NIAGARA.
The thoughts are strange that crowd upon my brain
As I look upward to thee! It would seem
As if God poured thee from His hollow hand,
And hung His bow upon thine awful front,
And spake in that loud voice that seemed to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
The sound of many waters; and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch His centuries in the eternal rock!
Deep calleth unto deep, and what are we
That hear the questions of that voice sublime?
O what are all the notes that ever rung
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side?
Yea, what is all the riot man can make,
In his short life, to thine unceasing roar?
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains? A light wave
That runs and whispers of thy Maker's might!
John G. C. Brainard.
* * * * *
WOUNDED.
Let me lie down,
Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,
Here low on the trampled grass, where I may see,
The surge of the combat, and where I may hear,
The glad cry of Victory, cheer upon cheer,
Let me lie down.
Oh! it was grand!
Like the tempest we charged in the triumph to share,
The tempest, its fury and thunder were there,
On! on! o'er entrenchments, o'er living, o'er dead,
With the foe under our feet, and our flag overhead,
Oh! it was grand!
Weary and faint,
Prone on the soldier's couch, ah! how can I rest,
With this shot-shattered head, and sabre-pierced breast?
Comrades, at roll-call, when I shall be sought,
Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,—
Wounded and faint.
Dying at last!
My Mother, dear Mother, with meek tearful eye.
Farewell! and God bless you, forever and aye!
Oh, that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest:
Dying at last!
I am no saint!
But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins,—
"Our Father;" and then says, "Forgive us our sins,"—
Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then
I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say, Amen!
Ah, I'm no saint!
Hark! there's a shout!
Raise me up, comrades, we've conquered, I know,
Up, up, on my feet, with my face to the foe.
Ah! there flies our flag with its star-spangles bright,
The promise of victory, the symbol of might,
Well! may we shout.
I'm mustered out!
Oh! God of our Fathers, our freedom prolong,
And tread down oppression, rebellion, and wrong.
Oh! land of earth's hope, on thy blood-reddened sod,
I die for the Nation, the Union, and God.
I'm mustered out!
Anon.
* * * * *
THE WHISTLER.
"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood
While he sat on a corn sheaf, at daylight's decline,—
"You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood:
I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine."
"And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said,
While an arch smile played over her beautiful face,
"I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid
Would fly to my side and would there take her place."
"Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours
Without any magic!" the fair maiden cried:
A favour so slight one's good-nature secures;"
And she playfully seated herself by his side.
"I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm
Would work so that not even modesty's check
Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm."
She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck.
"Yet once more I would blow; and the music divine
Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss,—
You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine;
And your lips stealing past it would give me a kiss."
The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,—
"What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make!
For only consider how silly 'twould be
To sit there and whistle for what you might take."
Robert Story.
* * * * *
TOM.
Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew.
Just listen to this:—
When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through,
And I with it, helpless there, full in my view
What do you think my eyes saw through the fire
That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher?
But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see
The shining. He must have come there after me,
Toddled alone from the cottage without
Any one's missing him. Then, what a shout—
Oh! how I shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men,
Save little Robin!" Again and again
They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall.
I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call,
"Never mind, baby, sit still like a man!
We're coming to get you as fast as we can."
They could not see him but I could. He sat
Still on a beam, his little straw hat
Carefully placed by his side; and his eyes
Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise,
Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept,
The roar of the fire up above must have kept
The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name
From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came
Again and again. O God, what a cry!
The axes went faster. I saw the sparks fly
Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat
That scorched them,—when, suddenly, there at their feet
The great beams leaned in—they saw him—then, crash,
Down came the wall! The men made a dash,—
Jumped to get out of the way,—and I thought,
"All's up with poor little Robin!" and brought
Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide
The sight of the child there,—when swift, at my side,
Some one rushed by and went right through the flame,
Straight as a dart—caught the child—and then came
Back with him, choking and crying, but—saved!
Saved safe and sound!
Oh, how the men raved,
Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all
Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall
Where I was lying, away from the fire,
Should fall in and bury me.
Oh! you'd admire,
To see Robin now: he's as bright as a dime,
Deep in some mischief too, most of the time.
Tom, it was saved him. Now, isn't it true
Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew?
There's Robin now! See he's strong as a log!
And there comes Tom too—
Yes, Tom is our dog.
Constance Fenimore Woolsen
* * * * *
TEMPERANCE.
The need of the hour is a grand tidal wave of total abstinence sweeping over the land. The strongest protest possible must be made against intemperance. Total abstinence is the protest. Will it be made with sufficient force to save the people? This is the vital question for the future of America, and I might add for the future of religion. What is to be done? I speak to those who by position, influence, talent, or office ought to take an interest in the people. In the name of humanity, of country, of religion, by all the most sacred ties that bind us to our fellow-men for the love of Him who died for souls, I beseech you, declare war against intemperance! Arrest its onward march! If total abstinence does not appear to you the remedy, adopt some other. If you differ from me in the means you propose, I will not complain. But I will complain in the bitterness of my soul if you stand by, arms folded, while this dreadful torrent is sweeping over the land, carrying with it ruin and misery. The brightest minds and the noblest hearts are numbered among the victims. Human wrecks whose fortune it has dissipated, whose intellect it has stifled, are strewn over the land as thick as autumnal leaves in the forest. Alcohol directly inflames the passions; it is oil poured on the burning fire. It turns man into an animal; it makes him the demon incarnate. One week's perusal of the daily paper fills the mind with horror at the shocking accidents, the suicides, the murders, the ruin of innocence, and the crimes of all kinds caused by intemperance.
Rt. Rev. John Ireland.
* * * * *
THE BALD-HEADED MAN.
The other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a very small boy, boarded a train at Little Rock. The woman had a careworn expression hanging over her face like a tattered veil, and many of the rapid questions asked by the boy were answered by unconscious sighs.
"Ma," said the boy, "that man's like a baby, ain't he?" pointing to a bald- headed man sitting just in front of them.
"Hush!"
"Why must I hush?"
After a few moments' silence: "Ma, what's the matter with that man's head?
"Hush, I tell you. He's bald."
"What's bald?"
"His head hasn't got any hair on it."
"Did it come off?"
"I guess so."
"Will mine come off?"
"Some time, may be."
"Then I'll be bald, won't I?"
"Yes."
"Will you care?"
"Don't ask so many questions."
After another silence, the boy exclaimed: "Ma, look at that fly on that man's head."
"If you don't hush, I'll whip you when we get home."
"Look! There's another fly. Look at 'em fight; look at 'em!"
"Madam," said the man, putting aside a newspaper and looking around, "what's the matter with that young hyena?"
The woman blushed, stammered out something, and attempted to smooth back the boy's hair.
"One fly, two flies, three flies," said the boy, innocently, following with his eyes a basket of oranges carried by a newsboy.
"Here, you young hedgehog," said the bald-headed man, "if you don't hush,
I'll have the conductor put you off the train."
The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed the boy's ears, and then gave him an orange to keep him from crying.
"Ma, have I got red marks on my head?"
"I'll whip you again, if you don't hush."
"Mister," said the boy, after a short silence, "does it hurt to be bald- headed?"
"Youngster," said the man, "if you'll keep quiet, I'll give you a quarter."
The boy promised, and the money was paid over.
The man took up his paper, and resumed his reading.
"This is my bald-headed money," said the boy. "When I get bald-headed, I'm goin' to give boys money. Mister, have all bald-headed men got money?"
The annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and exclaimed: "Madam, hereafter when you travel, leave that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I always thought that the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears to kill the children for making sport of his head, but now I am forced to believe that he did a Christian act. If your boy had been in the crowd, he would have died first. If I can't find another seat on this train, I'll ride on the cow-catcher rather than remain here."
"The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy; and as the woman leaned back a tired sigh escaped from her lips.
* * * * *
A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR.
She had been told that God made all the stars
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
As if it were a new and perfect world,
And this were its first eve. How beautiful I
Must be the work of nature to a child
In its first fresh impression! Laura stood
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half parted with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That look'd so still and delicate above,
Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the first golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively,—
"Father, dear father, God has made a star."
Willis.
* * * * *
EVE'S REGRETS ON QUITTING PARADISE.
Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leave
Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades,
Fit haunt of gods? where I had hope to spend,
Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day
That must be mortal to us both! O flowers,
That never will in other climate grow,
My early visitation and my last
At even, which I bred up with tender hand
From the first opening bud, and gave ye names!
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount?
Thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorn'd
With what to sight or smell was sweet! from thee
How shall I part, and whither wander down
Into a lower world, to this obscure
And wild? how shall we breathe in other air
Less pure, accustom'd to immortal fruits?
Milton.
* * * * *
READING THE LIST.
"Is there any news of the war?" she said,
"Only a list of the wounded and dead,"
Was the man's reply,
Without lifting his eye
To the face of the woman standing by.
"Tis the very thing I want," she said;
"Read me a list of the wounded and dead."
He read her the list—'twas a sad array
Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray:
In the very midst was a pause to tell
Of a gallant youth, who had fought so well
That his comrades asked, "Who is he, pray?"
"The only son of the widow Gray,"
Was the proud reply
Of his captain nigh.
What ails the woman standing near?
Her face has the ashen hue of fear.
"Well, well, read on: is he wounded? be quick
O God! but my heart is sorrow sick!"
"Is he wounded? no! he fell, they say,
Killed outright on that fatal day!"
But see! the woman has swooned away.
Sadly she opened her eyes to the light;
Slowly recalled the event of the fight;
Faintly she murmured, "Killed outright;
It has caused the death of my only son;
But the battle is fought and the victory won;
The will of the Lord, let it be done!"
God pity the cheerless widow Gray,
And send from the halls of eternal day
The light of His peace to illumine her way!
* * * * *
LITTLE MARY'S WISH.
"I have seen the first robin of spring, mother dear,
And have heard the brown darling sing;
You said, 'Hear it and wish, and 'twill surely come true;
So I've wished such a beautiful thing!
"I thought I would like to ask something for you,
But I couldn't think what there could be
That you'd want while you had all those beautiful things;
Besides, you have papa and me.
"So I wished for a ladder, so long that 'twould stand
One end by our own cottage door,
And the other go up past the moon and the stars
And lean against heaven's white floor.
"Then I'd get you to put on my pretty white dress,
With my sash and my darling new shoes;
Then I'd find some white roses to take up to God—
The most beautiful ones I could choose.
"And you and dear papa would sit on the ground
And kiss me, and tell me 'Good-bye!'
Then I'd go up the ladder far out of your sight,
Till I came to the door in the sky.
"I wonder if God keeps the door fastened tight?
If but one little crack I could see,
I would whisper, 'Please, God, let this little, girl in,
She's as tired as she can be!
"She came all alone from the earth to the sky,
For she's always been wanting to see
The gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers,
'Please, God, is there room there for me?'
"And then, when the angels had opened the door,
God would say, 'Bring the little child here,'
But he'd speak it so softly I'd not be afraid,
And he'd smile just like you, mother dear
"He would put His kind arms round your dear little girl,
And I'd ask Him to send down for you,
And papa, and cousin, and all that I love—
Oh, dear' don't you wish 'twould come true?"
The next spring time, when the robins came home,
They sang over grasses and flowers
That grew where the foot of the ladder stood,
Whose top reached the heavenly bowers.
And the parents had dressed the pale, still child,
For her flight to the summer land,
In a fair white robe, with one snow white rose
Folded tight in her pulseless hand.
And now at the foot of the ladder they sit,
Looking upward with quiet tears,
Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe
Of the child at the top appears.
Mrs. L. M. Blinn.
* * * * *
"GOOD-BYE."
Did you ever hear two married women take leave of each other at the gate on a mild evening? This is how they do it:—"Good-bye!" "Good-bye! Come down and see us soon." "I will. Good-bye." "Good-bye! Don't forget to come soon." "No, I won't. Don't you forget to come up." "I won't. Be sure and bring Sarah Jane with you the next time." "I will. I'd have brought her this time, but she wasn't very well. She wanted to come awfully." "Did she now? That was too bad! Be sure and bring her next time." "I will; and you be sure and bring baby." "I will; I forgot to tell you that he's cut another tooth." "You don't say so! How many has he now?" "Five. It makes him awfully cross." "I dare say it does this hot weather. Well, good-bye! Don't forget to come down." "No, I won't. Don't you forget to come up. Goodbye!" And they separate.
* * * * *
THE WEDDING FEE.
One morning, fifty years ago,—
When apple trees were white with snow
Of fragrant blossoms, and the air
Was spell-bound with the perfume rare—
Upon a farm horse, large and lean,
And lazy with its double load,
A sun-browned youth, and maid were seen
Jogging along the winding road.
Blue were the arches of the skies;
But bluer were that maiden's eyes.
The dew-drops on the grass were bright;
But brighter was the loving light
That sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid,
Where those bright eyes of blue were hid;
Adown the shoulders brown and bare
Rolled the soft waves of golden hair,
Where, almost strangled with the spray,
The sun, a willing sufferer lay.
It was the fairest sight, I ween,
That the young man had ever seen;
And with his features all aglow,
The happy fellow told her so!
And she without the least surprise
Looked on him with those heavenly eyes;
Saw underneath that shade of tan
The handsome features of a man;
And with a joy but rarely known
She drew that dear face to her own,
And by her bridal bonnet hid—
I shall not tell you what she did!
So, on they ride until among
The new-born leaves with dew-drops hung,
The parsonage, arrayed in white,
Peers out,—a more than welcome sight.
Then, with a cloud upon his face.
"What shall we do," he turned to say,
"Should he refuse to take his pay
From what is in the pillow-case?"
And glancing down his eyes surveyed
The pillow-case before him laid,
Whose contents reaching to its hem,
Might purchase endless joy for them.
The maiden answers, "Let us wait;
To borrow trouble where's the need?"
Then, at the parson's squeaking gate
Halted the more than willing steed.
Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung;
The latchless gate behind him swung;
The knocker of that startled door,
Struck as it never was before,
Brought the whole household pale with fright;
And there, with blushes on his cheek,
So bashful he could hardly speak,
The farmer met their wondering sight.
The groom goes in, his errand tells,
And, as the parson nods, he leans
Far o'er the window-sill and yells,
"Come in! He says he'll take the beans!"
Oh! how she jumped! With one glad bound
She and the bean-bag reached the ground.
Then, clasping with each dimpled arm
The precious product of the farm,
She bears it through the open door;
And, down upon the parlour floor,
Dumps the best beans vines ever bore.
Ah! happy were their songs that day,
When man and wife they rode away.
But happier this chorus still
Which echoed through those woodland scenes:
"God bless the priest of Whitinsville!
God bless the man who took the beans!"
R. M. Streeter.
* * * * *
THE FIREMAN.
'Tis a cold bleak night! with angry roar
The north winds beat and clamour at the door;
The drifted snow lies heaped along the street,
Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet;
The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend,
But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend;
Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown,
Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.
In lofty hails, where fortune takes its ease,
Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas;
In happy homes where warmth and comfort meet.
The weary traveller with their smiles to greet;
In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm
Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,
Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light—
"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"
But hark! above the beating of the storm
Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm!
Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light,
And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright;
From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call,
The ready friend no danger can appal;
Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave,
He hurries forth to battle and to save.
From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out,
Devouring all they coil themselves about,
The flaming furies, mounting high and higher,
Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire.
Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe
In vain attempts their power to overthrow;
With mocking glee they revel with their prey,
Defying human skill to check their way.
And see! far up above the flames hot breath,
Something that's human waits a horrid death;
A little child, with waving golden hair,
Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,
Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed,
While sobs of terror shake her tender breast.
And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild,
A mother screams, "O, God! my child! my child!"
Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng
A hardy fireman swiftly moves along;
Mounts sure and fast along the slender way,
Fearing no danger, dreading but delay.
The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path,
Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath;
But up, still up he goes! the goal is won!
His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone!
Gone to his death. The wily flames surround
And burn and beat his ladder to the ground,
In flaming columns move with quickened beat
To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat.
Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure,
Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore;
Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live,
Crowned with all honours nobleness can give.
Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears;
Behold! he quickly on the roof appears,
Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm
Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm.
Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance!
Behold how fast the roaring flames advance!
Quick! quick! brave spirits to his rescue fly;
Up! up! by heavens! this hero must not die!
Silence! he comes along the burning road,
Bearing, with tender care, his living load;
Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save
The good, true heart that can so nobly brave.
He's up again! and now he's coming fast!
One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed!
And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain!
A happy mother clasps her child again!
George M. Baker.
* * * * *