New Century Speaker and Writer: Being a Standard Work on Composition and Oratory

by Henry Davenport Northrop

Descriptive and Dramatic Recitations

QUICK! MAN THE LIFE-BOAT!

This selection demands great vivacity and intense dramatic expression. Each reference to the life-boat requires rapid utterance, elevated pitch and strong tones of command. Point to the life-boat; you are to see it, and make your audience see it. They will see it in imagination if you do; that is, if you speak and act as if you stood on the shore and actually saw the life-boat hurrying to the rescue.

Quick! man the life-boat! See yon bark

That drives before the blast?

There’s a rock ahead, the fog is dark,

And the storm comes thick and fast.

Can human power, in such an hour,

Avert the doom that’s o’er her?

Her mainmast’s gone, but she still drives on

To the fatal reef before.

The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Quick! man the life-boat! hark! the gun

Booms through the vapory air;

And see! the signal flags are on,

And speak the ship’s despair.

That forked flash, that pealing crash,

Seemed from the wave to sweep her:

She’s on the rock, with a terrible shock—

And the wail comes louder and deeper,

The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Quick! man the life-boat! See—the crew

Gaze on their watery grave:

Already, some, a gallant few,

Are battling with the wave;

And one there stands, and wrings his hand

As thoughts of home come o’er him;

For his wife and child, through the tempest wild,

He sees on the heights before him.

The life-boat! Man the life-boat!

Speed, speed the life-boat! Off she goes!

And, as they pulled the oar,

From shore and ship a cheer arose,

That startled ship and shore.

Life-saving ark! yon fated bark

Has human lives within her;

And dearer than gold is the wealth untold,

Thou’lt save if thou canst win her.

On, life-boat! Speed thee, life-boat!

Hurrah! the life-boat dashes on,

Though darkly the reef may frown;

The rock is there—the ship is gone

Full twenty fathoms down.

But cheered by hope, the seamen cope

With the billows single-handed;

They are all in the boat!—hurrah! they’re afloat;

And now they are safely landed

By the life-boat! Cheer the life-boat!

BEAUTIFUL HANDS.

As I remember the first fair touch

Of those beautiful hands that I love so much,

I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled

Kissing the glove that I found unfilled—

When I met your gaze and the queenly bow

As you said to me laughingly, “Keep it now!”

And dazed and alone in a dream I stand

Kissing the ghost of your beautiful hand.

When first I loved in the long ago,

And held your hand as I told you so—

Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss,

And said, “I could die for a hand like this!”

Little I dreamed love’s fullness yet

Had I to ripen when eyes were wet,

And prayers were vain in their wild demands

For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

Beautiful hands! O, beautiful hands!

Could you reach out of the alien lands

Where you are lingering, and give me to-night

Only a touch—were it ever so light—

My heart were soothed, and my weary brain

Would lull itself into rest again;

For there is no solace the world commands

Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

James Whitcomb Riley.

THE BURNING SHIP.

The general character of this selection is intensely dramatic. It is a most excellent piece for any one who has the ability and training to do it full justice. The emotions of agony, horror and exultation are here, and should be made prominent. Let the cry of “Fire!” ring out in startling tones, and let your whole manner correspond with the danger and the excitement of the scene. The rate throughout should be rapid.

The figures in the text refer you to the corresponding numbers of Typical Gestures, at the beginning of Part II of this volume. Insert other gestures of your own.

The storm o’er the ocean flew furious and fast,

And the waves rose in foam at the voice of the blast,

And heavily[2] labored the gale-beaten ship,

Like a stout-hearted swimmer, the spray at his lip;

And dark[21] was the sky o’er the mariner’s path,

Save when the wild lightning illumined in wrath,

A young mother knelt in the cabin below,

And pressing her babe to her bosom of snow,

She prayed to her God,[20] ’mid the hurricane wild,

“O Father, have mercy, look down on my child!”

It passed—the fierce whirlwind careered on its way,

And the ship like an arrow[25] divided the spray;

Her sails glimmered white in the beams of the moon,

And the wind up aloft seemed to whistle a tune—to whistle a tune.

There was joy[16] in the ship as she furrowed the foam,

For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home.

The young mother pressed her fond babe to her breast,

And the husband sat cheerily down by her side,

And looked with delight on the face of his bride.

“Oh,[16] happy,” said he, “when our roaming is o’er,

We’ll dwell in our cottage that stands by the shore.

Already in fancy its roof I descry,

And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky;

Its garden so green, and its vine-covered wall;

The kind friends[9] awaiting to welcome us all,

And the children that sport by the old oaken tree.”

Ah gently the ship glided over the sea!

Hark![13] what was that? Hark! Hark to the shout!

“Fire!”[10] Then a tramp and a rout, and a tumult of voices uprose on the air;—

And the mother knelt[8] down, and the half-spoken prayer,

That she offered to God in her agony wild,

Was, “Father, have mercy, look down on my child!”

She flew to her husband,[1] she clung to his side,

Oh there was her refuge whate’er might betide.

“Fire!”[10] “Fire!” It was raging above and below—

And the cheeks of the sailors grew pale at the sight,

And their eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light,

’Twas vain o’er the ravage the waters to drip;

The pitiless flame was the lord of the ship,

And the smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher.

“O God,[20] it is fearful to perish by fire.”

Alone with destruction, alone on the sea,

“Great Father of mercy, our hope is in thee.”

Sad at heart and resigned, yet undaunted and brave,

They lowered the boat,[2] a mere speck on the wave.

First entered the mother, enfolding her child:

It knew she caressed it, looked[16] upward and smiled.

Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away,

And mistily dawned o’er the pathway the day—

And they prayed for the light, and at noontide about,

The sun[16] o’er the waters shone joyously out.

“Ho! a sail![7] Ho! a sail!” cried the man at the lee,

“Ho! a sail!”[7] and they turned their glad eyes o’er the sea.

“They see us, they see us,[21] the signal is waved!

They bear down upon us, they bear down upon us: Huzza! we are saved.”

THE UNKNOWN SPEAKER.

It is the Fourth day of July, 1776.

In the old State House in the city of Philadelphia are gathered half a hundred men to strike from their limbs the shackles of British despotism. There is silence in the hall—every face is turned toward the door where the committee of three, who have been out all night penning a parchment, are soon to enter. The door opens, the committee appears. The tall man with the sharp features, the bold brow, and the sand-hued hair, holding the parchment in his hand, is a Virginia farmer, Thomas Jefferson. That stout-built man with stern look and flashing eye, is a Boston man, one John Adams. And that calm-faced man with hair drooping in thick curls to his shoulders, that is the Philadelphia printer, Benjamin Franklin.

The three advance to the table.

The parchment is laid there.

Shall it be signed or not? A fierce debate ensues, Jefferson speaks a few bold words. Adams pours out his whole soul. The deep-toned voice of Lee is heard, swelling in syllables of thunder like music. But still there is doubt, and one pale-faced man whispers something about axes, scaffolds and a gibbet.

“Gibbet?” echoed a fierce, bold voice through the hall. “Gibbet? They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land; they may turn every rock into a scaffold; every tree into a gallows; every home into a grave, and yet the words of that parchment there can never die! They may pour our blood on a thousand scaffolds, and yet from every drop that dyes the axe a new champion of freedom will spring into birth. The British King may blot out the stars of God from the sky, but he cannot blot out His words written on that parchment there. The works of God may perish. His words never!

“The words of this declaration will live in the world long after our bones are dust. To the mechanic in his workshop they will speak hope; to the slave in the mines, freedom; but to the coward-kings, these words will speak in tones of warning they cannot choose but hear.

“They will be terrible as the flaming syllables on Belshazzar’s wall! They will speak in language startling as the trump of the Archangel, saying: ‘You have trampled on mankind long enough! At last the voice of human woe has pierced the ear of God, and called His judgment down! You have waded to thrones through rivers of blood; you have trampled on the necks of millions of fellow-beings. Now kings, now purple hangmen, for you come the days of axes and gibbets and scaffolds.’

“Such is the message of that declaration to mankind, to the kings of earth. And shall we falter now? And shall we start back appalled when our feet touch the very threshold of Freedom?

“Sign that parchment! Sign, if the next moment the gibbet’s rope is about your neck! Sign, if the next minute this hall rings with the clash of the falling axes! Sign by all your hopes in life or death as men, as husbands, as fathers, brothers, sign your names to the parchment, or be accursed forever!

“Sign, and not only for yourselves, but for all ages, for that parchment will be the textbook of freedom—the Bible of the rights of men forever. Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise! It is truth, your own hearts witness it; God proclaims it. Look at this strange history of a band of exiles and outcasts, suddenly transformed into a people—a handful of men weak in arms—but mighty in God-like faith; nay, look at your recent achievements, your Bunker Hill, your Lexington, and then tell me, if you can, that God has not given America to be free!

“It is not given to our poor human intellect to climb to the skies, and to pierce the councils of the Almighty One. But methinks I stand among the awful clouds which veil the brightness of Jehovah’s throne.

“Methinks I see the recording angel come trembling up to that throne to speak his dread message. ‘Father, the old world is baptized in blood. Father, look with one glance of thine eternal eye, and behold evermore that terrible sight, man trodden beneath the oppressor’s feet, nations lost in blood, murder and superstition walking hand in hand over the graves of their victims, and not a single voice to whisper hope to man!’

“He stands there, the angel, trembling with the record of human guilt. But hark! The voice of Jehovah speaks out from the awful cloud: ‘Let there be light again! Tell my people, the poor and oppressed, to go out from the old world, from oppression and blood, and build my altar in the new!’

“As I live, my friends, I believe that to be His voice! Yes, were my soul trembling on the verge of eternity, were this hand freezing in death, were this voice choking in the last struggle, I would still with the last impulse of that soul, with the last wave of that hand, with the last gasp of that voice, implore you to remember this truth—God has given America to be free! Yes, as I sank into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with my last faint whisper I would beg you to sign that parchment for the sake of the millions whose very breath is now hushed in intense expectation as they look up to you for the awful words, ‘You are free!’”

The unknown speaker fell exhausted in his seat; but the work was done.

A wild murmur runs through the hall. “Sign!” There is no doubt now. Look how they rush forward! Stout-hearted John Hancock has scarcely time to sign his bold name before the pen is grasped by another—another and another. Look how the names blaze on the parchment! Adams and Lee, Jefferson and Carroll, Franklin and Sherman.

And now the parchment is signed.

Now, old man in the steeple, now bare your arm and let the bell speak! Hark to the music of that bell! Is there not a poetry in that sound, a poetry more sublime than that of Shakespeare and Milton? Is there not a music in that sound that reminds you of those sublime tones which broke from angel lips when the news of the child Jesus burst on the hill-tops of Bethlehem? For the tones of that bell now come pealing, pealing, pealing, “Independence now and Independence forever.”

CHILD LOST.

It used to be a custom to have a man go through the town ringing a bell and “crying” any thing was lost. You should imitate the crier, at the same time swinging your hand as if ringing a bell. This selection requires a great variety in the manner, pitch of the voice and gestures of the reader.

“Nine,” by the Cathedral clock!

Chill the air with rising damps;

Drearily from block to block

In the gloom the bellman tramps—

“Child lost! Child lost!

Blue eyes, curly hair,

Pink dress—child lost!”

Something in the doleful strain

Makes the dullest listener start;

And a sympathetic pain

Shoot to every feeling heart.

Anxious fathers homeward haste,

Musing with paternal pride

Of their daughters, happy-faced,

Silken-haired and sparkling-eyed.

Many a tender mother sees

Younglings playing round her chair,

Thinking, “If ’twere one of these,

How could I the anguish bear?”

“Ten,” the old Cathedral sounds;

Dark and gloomy are the streets;

Still the bellman goes his rounds,

Still his doleful cry repeats—

“Oh, yes! oh, yes!

Child lost! Blue eyes,

Curly hair, pink dress—

Child lost! Child lost!”

“Can’t my little one be found?

Are there any tidings, friend?”

Cries the mother, “Is she drowned?

Is she stolen? God forfend!

Search the commons, search the parks,

Search the doorway and the halls,

Search the alleys, foul and dark,

Search the empty market stalls.

Here is gold and silver—see!

Take it all and welcome, man;

Only bring my child to me,

Let me have my child again.”

Hark! the old Cathedral bell

Peals “eleven,” and it sounds

To the mother like a knell;

Still the bellman goes his rounds.

“Child lost! Child lost!

Blue eyes, curly hair,

Pink dress—child lost!”

Half aroused from dreams of peace,

Many hear the lonesome call,

Then into their beds of ease

Into deeper slumber fall;

But the anxious mother cries,

“Oh, my darling’s curly hair!

Oh, her sweetly-smiling eyes!

Have you sought her everywhere?

Long and agonizing dread

Chills my heart and drives me wild—

What if Minnie should be dead?

God, in mercy, find my child!”

“Twelve” by the Cathedral clock;

Dimly shine the midnight lamps;

Drearily from block to block,

In the rain the bellman tramps.

“Child lost! Child lost!

Blue eyes, curly hair,

Pink dress—child lost!”

THE CAPTAIN AND THE FIREMAN.

Spin us a yarn of the sea, old man,

About some captain bold,

Who steered his ship and made her slip

When the sea and the thunder rolled;

Some tale that will stir the blood, you know,

Like the pirate tales of old.

“It was the old ‘tramp’ Malabar,

With coal for Singapore;

‘The captain stood upon the bridge’

And loud the wind did roar,

And far upon the starboard bow

We saw the stormy shore.

“The night came down as black as pitch;

More loud the wind did blow;

The waves made wreck around the deck

And washed us to and fro;

But half the crew, though wild it blew,

Were sleeping down below.

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’

And I was at the wheel;

The waves were piling all around,

Which made the old ‘tank’ reel,

When—smash! there came an awful crash

That shook the ribs of steel.

“‘We’ve struck a wreck!’ ‘Stand by the pumps!’

Her plates were gaping wide;

And out her blood streamed in the flood,

The wreck had bruised her side;

Her coal poured out—her inky blood—

And stained the foaming tide.

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’

The firemen down below;

He saw and knew what he could do,

While they but heard the blow.

The bravest man is he that stands

Against an unseen foe.

“‘All hands on deck!’ was now the cry,

‘For we are sinking fast;

Our boats were stove by that last wave—

This night will be our last;

There’s not a plank on board the tank,

She’s steel, from keel to mast.’

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge;’

All hands were now on deck;

The waves went down, the sun came up,

We saw the drifting wreck,

And there, upon the starboard bow,

The land—a distant speck.

“‘Who’ll go below and fire her up?”

The captain loud did roar.

‘We’re dumping coal with every roll,

But, see! the storm is o’er;

And I will stand upon the bridge,

And guide her to the shore.’

“‘I’ll go for one,’ said old ‘Tramp Jim,’

‘And shovel in the coal.

I’ll go,’ said Jim, all black and grim,

‘Though death be down that hole;

I’ve heard a man who dies for men

Is sure to save his soul.

“‘So turn the steam into that mill,

And let it spin around,

And I will feed the old thing coal

Till you be hard aground;

I’ll go alone, there’s none to moan,

If old ‘Tramp Jim’ be drowned!’

“He went below and fired her up,

The steam began to roar;

‘The captain stood upon the bridge’

And steered her for the shore;

The ship was sinking by the bow,

Her race was nearly o’er.

“The water rose around poor Jim,

Down in the fire-room there.

‘I’ll shovel in the coal,’ he gasped,

‘’Till the water wets me hair—

The Lord must take me as I am,

I have no time for prayer.’

“‘The captain stood upon the bridge.’

(Oh, hang that phrase, I say!

‘The firemen bravely stood below,’

Suits more this time of day,)

Old Jim kept shovelling in the coal,

Though it was time to pray.

“And every soul was saved, my lads,

Why do I speak it low?

The Lord took Jim, all black and grim,

And made him white as snow.

Some say, ‘the captain on the bridge,’

But I say, ‘Jim below!’”

W. B. Collison.

THE FACE ON THE FLOOR.

This is one of many recitations in this volume that have proved their popularity by actual test. “The Face on the Floor,” when well recited, holds the hearers spell-bound.

’Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there

That well nigh filled Joe’s barroom on the corner of the square,

And as songs and witty stories came through the open door;

A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

“Where did it come from?” some one said;

“The wind has blown it in.”

“What does it want?” another cried, “Some whiskey, beer or gin?”

“Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach’s equal to the work,

I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s as filthy as a Turk.”

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace,

In fact, he smiled as if he thought he’d struck the proper place;

“Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd;

To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

“Give me a drink! That’s what I want, I’m out of funds, you know,

When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow;

What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;

I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

“There, thanks, that braced me nicely, God bless you, one and all,

Next time I pass this good saloon I’ll make another call;

Give you a song? No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past,

My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out and my lungs are going fast.

“Say, give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—

I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too;

That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think,

But I was, some four or five years back, say, give us another drink.

“Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame—

Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;

Five fingers—there, that’s the scheme—and corking whiskey, too,

Well, boys, here’s luck, and landlord, my best regards to you.

“You’ve treated me pretty kindly and I’d like to tell you how

I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now;

As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,

And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

“I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood.

But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good;

I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise;

For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

“I made a picture, perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the Chase of Fame;

It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name;

And then, I met a woman—now comes the funny part—

With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

“Why don’t you laugh? ’Tis funny that the vagabond you see

Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me;

But ’twas so, and for a month or two her smile was freely given;

And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven.

“Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give,

With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live,

With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor and a wealth of chestnut hair?

If so, ’twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

“I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May,

Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine who lived across the way,

And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,

Said that she’d like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

“It didn’t take long to know him, and before the month had flown;

My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;

And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,

The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.

“That’s why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,

I thought you’d be amused and laughing all the while;

Why, what’s the matter, friend? There’s a teardrop in your eye,

Come, laugh like me, ’tis only babes and women that should cry.

“Say, boys, if you’ll give me another whiskey, I’ll be glad,

And I’ll draw right here, the picture of the face that drove me mad;

Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the base-ball score—

And you shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room floor.”

Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began

To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man,

Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,

With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture—dead.

H. Antoine D’Arcy.

THE ENGINEER’S STORY.

Han’som, stranger? Yes, she’s purty an’ ez peart ez she can be.

Clever? Wy! she ain’t no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me.

What’s her name? ’Tis kind o’ common, yit I ain’t ashamed to tell,

She’s ole “Fiddler” Filkin’s daughter, an’ her dad he calls her “Nell.”

I wuz drivin’ on the “Central” jist about a year ago

On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe.

There’s no end o’ skeery places. ’Taint a road fur one who dreams,

With its curves an’ awful tres’les over rocks an’ mountain streams.

’Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour

An’ wuz tearin’ up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower,

Round the bends an’ by the hedges ’bout ez fast ez we could go,

With the mountain-peaks above us an’ the river down below.

Ez we come nigh to a tres’le ’cros’t a holler, deep an’ wild,

Suddenly I saw a baby, ’twuz the stationkeeper’s child,

Toddlin’ right along the timbers with a bold and fearless tread

Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.

I jist jumped an’ grabbed the throttle an’ I fa’rly held my breath,

Fur I felt I couldn’t stop her till the child wuz crushed to death,

When a woman sprang afore me like a sudden streak o’ light,

Caught the boy and twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.

I jist whis’l’d all the brakes on. An’ we worked with might an’ main

Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn’t stop the train,

An’ it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by

An’ the river roared below us—I shall hear her till I die!

Then we stop’t; the sun was shinin’; I ran back along the ridge

An’ I found her—dead? No! livin’! She wuz hangin’ to the bridge

Wher she drop’t down thro’ the cross-ties with one arm about a sill

An’ the other round the baby, who wuz yellin’ fur to kill!

So we saved ’em. She wuz gritty. She’s ez peart ez she kin be—

Now we’re married; she’s no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me,

An’ ef eny ask who owns her, wy! I ain’t ashamed to tell—

She’s my wife. Ther’ ain’t none better than ole Filkin’s daughter “Nell.”

Eugene J. Hall.

JIM.

He was jes’ a plain, ever’-day, all-round kind of a jour.,

Consumpted lookin’—but la!

The jokeyest, wittyest, story-tellin’, song-singin’, laughin’est, jolliest

Feller you ever saw!

Worked at jes’ coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk,

And his feelin’s, too!

Lordy! ef he was on’y back on his bench again to-day, a carryin’ on

Like he ust to do!

Any shop-mate’ll tell you they never was on top o’dirt

A better feller’n Jim!

You want a favor, and couldn’t git it anywheres else—

You could git it o’ him!

Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess!

Give ever’ nickel he’s worth—

And, ef you’d a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his,

He’d a-give you the earth!

Allus a-reachin’ out, Jim was and a-helpin’ some

Poor feller onto his feet—

He’d a-never a-keered how hungry he was his se’f.

So’s the feller got somepin to eat!

Didn’t make no difference at all to him how he was dressed,

He used to say to me:

“You tog out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time,

And he’ll git along!” says he.

Jim didn’t have, nor never could git ahead, so overly much

O’ this world’s goods at a time—

’Fore now I’ve saw him, more’n onc’t lend a dollar and ha’f to

Turn ’round and borry a dime!

Mebby laugh and joke about hisse’f fer awhile—then jerk his coat,

And kind o’ square his chin,

Tie his apern, and squat hisse’f on his old shoe bench

And go peggin’ agin.

Patientest feller, too, I reckon, at every jes’ naturally

Coughed hisse’f to death!

Long enough after his voice was lost he’d laugh and say,

He could git ever’thing but his breath—

“You fellers,” he’d sort o’ twinkle his eyes and say,

“Is pilin’ onto me

A mighty big debt for that air little weak-chested ghost o’ mine to pack

Through all eternity!”

Now there was a man ’at jes’ ’peared like to me,

’At ortn’t a-never died!

“But death hain’t a-showin’ no favors,” the old boss said,

“On’y to Jim,” and cried:

And Wigger, ’at put up the best sewed work in the shop,

Er the whole blamed neighborhood,

He says, “When God made Jim, I bet you He didn’t do anything else that day,

But jes’ set around and feel good.”

James Whitcomb Riley.

QUEEN VASHTI’S LAMENT.

Is this all the love that he bore me, my husband, to publish my face

To the nobles of Media and Persia, whose hearts are besotted and base?

Did he think me a slave, me, Vashti, the Beautiful, me, Queen of queens,

To summon me thus for a show to the midst of his bacchanal scenes?

I stand like an image of brass, I, Vashti, in sight of such men!

No, sooner, a thousand times sooner, the mouth of the lioness’ den,

When she’s fiercest with hunger and love for the hungry young lions that tear

Her teats with sharp, innocent teeth, I would enter, far rather than here!

Did he love me, or is he, too, though the King, but a brute like the rest!

I have seen him in wine, and I fancied ’twas then that he loved me the best;

Though I think I would rather have one sweet, passionate word from the heart

Than a year of caresses that may with the wine that creates them depart.

But ever before, in his wine, toward me he showed honor and grace;

He was King, I was Queen, and those nobles, he made them remember their place.

But now all is changed; I am vile, they are honored, they push me aside,

A butt for Memucan and Shethar and Meres, gone mad in their pride!

Shall I faint, shall I pine, shall I sicken and die for the loss of his love?

Not I; I am queen of myself, though the stars fall from heaven above.

The stars! ha! the torment is there, for my light is put out by a star,

That has dazzled the eyes of the King and his court and his captains of war.

He was lonely, they say, and he looked, as he sat like a ghost at his wine,

On the couch by his side, where, of yore his Beautiful used to recline.

But the King is a slave to his pride, to his oath and the laws of the Medes,

And he cannot call Vashti again though his poor heart is wounded and bleeds.

So they sought through the land for a wife, while the King thought of me all the while—

I can see him, this moment, with eyes that are lost for the loss of a smile,

Gazing dreamily on while each maiden is temptingly passed in review,

While the love in his heart is awake with the thought of a face that he knew!

Then she came when his heart was grown weary with loving the dream of the past!

She is fair—I could curse her for that, if I thought that this passion would last!

But e’en if it last, all the love is for me, and, through good and through ill,

The King shall remember his Vashti, shall think of his Beautiful still.

Oh! the day is a weary burden, the night is a restless strife,—

I am sick to the very heart of my soul, with this life—this death in life!

Oh! that the glorious, changeless sun would draw me up in his might,

And quench my dreariness in the flood of his everlasting light!

What is it? Oft as I lie awake and my pillow is wet with tears,

There comes—it came to me just now—a flash, then disappears;

A flash of thought that makes this life a re-enacted scene,

That makes me dream what was, will be, and what is now, has been.

And I, when age on age has rolled, shall sit on the royal throne,

And the King shall love his Vashti, his Beautiful, his own,

And for the joy of what has been and what again will be,

I’ll try to bear this awful weight of lonely misery!

The star! Queen Esther! blazing light that burns into my soul!

The star! the star! Oh! flickering light of life beyond control!

O King! remember Vashti, thy Beautiful, thy own,

Who loved thee and shall love thee still, when Esther’s light has flown!

John Reade.

THE SKELETON’S STORY.

It will require all the dramatic power of which you are capable to recite this selection and do it full justice. Be wide-awake, quick in tone and gesture, shouting at one time, whispering at another, speaking with your whole body. The emotions of fear and horror are especially prominent.

It is two miles ahead to the foot-hills—two miles of parched turf and rocky space. To the right—the left—behind, is the rolling prairie. This broad valley strikes the Sierra Nevadas and stops as if a wall had been built across it.

Ride closer! What is this on the grass? A skull here—a rib there—bones scattered about as the wild beasts left them after the horrible feast. The clean-picked skull grins and stares—every bone and scattered lock of hair has its story of a tragedy. And what besides these relics? More bones—not scattered, but lying in heaps—a vertebra with ribs attached—a fleshless skull bleaching under the summer sun. Wolves! Yes. Count the heaps of bones and you will find nearly a score. Open boats are picked up at sea with neither life nor sign to betray their secret. Skeletons are found upon the prairie, but they tell a plain story to those who halt beside them. Let us listen:

Away off to the right you can see treetops. Away off to the left you can see the same sight. The skeleton is in line between the two points. He left one grove to ride to the other. To ride! Certainly; a mile away is the skeleton of a horse or mule. The beast fell and was left there.

It is months since that ride, and the trail has been obliterated. Were it otherwise, and you took it up from the spot where the skeleton horse now lies, you would find the last three or four miles made at a tremendous pace.

“Step! step! step!”

What is it? Darkness has gathered over mountain and prairie as the hunter jogs along over the broken ground. Overhead the countless stars look down upon him—around him is the pall of night. There was a patter of footsteps on the dry grass. He halts and peers around him, but the darkness is too deep for him to discover any cause for alarm.

“Patter! patter! patter!”

There it is again! It is not fifty yards from where he last halted. The steps are too light for those of an Indian.

“Wolves!” whispers the hunter, as a howl suddenly breaks upon his ear.

Wolves! The gaunt, grizzly wolves of the foot-hills—thin and poor and hungry and savage—the legs tireless—the mouth full of teeth which can crack the shoulder-bone of a buffalo. He can see their dark forms flitting from point to point—the patter of their feet upon the parched grass proves that he is surrounded.

Now the race begins. A line of wolves spread out to the right and left, and gallops after—tongues out—eyes flashing—great flakes of foam flying back to blotch stone and grass and leave a trail to be followed by the cowardly coyotes.

Men ride thus only when life is the stake. A horse puts forth such speed only when terror follows close behind and causes every nerve to tighten like a wire drawn until the scratch of a finger makes it chord with a wail of despair. The line is there—aye! it is gaining! Inch by inch it creeps up, and the red eye takes on a more savage gleam as the hunter cries out to his horse and opens fire from his revolvers. A wolf falls on the right—a second on the left. Does the wind cease blowing because it meets a forest! The fall of one man in a mad mob increases the determination of the rest.

With a cry so full of the despair that wells up from the heart of the strong man when he gives up his struggle for life that the hunter almost believes a companion rides beside him, the horse staggers—recovers—plunges forward—falls to the earth. It was a glorious struggle; but he has lost.

There is a confused heap of snarling, fighting, maddened beasts, and the line rushes forward again. Saddle, bridle, and blanket are in shreds—the horse a skeleton. And now the chase is after the hunter. He has half a mile the start, and as he runs the veins stand out, the muscles tighten, and he wonders at his own speed. Behind him are the gaunt bodies and the tireless legs. Closer, closer, and now he is going to face fate like a brave man should. He has halted. In an instant a circle is formed about him—a circle of red eyes, foaming mouths, and yellow fangs which are to meet in his flesh.

There is an interval—a breathing spell. He looks up at the stars—out upon the night. It is his last hour, but there is no quaking—no crying out to the night to send him aid. As the wolves rest, a flash blinds their eyes—a second—a third—and a fourth, and they give before the man they had looked upon as their certain prey. But it is only for a moment. He sees them gathering for the rush, and firing his remaining bullets among them he seizes his long rifle by the barrel and braces to meet the shock. Even a savage would have admired the heroic fight he made for life. He sounds the war-cry and whirls his weapon around him, and wolf after wolf falls disabled. He feels a strange exultation over the desperate combat, and as the pack give way before his mighty blows a gleam of hope springs up in his heart.

It is only for a moment; then the circle narrows. Each disabled beast is replaced by three which hunger for blood. There is a rush—a swirl—and the cry of despair is drowned in the chorus of snarls as the pack fight over the feast.

The gray of morning—the sunlight of noonday—the stars of evening will look down upon grinning skull and whitening bones, and the wolf will return to crunch them again. Men will not bury them. They will look down upon them as we look, and ride away with a feeling that ’tis but another dark secret of the wonderful prairie.

THE LADY AND THE EARL.

The figures in the text of this piece indicate the gestures to be made, as shown in Typical Gestures, at the beginning of Part II. of this volume.

I saw her in the festive halls, in scenes of pride and[16] glee,

’Mongst many beautiful and fair, but none so fair as she;

Hers was the most attractive[2] form that mingled in the scene,

And all who saw her said she moved a goddess and a queen.

The diamond blazed in her dark hair and bound her polished brow,

And precious gems were clasped around her swan-like neck of snow;

And Indian looms had lent their stores to form her sumptuous dress,

And art with nature joined to grace her passing loveliness.

I looked upon her and I said, who[6] is so blessed as she?

A creature she all light and life, all beauty and all glee;

Sure,[5] sweet content blooms on her cheek and on her brow a pearl,

And she was[1] young and innocent, the Lady of the Earl.

But as I looked more carefully, I saw that radiant smile

Was but assumed in mockery, the unthinking to beguile.

Thus have I seen a summer rose in all its beauty bloom,

When it has[24] shed its sweetness o’er a cold and lonely tomb.

She struck the harp, and when they praised her skill she turned aside,

A rebel tear of conscious woe[20] and memory to hide;

But when she raised her head she looked so[13] lovely, so serene,

To gaze in her proud eyes you’d think a tear had seldom been.

The humblest maid in rural life can[5] boast a happier fate

Than she, the beautiful and good, in all her rank and state;

For she was sacrificed,[20] alas! to cold and selfish pride

When her young lips had breathed the vow to be a soldier’s bride.

Of late I viewed her move along,[2] the idol of the crowd;

A few short months elapsed, and then,[12] I kissed her in her shroud!

And o’er her splendid monument I saw the hatchment wave,

But there was one proud heart[5] which did more honor to her grave.

A warrior dropped his plumed head upon her place of rest,

And with his feverish lips the name of Ephilinda pressed;

Then breathed a prayer, and checked the groan of parting pain,

And as he left the tomb he said,[11] “Yet we shall meet again.”

MY VESPER SONG.

Filled with weariness and pain,

Scarcely strong enough to pray,

In this twilight hour I sit,

Sit and sing my doubts away.

O’er my broken purposes,

Ere the coming shadows roll,

Let me build a bridge of song:

“Jesus, lover of my soul.”

“Let me to Thy bosom fly!”

How the words my thoughts repeat:

To Thy bosom, Lord, I come,

Though unfit to kiss Thy feet.

Once I gathered sheaves for Thee,

Dreaming I could hold them fast:

Now I can but faintly sing,

“Oh! receive my soul at last.”

I am weary of my fears,

Like a child when night comes on:

In the shadow, Lord, I sing,

“Leave, oh, leave me not alone.”

Through the tears I still must shed,

Through the evil yet to be,

Though I falter while I sing,

“Still support and comfort me.”

“All my trust on Thee is stayed;”

Does the rhythm of the song

Softly falling on my heart,

Make its pulses firm and strong?

Or is this Thy perfect peace,

Now descending while I sing,

That my soul may sleep to-night

“’Neath the shadow of Thy wing?

“Thou of life the fountain art;”

If I slumber on Thy breast,

If I sing myself to sleep,

Sleep and death alike are rest.

Not impatiently I sing,

Though I lift my hands and cry

“Jesus, lover of my soul,

Let me to Thy bosom fly.”

THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST.

With distinct enunciation give the dialect in this piece, and assume the character of a countryman who is telling this story. Guard against being vulgar or too commonplace.

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an’ of silk,

An’ satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol’ brindle’s milk;

Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an’ stove-pipe hats were there,

An’ dudes ’ith trouserloons so tight they couldn’t kneel down in prayer.

The elder in his poolpit high said, as he slowly riz:

“Our organist is kep’ to hum, laid up ’ith roomatiz,

An’ as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain’t here,

Will some ’un in the congregation be so kind ’s to volunteer?”

An’ then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style,

Give an interductory hiccup, an’ then swaggered up the aisle.

Then thro’ that holy atmosphere there crep’ a sense er sin,

An’ thro’ thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol’ gin.

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge:

“This man perfanes the house er God! W’y, this is sacrilege!”

The tramp didn’ hear a word he said, but slouched ’ith stumblin’ feet,

An’ stalked an’ swaggered up the steps, an’ gained the organ seat.

He then went pawin’ thro’ the keys, an’ soon there rose a strain

Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an’ ’lectrify the brain;

An’ then he slapped down on the thing ’ith hands an’ head an’ knees,

He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin’ high an’ dry,

It swelled into the rafters, an’ bulged out into the sky;

The ol’ church shook and staggered, an’ seemed to reel an’ sway,

An’ the elder shouted “Glory!” an’ I yelled out “Hooray!”

An’ then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears,

Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched ’em down ’ith tears;

An’ we dreamed uv ol’ time kitchens, ’ith Tabby on the mat,

Tu home an’ luv an’ baby days, an’ mother, an’ all that!

An’ then he struck a streak uv hope—a song from souls forgiven—

Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an’ stormed the gates uv heaven;

The morning stars together sung—no soul wuz left alone—

We felt the universe wuz safe, an’ God was on His throne!

An’ then a wail of deep despair an’ darkness come again,

An’ long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men;

No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight,

An’ then—the tramp, he swaggered down an’ reeled out into the night!

But we knew he’d tol’ his story, tho’ he never spoke a word,

An’ it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard;

He hed tol’ his own life history, an’ no eye was dry thet day,

W’en the elder rose an’ simply said: “My brethren, let us pray.”

S. W. Foss.

COMIN’ THRO’ THE RYE.

If a body meet a body

Comin’ thro’ the rye,

If a body kiss a body,

Need a body cry?

Ev’ry lassie has her laddie,

Nane they say ha’e I,

Yet all the lads they smile at me

When comin’ thro’ the rye.

If a body meet a body,

Comin’ frae the town;

If a body meet a body,

Need a body frown?

Ev’ry lassie has her laddie,

Nane they say ha’e I,

Yet all the lads they smile at me

When comin’ thro’ the rye.

Amang the train there is a swain,

I dearly love mysel’,

But what’s his name, or where’s his hame

I dinna choose to tell.

Ev’ry lassie has her laddie,

Nane they say ha’e I,

Yet all the lads they smile at me

When comin’ thro’ the rye.

Robert Burns.

JOAN OF ARC.

Twas in the days of chivalry, when steel-clad warriors swore

To bear their ladies’ favors amidst the battle’s roar,

To right the wrongs of injured maids, the lance in rest to lay,

And nobly fall in honor’s cause or triumph in the fray.

But not to-day a lance is couched, no waving plume is there,

No war-horse sniffs the trumpet’s breath, no banner woos the air;

No crowding chiefs the tilt-yard throng to quench the thirst of fame,

Though chiefs are met, intent to leave their names eternal shame!

A still and solemn silence reigned, deep darkness veiled the skies,

And Nature, shuddering, shook to see the impious sacrifice!

Full in the centre of the lists a dreadful pile is reared,

Awaiting one whose noble soul death’s terrors never feared,

Gaul’s young Minerva, who had led her countrymen to fame,

And foremost in the battle rent that conquered country’s chain;

Who, when the sun of fame had set that on its armies shone,

Its broken ranks in order set, inspired and led them on;

The low-born maid that, clad in steel, restored a fallen king,

Who taught the vanquished o’er their foes triumphal songs to sing;

Whose banner in the battle’s front the badge of conquest streamed,

And built again a tottering throne, a forfeit crown redeemed!

But when her glorious deeds were done, Fate sent a darker day,

The blaze of brightness faded in murkiest clouds away;

And France stood looking idly on, nor dared to strike a blow,

Her guardian angel’s life to save, but gave it to the foe!

Ungrateful France her saviour’s fate beheld with careless smile,

While Superstition, hiding hate and vengeance, fired the pile!

What holy horror of her crime is looked by yonder priest,

Like that grim bird that hovers nigh, and scents the funeral feast!

Is this the maiden’s triumph, won in battle’s dreadful scenes,

Whose banner so triumphant flew before thy walls, Orleans!

Hark to the trumpet’s solemn sound! Low roll the muffled drums

As slowly through the silent throng the sad procession comes;

Wrapp’d in the garments of the grave, the corselet laid aside,

Still with Bellona’s step she treads, through all her woes descried.

As beautiful her features now as when inspired she spoke

Those oracles that slumbering France to life and action woke:

The majesty yet haunts her looks, that late so dreadful beamed

In war, when o’er her burnished arms the long rich tresses streamed,

She gazes on the ghastly pile, tho’ pale as marble stone;

’Twas not with fear, for from her lips escaped no sigh nor groan;

But she, her country’s saviour, thus to render up her breath—

That was a pang far worse than all the bitterness of death!

’Twas done; the blazing pile is fired, the flames have wrapped her round;

The owlet shrieked, and circling flew with dull, foreboding sound;

Fate shuddered at the ghastly sight, and smiled a ghostly smile;

And fame and honor spread their wings above the funeral pile.

But, phœnix-like, her spirit rose from out the burning flame,

More beautiful and bright by far than in her days of fame.

Peace to her spirit! Let us give her memory to renown,

Nor on her faults or failings dwell, but draw the curtain down.

Clare S. McKinley.

THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS.

This selection is narrative, yet it is narrative intensely dramatic. Imagine the feelings of a parent who sees the “youngest of his babes” torn away from his embrace by a vulture and carried away in mid-air. Let your tones, attitudes and gestures all be strong. Picture the flight of a mountain eagle with uplifted arm, and depict with an expression of agony the grief of the parent.

I’ve been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales,

And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales,

As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o’er,

They spake of those who disappeared, and ne’er were heard of more.

And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,

A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear:

The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous.

But, wiping all those tears away he told his story thus:—

“It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,

Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells;

But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock,

He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

“One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,

When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,

As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain,

A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne’er may hear again.

“I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright,

The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight

I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care,

But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air.

“Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father’s eye!

His infant made a vulture’s prey, with terror to descry!

And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave,

That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!

“My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me,

And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free,

At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed:

Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.

“The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew,

A mote upon the sun’s broad face he seemed unto my view:

But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight;

’Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.

“All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne’er forgot,

When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot,

From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached,

He saw an infant’s fleshless bones the elements had bleached!

“I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away;

I knew they were my infant’s bones thus hastening to decay;

A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred,

The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head.”

That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers passing by,

Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.

And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,

The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

THE OLD-FASHIONED GIRL.

There’s an old-fashioned girl in an old-fashioned street,

Dressed in old-fashioned clothes from her head to her feet,

And she spends all her time in the old-fashioned way,

Of caring for poor people’s children all day.

She never has been to cotillion or ball,

And she knows not the styles of the spring or the fall.

Two hundred a year will suffice for her needs,

And an old-fashioned Bible is all that she reads.

And she has an old-fashioned heart that is true

To a fellow who died in an old coat of blue,

With its buttons all brass—who is waiting above

For the woman who loved him with old-fashioned love.

Tom Hall.

NATHAN HALE, THE MARTYR SPY.

After the disastrous defeat of the Americans on Long Island, Washington desired information respecting the British position and movements. Captain Nathan Hale, but twenty-one years old, volunteered to procure the information. He was taken and hanged as a spy the day after his capture, September 22, 1776. His patriotic devotion, and the brutal treatment he received at the hands of his captors, have suggested the following. Put your whole soul into this piece, especially Hale’s last speech. It rises to the sublime.

’Twas in the year that gave the nation birth;

A time when men esteemed the common good

As greater weal than private gain. A battle fierce

And obstinate had laid a thousand patriots low,

And filled the people’s hearts with gloom.

Pursued like hunted deer,

The crippled army fled; and, yet, amid

Disaster and defeat, the Nation’s chosen chief

Resolved his losses to retrieve. But not

With armies disciplined and trained by years

Of martial service, could he, this Fabian chief,

Now hope to check the hosts of Howe’s victorious legions—

These had he not.

In stratagem the shrewder general

Ofttimes o’ercomes his strong antagonist.

To Washington a knowledge of the plans,

Position, strength of England’s force,

Must compensate for lack of numbers.

He casts about for one who’d take his life

In hand. Lo! he stands before the chief. In face,

A boy—in form, a man on whom the eye could rest

In search of God’s perfected handiwork.

In culture, grace and speech, reflecting all

A mother’s love could lavish on an only son.

The chieftain’s keen discerning eye

Appraised the youth at his full worth, and saw

In him those blending qualities that make

The hero and the sage. He fain would save

For nobler deeds a man whose presence marked

A spirit born to lead.

“Young man,” he said with kindly air,

“Your country and commander feel grateful that

Such talents are offered in this darkening hour.

Have you in reaching this resolve considered well

Your fitness, courage, strength—the act, the risk,

You undertake?”

The young man said: “The hour demands a duty rare—

Perhaps a sacrifice. If God and training in

The schools have given me capacities

This duty to perform, the danger of the enterprise

Should not deter me from the act

Whose issue makes our country free. In times

Like these a Nation’s life sometimes upon

A single life depends. If mine be deemed

A fitting sacrifice, God grant a quick

Deliverance”

“Enough, go then, at once,” the great

Commander said. “May Heaven’s guardian angels give

You safe return. Adieu.”

Disguised with care, the hopeful captain crossed

The bay, and moved through British camp

Without discovery by troops or refugees.

The enemy’s full strength, in men, in stores,

Munitions, guns—all military accoutrements

Were noted with exact precision; while

With graphic sketch, each trench and parapet,

Casemated battery, magazine and every point

Strategic, was drawn with artist’s skill.

The task complete, the spy with heart

Elate, now sought an exit through the lines.

Well might he feel a soldier’s pride. An hour hence

A waiting steed would bear him to his friends.

His plans he’d lay before his honored chief;

His single hand might turn the tide of war,

His country yet be free.

“Halt!” a British musket leveled at

His head dimmed all the visions of his soul.

A dash—an aimless shot; the spy bore down

Upon the picket with a blow that else

Had freed him from his clutch, but for a score

Of troopers stationed near. In vain the struggle fierce

And desperate—in vain demands to be released.

A tory relative, for safety quartered in

The British camp, would prove his truckling loyalty

With kinsman’s blood, a word—a look—

A motion of the head, and he who’d dared

So much in freedom’s name was free no more.

Before Lord Howe the captive youth

Was led. “Base dog!” the haughty general said,

“Ignoble son of loyal sires! you’ve played the spy

Quite well I ween. The cunning skill wherewith

You wrought these plans and charts might well adorn

An honest man; but in a rebel’s hands they’re vile

And mischievous. If ought may palliate

A traitor’s act, attempted in his sovereign’s camp,

I bid you speak ere I pronounce your sentence.”

With tone and mien that hushed

The buzzing noise of idle lackeys in the hall,

The patriot thus replied: “You know my name—

My rank;—my treach’rous kinsman made

My purpose plain. I’ve nothing further of myself

To tell beyond the charge of traitor to deny.

The brand of spy I do accept without reproach;

But never since I’ve known the base ingratitude

Of king to loyal subjects of his realm

Has British rule been aught to me than barbarous

Despotism which God and man abhor, and none

But dastards fear to overthrow.

For tyrant loyalty your lordship represents

I never breathed a loyal breath; and he

Who calls me traitor seeks a pretext for a crime

His trembling soul might well condemn.”

“I’ll hear no more such prating cant,”

Said Howe, “your crime’s enough to hang a dozen men.

Before to-morrow’s sun goes down you’ll swing

’Twixt earth and heaven, that your countrymen

May know a British camp is dangerous ground

For prowling spies. Away!”

Securely bound upon a cart, amid

A speechless crowd, he stands beneath a strong

Projecting limb, to which a rope with noose attached,

Portends a tragic scene. He casts his eyes

Upon the surging multitude. Clearly now

His tones ring out as victors shout in triumph:

“Men, I do not die in vain,

My humble death upon this tree will light anew

The Torch of liberty. A hundred hands to one

Before will strike for country, home and God,

And fill our ranks with men of faith in His

Eternal plan to make this people free.

A million prayers go up this day to free

The land from blighting curse of tyrant’s rule.

Oppression’s wrongs have reached Jehovah’s throne;

The God of vengeance smites the foe! This land,—

This glorious land,—is free—is free!

“My friends, farewell! In dying thus

I feel but one regret; it is the one poor life

I have to give in Freedom’s cause.”

I. H. Brown.

THE FUTURE.

When Earth’s last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an æon or two,

Till the Master of all Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!

And those that were good shall be happy; they shall sit in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets’ hair;

They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter and Paul;

They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame!

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;

But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!

Rudyard Kipling.

THE POWER OF HABIT.

Adapted to the development of transition in pitch, and a very spirited utterance. When you are able to deliver this as Mr. Gough did, you may consider yourself a graduate in the art of elocution.

I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gentleman, “What river is that, sir?”

“That,” said he, “is Niagara River.”

“Well, it is a beautiful stream,” said I; “bright and fair and glassy. How far off are the rapids?”

“Only a mile or two,” was the reply.

“Is it possible that only a mile from us we shall find the water in the turbulence which it must show near the Falls?”

“You will find it so, sir.” And so I found it; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never forget.

Now, launch your bark on that Niagara River; it is bright, smooth, beautiful and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow; the silver wake you leave behind adds to your enjoyment. Down the stream you glide, oars, sails, and helm in proper trim, and you set out on your pleasure excursion.

Suddenly some one cries out from the bank, “Young men, ahoy!”

“What is it?”

“The rapids are below you!”

“Ha! ha! we have heard of the rapids; but we are not such fools as to get there. If we go too fast, then we shall up with the helm, and steer to the shore; we will set the mast in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed to the land. Then on, boys; don’t be alarmed, there is no danger.”

“Young men, ahoy there!”

“What is it?”

“The rapids are below you!”

“Ha! ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. What care we for the future? No man ever saw it. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy life while we may, will catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment; time enough to steer out of danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current.”

“Young men, ahoy!”

“What is it?”

“Beware! beware! The rapids are below you!”

“Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast you pass that point! Up with the helm! Now turn! Pull hard! Quick! quick! quick! pull for your lives! pull till the blood starts from your nostrils, and the veins stand like whip cords upon your brow! Set the mast in the socket! hoist the sail! Ah! ah! it is too late! Shrieking, blaspheming, over they go.”

Thousands go over the rapids of intemperance every year, through the power of habit, crying all the while, “When I find out that it is injuring me, I will give it up!”

John B. Gough.

DIED ON DUTY.

The following lines were written by a comrade, on the death of Engineer Billy Ruffin, who lost his life by an accident that occurred on the Illinois Central Railroad, in Mississippi.

Bill Ruffin to some wouldn’t rank very high, being only an engineer;

But he opened the throttle with a steady grip, and didn’t know nothin’ like fear;

For doin’ his duty and doin’ it right, he was known all along the line,

And with him in the box of 258, you might figger “you’d be thar on time.”

Bill was comin’ down the run, one Monday night, a pullin’ of No. 3,

Just jogging along at a 30 gait, and a darker night you never see.

They had struck the trestle twenty rod north of old Tallahatchie bridge,

Where the water backs up under the track, with here and there a ridge.

Bill had come down that run a hundred times, and supposed that all was right;

But the devil’s own had been at work, and loosened a rail that night;

When, gods of mercy! what a shock and crash! then all so quiet and still.

And old 258 lay dead in the pond, and the train piled up on the fill.

The crew showed up one by one, looking all white and chill,

Anxious to see if all were on deck, but whar on airth wuz Bill?

But it wasn’t long before they knew, for there in the pond was the tank,

Stickin’ clus to her engine pard, and holdin’ Bill down by the shank.

When the boys saw what orter be done, they went to work with a vim,

But willin’ hands doin’ all they would, couldn’t rize tons offen him;

Bill stood thar, brave man that he was, as the hours went slowly by,

Seemin’ to feel, if the rest wur scared, he was perfectly willin’ to die.

Just before daylight looked over the trees, they brought poor Bill to the fire,

And done the best they could for him in a place that was all mud and mire;

But they done no good, ’twant no use; he had seen his last of wrecks;

And thar by the fire that lit up his brave face, poor Bill passed in his checks.

When they raised old 258 again, the story she did tell

Was that the hero in her cab had done his duty well;

They found her lever thrown hard, her throttle open wide,

Her air applied so close and hard that every wheel must slide.

Thar’s a wife and two kids down the line, whose sole dependence wuz Bill,

Who little thought when he came home he’d be brought cold and still;

But tell them, tho’ Bill was rough by natur’ and somewhat so by name,

That thar’s a better land for men like him, and he died clear grit just the same.

MY FRIEND THE CRICKET AND I.

My friend the Cricket and I

Once sat by the fireside talking;

“This life,” I said, “is such weary work;”

Chirped Cricket, “You’re always croaking.”

“It’s rowing against baith wind an’ tide,

And a’ for the smallest earning.”

“Ah! weel,” the merry Cricket replied,

“But the tide will soon be turning.”

“And then,” I answered, “dark clouds may rise,

And winds with the waters flowing.”

“Weel! keep a bit sunshine in your heart,

It’s a wonderfu’ help in rowing.”

“But many a boat goes down at sea:”

“O! friend, but you’re unco trying,

Pray how many more come into port,

With a’ their colors flying?

“Would ye idly drift with changing tides,

Till lost in a sea of sorrow?”

“Ah! no, good Cricket, I’ll take the oars

And cheerfully row to-morrow.”

“I would! I would! Yes, I would!” he chirped,

While I watched the bright fire burning,

“I would! I would! Yes, I’d try again,

For the tide must have a turning.”

So all the night long through the drowsy hours

I heard, like a cheerful humming—

“I would! I would! Yes, I’d try again,

Ye never ken what is coming.”

So I tried again:—now the wind sets fair,

And the tide is shoreward turning,

And Cricket and I chirp pleasantly

While the fire is brightly burning.

Lillie E. Barr.

THE SNOW STORM.

A farmer came from the village plain,

But he lost the traveled way;

And for hours he trod with might and main

A path for his horse and sleigh;

But colder still the cold winds blew,

And deeper still the deep drifts grew,

And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown,

At last in her struggles, floundered down,

Where a log in a hollow lay.

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort,

She plunged in the drifting snow,

While her master urged, till his breath grew short,

With a word and a gentle blow.

But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight;

His hands were numb and had lost their might;

So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh,

And strove to shelter himself till day,

With his coat and the buffalo.

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein,

To rouse up his dying steed;

And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain

For help in his master’s need.

For a while he strives with a wistful cry

To catch a glance from his drowsy eye,

And wags his tail if the rude winds flap

The skirt of the buffalo over his lap,

And whines when he takes no heed.

The wind goes down and the storm is o’er,

’Tis the hour of midnight, past;

The old trees writhe and bend no more

In the whirl of the rushing blast.

The silent moon with her peaceful light

Looks down on the hills with snow all white,

And the giant shadow of Camel’s Hump,

The blasted pine and the ghostly stump

Afar on the plain are cast.

But cold and dead by the hidden log

Are they who came from the town:

The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog,

And his beautiful Morgan brown—

In the wide snow-desert, far and grand,

With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand—

The dog with his nose on his master’s feet,

And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet

Where she lay when she floundered down.

PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE.

This is a picture of inordinate ambition. It should be represented by a voice of cold indifference to human suffering. The flame of selfish passion is wild and frenzied.

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully

Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,

Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus—

The vulture at his vitals, and the links

Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;

And as the painter’s mind felt through the dim,

Rapt mystery, and pluck’d the shadows forth

With its far-reaching fancy, and with form

And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye

Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl

Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip,

Were like the winged god’s, breathing from his flight.

“Bring me the captive now!

My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift

From my waked spirit airily and swift,

And I could paint the bow

Upon the bended heavens—around me play

Colors of such divinity to-day.

“Ha! bind him on his back!

Look!—as Prometheus in my picture here!

Quick—or he faints!—stand with the cordial near!

Now—bend him to the rack!

Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!

And tear agape that healing wound afresh!

“So—let him writhe! How long

Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!

What a fine agony works upon his brow!

Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!

How fearfully he stifles that short moan!

Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!

“‘Pity’ thee! So I do!

I pity the dumb victim at the altar—

But does the robed priest for his pity falter?

I’d rack thee, though I knew

A thousand lives were perishing in thine—

What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

“‘Hereafter!’ Ay—hereafter!

A whip to keep a coward to his track!

What gave Death ever from his kingdom back

To check the skeptic’s laughter?

Come from the grave to-morrow with that story

And I may take some softer path to glory.

“No, no, old man! we die

Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away

Our life upon the chance wind, even as they!

Strain well thy fainting eye—

For when that bloodshot quivering is o’er,

The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

“Yet there’s a deathless name!

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,

And like a steadfast planet mount and burn—

And though its crown of flame

Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,

By all the fiery stars! I’d bind it on!

“Ay—though it bid me rifle

My heart’s last fount for its insatiate thirst—

Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first—

Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,

And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—

“All—I would do it all—

Sooner than die, lie a dull worm, to rot—

Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!

O heavens!—but I appall

Your heart, old man! forgive——ha! on your lives

Let him not faint!—rack him till he revives!

“Vain—vain—give o’er! His eye

Glazes apace. He does not feel you now—

Stand back! I’ll paint the death dew on his brow!

Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment—one—till I eclipse

Conception with the scorn of those cold lips!

“Shivering! Hark! he mutters

Brokenly now—that was a difficult breath—

Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death!

Look! how his temple flutters!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!

He shudders—gasps—Jove help him!—so—he’s dead.”

How like a mounting devil in the heart

Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once

But play the monarch, and its haughty brow

Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought

And unthrones peace forever. Putting on

The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns

The heart to ashes, and with not a spring

Left in the bosom for the spirit’s lip,

We look upon our splendor and forget

The thirst of which we perish!

N. P. Willis.

THE NINETY-THIRD OFF CAPE VERD.

The figures refer you to the Typical Gestures at the beginning of Part II. of this volume. Use other gestures of your own. A good recital for animated description.

It is night upon the ocean

Near old Afric’s shore;

Loud the wind wails o’er the water,

Loud the waters roar.

Dark o’erhead[21] the storm-clouds gather,

Huge waves mountains form,

As a stout[2] old ship comes struggling

On against the storm.

Hark![3] e’en now across the billows

On the wind there floats,

Sharp and shrill, the boatswain’s whistle

Sounding,[5] “Man the boats!”

At the sound, from cabin doorways,

Rushing out headlong,

Pours a weeping,[10] shrieking, shuddering,

Terror-stricken throng.

Men, and women with their children,

Weak and pale from fright,

Praying,[20] cursing, hurry onward

Out into the night.

But the lightning’s[21] frequent flashes

By their ghastly sheen,

Further forward in the vessel,

Show another scene.

From the crowd of trembling women,

And of trembling men,

See![2] a soldier presses forward,

Takes his place, and then—

“Fall in!”[5] Then comes the roll-call.

Every man is at his post,

Although now they hear the breakers

Roaring on the coast.

“Present arms!”[5] And till the life-boats

With their precious freight

Have been lowered safely downward

Thus they stand and wait.

And then, as the staunch old vessel

Slowly sinks at last,

Louder than the ocean’s roaring,

Louder than the blast,

O’er the wildly raging water,

Echoing far and near,

Hear[11] the soldiers’ dying volley,

Hear their dying cheer.

A FELON’S CELL.

An intensely dramatic reading, requiring rapid changes of voice and gesture.

I’m going to a felon’s cell,

To stay there till I die;

They say my hands are stained with blood,

But they who say it—lie.

The court declared I murdered one

I would have died to save;

I know who did the awful deed,

I saw, but could not save.

I saw the knife gleam in his hand,

I heard the victim’s shriek;

My feet seem chained, I tried to run,

But terror made me weak.

Reeling, at length I reached the spot

Too late—a quivering sigh—

The pale moon only watched with me

To see a sweet girl die.

The reeking blade lay at my feet,

The murderer had fled;

I stooped to raise the prostrate form,

To lift the sunny head

Of her I loved, from out the pool

Her own sweet blood had made;

That knife was fairly in my way,

I raised the murderous blade.

Unmindful of all else, beside

That lovely, bleeding corse,

Unheeding the approaching steps

Of traveler and horse,

I raised the knife; it caught the gleam

Of the full moon’s bright glare,

One instant, and the next strong arms

Pinioned mine firmly there.

They led me forth, mute with a woe

Too deep for word or sign;

The knife within my hand the court

Identified as mine.

My name was graven on the hilt,—

The letters told a lie;

They doomed me to a felon’s cell

To stay there till I die.

And yet, I did not do the deed;

The moon, if she could speak,

Would lift this anguish from my brow,

This shame from off my cheek.

I was not born with gold or lands

Nor was I born a slave,

My hands are free from blood,—and yet

I’ll fill a felon’s grave.

And I, who last year played at ball

Upon the village green,

A stripling, on whose lips the sign

Of manhood scarce is seen,

Whose greatest crime (if crime it be)

Was loving her too well,

Must leave this beautiful, glad world

For a dark prison cell.

I had just begun to learn to live

Since I laid by my books,

And I had grown so strangely fond

Of forest, spring, and brook,

I read a lesson in each drop

That trickled through the grass,

And found a sermon in the flow

Of wavelets, as they pass.

Dear woodland haunts! I leave your shade;

No more at noon’s high hour

I’ll list the sound of insect life,

Or scent the sweet wild flower.

Dear mossy banks, by murmuring streams,

’Tis hard to say good-bye!

To leave you for a felon’s cell,

Where I must stay and die.

Farewell all joy and happiness!

Farewell all earthly bliss!

All human ties must severed be,—

Aye, even a mother’s kiss

Must fail me now; in this my need

O God! to Thee I cry!

Oh! take me now, ere yet I find

A grave wherein to lie.

Mother, you here! Mother, the boy

You call your poet child

Is innocent! His hands are clean,

His heart is undefiled.

Oh! tell me, mother, am I weak

To shrink at thought of pain?

To shudder at the sound of bolt,

Grow cold at clank of chain?

Oh! tell me, is it weakness now

To weep upon your breast,—

That faithful pillow, where so oft

You’ve soothed me to my rest!

Hark! ’tis an officer’s firm tread,

O God! Mother, good-bye!

They’ve come to bear me to my cell

Where I must stay and die.

They’re coming now, I will be strong,

No, no, it cannot be.

My giddy brain whirls round in pain,

Your face I cannot see.

But I remember when a child

I shrank at thought of pain,

But, oh, it is a fearful thing

To have this aching brain.

Pardon! heard I the sound aright?

Mine comes from yonder sky;

Hold me! don’t let them take me forth

To suffer till I die!

Pardon! pardon! came the sound,

And horsemen galloped fast,

But ’twas too late; the dying man

Was soon to breathe his last.

The crime’s confessed, the guilt made known

Quick, lead the guiltless forth.

“Then I am free! mother, your hand,

Now whisper your good-bye,

I’m going where there are no cells

To suffer in and die!”

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

This soul-stirring account of the historic battle where thrones and empires were staked, is from the pen of the great French author whose famous descriptions are unsurpassed by those of any other writer. In reciting this piece every nerve must be tense, and soul and body must be animated by the imaginary sight of the contending armies. Your utterance should be somewhat rapid, the tones of your voice round and full, the words of command given as a general would give them on the field of battle, and you must picture to your hearers the thrilling scene in such a way that it may appear to be almost a reality. Otherwise, this very graphic description will fall flat, and the verdict of your audience will be that you were not equal to the occasion.

The sky had been overcast all day. All at once, at this very moment—it was eight o’clock at night—the clouds in the horizon broke, and through the elms of the Nivelles road streamed the sinister red light of the setting sun.

Arrangements were speedily made for the final effort. Each battalion was commanded by a general. When the tall caps of the Grenadiers of the Guard with their large eagle plates appeared, symmetrical, drawn up in line, calm in the smoke of that conflict, the enemy felt respect for France. They thought they saw twenty victories entering upon the field of battle with wings extended, and those who were conquerors thinking themselves conquered recoiled; but Wellington cried: “Up, Guards, and at them!”

The red regiment of English Guards, lying behind the hedges, rose up; a shower of grape riddled the tricolored flag. All hurled themselves forward, and the final carnage began. The Imperial Guard felt the army slipping away around them in the gloom and the vast overthrow of the rout. There were no weak souls or cowards there. The privates of that band were as heroic as their general. Not a man flinched from the suicide.

The army fell back rapidly from all sides at once. A disbanding army is a thaw. The whole bends, cracks, snaps, floats, rolls, falls, crashes, hurries, plunges. Ney borrows a horse, leaps upon him, and, without hat, cravat, or sword, plants himself in the Brussels road, arresting at once the English and the French. He endeavors to hold the army; he calls them back, he reproaches them, he grapples with the rout. He is swept away. The soldiers flee from him, crying, “Long live Ney!” Durutte’s two regiments come and go, frightened and tossed between the sabres of the Uhlans and the fire of the brigades of Kempt. Rout is the worst of all conflicts; friends slay each other in their flight; squadrons and battalions are crushed and dispersed against each other, enormous foam of the battle.

Napoleon gallops among the fugitives, harangues them, urges, threatens, entreats. The mouths which in the morning were crying “Long live the Emperor,” are now agape. He is hardly recognized. The Prussian cavalry, just come up, spring forward, fling themselves upon the enemy, sabre, cut, hack, kill, exterminate. Teams rush off; the guns are left to the care of themselves; the soldiers of the train unhitch the caissons and take the horses to escape; wagons upset, with their four wheels in the air, block up the road, and are accessories of massacre.

They crush and they crowd; they trample upon the living and the dead. Arms are broken. A multitude fills roads, paths bridges, plains, hills, valleys, woods, choked up by this flight of forty thousand men. Cries despair; knapsacks and muskets cast into the rye; passages forced at the point of the sword; no more comrades, no more officers, no more generals; an inexpressible dismay. Lions become kids. Such was this flight.

A few squares of the Guard, immovable in the flow of the rout as rocks in running water, held out until night. Night approaching and death also, they awaited this double shadow, and yielded unfaltering to its embrace. At every discharge the square grew less, but returned the fire. It replied to grape by bullets, narrowing in its four walls continually. Afar off, the fugitives, stopping for a moment out of breath, heard in the darkness this dismal thunder decreasing.

When this legion was reduced to a handful, when their flag was reduced to a shred, when their muskets, exhausted of ammunition, were reduced to nothing but clubs, when the pile of corpses was larger than the group of the living, there spread among the conquerors a sort of sacred terror about these sublime martyrs, and the English artillery, stopping to take breath, was silent. It was a kind of respite. These combatants had about them a swarm of spectres, the outlines of men on horseback, the black profile of the cannons, the white sky seen through the wheels and gun-carriages. The colossal death’s head, which heroes always see in the smoke of the battle, was advancing upon them and glaring at them.

They could hear in the gloom of the twilight the loading of the pieces. The lighted matches, like tigers’ eyes in the night, made a circle about their heads. All the linstocks of the English batteries approached the guns, when, touched by their heroism, holding the death-moment suspended over these men, an English general cried to them:

“Brave Frenchmen, surrender!”

The word “Never!” fierce and desperate came rolling back.

To this word the English general replied, “Fire!”

The batteries flamed, the hill trembled; from all those brazen throats went forth a final vomiting of grape, terrific. A vast smoke, dusky white in the light of the rising moon, rolled out, and when the smoke was dissipated, there was nothing left. That formidable remnant was annihilated—the Guard was dead! The four walls of the living redoubt had fallen. Hardly could a quivering be distinguished here and there among the corpses; and thus the French legions expired.

Victor Hugo.

A PIN.

Oh, I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good,

But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion could.

The little chills run up and down my spine whene’er we meet,

Though she seems a gentle creature, and she’s very trim and neat.

And she has a thousand virtues, and not one acknowledged sin,

But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin.

And she pricks you, and she sticks you in a way that can’t be said—

When you ask for what has hurt you, why you cannot find the head.

But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain—

If anybody asks you why, you really can’t explain.

A pin is such a tiny thing—of that there is no doubt—

Yet when it’s sticking in your flesh, you’re wretched till it’s out.

She is wonderfully observing—when she meets a pretty girl

She is always sure to tell her if her “bang” is out of curl.

And she is so sympathetic to her friend, who’s much admired,

She is often heard remarking: “Dear, you look so worn and tired!”

And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed

The new dress I was airing with a woman’s natural pride,

And she said: “Oh, how becoming!” and then softly added to it,

“It is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.”

Then she said: “If you had heard me yestereve,

I’m sure, my friend,

You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend.”

And she left me with the feeling—most unpleasant, I aver—

That the whole world would despise me if it had not been for her.

Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way,

She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day.

And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet),

With just one glance from her round eye, becomes a Bowery bonnet.

She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust—

Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust—

Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin

To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

A RELENTING MOB.

Translated from the French of Victor Hugo.

The mob was fierce and furious. They cried:

“Kill him!” the while they pressed from every side

Around a man, haughty, unmoved and brave,

Too pitiless himself to pity crave.

“Down with the wretch!” on all sides rose the cry.

The captive found it natural to die,

The game is lost—he’s on the weaker side,

Life, too, is lost, and so must fate decide.

From out his home they dragged him to the street,

With fiercely clenching hands and hurrying feet,

And shouts of “Death to him!” The crimson stain

Of recent carnage on his garb showed plain.

This man was one of those who blindly slay

At a king’s bidding. He’d shoot men all day,

Killing he knew not whom, scarce knew why,

Now marching forth impassible to die,

Incapable of mercy or of fear,

Letting his powder-blackened hands appear.

A woman clutched his collar with a frown,

“He’s a policeman—he has shot us down!”

“That’s true,” the man said. “Kill him!”

“Shoot him!” “Kill!”

“No, at the Arsenal”—“The Bastile!”—

“Where you will,”

The captive answered. And with fiercest breath,

Loading their guns his captors still cried

“Death!”

“We’ll shoot him like a wolf!” “A wolf am I?

Then you’re the dogs,” he calmly made reply.

“Hark, he insults us!” And from every side

Clenched fists were shaken, angry voices cried,

Ferocious threats were muttered, deep and low.

With gall upon his lips, gloom on his brow,

And in his eyes a gleam of baffled hate,

He went, pursued by howlings, to his fate.

Treading with wearied and supreme disdain

’Midst the forms of dead men he perchance had slain.

Dread is that human storm, an angry crowd:

He braved its wrath with head erect and proud.

He was not taken, but walled in with foes,

He hated them with hate the vanquished knows,

He would have shot them all had he the power.

“Kill him—he’s fired upon us for an hour!”

“Down with the murderer—down with the spy!”

And suddenly a small voice made reply,

“No—no, he is my father!” And a ray

Like a sunbeam seemed to light the day.

A child appeared, a boy with golden hair,

His arms upraised in menace or in prayer.

All shouted, “Shoot the bandit, fell the spy!”

The little fellow clasped him with a cry

Of “Papa, papa, they’ll not hurt you now!”

The light baptismal shone upon his brow.

From out the captive’s home had come the child.

Meanwhile the shrieks of “Kill him—Death!” rose wild.

The cannon to the tocsin’s voice replied,

Sinister men thronged close on every side,

And in the street ferocious shouts increased

Of “Slay each spy—each minister—each priest—

We’ll kill them all!” The little boy replied:

“I tell you this is papa.” One girl cried

“A pretty fellow—see his curly head!”

“How old are you, my boy?” another said.

“Do not kill papa!” only he replies.

A soulful lustre lights his streaming eyes,

Some glances from his gaze are turned away,

And the rude hands less fiercely grasp their prey.

Then one of the most pitiless says, “Go—

Get you back home, boy.” “Where—why?” “Don’t you know?

Go to your mother.” Then the father said,

“He has no mother.” “What—his mother’s dead?

Then you are all he has.” “That matters not,”

The captive answers, losing not a jot

Of his composure as he closely pressed

The little hands to warm them in his breast.

And says, “Our neighbor, Catherine you know,

Go to her.” “You’ll come too?” “Not yet.” “No, no.

Then I’ll not leave you.” “Why?” “These men, I fear,

Will hurt you, papa, when I am not here.”

The father to the chieftain of the band

Says softly, “Loose your grasp and take my hand,

I’ll tell the child to-morrow we shall meet,

Then you can shoot me in the nearest street,

Or farther off, just as you like.” “’Tis well!”

The words from those rough lips reluctant fell.

And, half unclasped, the hands less fierce appear.

The father says, “You see, we’re all friends here,

I’m going with these gentlemen to walk;

Go home. Be good. I have no time to talk.”

The little fellow, reassured and gay,

Kisses his father and then runs away.

“Now he is gone and we are at our ease,

And you can kill me where and how you please,”

The father says, “Where is it I must go?”

Then through the crowd a long thrill seems to flow,

The lips, so late with cruel wrath afoam,

Relentingly and roughly cry, “Go home!”

Lucy H. Hooper.

THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER.

Slow utterance, rapid utterance, loud tones, subdued tones, quick changes and intense dramatic force are all required in this reading. Lose yourself in your recitation. Never be self-conscious.

It was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of Autumn. The sky was cloudless; the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and gold; the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the ground; from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel; on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet. Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two armies.

But all at once, a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground, and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart. Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they stood, came a rider, upon a black horse, rushing toward the distant battle.

There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider, that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air—he points to the distant battle, and lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is the thickest, there through intervals of cannon smoke, you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon’s glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff.

Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black horse dashing like a meteor, down the long columns of battle? Let us look for a moment into those dense war-clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militia-men, their rude farmer coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company of redcoat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light.

In this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of a broad-shouldered militia-man. “Now, cowards! advance another step and I’ll strike you to the heart!” shouts the unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. “What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down.”

This appeal was not without its effect. The militia-man turns; his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance.

“Now upon the rebels, charge!” shouts the red-coat officer. They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider was heard: “Now let them have it! Fire!” A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. “Club your rifles and charge them home!” shouts the unknown.

That black horse springs forward, followed by the militia-men. Then a confused conflict—a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers. Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemiss’ Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep—that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field.

But look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that brave rifleman’s shoulder, and as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seized his rifle and started toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that black steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on toward the fortress.

The rider turns his face and shouts, “Come on, men of Quebec! come on!” That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now British cannon pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the Black Horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, “Saratoga is won!”

As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon ball. Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it bears the marks of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming of Quebec. That rider of the Black Horse was Benedict Arnold.

Charles Sheppard.

THE UNFINISHED LETTER.

“Near Deadwood.

“Dear Jenny—

“We reached here this morning,

Tom Baker, Ned Leonard and I,

So you see that, in spite of your warning,

The end of our journey is nigh.

“The redskins—’tis scarce worth a mention,

Don’t worry about me, I pray—

Have shown us no little attention—

Confound them?—along on our way.

“Poor Ned’s got a ball in the shoulder—

Another one just grazed my side—

But pshaw! ere we’re half a day older

We’ll be at the end of our ride.

“We’ve camped here for breakfast. Tom’s splitting

Some kindling wood, off of the pines,

And astride a dead cedar I’m sitting

To hastily pen you these lines.

“A courier from Deadwood—we met him

Just now with a mail for the States,

(Ah, Jenny! I’ll never forget him)—

For this most obligingly waits.

“He says, too, the miners are earning

Ten dollars a day, every man.

Halloa! here comes Tom—he’s returning,

And running as fast as he can.

“It’s nothing, I guess; he is only

At one of his practical—” Bang!

And sharp through that solitude lonely

The crack of Sioux rifle shots rang.

And as the dire volley came blended

With echo from canyon and pass,

The letter to Jenny was ended—

Its writer lay dead on the grass.

LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER.

Day by day the Organ-builder in his lonely chamber wrought;

Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought;

Till at last the work was ended; and no organ-voice so grand

Ever yet had soared responsive to the master’s magic hand.

Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride,

Who, in God’s sight were well-pleasing, in the church stood side by side,

Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play,

And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.

He was young, the Organ-builder, and o’er all the land his fame

Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.

All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled,

By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.

So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set:

Happy day—the brightest jewel in the glad year’s coronet!

But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride—

Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.

“Ah!” thought he; “how great a master am I! When the organ plays,

How the vast cathedral-arches will re-echo with my praise!”

Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,

With every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.

But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer,

For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.

All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest’s low monotone,

And the bride’s robe trailing softly o’er the floor of fretted stone.

Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him

Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim!

Whose the fault, then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side!

Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride.

Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth;

On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.

For he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name;

For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.

Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day

Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray;

Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good;

Thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood;

Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete,

And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.

Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night,

Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!

Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread;

There he met a long procession—mourners following the dead.

“Now why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury ye to-day?

Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way?

“Has some saint gone up to heaven?” “Yes,” they answered, weeping sore;

“For the Organ-builder’s saintly wife our eyes shall see no more;

“And because her days were given to the service of God’s poor,

From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door.”

No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain;

No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain.

“’Tis some one whom she has comforted, who mourns with us,” they said,

As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin’s head;

Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle,

Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while;

When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to play

Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!

All the vaulted arches rang with the music sweet and clear!

All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near;

And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin’s head,

With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it—dead.

They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride;

Down the aisle and o’er the threshold they were carried, side by side;

While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before,

And then softly sank to silence—silence kept for evermore.

Julia C. R. Dorr.

CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND.

It sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, walking on the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is like pitch; his soles stick in it; it is sand no longer; it is glue.

The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as he lift his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change; the immense strand is smooth and tranquil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes the surface which is solid from that which is no longer so; the joyous little crowd of sandflies continue to leap tumultuously over the wayfarer’s feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland.

He is not anxious. Anxious about what? Only he feels, somehow, as if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in.

He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right road; he stops to take his bearings; now he looks at his feet. They have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out of the sand; he will retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. The sand comes up to his ankles; he pulls himself out and throws himself to the left; the sand half leg deep. He throws himself to the right; the sand comes up to his shins.

Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has beneath him the terrible medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws off his load, if he has one, lightens himself as a ship in distress; it is already too late; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over.

He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible, implacable and impossible to slacken or to hasten, which endures for hours, which seizes you erect, free and in full health, and which draws you by the feet; which, at every effort that you attempt, at every shout you utter, drags you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into the earth while you look upon the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sunshine and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep; every movement he makes inters him; he straightens up, he sinks in; he feels that he is being swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the clouds, despairs.

Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches his breast; he is now only a bust. He raises his arms, utters furious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows, to pull himself out of this soft sheath; sobs frenziedly; the sand rises; the sand reaches his shoulders; the sand reaches his neck; the face alone is visible now.

The mouth cries, the sand fills it—silence. The eyes still gaze—the sand shuts them; night. Now the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand; a hand come to the surface of the beach, moves, and shakes, disappears. It is the earth-drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes a trap. It presents itself like a plain, and opens like a wave.

Victor Hugo.

THE LITTLE QUAKER SINNER.

A little Quaker maiden, with dimpled cheek and chin,

Before an ancient mirror stood, and viewed her from within

She wore a gown of sober gray, a cap demure and prim,

With only simple fold and hem, yet dainty, neat and trim.

Her bonnet, too, was gray and stiff; its only line of grace

Was in the lace, so soft and white, shirred round her rosy face.

Quoth she: “Oh, how I hate this hat! I hate this gown and cape!

I do wish all my clothes were not of such outlandish shape!

The children passing by to school have ribbons on their hair;

The little girl next door wears blue; oh, dear, if I could dare,

I know what I should like to do!”—(The words were whispered low,

Lest such tremendous heresy should reach her aunts below.)

Calmly reading in the parlor sat the good aunts Faith and Peace,

Little dreaming how rebellious throbbed the heart of their young niece.

All their prudent, humble teaching willfully she cast aside,

And, her mind now fully conquered by vanity and pride,

She, with trembling heart and fingers, on a hassock sat her down,

And this little Quaker sinner sewed a tuck into her gown!

“Little Patience, art thou ready? Fifth day meeting time has come,

Mercy Jones and Goodman Elder with his wife have left their home.”

’Twas Aunt Faith’s sweet voice that called her, and the naughty little maid—

Gliding down the dark old stairway—hoped their notice to evade,

Keeping shyly in their shadow as they went out at the door,

Ah! never little Quakeress a guiltier conscience bore!

Dear Aunt Faith walked looking upward; all her thoughts were pure and holy;

And Aunt Peace walked gazing downward, with a humble mind and lowly.

But “tuck—tuck!” chirped the sparrows, at the little maiden’s side;

And, in passing Farmer Watson’s, where the barn-door opened wide,

Every sound that issued from it, every grunt and every cluck,

Was to her affrighted fancy like “a tuck!” “a tuck!” “a tuck!”

In meeting, Goodman Elder spoke of pride and vanity,

While all the Friends seemed looking round that dreadful tuck to see.

How it swelled in its proportions, till it seemed to fill the air,

And the heart of little Patience grew heavier with her care.

O, the glad relief to her, when, prayers and exhortations ended,

Behind her two good aunties her homeward way she wended!

The pomps and vanities of life she’d seized with eager arms,

And deeply she had tasted of the world’s alluring charms—

Yea, to the dregs had drained them, and only this to find:

All was vanity of spirit and vexation of the mind.

So, repentant, saddened, humbled on her hassock she sat down,

And this little Quaker sinner ripped the tuck out of her gown!

Lucy L. Montgomery.

THE TELL-TALE HEART.

The emotions of horror and dismay are vividly brought out in this selection, which is characteristic of some of the writings of Edgar A. Poe. He had a morbid fancy for the weird, the gruesome and startling, all of which appear in this ghastly description from his pen. The piece is an excellent one of its kind. It requires the ability of a tragedian to properly deliver it.

With a loud yell I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gayly to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If you still think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected anything wrong.

When I had made an end of these labors it was four o’clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart—for what had I now to fear? Then entered three men who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them at length to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. But ere long I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct; it continued and gained definitiveness—until at length I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; but I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do. It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder. And still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?

They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror! this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I can bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!—and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed—tear up the planks! here! here! it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

Edgar Allan Poe.

THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

It was terribly cold; it snowed and was already almost dark and evening coming on—the last evening of the year. In the cold and gloom a little girl, bareheaded and barefooted, was walking through the streets. When she left her own house she certainly had slippers on, slippers, but of what use were they? They were very big slippers, and her mother had used them until then. So big were they the little maid lost them as she slipped across the road, where two carriages were rattling by terribly fast. One slipper was not to be found again, and a boy had seized the other and ran away with it. So now the little girl went with naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches and a bundle of them in her hand. No one had bought anything of her all day, and no one had given her a farthing.

Shivering with cold and hunger she crept along, a picture of misery, poor little girl! The snowflakes covered her long, fair hair, which fell in pretty curls over her neck, but she did not think of that now. In all the windows lights were shining and there was a glorious smell of roast goose, for it was Christmas Eve. Yes, she thought of that!

In a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sat down, cowering. She had drawn up her little feet, but she was still colder, and she did not dare go home, for she had sold no matches, and did not therefore have a farthing of money. From her father she would certainly receive a beating, and, besides, it was cold at home, for they had nothing over them but a roof, through which the wind whistled, though the largest rents had been stopped with straw and rags.

Her hands were almost benumbed with the cold. Ah! a match might do her good if she could only draw one from the bundle and rub it against the wall and warm her hands at it. She draws one out. R-r-atch! How it sputtered and burned! It was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, when she held her hands over it; it was a wonderful little light! It really seemed to the child as if she sat before a great polished stove with bright brass feet and a brass cover. How the fire burned! How comfortable it was! but the little flame went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the burnt match in her hand.

A second one was rubbed against the wall. It burned up, and when the light fell upon the wall it became transparent, like a thin veil, and she could see through it into the room. On the table a snow-white cloth was spread; upon it stood a shining dinner service; the roast goose smoked gloriously, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more splendid to behold, the goose hopped down from the dish and waddled along the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to the little girl.

Then the match went out, and only the thick, damp, cold wall was before her. She lighted another match. Then she was sitting under a beautiful Christmas tree; it was greater and more ornamented than the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant’s. Thousands of candles burned upon its green branches and lighted up the pictures in the room. The girl stretched forth her hand toward them; then the match went out. The Christmas lights mounted higher. She saw them now as stars in the sky; one of them fell down, forming a long line of fire.

“Now some one is dying,” thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her and who was now dead, had told her that when a star fell down a soul mounted up to God.

She rubbed another match against the wall; it became bright again, and in the brightness the old grandmother stood clear and shining, mild and lovely.

“Grandmother!” cried the child, “oh! take me with you! I know you will go when the match is burned out. You will vanish like the warm fire, the warm food, and the great, glorious Christmas tree!”

And she hastily rubbed the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grandmother fast. And the matches burned with such a glow that it became brighter than in the middle of the day; grandmother had never been so large or so beautiful. She took the child in her arms and both flew in brightness and joy above the earth, very, very high; and up there was neither cold nor hunger nor care—they were with God.

But in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat the poor girl with red cheeks and smiling mouth, frozen to death. “She wanted to warm herself,” the people said. No one imagined what a beautiful thing she had seen and in what glory she had gone in with her grandmother on that Christmas night.

Hans Christian Andersen.

THE MONK’S VISION.

I read a legend of a monk who painted,

In an old convent cell in days bygone,

Pictures of martyrs and of virgins sainted,

And the sweet Christ-face with the crown of thorn.

Poor daubs not fit to be a chapel’s treasure—

Full many a taunting word upon them fell;

But the good abbot let him, for his pleasure,

Adorn with them his solitary cell.

One night the poor monk mused: “Could I but render

Honor to Christ as other painters do—

Were but my skill as great as is the tender

Love that inspires me when His cross I view!

“But no; ’tis vain I toil and strive in sorrow;

What man so scorns, still less can He admire;

My life’s work is all valueless; to-morrow

I’ll cast my ill-wrought pictures in the fire.”

He raised his eyes within his cell—O wonder!

There stood a visitor; thorn-crowned was He,

And a sweet voice the silence rent asunder:

“I scorn no work that’s done for love of me.”

And round the walls the paintings shone resplendent

With lights and colors to this world unknown,

A perfect beauty, and a hue transcendent,

That never yet on mortal canvas shone.

There is a meaning in this strange old story;

Let none dare judge his brother’s worth or need;

The pure intent gives to the act its glory,

The noblest purpose makes the grandest deed.

THE BOAT RACE

The Algonquins rowed up and down a few times before the spectators. They appeared in perfect training, mettlesome as colts, steady as draught horses, deep breathed as oxen, disciplined to work together as symmetrically as a single sculler pulls his pair of oars.

Five minutes passed, and all eyes were strained to the south, looking for the Atalanta. A clumb of trees hid the edge of the lake along which the Corinna’s boat was stealing toward the starting point. Presently the long shell swept into view, with its blooming rowers. How steadily the Atalanta came on! No rocking, no splashing, no apparent strain; the bow oar turning to look ahead every now and then, and watching her course, which seemed to be straight as an arrow, the beat of the strokes as true and regular as the pulse of the healthiest rower among them all.

If the sight of the other boat and its crew of young men was beautiful, how lovely was the look of this: eight young girls—all in the flush of youth, all in vigorous health; every muscle taught its duty; each rower alert not to be a tenth of a second out of time, or let her oar dally with the water so as to lose an ounce of its propelling virtue; every eye kindling with the hope of victory. Each of the boats was cheered as it came in sight, but the cheers for the Atalanta were naturally the loudest, as the gallantry of one sex and the clear, high voices of the other gave it his and vigor.

“Take your places!” shouted the umpire, five minutes before the half-hour. The two boats felt their way slowly and cautiously to their positions. After a little backing and filling they got into line, and sat motionless, the bodies of the rowers bent forward, their arms outstretched, their oars in the water, waiting for the word. “Go!” shouted the umpire. Away sprang the Atalanta, and far behind her leaped the Algonquin, her oars bending like long Indian bows as their blades flashed through the water.

“A stern chase is a long chase,” especially when one craft is a great distance behind the other. It looked as if it would be impossible for the rear boat to overcome the odds against it. Of course, the Algonquin kept gaining, but could it possibly gain enough? As the boats got farther and farther away, it became difficult to determine what change there was in the interval between them.

But when they came to rounding the stake it was easier to guess at the amount of space which had been gained. Something like half the distance—four lengths as nearly as could be estimated—had been made up in rowing the first three-quarters of a mile. Could the Algonquins do a little better than this in the second half of the race-course they would be sure of winning.

The boats had turned the stake and were coming in rapidly. Every minute the University boat was getting nearer the other.

“Go it, ’Quins!” shouted the students.

“Pull away, ’Lantas!” screamed the girls, who were crowding down to the edge of the water.

Nearer, nearer—the rear boat is pressing the other more and more closely—a few more strokes and they will be even. It looks desperate for the Atalantas. The bow oar of the Algonquin turns his head. He sees the little coxswain leaning forward at every stroke, as if her trivial weight were of such mighty consequence—but a few ounces might turn the scale of victory. As he turned he got a glimpse of the stroke oar of the Atalanta; what a flash of loveliness it was! Her face was like the reddest of June roses, with the heat and the strain and passion of expected triumph.

The upper button of her close-fitting flannel suit had strangled her as her bosom heaved with exertion, and it had given way before the fierce clutch she made at it. The bow oar was a staunch and steady rower, but he was human. The blade of his oar lingered in the water; a little more and he would have caught a crab, and perhaps lost the race by his momentary bewilderment.

The boat, which seemed as if it had all the life and nervousness of a three-year-old colt, felt the slight check, and all her men bent more vigorously to their oars. The Atalanta saw the movement, and made a spurt to keep their lead and gain upon it if they could. It was no use. The strong arms of the young men were too much for the young maidens; only a few lengths remained to be rowed, and they would certainly pass the Atalanta before she could reach the line.

The little coxswain saw that it was all up with the girls’ crew if she could not save them by some strategic device. As she stooped she lifted the handkerchief at her feet and took from it a flaming bouquet. “Look!” she cried, and flung it just forward of the track of the Algonquin.

The captain of the University boat turned his head, and there was the lovely vision which had, a moment before, bewitched him. The owner of all that loveliness must, he thought, have flung the bouquet. It was a challenge; how could he be such a coward as to decline accepting it? He was sure he could win the race now, and he would sweep past the line in triumph with the great bunch of flowers at the stern of his boat, proud as Van Tromp in the British Channel with the broom at his masthead.

He turned the boat’s head a little by backing water, and came up with the floating flowers, near enough to reach them. He stooped and snatched them up, with the loss perhaps of a second, no more. He felt sure of his victory.

The bow of the Algonquin passes the stern of the Atalanta! The bow of the Algonquin is on a level with the middle of the Atalanta—three more lengths and the college crew will pass the girls!

“Hurrah for the ’Quins!” The Algonquin ranges up alongside of the Atalanta!

“Through with her!” shouts the captain of the Algonquin.

“Now, girls!” shrieks the captain of the Atalanta.

They near the line, every rower straining desperately, almost madly. Crack goes the oar of the Atalanta’s captain, and up flash its splintered fragments as the stem of her boat springs past the line, eighteen inches at least ahead of the Algonquin.

“Hooraw for the ’Lantas! Hooraw for the girls! Hooraw for the Institoot!” shout a hundred voices.

And there is loud laughing and cheering all round.

The pretty little captain had not studied her classical dictionary for nothing. “I have paid off an old ‘score,’” she said. “Set down my damask roses against the golden apples of Hippomenes!” It was that one second lost in snatching up the bouquet which gave the race to the Atalantas!

PHILLIPS OF PELHAMVILLE.

Short is the story I say, if you will

Hear it, of Phillips of Pelhamville:

An engineer for many a day

Over miles and miles of the double way.

He was out that day, running sharp, for he knew

He must shunt ahead for a train overdue,

The South Express coming on behind

With the swing and rush of a mighty wind.

No need to say in this verse of mine

How accidents happen along the line.

A rail lying wide to the gauge ahead,

A signal clear when it should be red;

An axle breaking, the tire of a wheel

Snapping off at a hidden flaw in the steel.

Enough. There were wagons piled up in the air,

As if some giant had tossed them there.

Rails broken and bent like a willow wand,

And sleepers torn up through the ballast and sand.

The hiss of the steam was heard, as it rushed

Through the safety-valves; the engine crushed

Deep into the slope, like a monster driven

To hide itself from the eye of heaven.

But where was Phillips? From underneath

The tender wheels, with their grip of death,

They drew him, scalded by steam, and burned

By the engine fires as it overturned.

They laid him gently upon the slope,

Then knelt beside him with little of hope.

Though dying, he was the only one

Of them all that knew what ought to be done;

For his fading eye grew quick with a fear,

As if of some danger approaching near.

And it sought—not the wreck of his train that lay

Over the six and the four feet away—

But down the track, for there hung on his mind

The South Express coming up behind.

And he half arose with a stifled groan,

While his voice had the same old ring in its tone:

“Signal the South Express!” he said,

Then fell back in the arms of his fireman, dead.

Short, as you see, is this story of mine,

And of one more hero of the line.

For hero he was, though before his name

Goes forth no trumpet-blast of fame.

Yet true to his duty, as steel to steel,

Was Phillips the driver of Pelhamville.

Alexander Anderson.

POOR LITTLE JIM.

The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean,

But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean;

The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild,

As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child:

A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim:

It was a collier’s wife and child, they called him little Jim.

And oh! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek,

As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to speak,

Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her life;

For she had all a mother’s heart, had that poor collier’s wife.

With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer’s bed,

And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself instead.

She gets her answer from the child: soft fall the words from him:

“Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim,

I have no pain, dear mother, now, but oh! I am so dry,

Just moisten poor Jim’s lips again, and, mother, don’t you cry.”

With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip;

He smiled to thank her as he took each little, tiny sip;

“Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-night to him,

And, mother, now I’ll go to sleep.” Alas! poor little Jim!

She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved so dear

Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear:

The cottage door is opened, the collier’s step is heard,

The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word.

He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead,

He took the candle in his hand and walked toward the bed;

His quivering lips gave token of the grief he’d fain conceal,

And see, his wife has joined him—the stricken couple kneel:

With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of Him,

In heaven once more to meet again their own poor little Jim.