he, were soon as delighted as Fanny could be; he asked the dear widow to change her estate;—she consented at once, and a kiss sealed her fate. Fanny came trembling in—overloaded with pleasure—but soon she was puzzled in as great a measure. "Dear Fanny," said Friendly, "I've done what you said," but what he had done, never entered her head—"I've asked your mamma, and she's given her consent;" Fanny flew to his arms to express her content. He kissed her and said,—as he kissed her mamma,—"I'm so glad, my dear Fan, that you like your papa!" Poor Fanny now found out the state of the case, and she blubbered outright with a pitiful face; it was all she could do, under heavy constraint, to preserve herself conscious, and keep off a faint! She determined, next time she'd a chance, you may guess, not to say, "Ask mamma," but at once to say "Yes!"
A. M. Bell.
* * * * *
GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY.
She stood at the bar of justice,
A creature wan and wild,
In form too small for a woman,
In features too old for a child,
For a look so worn and pathetic
Was stamped on her pale young face,
It seemed long years of suffering
Must have left that silent trace.
"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her
With kindly look yet keen,
"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir,"
"And your age?"—"I am turned fifteen."
"Well, Mary," and then from a paper
He slowly and gravely read,
"You are charged here—I'm sorry to say it—
With stealing three loaves of bread."
"You look not like an offender,
And I hope that you can show
The charge to be false. Now, tell me,
Are you guilty of this, or no?"
A passionate burst of weeping
Was at first her sole reply,
But she dried her tears in a moment,
And looked in the judge's eye.
"I will tell you just how it was, sir,
My father and mother are dead,
And my little brother and sisters
Were hungry and asked me for bread.
At first I earned it for them
By working hard all day,
But somehow times were bad, sir,
And the work all fell away.
"I could get no more employment;
The weather was bitter cold,
The young ones cried and shivered—
(Little Johnny's but four years old;)—
So, what was I to do, sir?
I am guilty, but do not condemn,
I took—oh, was it stealing?—
The bread to give to them."
Every man in the court-room—
Grey-beard and thoughtless youth—
Knew, as he looked upon her,
That the prisoner spoke the truth,
Out from their pockets came kerchiefs.
Out from their eyes sprung tears,
And out from old faded wallets
Treasures hoarded for years.
The judge's face was a study—
The strangest you ever saw,
As he cleared his throat and murmured
Something about the law.
For one so learned in such matters,
So wise in dealing with men,
He seemed, on a simple question,
Sorely puzzled just then.
But no one blamed him or wondered
When at last these words they heard,
"The sentence of this young prisoner
Is, for the present, deferred."
And no one blamed him or wondered
When he went to her and smiled,
And tenderly led from the court-room,
Himself the "guilty" child.
* * * * *
MEMORY'S PICTURES.
Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest;
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslips,
It seemeth to me the best.
I once had a little brother
With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep;
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And one of the autumn eves
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep, by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.
Alice Cary.
* * * * *
PAPA CAN'T FIND ME.
No little step do I hear in the hall,
Only a sweet little laugh, that is all.
No dimpled arms round my neck hold me tight,
I've but a glimpse of two eyes very bright,
Two little hands a wee face try to screen,
Baby is hiding, that's plain to be seen.
"Where is my precious I've missed So all day'"
"Papa can't find me!" the pretty lips say.
"Dear me, I wonder where baby can be!"
Then I go by, and pretend not to see.
"Not in the parlour, and not on the stairs'
Then I must peep under sofas and chairs."
The dear little rogue is now laughing outright,
Two little arms round my neck clasp me tight.
Home will indeed be sad, weary and lone,
When papa can't find you, my darling, my own.
* * * * *
THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.
Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1630:
'Twas morning in Seville; and brightly beamed
The early sunlight in one chamber there;
Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed,
Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where
Murillo, the famed painter, came to share
With young aspirants his long-cherished art,
To prove how vain must be the teacher's care,
Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart
The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.
The pupils came and glancing round,
Mendez upon his canvas found,
Not his own work of yesterday,
But glowing in the morning ray,
A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright,
It almost seemed that there were given
To glow before his dazzled sight,
Tints and expression warm from heaven.
'Twas but a sketch—the Virgin's head—
Yet was unearthly beauty shed
Upon the mildly beaming face;
The lip, the eye, the flowing hair,
Had separate, yet blended grace—
A poet's brightest dream was there!!
Murillo entered, and amazed,
On the mysterious painting gazed;
"Whose work is this?—speak, tell me!—he
Who to his aid such power can call,"
Exclaimed the teacher eagerly,
"Will yet be master of us all;
Would I had done it!—Ferdinand!
Isturitz! Mendez!—say, whose hand
Among ye all?"—With half-breathed sigh,
Each pupil answered,—"'Twas not I!"
"How came it then?" impatiently
Murillo cried; "but we shall see,
Ere long into this mystery.
Sebastian!"
At the summons came
A bright-eyed slave,
Who trembled at the stern rebuke
His master gave.
For ordered in that room to sleep,
And faithful guard o'er all to keep,
Murillo bade him now declare
What rash intruder had been there,
And threatened—if he did not tell
The truth at once—the dungeon-cell.
"Thou answerest not," Murillo said;
(The boy had stood in speechless fear.)
"Speak on!"—At last he raised his head
And murmured, "No one has been here."
"'Tis false!" Sebastian bent his knee,
And clasped his hands imploringly,
And said. "I swear it, none but me!"
"List!" said his master. "I would know
Who enters here—there have been found
Before, rough sketches strewn around,
By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show;
Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep.
If on to-morrow morn you fail
To answer what I ask,
The lash shall force you—do you hear?
Hence! to your daily task."
* * * * *
'Twas midnight in Seville, and faintly shone
From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray
Within Murillo's study—all were gone
Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay,
Passed cheerfully the morning hours away.
'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save,
That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey,
One bright eyed boy was there—Murillo's little slave.
Almost a child—that boy had seen
Not thrice five summers yet,
But genius marked the lotty brow,
O'er which his locks of jet
Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through
Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide,
To Africa and Spain allied.
"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said
"The lash, if I refuse to tell
Who sketched those figures—if I do,
Perhaps e'en more—the dungeon-cell!"
He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid;
It came—for soon in slumber laid,
He slept, until the dawning day
Shed on his humble couch its ray.
"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now
Three hours of freedom I may gain,
Before my master comes, for then
I shall be but a slave again.
Three blessed hours of freedom! how
Shall I employ them?—ah! e'en now
The figure on that canvas traced
Must be—yes, it must be effaced."
He seized a brush—the morning light
Gave to the head a softened glow;
Gazing enraptured on the sight,
He cried, "Shall I efface it?—No!
That breathing lip! that beaming eye
Efface them?—I would rather die!"
The terror of the humble slave
Gave place to the o'erpowering flow
Of the high feelings Nature gave-
Which only gifted spirits know.
He touched the brow—the lip—it seemed
His pencil had some magic power;
The eye with deeper feeling beamed—
Sebastian then forgot the hour!
Forgot his master, and the threat
Of punishment still hanging o'er him;
For, with each touch, new beauties met
And mingled in the face before him.
At length 'twas finished; rapturously
He gazed—could aught more beauteous be'
Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood,
Then started—horror chilled his blood!
His master and the pupils all
Were there e'en at his side!
The terror-stricken slave was mute—
Mercy would be denied,
E'en could he ask it—so he deemed,
And the poor boy half lifeless seemed.
Speechless, bewildered—for a space
They gazed upon that perfect face,
Each with an artist's joy;
At length Murillo silence broke,
And with affected sternness spoke—
"Who is your master, boy?"
"You, Senor," said the trembling slave.
"Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave,
Before that Virgin's head you drew?"
Again he answered, "Only you."
"I gave you none," Murillo cried!
"But I have heard," the boy replied,
"What you to others said."
"And more than heard," in kinder tone,
The painter said; "'tis plainly shown
That you have profited."
"What (to his pupils) is his meed?
Reward or punishment?"
"Reward, reward!" they warmly cried,
(Sebastian's ear was bent
To catch the sounds he scarce believed,
But with imploring look received.)
"What shall it be?" They spoke of gold
And of a splendid dress;
But still unmoved Sebastian stood,
Silent and motionless.
"Speak!" said Murillo kindly; "choose
Your own reward—what shall it be?
Name what you wish, I'll not refuse:
Then speak at once and fearlessly."
"Oh! if I dared!"—Sebastian knelt
And feelings he could not control,
(But feared to utter even then)
With strong emotion, shook his soul.
"Courage!" his master said, and each
Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech,
To soothe his overpow'ring dread.
He scarcely heard, till some one said,
"Sebastian—ask—you have your choice,
Ask for your freedom!"—At the word,
The suppliant strove to raise his voice:
At first but stifled sobs were heard,
And then his prayer—breathed fervently—
"Oh! master, make my father free!"
"Him and thyself, my noble boy!"
Warmly the painter cried;
Raising Sebastian from his feet,
He pressed him to his side.
"Thy talents rare, and filial love,
E'en more have fairly won;
Still be thou mine by other bonds—
My pupil and my son."
Murillo knew, e'en when the words
Of generous feeling passed his lips,
Sebastian's talents soon must lead
To fame that would his own eclipse;
And, constant to his purpose still,
He joyed to see his pupil gain,
As made his name the pride of Spain.
Susan Wilson.
* * * * *
ONLY SIXTEEN.
Only sixteen, so the papers say,
Yet there, on the cold, stony ground he lay;
'Tis the same sad story, we hear every day—
He came to his death in the public highway.
Full of promise, talent and pride;
Yet the rum fiend conquered him—so he died.
Did not the angels weep over the scene?
For he died a drunkard—and only sixteen,—
Only sixteen.
Oh! it were sad he must die all alone;
That of all his friends, not even one
Was there to list to his last faint moan,
Or point the suffering soul to the throne
Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son
Would say, "Whosoever will may come—"
But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,
With his God we leave him—only sixteen,—
Only sixteen.
Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought!!
Witness the suffering and pain you have brought
To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,
And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell
That beclouded his brain, did his reason dethrone,
And left him to die out there all alone.
What, if 'twere your son, instead of another?
What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,—
And he only sixteen?
Ye freeholders, who signed the petition to grant
The license to sell, do you think you will want
That record to meet in that last great day,
When heaven and earth shall have passed away.
When the elements, melting with fervent heat,
Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete?
Will you wish to have his blood on your hand.
When before the great throne you each shall stand,—
And he only sixteen?
Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,
To action and duty; into the light
Come with your banners, inscribed, "Death to rum!"
Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;
Strike killing blows; hew to the line;
Make it a felony even to sign
A petition to license, you would do it, I ween,
If that were your son, and he only sixteen,
Only sixteen.
* * * * *
THE RETORT.
Old Birch, who taught the village school,
Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
He was stubborn as a mule,
And she was playful as a rabbit.
Poor Kate had scarce become a wife
Before her husband sought to make her
The pink of country polished life,
And prim and formal—as a Quaker.
One day the tutor went abroad,
And simple Katie sadly missed him;
When he returned, behind her lord
She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him.
The husband's anger rose, and red
And white his face alternate grew:
"Less freedom, ma'am!" Kate sighed and said
"O, dear, I didn't know 'twas you."
* * * * *
"LITTLE BENNIE."
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
I had told him, Christmas morning,
As he sat upon my knee,
Holding fast his little stockings,
Stuffed as full as full can be,
And attentive listening to me
With a face demure and mild,
That old Santa Claus, who filled them,
Did not love a naughty child.
"But we'll be good, won't we, moder,"
And from off my lap he slid,
Digging deep among the goodies
In his crimson stockings hid.
While I turned me to my table,
Where a tempting goblet stood
Brimming high with dainty custard
Sent me by a neighbour good.
But the kitten, there before me,
With his white paw, nothing both,
Sat, by way of entertainment,
Lapping off the shining froth;
And, in not the gentlest humour
At the loss of such a treat,
I confess, I rather rudely
Thrust him out into the street.
Then, how Bennie's blue eyes kindled;
Gathering up the precious store
He had busily been pouring
In his tiny pinafore,
With a generous look that shamed me
Sprang he from the carpet bright,
Showing by his mien indignant,
All a baby's sense of right.
"Come back, Harney," called he loudly,
As he held his apron white,
"You shall have my candy wabbit,"
But the door was fastened tight,
So he stood abashed and silent,
In the centre of the floor,
With defeated look alternate
Bent on me and on the door.
Then, as by some sudden impulse,
Quickly ran he to the fire,
And while eagerly his bright eyes
Watched the flames grow higher and higher,
In a brave, clear key, he shouted,
Like some lordly little elf,
"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney,
Make my Mudder 'have herself."
"I will be a good girl, Bennie,"
Said I, feeling the reproof;
And straightway recalled poor Harney,
Mewing on the gallery roof.
Soon the anger was forgotten,
Laughter chased away the frown,
And they gamboled round the fireside,
Till the dusky night came down.
In my dim, fire-lighted chamber,
Harney purred beneath my chair,
And my playworn boy beside me
Knelt to say his evening prayer;
"God bess Fader, God bess Moder,
God bess Sister," then a pause,
And the sweet young lips devoutly
Murmured, "God bess Santa Kaus."
He is sleeping; brown and silken
Lie the lashes, long and meek,
Like caressing, clinging shadows,
On his plump and peachy cheek,
And I bend above him, weeping
Thankful tears, O defiled!
For a woman's crown of glory,
For the blessing of a child.
Annie C. Ketchum.
* * * * *
SLANDER.
'Twas but a breath—
And yet a woman's fair fame wilted,
And friends once fond, grew cold and stilted;
And life was worse than death.
One venomed word,
That struck its coward, poisoned blow,
In craven whispers, hushed and low,—
And yet the wide world heard.
Twas but one whisper—one—
That muttered low, for very shame,
That thing the slanderer dare not name,—
And yet its work was done.
A hint so slight,
And yet so mighty in its power,—
A human soul in one short hour,
Lies crushed beneath its blight.
* * * * *
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
Good morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I have had the worst kind of a narvous head- ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived.
Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. (Coughs.) Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?
Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body. (Coughs.)
Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does me the leastest good. (Coughs.)
Oh, this cough—it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion.
What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out ploughing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept backing and backing on, till she back'd me right up agin the coulter, and knocked a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. (Coughs.)
But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day—and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood—you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself.
I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out—as it was a raining at the time—but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knocked out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by—the women folks. (Coughs.) Oh, dear! but that aint all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes—and I'm feared I'm going to have the "yallar janders." (Coughs.)
* * * * *
YOUR MISSION
If you cannot on the ocean
Sail among the swiftest fleet,
Rocking on the highest billows,
Laughing at the storms you meet.
You can stand among the sailors,
Anchor'd yet within the bay,
You can lend a hand to help them,
As they launch their boats away
If you are too weak to journey,
Up the mountain steep and high,
You can stand within the valley,
While the multitudes go by
You can chant in happy measure,
As they slowly pass along;
Though they may forget the singer,
They will not forget the song.
If you have not gold and silver
Ever ready to command,
If you cannot towards the needy
Reach an ever open hand,
You can visit the afflicted,
O'er the erring you can weep,
You can be a true disciple,
Sitting at the Saviour's feet
If you cannot in the conflict,
Prove yourself a soldier true
If where fire and smoke are thickest
There's no work for you to do,
When the battle-field is silent,
You can go with careful tread.
You can bear away the wounded,
You can cover up the dead.
Do not, then, stand idly waiting
For some greater work to do,
Fortune is a lazy goddess,
She will never come to you.
Go and toil in any vineyard,
Do not fear to do or dare,
If you want a field of labour,
You can find it anywhere.
* * * * *
SATISFACTION.
They sent him round the circle fair,
To bow before the prettiest there;
I'm bound to say the choice he made
A creditable taste displayed;
Although I can't see what it meant,
The little maid looked ill-content.
His task was then anew begun,
To kneel before the wittiest one.
Once more the little maid sought he
And bent him down upon his knee;
She turned her eyes upon the floor;
I think she thought the game a bore
He circled then his sweet behest
To kiss the one he loved the best;
For all she frowned, for all she chid,
He kissed that little maid—he did.
And then—though why I can't decide—
The little maid looked satisfied.
* * * * *
MY TRUNDLE BED.
As I rummaged through the attic,
List'ning to the falling rain,
As it pattered on the shingles
And against the window pane,
Peeping over chests and boxes,
Which with dust were thickly spread,
Saw I in the farthest corner
What was once my trundle bed.
So I drew it from the recess,
Where it had remained so long,
Hearing all the while the music
Of my mother's voice in song,
As she sung in sweetest accents,
What I since have often read—
"Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed"
As I listened, recollections,
That I thought had been forgot,
Came with all the gush of memory,
Rushing, thronging to the spot;
And I wandered back to childhood,
To those merry days of yore,
When I knelt beside my mother,
By this bed upon the floor.
Then it was with hands so gently
Placed upon my infant head,
That she taught my lips to utter
Carefully the words she said;
Never can they be forgotten,
Deep are they in mem'ry riven—
"Hallowed be thy name, O Father!
Father! thou who art in heaven."
Years have passed, and that dear mother
Long has mouldered 'neath the sod,
And I trust her sainted spirit
Rests within the home of God:
But that scene at summer twilight
Never has from memory fled,
And it comes in all its freshness
When I see my trundle bed.
This she taught me, then she told me
Of its import great and deep—
After which I learned to utter
"Now I lay me down to sleep."
Then it was with hands uplifted,
And in accents soft and mild,
That my mother asked—"Our Father!
Father! do thou bless my child!"
* * * * *
THE RIFT OF THE ROCK.
In the rift of the rock He has covered my head,
When the tempest was wild in the desolate land
Through a pathway uncertain my steps He has led,
And I felt in the darkness the touch of His hand
Leading on, leading over the slippery steep,
Where came but the echoing sound of the shock,
And, clear through the sorrowful moan of the deep,
The singing of birds in the rift of the rock.
In the rift of the rock He has sheltered my soul
When at noonday the toilers grew faint in the heat,
Where the desert rolled far like a limitless scroll
Cool waters leaped up at the touch of His feet
And the flowers that lay with pale lips to the sod
Bloom softly and fair from a holier stock;
Winged home by the winds to the mountains of God,
They bloom evermore in the rift of the rock.
In the rift of the rock Thou wilt cover me still,
When the glow of the sunset is low in the sky,
When the forms of the reapers are dim on the hill,
And the song dies away, and the end draweth nigh;
It will be but a dream of the ladder of light,
And heaven drawing near without terror or shock,
For the angels, descending by day and by night,
Will open a door through the rift of the rock.
Annie Herbert.
* * * * *
THE SIOUX CHIEF'S DAUGHTER
Two gray hawks ride the rising blast;
Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro
By peaks pre-eminent in snow;
A sounding river rushes past,
So wild, so vortex-like, and vast.
A lone lodge tops the windy hill;
A tawny maiden, mute and still,
Stands waiting at the river's brink,
As weird and wild as you can think.
A mighty chief is at her feet;
She does not heed him wooing so—
She hears the dark, wild waters flow;
She waits her lover, tall and fleet,
From far gold fields of Idaho,
Beyond the beaming hills of snow.
He comes! The grim chief springs in air—
His brawny arm, his blade is bare.
She turns; she lifts her round, dark hand;
She looks him fairly in the face;
She moves her foot a little pace
And says, with coldness and command,
"There's blood enough in this lorn land.
But see! a test of strength and skill,
Of courage and fierce fortitude,
To breast and wrestle with the rude
And storm-born waters, now I will
Bestow you both…. Stand either side!
Take you my left, tall Idaho;
And you, my burly chief, I know
Would choose my right. Now peer you low
Across the waters wild and wide.
See! leaning so this morn, I spied
Red berries dip yon farther side.
See, dipping, dripping in the stream,
Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam!
"Now this, brave men, shall be the test.
Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth
To cut yon bough for bridal wreath.
Plunge in! and he who bears him best,
And brings yon ruddy fruit to land
The first, shall have both heart and hand."
Then one threw robes with sullen air,
And wound red fox tails in his hair.
But one with face of proud delight
Entwined a crest of snowy white.
She sudden gave
The sign, and each impatient brave
Shot sudden in the sounding wave;
The startled waters gurgled round,
Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound.
O then awoke the love that slept!
O then her heart beat loud and strong!
O then the proud love pent up long
Broke forth in wail upon the air;
And leaning there she sobbed and wept,
With dark face mantled in her hair.
Now side by side the rivals plied,
Yet no man wasted word or breath;
All was as still as stream of death.
Now side by side their strength was tried,
And now they breathless paused and lay
Like brawny wrestlers well at bay.
And now they dived, dived long, and now
The black heads lifted from the foam,
And shook aback the dripping brow,
Then shouldered sudden glances home.
And then with burly front the brow
And bull-like neck shot sharp and blind,
And left a track of foam behind….
They near the shore at last; and now
The foam flies spouting from a face
That laughing lifts from out the race.
The race is won, the work is done!
She sees the climbing crest of snow;
She knows her tall, brown Idaho.
She cries aloud, she laughing cries,
And tears are streaming from her eyes:
"O splendid, kingly Idaho,
I kiss his lifted crest of snow;
I see him clutch the bended bough!
'Tis cleft—he turns! is coming now!
"My tall and tawny king, come back!
Come swift, O sweet; why falter so?
Come! Come! What thing has crossed your track
I kneel to all the gods I know.
O come, my manly Idaho!
Great Spirit, what is this I dread?
Why there is blood! the wave is red!
That wrinkled Chief, outstripped in race,
Dives down, and hiding from my face,
Strikes underneath!… He rises now!
Now plucks my hero's berry bough,
And lifts aloft his red fox head,
And signals he has won for me….
Hist softly! Let him come and see.
"O come! my white-crowned hero, come!
O come! and I will be your bride,
Despite yon chieftain's craft and might.
Come back to me! my lips are dumb,
My hands are helpless with despair;
The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair,
Is reaching to the ruddy tide,
That you may clutch it when you come.
"How slow he buffets back the wave!
O God, he sinks! O heaven! save
My brave, brave boy. He rises! See!
Hold fast, my boy! Strike! strike for me.
Strike straight this way! Strike firm and strong!
Hold fast your strength. It is not long—
O God, he sinks! He sinks! Is gone!
His face has perished from my sight.
"And did I dream, and do I wake?
Or did I wake and now but dream?
And what is this crawls from the stream?
O here is some mad, mad, mistake!
What you! The red fox at my feet?
You first and failing from a race?
What! you have brought me berries red?
What! You have brought your bride a wreath?
You sly red fox with wrinkled face—
That blade has blood, between your teeth!
"Lie still! lie still! till I lean o'er
And clutch your red blade to the shore….
Ha! Ha! Take that! and that! and that!
Ha! Ha! So through your coward throat
The full day shines!… Two fox tails float
And drift and drive adown the stream.
"But what is this? What snowy crest
Climbs out the willows of the west,
All weary, wounded, bent, and slow,
And dripping from his streaming hair?
It is! it is my Idaho!
His feet are on the land, and fair
His face is lifting to my face,
For who shall now dispute the race?
"The gray hawks pass, O love! two doves
O'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves.
My love shall heal your wounded breast,
And in yon tall lodge two shall rest."
Joaquin Miller.
* * * * *
I'LL TAKE WHAT FATHER TAKES.
'Twas in the flow'ry month of June,
The sun was in the west,
When a merry, blithesome company
Met at a public feast.
Around the room rich banners spread,
And garlands fresh and gay;
Friend greeted friend right joyously
Upon that festal day.
The board was filled with choicest fare;
The guests sat down to dine;
Some called for "bitter," some for "stout,"
And some for rosy wine.
Among this joyful company,
A modest youth appeared;
Scarce sixteen summers had he seen,
No specious snare he feared.
An empty glass before the youth
Soon drew the waiter near;
"What will you take, sir?" he inquired,
"Stout, bitter, mild, or clear?
"We've rich supplies of foreign port,
We've first-class wine and cakes."
The youth with guileless look replied,
"I'll take what father takes."
Swift as an arrow went the words
Into his father's ears,
And soon a conflict deep and strong
Awoke terrific fears.
The father looked upon his son,
Then gazed upon the wine,
Oh, God! he thought, were he to taste,
Who could the end divine?
Have I not seen the strongest fall,
The fairest led astray?
And shall I on my only son
Bestow a curse this day?
No; heaven forbid! "Here, waiter, bring
Bright water unto me;
My son will take what father takes,
My drink shall water be."
W. Hoyle.
* * * * *
THE LITTLE HERO.
From Liverpool 'cross the Atlantic,
The good ship floating o'er the deep,
The skies bright with sunshine above us,
The waters beneath us asleep;
Not a bad-temper'd mariner 'mongst us,
A jollier crew never sail'd,
'Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage,
But good seaman as ever was hail'd.
One day he comes up from below deck,
A-graspin' a lad by the arm,
A poor little ragged young urchin,
As ought to bin home with his marm.
An' the mate asks the boy pretty roughly
How he dared for to be stow'd away?
A-cheating the owners and captain,
Sailin', eatin', and all without pay.
The lad had a face bright and sunny,
An' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's,
An' looks up at the scowling first mate, boys,
An' shakes back his long shining curls.
An' says he in a voice clear and pretty,
"My stepfather brought me a-board,
And hid me away down the stairs there,
For to keep me he could not afford.
And he told me the big ship would take me
To Halifax town, oh, so far;
An' he said, 'Now the Lord is your Father,
Who lives where the good angels are!'"
"It's a lie," says the mate,—"Not your father,
But some o' these big skulkers here,
Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor,
Speak up! tell the truth! d'ye hear?"
Then that pair o' blue eyes bright and winn'n',
Clear and shining with innocent youth,
Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows,
An' says he, "Sir, I've told you the truth!"
Then the mate pull'd his watch from his pocket,
Just as if he'd bin drawing his knife,
"If in ten minutes more you don't tell, lad,
There's the rope! and good-bye to dear life!"
Eight minutes went by all in silence,
Says the mate then, "Speak, lad, say your say!"
His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops,
He falteringly says, "May I pray?"
An' the little chap kneels on the deck there,
An' his hands he clasps o'er his breast,
As he must ha' done often at home, lads,
At night time when going to rest.
And soft came the first words, "Our Father,"
Low and clear from that dear baby-lip,
But low as they were, heard like trumpet
By each true man aboard o' the ship.
Every bit o' that pray'r then he goes through,
To "for ever and ever. A-men!"
An' for all the bright gold in the Indies,
I wouldn't ha' heard him agen!
Off his feet was the lad sudden lifted,
And clasp'd to the mate's rugged breast,
An' his husky voice muttered, "God bless you,"
As his lips to his forehead he press'd.
"You believe me now?" then said the youngster,
"Believe you!" he kissed him once more,
"You'd have laid down your life for the truth, lad;
I believe you! from now, ever-more."
* * * * *
WANTED.
The world wants men—light-hearted, manly men—
Men who shall join its chorus and prolong
The psalm of labour and the song of love.
The times wants scholars—scholars who shall shape
The doubtful destinies of dubious years,
And land the ark that bears our country's good,
Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last.
The age wants heroes—heroes who shall dare
To struggle in the solid ranks of truth;
To clutch the monster error by the throat;
To bear opinion to a loftier seat;
To blot the era of oppression out,
And lead a universal freedom in.
And heaven wants souls—fresh and capacious souls,
To taste its raptures, and expand like flowers
Beneath the glory of its central sun.
It wants fresh souls—not lean and shrivelled ones;
It wants fresh souls, my brother—give it thine!
If thou, indeed, wilt act as man should act;
If thou, indeed, wilt be what scholars should;
If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt strive
To help thy fellow and exalt thyself,
Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors,
Thy heart at last shall seem a thousand hearts,
Each single heart with myriad raptures filled—
While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings,
Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul.
* * * * *
GOD, THE TRUE SOURCE OF CONSOLATION.
O Thou, who driest the mourner's tear,
How dark the world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal the broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.
When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimmed and vanished, too!
Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not Thy wing of love
Come brightly wafting through the gloom
Our peace-branch from above!
Then, sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray,
As darkness shews us worlds of light,
We never saw by day.
Moore.
* * * * *
SANTA CLAUS IN THE MINES.
In a small cabin in a Californian mining town, away up amid the snow-clad, rock-bound peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, sat a woman, in widow's weeds, holding upon her knee a bright-eyed, sunny-faced little girl, about five years old, while a little cherub of a boy lay upon a bear-skin before the open fireplace. It was Christmas Eve, and the woman sat gazing abstractedly into the fireplace. She was yet young, and as the glowing flames lit up her sad face they invested it with a wierd beauty.
Mary Stewart was the widow of Aleck Stewart, and but two years before they had lived comfortably and happy, in a camp on the American River. Aleck was a brawny miner; but the premature explosion of a blast in an exploring tunnel had blotted out his life in an instant, leaving his family without a protector, and in straitened circumstances. His daily wages had been their sole support, and now that he was gone, what could they do?
With her little family Mrs. Stewart had emigrated to the camp in which we find them, and there she earned a precarious livelihood by washing clothes for the miners. Hers was a hard lot; but the brave little woman toiled on, cheered by the thought that her daily labours stood between her darling little ones and the gaunt wolf of starvation.
Jack Dawson, a strong, honest miner, was passing the cabin this Christmas Eve, when the voice of the little girl within attracted his attention. Jack possessed an inordinate love for children, and although his manly spirit would abhor the sneaking practice of eavesdropping, he could not resist the temptation to steal up to the window just a moment to listen to the sweet, prattling voice. The first words he caught were:
"Before papa died we always had Christmas, didn't we, mamma?"
"Yes, Totty, darling; but papa earned money enough to afford to make his little pets happy at least once a year. You must remember, Totty, that we are very poor, and although mamma works very, very hard, she can scarcely earn enough to supply us with food and clothes."
Jack Dawson still lingered upon the outside. He could not leave, although he felt ashamed of himself for listening.
"We hung up our stockings last Christmas, didn't we, mamma?" continued the little girl.
"Yes, Totty; but we were poor then, and Santa Claus never notices real poor people. He gave you a little candy then, just because you were such good children."
"Is we any poorer now, mamma?"
"Oh! yes, much poorer. He would never notice us at all now."
Jack Dawson detected a tremor of sadness in the widow's voice as she uttered the last words, and he wiped a suspicious dampness from his eyes.
"Where's our clean stockings, mamma? I'm going to hang mine up anyhow; maybe he will come like he did before, just because we try to be good children," said Totty.
"It will be no use, my darling, I am sure he will not come," and tears gathered in the mother's eyes as she thought of her empty purse.
"I don't care, I'm going to try, anyhow. Please get one of my stockings, mamma."
Jack Dawson's generous heart swelled until it seemed bursting from his bosom. He heard the patter of little bare feet upon the cabin floor as Totty ran about hunting hers and Benny's stockings, and after she had hung them up, heard her sweet voice again as she wondered over and over if Santa really would forget them. He heard the mother, in a choking voice; tell her treasures to get ready for bed; heard them lisp their childish prayers, the little girl concluding: "And, O, Lord! please tell good Santa Claus that we are very poor; but that we love him as much as rich children do, for dear Jesus' sake—Amen!"
After they were in bed, through a small rent in the plain white curtain he saw the widow sitting before the fire, her face buried in her hands, and weeping bitterly.
On a peg, just over the fire-place, hung two little patched and faded stockings, and then he could stand it no longer. He softly moved away from the window to the rear of the cabin, where some objects fluttering in the wind met his eye. Among these he searched until he found a little blue stocking which he removed from the line, folded tenderly, and placed in his overcoat pocket, and then set out for the main street of the camp. He entered Harry Hawk's gambling hall, the largest in the place, where a host of miners and gamblers were at play. Jack was well known in the camp, and when he got up on a chair and called for attention, the hum of voices and clicking of ivory checks suddenly ceased. Then in an earnest voice he told what he had seen and heard, repeating every word of the conversation between the mother and her children. In conclusion he said:
"Boys, I think I know you, every one of you, an' I know jist what kind o' metal yer made of. I've an idee that Santy Claus knows jist whar thet cabin's sitiwated, an' I've an idee he'll find it afore mornin'. Hyar's one of the little gal's stock'n's thet I hooked off'n the line. The daddy o' them little ones was a good, hard-working miner, an' he crossed the range in the line o' duty, jist as any one of us is liable to do in our dangerous business. Hyar goes a twenty-dollar piece right down in the toe, and hyar I lay the stockin' on this card table—now chip in much or little, as ye kin afford."
Brocky Clark, a gambler, left the table, picked the little stocking up carefully, looked at it tenderly, and when he laid it down another twenty had gone into the toe to keep company with the one placed there by Dawson.
Another and another came up until the foot of the stocking was well filled, and then came the cry from the gambling table:
"Pass her around, Jack."
At the word he lifted it from the table and started around the hall. Before he had circulated it at half a dozen tables it showed signs of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver coin, and a strong coin bag, such as is used for sending treasure by express, was procured, and the stocking placed inside of it. The round of the large hall was made, and in the meantime the story had spread all over the camp. From the various saloons came messages saying:
"Send the stockin' 'round the camp; boys are a-waitin' for it!"
With a party at his heels, Jack went from saloon to saloon. Games ceased and tipplers left the bars as they entered each place, and miners, gamblers, speculators, everybody, crowded up to tender their Christmas gift to the miner's widow and orphans. Any one who has lived in the far Western camps and is acquainted with the generosity of Western men, will feel no surprise or doubt my truthfulness, when I say that after the round had been made, the little blue stocking and the heavy canvas bag contained over eight thousand dollars in gold and silver coin.
Horses were procured, and a party despatched to the larger town down on the Consumnes, from which they returned near daybreak with toys, clothing, provisions, etc., in almost endless variety. Arranging their gifts in proper shape, and securely tying the mouth of the bag of coin, the party noiselessly repaired to the widow's humble cabin. The bag was first laid on the steps, and other articles piled up in a heap over it. On the top was laid the lid of a large pasteboard box, on which was written with a piece of charcoal:
"Santy Clause doesn't allways Giv poor Folks The Cold Shoulder in This camp."
Christmas day dawned bright and beautiful.
Mrs. Stewart arose, and a shade of pain crossed her handsome face as the empty little stockings caught her maternal eye. She cast a hurried glance toward the bed where her darlings lay sleeping, and whispered:
"O God! how dreadful is poverty!"
She built a glowing fire, set about preparing the frugal breakfast, and when it was almost ready she approached the bed, kissed the little ones until they were wide awake, and lifted them to the floor. With eager haste Totty ran to the stockings, only to turn away sobbing as though her heart would break. Tears blinded the mother, and clasping her little girl to her heart, she said in a choking voice:
"Never mind, my darling; next Christmas I am sure mamma will be richer, and then Santa Claus will bring us lots of nice things."
"O mamma!"
The exclamation came from little Benny, who had opened the door and was standing gazing in amazement upon the wealth of gifts there displayed.
Mrs. Stewart sprang to his side and looked in speechless astonishment. She read the card, and then, causing her little ones to kneel down with her in the open doorway, she poured out her soul in a torrent of praise and thanksgiving to God.
Jack Dawson's burly form moved from behind a tree a short distance away, and sneaked off up the gulch, great crystal tears chasing each other down his face.
The family arose from their knees, and began to move the stores into the room. There were several sacks of flour, hams, canned fruit, pounds and pounds of coffee, tea and sugar, new dress goods, and a handsome, warm woollen shawl for the widow, shoes, stockings, hats, mittens, and clothing for the children, a great big wax doll that could cry and move its eyes for Totty, and a beautiful red sled for Benny. All were carried inside amidst alternate laughs and tears.
"Bring in the sack of salt, Totty, and that is all," said the mother. "Is not God good to us?"
"I can't lift it, mamma, it's frozen to the step!"
The mother stooped and took hold of it, and lifted harder and harder, until she raised it from the step. Her cheek blanched as she noted its great weight, and breathlessly she carried it in and laid it upon the breakfast table. With trembling fingers she loosened the string and emptied the contents upon the table. Gold and silver—more than she had ever thought of in her wildest dreams of comfort, and almost buried in the pile of treasure lay Totty's little blue stocking.
We will not intrude longer upon such happiness; but leave the joyful family sounding praises to Heaven and Santa Claus.
Anon.
* * * * *
A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.
Girt round with rugged mountains
The fair Lake Constance lies;
In her blue heart reflected
Shine back the starry skies;
And, watching each white cloudlet
Float silently and slow,
You think a piece of Heaven
Lies on our earth below!
Midnight is there: and Silence,
Enthroned in Heaven, looks down
Upon her own calm mirror,
Upon a sleeping town:
For Bregenz, that quaint city
Upon the Tyrol shore,
Has stood above Lake Constance
A thousand years and more.
Her battlements and towers,
From off their rocky steep,
Have cast their trembling shadow
For ages on the deep:
Mountain, and lake, and valley,
A sacred legend know,
Of how the town was saved, one night,
Three hundred years ago.
Far from her home and kindred,
A Tyrol maid had fled,
To serve in the Swiss valleys,
And toil for daily bread;
And every year that fleeted
So silently and fast,
Seemed to bear farther from her
The memory of the Past.
She served kind, gentle masters,
Nor asked for rest or change;
Her friends seemed no more new ones,
Their speech seemed no more strange
And when she led her cattle
To pasture every day,
She ceased to look and wonder
On which side Bregenz lay.
She spoke no more of Bregenz,
While longing and with tears;
Her Tyrol home seemed faded
In a deep mist of years;
She heeded not the rumours
Of Austrian war and strife;
Each day she rose, contented,
To the calm toils of life.
Yet, when her master's children
Would clustering round her stand,
She sang them ancient ballads
Of her own native land;
And when at morn and evening
She knelt before God's throne,
The accents of her childhood
Rose to her lips alone.
And so she dwelt: the valley
More peaceful year by year;
When suddenly strange portents
Of some great deed seemed near.
The golden corn was bending
Upon its fragile stalk,
While farmers, heedless of their fields,
Paced up and down in talk.
The men seemed stern and altered—
With looks cast on the ground;
With anxious faces, one by one,
The women gathered round;
All talk of flax, or spinning,
Or work, was put away;
The very children seemed afraid
To go alone to play.
One day, out in the meadow
With strangers from the town,
Some secret plan discussing,
The men walked up and down.
Yet now and then seemed watching
A strange uncertain gleam,
That looked like lances 'mid the trees
That stood below the stream.
At eve they all assembled,
Then care and doubt were fled;
With jovial laugh they feasted;
The board was nobly spread.
The elder of the village
Rose up, his glass in hand,
And cried, "We drink the downfall
Of an accursed land!
"The night is growing darker,
Ere one more day is flown,
Bregenz, our foemens' stronghold,
Bregenz shall be our own!"
The women shrank in terror
(Yet Pride, too, had her part),
But one poor Tyrol maiden
Felt death within her heart.
Before her stood fair Bregenz;
Once more her towers arose;
What were the friends beside her?
Only her country's foes!
The faces of her kinsfolk,
The days of childhood flown,
The echoes of her mountains,
Reclaimed her as their own.
Nothing she heard around her
(Though shouts rang forth again),
Gone were the green Swiss valleys,
The pasture, and the plain;
Before her eyes one vision,
And in her heart one cry,
That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz,
And then, if need be, die!"
With trembling haste, and breathless,
With noiseless step, she sped;
Horses and weary cattle
Were standing in the shed;
She loosed the strong, white charger,
That fed from out her hand,
She mounted, and she turned his head
Toward her native land.
Out—out into the darkness—
Faster, and still more fast;
The smooth grass flies behind her,
The chestnut wood is past;
She looks up; clouds are heavy;
Why is her steed so slow?
Scarcely the wind beside them
Can pass them as they go.
"Faster!" she cries, "O faster!"
Eleven the church-bells chime:
"O God," she cries, "help Bregenz,
And bring me there in time!"
But louder than bells' ringing,
Or lowing of the kine,
Grows nearer in the midnight
The rushing of the Rhine.
Shall not the roaring waters
Their headlong gallop check?
The steed draws back in terror—
She leans upon his neck
To watch the flowing darkness;
The bank is high and steep;
One pause—he staggers forward,
And plunges in the deep.
She strives to pierce the blackness,
And looser throws the rein;
Her steed must breast the waters
That dash above his mane.
How gallantly, how nobly,
He struggles through the foam,
And see—in the far distance
Shine out the lights of home!
Up the steep bank he bears her,
And now, they rush again
Towards the heights of Bregenz,
That tower above the plain.
They reach the gate of Bregenz
Just as the midnight rings,
And out come serf and soldier
To meet the news she brings.
Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight
Her battlements are manned;
Defiance greets the army
That marches on the land.
And if to deeds heroic
Should endless fame be paid,
Bregenz does well to honour
That noble Tyrol maid.
Three hundred years are vanished,
And yet upon the hill
An old stone gateway rises.
To do her honour still.
And there, when Bregenz women
Sit spinning in the shade,
They see in quaint old carving
The Charger and the Maid.
And when, to guard old Bregenz,
By gateway, street, and tower,
The warder paces all night long
And calls each passing hour:
"Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud,
And then (O crown of Fame!)
When midnight pauses in the skies,
He calls the maiden's name!
Adelaide A. Procter.
* * * * *
A TARRYTOWN ROMANCE.
'Twas in ye pleasant olden time,
Oh! many years ago,
When husking bees and singing-schools
Were all the fun, you know.
The singing-school in Tarrytown,
A quaint old town in Maine—
Was wisely taught and grandly led
By a young man named Paine.
A gallant gentleman was Paine,
Who liked the lasses well;
But best he liked Miss Patience White,
As all his school could tell.
One night the singing-school had met;
Young Paine, all carelessly,
Had turned the leaves and said: "We'll sing
On page one-seventy."
"'See gentle patience smile on pain.'"
On Paine they all then smiled,
But not so gently as they might;
And he, confused and wild.
Searched quickly for another place,
As quickly gave it out;
The merriment, suppressed before,
Rose now into a shout.
These were the words that met his eyes
(He sank down with a groan);
"Oh! give me grief for others' woes,
And patience for my own!"
Good Cheer.
* * * * *
THE BISHOPS VISIT.
Tell you about it? Of course, I will!
I thought 'twould be dreadful to have him come,
For Mamma said I must be quiet and still,
And she put away my whistle and drum—
And made me unharness the parlour chairs,
And packed my cannon and all the rest
Of my noisiest playthings off up stairs,
On account of this very distinguished guest.
Then every room was turned upside down,
And all the carpets hung out to blow;
For when the Bishop is coming to town,
The house must be in order you know.
So out in the kitchen I made my lair,
And started a game of hide-and-seek;
But Bridget refused to have me there,
For the Bishop was coming—to stay a week—
And she must make cookies and cakes and pies,
And fill every closet and platter and pan,
Till I thought this Bishop so great and wise,
Must be an awfully hungry man.
Well, at last he came; and I do declare,
Dear grandpapa, he looked just like you,
With his gentle voice and his silvery hair,
And eyes with a smile a-shining through.
And whenever he read, or talked, or prayed,
I understood every single word;
And I wasn't the leastest bit afraid,
Though I never once spoke or stirred;
Till, all of a sudden, he laughed right out
To see me sit quietly listening so;
And began to tell us stories about
Some queer little fellows in Mexico.
All about Egypt and Spain—and then
He wasn't disturbed by a little noise,
But said that the greatest and best of men
Once were rollicking, healthy boys.
And he thinks it no great matter at all
If a little boy runs and jumps and climbs;
And Mamma should be willing to let me crawl
Through the bannister-rails, in the hall, sometimes.
And Bridget, she made a great mistake,
In stirring up such a bother, you see,
For the Bishop—he didn't care for cake,
And really liked to play games with me.
But though he's so honoured in words and act—
(Stoop down, for this is a secret now)—
He couldn't spell Boston! That's a fact!
But whispered to me to tell him how.
Emily Huntington Miller.
* * * * *
HANNAH BINDING SHOES.
Poor lone Hannah,
Sitting at the window, binding shoes!
Faded, wrinkled,
Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse.
Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree;—
Spring and winter,
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Not a neighbour
Passing, nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper,
"Is there from the fishers any news?"
Oh, her heart's adrift with one
On an endless voyage gone;—
Night and morning,
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Fair young Hannah,
Ben the sunburnt fisher, gaily woos;
Hale and clever,
For a willing heart and hand he sues
May-day skies are all aglow,
And the waves are laughing so!
For her wedding
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.
May is passing;
'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos;
Hannah shudders,
For the wild south-wester mischief brews.
Round the rocks of Marblehead,
Outward bound a schooner sped;
Silent, lonesome,
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
'Tis November:
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews,
From Newfoundland
Not a sail returning will she lose,
Whispering hoarsely: "Fishermen,
Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Twenty winters
Bleak and drear the ragged shore she views,
Twenty seasons!
Never one has brought her any news.
Still her dim eyes silently
Chase the white sails o'er the sea;—
Hopeless, faithful,
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Lucy Larcom.
* * * * *
BELLS ACROSS THE SNOW.
O Christmas, merry Christmas!
Is it really come again?
With its memories and greetings,
With its joy and with its pain
There's a minor in the carol,
And a shadow in the light,
And a spray of cypress twining
With the holly wreath to-night.
And the hush is never broken,
By the laughter light and low,
As we listen in the starlight
To the bells across the snow!
O Christmas, merry Christmas!
'Tis not so very long
Since other voices blended
With the carol and the song!
If we could but hear them singing,
As they are singing now,
If we could but see the radiance
Of the crown on each dear brow;
There would be no sigh to smother,
No hidden tear to flow,
As we listen in the starlight
To the bells across the snow!
O Christmas, merry Christmas!
This never more can be;
We cannot bring again the days
Of our unshadowed glee.
But Christmas, happy Christmas!
Sweet herald of good-will,
With holy songs of glory
Brings holy gladness still.
For peace and hope may brighten,
And patient love may glow,
As we listen in the starlight
To the bells across the snow!
Frances Ridley Havergal.
* * * * *
A MODEST WIT.
A supercilious nabob of the East—
Haughty, being great—purse-proud, being rich—
A governor, or general, at the least,
I have forgotten which—
Had in his family a humble youth,
Who went from England in his patron's suite,
An unassuming boy, and in truth
A lad of decent parts, and good repute.
This youth had sense and spirit;
But yet, with all his sense,
Excessive diffidence
Obscured his merit.
One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
His honour, proudly free, severely merry,
Conceived it would be vastly fine
To crack a joke upon his secretary.
"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade,
Did your good father gain a livelihood?"
"He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said,
"And in his time was reckon'd good."
"A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek,
Instead of teaching you to sew!
Pray, why did not your father make
A saddler, sir, of you?"
Each parasite, then, as in duty bound,
The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.
At length Modestus, bowing low,
Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),
"Sir, by your leave, I fain would know
Your father's trade!"
"My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad!
My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad?
My father, sir, did never stoop so low—
He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."
"Excuse the liberty I take,"
Modestus said, with archness on his brow,
"Pray, why did not your father make
A gentleman of you?"
* * * * *
"NAY, I'LL STAY WITH THE LAD."
Six hundred souls one summer's day,
Worked in the deep, dark Hutton seams;
Men were hewing the coal away,
Boys were guiding the loaded teams.
Horror of darkness was everywhere;
It was coal above, and coal below,
Only the miner's guarded lamp
Made in the gloom a passing glow.
Down in the deep, black Hutton seams
There came a flowery, balmy breath;
Men dropped their tools, and left their teams,
They knew the balmy air meant death,
And fled before the earthquake shock,
The cruel fire-damp's fatal course,
That tore apart the roof and walls,
And buried by fifties, man and horse.
"The shaft! the shaft!" they wildly cried;
And as they ran they passed a cave,
Where stood a father by his son—
The child had found a living grave,
And lay among the shattered coal,
His little life had almost sped.
"Fly! fly! For there may yet be time!"
The father calmly, firmly said:
"Nay; I'll stay with the lad."
He had no hurt; he yet might reach
The blessed sun and light again.
But at his feet his child lay bound,
And every hope of help was vain.
He let deliverance pass him by;
He stooped and kissed the little face;
"I will not leave thee by thyself,
Ah! lad; this is thy father's place."
So Self before sweet Love lay slain.
In the deep mine again was told
The story of a father's love.
Older than mortal man is old;
For though they urged him o'er and o'er,
To every prayer he only had
The answer he had found at first,
"Nay; I'll stay with the lad."
And when some weary days had passed,
And men durst venture near the place,
They lay where Death had found them both,
But hand in hand, and face to face.
And men were better for that sight,
And told the tale with tearful breath;
There was not one but only felt,
The man had died a noble death,
And left this thought for all to keep—
If earthly fathers can so love,
Ah, surely, we may safely lean
Upon the Fatherhood above!
Lillie E. Barr.
* * * * *
MARY MALONEY'S PHILOSOPHY.
"What are you singing for?" said I to Mary Maloney.
"Oh, I don't know, ma'am, without it's because my heart feels happy."
"Happy are you, Mary Maloney? Let me see; you don't own a foot of land in the world?"
"Foot of land, is it?" she cried, with a hearty Irish laugh; "oh, what a hand ye be after joking; why I haven't a penny, let alone the land."
"Your mother is dead!"
"God rest her soul, yes," replied Mary Maloney, with a touch of genuine pathos; "may the angels make her bed in heaven."
"Your brother is still a hard case, I suppose."
"Ah, you may well say that. It's nothing but drink, drink, drink, and beating his poor wife, that she is, the creature."
You have to pay your little sister's board."
"Sure, the bit creature, and she's a good little girl, is Hinny, willing to do whatever I axes her. I don't grudge the money what goes for that."
"You haven't many fashionable dresses, either, Mary Maloney."
"Fashionable, is it? Oh, yes, I put a piece of whalebone in my skirt, and me calico gown looks as big as the great ladies. But then ye says true, I hasn't but two gowns to me back, two shoes, to me feet, and one bonnet to me head, barring the old hood you gave me."
"You haven't any lover, Mary Maloney."
"Oh, be off wid ye—ketch Mary Maloney getting a lover these days, when the hard times is come. No, no, thank Heaven I haven't got that to trouble me yet, nor I don't want it."
"What on earth, then, have you got to make you happy? A drunken brother, a poor helpless sister, no mother, no father, no lover; why, where do you get all your happiness from?"
"The Lord be praised, Miss, it growed up in me. Give me a bit of sunshine, a clean flure, plenty of work, and a sup at the right time, and I'm made. That makes me laugh and sing, and then if deep trouble comes, why, God helpin' me, I'll try to keep my heart up. Sure, it would be a sad thing if Patrick McGrue should take it into his head to come an ax me, but, the Lord willin', I'd try to bear up under it."
Philadelphia Bulletin.
* * * * *
THE POLISH BOY.
Whence came those shrieks, so wild and shrill,
That like an arrow cleave the air,
Causing the blood to creep and thrill
With such sharp cadence of despair?
Once more they come! as if a heart
Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,
And every string had voice apart
To utter its peculiar woe!
Whence came they? From yon temple, where
An altar raised for private prayer
Now forms the warrior's marble bed,
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.
The dim funereal tapers throw
A holy lustre o'er his brow,
And burnish with their rays of light
The mass of curls that gather bright
Above the haughty brow and eye
Of a young boy that's kneeling by.
What hand is that whose icy press
Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,
But meets no answering caress—
No thrilling fingers seek its clasp?
It is the hand of her whose cry
Rang wildly late upon the air,
When the dead warrior met her eye,
Outstretched upon the altar there.
Now with white lips and broken moan
She sinks beside the altar stone;
But hark! the heavy tramp of feet
Is heard along the gloomy street;
Nearer and nearer yet they come,
With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
They leave the pavement. Flowers that spread
Their beauties by the path they tread
Are crushed and broken. Crimson hands
Rend brutally their blooming bands.
Now whispered curses, low and deep,
Around the holy temple creep.
The gate is burst. A ruffian band
Rush in and savagely demand,
With brutal voice and oath profane,
The startled boy for exile's chain.
The mother sprang with gesture wild,
And to her bosom snatched the child;
Then with pale cheek and flashing eye,
Shouted with fearful energy,—
"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread
Too near the body of my dead!
Nor touch the living boy—I stand
Between him and your lawless band!
No traitor he—but listen! I
Have cursed your master's tyranny.
I cheered my lord to join the band
Of those who swore to free our land,
Or fighting, die; and when he pressed
Me for the last time to his breast,
I knew that soon his form would be
Low as it is, or Poland free.
He went and grappled with the foe,
Laid many a haughty Russian low;
But he is dead—the good—the brave—
And I, his wife, am worse—a slave!
Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,
With Russia's heaviest iron bands,
And drag me to Siberia's wild
To perish, if 'twill save my child!"
"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,
Tearing the pale boy from her side;
And in his ruffian grasp he bore
His victim to the temple door.
"One moment!" shrieked the mother, "one;
Can land or gold redeem my son?
If so, I bend my Polish knee,
And, Russia, ask a boon of thee.
Take palaces, take lands, take all,
But leave him free from Russian thrall.
Take these," and her white arms and hands
She stripped of rings and diamond bands,
And tore from braids of long black hair
The gems that gleamed like star-light there;
Unclasped the brilliant coronal
And carcanet of orient pearl;
Her cross of blazing rubies last
Down to the Russian's feet she cast.
He stooped to seize the glittering store;
Upspringing from the marble floor;
The mother, with a cry of joy,
Snatched to her leaping heart the boy!
But no—the Russian's iron grasp
Again undid the mother's clasp.
Forward she fell, with one long cry
Of more than mother's agony.
But the brave child is roused at length,
And breaking from the Russian's hold,
He stands, a giant in the strength
Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.
Proudly he towers, his flashing eye,
So blue and fiercely bright,
Seems lighted from the eternal sky,
So brilliant is its light.
His curling lips and crimson cheeks
Foretell the thought before he speaks.
With a full voice of proud command
He turns upon the wondering band.
"Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can;
This hour has made the boy a man.
The world shall witness that one soul
Fears not to prove itself a Pole.
"I knelt beside my slaughtered sire,
Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire;
I wept upon his marble brow—
Yes, wept—I was a child; but now
My noble mother on her knee,
Has done the work of years for me.
Although in this small tenement
My soul is cramped—unbowed, unbent
I've still within me ample power
To free myself this very hour.
This dagger in my heart! and then,
Where is your boasted power, base men?"
He drew aside his broidered vest,
And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,
The jewelled haft of a poinard bright,
Glittered a moment on the sight.
"Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave!
Think ye my noble father's glaive,
Could drink the life blood of a slave?
The pearls that on the handle flame,
Would blush to rubies in their shame.
The blade would quiver in thy breast,
Ashamed of such ignoble rest!
No; thus I rend thy tyrant's chain,
And fling him back a boy's disdain!"
A moment, and the funeral light
Flashed on the jewelled weapon bright;
Another, and his young heart's blood
Leaped to the floor a crimson flood.
Quick to his mother's side he sprang,
And on the air his clear voice rang—
"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!
The choice was death or slavery:
Up! mother, up! look on my face,
I only wait for thy embrace.
One last, last word—a blessing, one,
To prove thou knowest what I have done,
No look! No word! Canst thou not feel
My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal?
Speak, mother, speak—lift up thy head.
What, silent still? Then thou art dead!
Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I
Rejoice with thee, and thus to die."
Slowly he falls. The clustering hair
Rolls back and leaves that forehead bare.
One long, deep breath, and his pale head
Lay on his mother's bosom, dead.
Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
* * * * *