Page 94—Writing Land

Polly's Letter to Brother Ben
Dear Brother Ben,
I take my pen
To tell you where,
And how, and when,
I found the nest
Of our speckled hen.
She would never lay,
In a sensible way,
Like other hens,
In the barn or the hay;
But here and there
And everywhere,
On the stable floor,
And the wood-house stair,
And once on the ground
Her eggs I found.
But yesterday
I ran away,
With mother's leave,
In the barn to play.
The sun shone bright
On the seedy floor,
And the doves so white
Were a pretty sight
As they walked in and out
Of the open door,
With their little red feet
And their features neat,
Cooing and cooing
More and more.
Well, I went out
To look about
On the platform wide,
Where side by side
I could see the pig-pens
In their pride;
And beyond them both,
On a narrow shelf,
I saw the speckled hen
Hide herself
Behind a pile
Of hoes and rakes
And pieces of boards
And broken stakes.
"Ah! ha! old hen,
I have found you now,
But to reach your nest
I don't know how,
Unless I could creep
Or climb or crawl
Along the edge
Of the pig-pen wall."
And while I stood
In a thoughtful meed,
The speckled hen cackled
As loud as she could,
And flew away,
As much as to say,
"For once my treasure
Is out of your way."
I did not wait
A moment then:
I couldn't be conquered
By that old hen!
But along the edge
Of the slippery ledge
I carefully crept,
For the great pigs slept,
And I dared not
even look to see
If they were thinking
Of eating me
But all at once,
Oh, what a dunce!
I dropped my basket
Into the pen,
The one you gave me,
Brother Ben;
There were two eggs in it,
By the way,
That I found in the manger
Under the hay.
Then the pigs got up
And ran about
With a noise between
A grunt and a shout.
And when I saw them,
Rooting, rooting,
Of course I slipped
And lost my footing,
And tripped,
And jumped,
And finally fell
Right down among
The pigs pell-mell.
For once in my life
I was afraid;
For the door that led
Out to the shed
Was fastened tight
With and iron hook,
And father was down
In the fields by the brook,
Hoeing and weeding
His rows of corn,
And here was his Polly
So scared and forlorn,
But I called him, and called him,
As loud as I could.
I knew he would hear me—
He must and he should.
"O father! O father!
(Get out, you old pig).
O father! oh! oh!"
For their mouths are so big.
Then I waited a minute
And called him again,
"O father! O father!
I am in the pig pen!"
And father did hear,
And he threw down his hoe,
And scampered as fast
As a father could go.
The pigs had pushed me
Close to the wall,
And munched my basket,
Eggs and all,
And chewed my sun-bonnet
Into a ball.
And one had rubbed
His muddy nose
All over my apron,
Clean and white;
And they sniffed at me,
And stepped on my toes,
But hadn't taken
The smallest bite,
When father opened
The door at last,
And oh! in his arms
He held me fast.
E. W. Denison

Writing
Little pens of metal,
Little drops of ink,
Make the wicked tremble,
And the people think.

Value of Writing
Blest be that gracious power
Who taught mankind
To stamp a lasting image
On the mind:
Beasts may convey,
And tuneful birds may sing
Their mutual feelings
In the opening spring;
But man alone has skill
And power to send
The heart's warm dictates
To the distant friend:
Tis his also to please,
Instruct, advise,
Ages remote,
And nations yet to rise.
Crabbe

Use the Pen
Use the pen! there's magic in it,
Never let it lag behind;
Write thy thought, the pen can win it
From the chaos of the mind.
Many a gem is lost forever
By the careless passer-by,
But the gems of thought should never
On the mental pathway lie.
Use the pen! reck not that others
Take a higher flight than thine.
Many an ocean cave still smothers
Pearls of price beneath the brine.
So thy words and thoughts securing
Honest praise from wisdom's tongue,
May, in time, be as enduring
As the strains which Homer sung.
J. E. Carpenter

Power of the Pen
Beneath the rule of men entirely great,
The pen is mightier than the sword.
Lord Lytton

Letters
Such a little thing—a letter,
Yet so much it may contain:
Written thoughts and mute expressions
Full of pleasure, fraught with pain.
When our hearts are sad at parting,
Comes a gleam of comfort bright,
In the mutual promise given:
"We will not forget to write."
Plans and doings of the absent;
Scraps of news we like to hear,
All remind us, e'en though distant,
Kind remembrance keeps us near.
Yet sometimes a single letter
Turns the sunshine into shade;
Chills our efforts, clouds our prospects,
Blights our hopes and makes them fade.
Messengers of joy or sorrow,
Life or death, success, despair,
Bearers of affection's wishes,
Greetings kind or loving prayer.
Prayer or greeting, were we present,
Would be felt, but half unsaid;
We can write—because our letters—
Not our faces—will be read?
Who has not some treasured letters,
Fragments choice of other's lives;
Relics, some, of friends departed,
Friends whose memory still survives?
Touched by neither time nor distance,
Will their words unspoken last?
Voiceless whispers of the present,
Silent echoes of the past!

The Right Method of Composition
Never be in haste in writing:
Let that thou utterest be of nature's flow,
Not art's, a fountain's, not a pump's. But once
Begun, work thou all things into thy work:
And set thyself about it, as the sea
About the earth, lashing it day and night:
And leave the stamp of thine own soul in it
As thorough as the fossil flower in clay:
The theme shall start and struggle in thy breast,
Like to a spirit in its tomb at rising,
Rending the stones, and crying—Resurrection.
P. J. Bailey

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