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

by Henry Davenport Northrop

Pathetic Recitations.

It is a common saying that the public speaker who can draw both smiles and tears from his audience is the highest type of orator. The same is true of the reciter. If you would awaken pathetic emotions in the hearts of your hearers, you must have recitations suited to this purpose, tender in sentiment and full of feeling. A charming collection of such pieces is here furnished.

Put yourself fully into the spirit of each selection. Do not deliver a pathetic recitation in a cold, unfeeling manner. Look well to the tones of your voice and facial expression. If you feel the words you are uttering, the subtle influence cannot fail to move those who hear you. You cannot put on an appearance of feeling; give reality to all the emotions your words express.

PLAY SOFTLY, BOYS.

Observe the Irish brogue in this selection.

I’m thinkin’ av the goolden head

I nestled to my breast;

They’re telling me, “He’s betther off.”

And sayin’, “God knows best.”

But, oh, my heart is breakin’

And the wild, wild waves at play

Where the goolden head is buried low,

Close to Manila Bay.

I’m thinkin’ av the roguish eyes

Of tender Irish gray;

They’re tellin’ me, “He’s betther off,”

And, “I’ll thank God some day.”

But, oh, my heart is breakin’

And the wild, wild waves at play,

And my baby’s eyes all closed in death

Close to Manila Bay.

I’m thinkin’ av the little hands

That’s fastened ’round my heart;

They’re tellin’ me, “Have courage,

Sure, life’s to meet and part.”

But, oh, my heart is breakin’

And the wild, wild waves at play,

And my baby’s hands so stiff and cold

Close to Manila Bay.

I’m thinkin’ av the noble boy

That kissed my tears away;

They’re tellin’ me, “How brave he was,

And foremost in the fray!”

But, oh, my heart is breakin’

And the wild, wild waves at play,

And my baby and my soldier dead—

Close to Manila Bay.

Play softly, boys, I know you will,

Remembering he’s away—

My boy, who proudly marched with ye

On last St. Patrick’s Day.

Play softly, boys, I know ye will,

And the wild, wild waves at play,

And your comrade lying lonely,

Close to Manila Bay.

Play softly, boys, I know ye will,

And hush this pain to rest—

And soothe the bitter agony

That’s tearin’ at my breast.

How can ye march at all, at all,

And the wild, wild waves at play,

And the boy who loved ye lying cold—

Close to Manila Bay?

Teresa Beatrice O’Hare.

IN THE BAGGAGE COACH AHEAD.

On a dark stormy night, as the train rattled on,

All the passengers had gone to bed,

Except one young man with a babe on his arm,

Who sat there with a bowed-down head.

The innocent one commenced crying just then,

As though its poor heart would break.

One angry man said, “Make that child stop its noise,

For you’re keeping all of us awake.”

“Put it out,” said another; “don’t keep it in here,

We’ve paid for our berths and want rest.”

But never a word said the man with the child,

As he fondled it close to his breast.

“Where is its mother? Go, take it to her—”

This a lady then softly said.

“I wish that I could,” was the man’s sad reply,

“But she’s dead in the coach ahead.”

Every eye filled with tears when his story he told,

Of a wife who was faithful and true.

He told how he’s saved up his earnings for years

Just to build up a home for two.

How, when Heaven had sent them this sweet little babe,

Their young happy lives were blessed.

In tears he broke down when he mentioned her name,

And in tears tried to tell them the rest.

Every woman arose to assist with the child;

There were mothers and wives on that train,

And soon was the little one sleeping in peace,

With no thoughts of sorrow and pain.

Next morn’ at a station he bade all good-bye.

“God bless you,” he softly said.

Each one had a story to tell in their home

Of the baggage coach ahead.

While the train rolled onward a husband sat in tears,

Thinking of the happiness of just a few short years,

For baby’s face brings pictures of a cherished hope that’s dead;

But baby’s cries can’t wake her in the baggage coach ahead.

THE MISSING ONE.

The deep pathos of these lines should be expressed by a trembling utterance. Put tears in your voice, if you can do this difficult thing. All the life and spirit are taken out of the old man as he thinks of the regiment returning without his son, whose desolate grave is somewhere on the Cuban shore.

I don’t think I’ll go into town to see the boys come back;

My bein’ there would do no good in all that jam and pack;

There’ll be enough to welcome them—to cheer them when they come

A-marchin’ bravely to the time that’s beat upon the drum—

They’ll never miss me in the crowd—not one of ’em will care

If, when the cheers are ringin’ loud, I’m not among them there.

I went to see them march away—I hollered with the rest,

And didn’t they look fine, that day, a-marchin’ four abreast,

With my boy James up near the front, as handsome as could be,

And wavin’ back a fond farewell to mother and to me!

I vow my old knees trimbled so, when they had all got by,

I had to jist set down upon the curbstone there and cry.

And now they’re comin’ home again! The record that they won

Was sich as shows we still have men, when men’s work’s to be done!

There wasn’t one of ’em that flinched, each feller stood the test—

Wherever they were sent they sailed right in and done their best!

They didn’t go away to play—they knowed what was in store—

But there’s a grave somewhere to-day, down on the Cuban shore!

I guess that I’ll not go to town to see the boys come in;

I don’t jist feel like mixin’ up in all that crush and din!

There’ll be enough to welcome them—to cheer them when they come

A-marchin’ bravely to the time that’s beat upon the drum,

And the boys’ll never notice—not a one of ’em will care,

For the soldier that would miss me ain’t a goin’ to be there!

S. E. Kiser.

IN MEMORIAM.

It was a strange coincidence, and a fitting end for a noble old seaman who had given his life to the service of his country, that Rear-Admiral W. A. Kirkland, U. S. N., and once commandant at Mare Island, should die the day peace was declared between our country and Spain. In strong tones give the command, “Cease firing!” Point to “the red flames,” “the gray smoke-shrouded hills,” “the weary troops,” “the armored squadron,” etc. On the first two lines of the last verse use [Figure 11 of Typical Gestures].

“Cease firing!” Lo, the bugles call—

“Cease!” and the red flame dies away.

The thunders sleep; along the gray

Smoke-shrouded hills the echoes fall.

“Cease firing!” Close the columns fold

Their shattered wings; the weary troops

Now stand at ease; the ensign droops;

The heated chargers’ flanks turn cold.

“Cease firing!” Down, with point reversed,

The reeking, crimson sabre drips;

Cool grow the fevered cannon’s lips—

Their wreathing vapors far dispersed.

“Cease firing!” From the sponson’s rim

The mute, black muzzles frown across

The sea, where swelling surges toss

The armored squadrons, silent, grim.

“Cease firing!” Look, white banners show

Along the groves where heroes sleep—

Above the graves where men lie deep—

In pure, soft flutterings of snow.

“Cease firing!” Glorious and sweet

For country ’tis to die—and comes

The Peace—and bugles blow and drums

Are sounding out the Last Retreat.

Thomas R. Gregory, U. S. N.

THE DYING NEWSBOY.

In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim, the news-boy, dying lay,

On a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day;

Scant the furniture about him, but bright flowers were in the room,

Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume.

On a table by the bedside, open at a well-worn page,

Where the mother had been reading, lay a Bible stained by age.

Now he could not hear the verses; he was flighty, and she wept

With her arms around her youngest, who close to her side had crept.

Blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day,

Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was eating life away.

And this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle cost,

“’Ere’s the morning Sun and ’Erald—latest news of steamship lost.

“Papers, mister? Morning papers?” Then the cry fell to a moan,

Which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone:

“Black yer boots, sir? Just a nickel! Shine ’em like an evening star.

It grows late, Jack! Night is coming. Evening papers, here they are!”

Soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble bed;

Then poor Jim’s mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on his head.

“Teacher,” cried he, “I remember what you said the other day,

Ma’s been reading of the Saviour, and through Him I see my way.

“He is with me! Jack, I charge you of our mother take good care

When Jim’s gone! Hark! boots or papers, which will I be over there?

Black yer boots, sir? Shine ’em right up! Papers! Read God’s book instead,

Better’n papers that to die on! Jack——” one gasp, and Jim was dead!

Mrs. Emily Thornton.

“COALS OF FIRE.”

The coffin was a plain one—no flowers on its top, no lining of rose-white satin for the pale brow, no smooth ribbons about the coarse shroud. The brown hair was laid decently back, but there was no crimped cap, with its neat tie beneath the chin. “I want to see my mother,” sobbed a poor child, as the city undertaker screwed down the top. “You can’t: get out of the way, boy! Why don’t somebody take the brat away?” “Only let me see her for one minute,” cried the hapless orphan, clutching the side of the charity box. And as he gazed into that rough face tears streamed down the cheek on which no childish bloom every lingered. Oh, it was pitiful to hear him cry, “Only once! let me see my mother only once!”

Brutally, the hard-hearted monster struck the boy away, so that he reeled with the blow. For a moment the boy stood panting with grief and rage, his blue eyes expanded, his lips sprang apart; a fire glittered through his tears as he raised his puny arm, and with a most unchildish accent screamed, “When I am a man I’ll kill you for that!” A coffin and a heap of earth was between the mother and the poor forsaken child; a monument stronger than granite built in his boy-heart to the memory of a heartless deed.

The court house was crowded to suffocation. “Does any one appear as this man’s counsel?” asked the judge. There was silence when he finished, until, with lips tightly pressed together, a look of strange recognition blended with haughty reserve upon his handsome features, a young man, a stranger, stepped forward to plead for the erring and the friendless. The splendor of his genius entranced, convinced. The man who could not find a friend was acquitted.

“May God bless you, sir! I cannot.” “I want no thanks,” replied the stranger, with icy coldness. “I—I believe you are unknown to me.” “Man, I will refresh your memory. Twenty years ago you struck a broken-hearted boy away from his poor mother’s coffin; I was that poor, miserable boy.” “Have you rescued me, then, to take my life?” “No! I have a sweeter revenge: I have saved the life of a man whose brutal deed has rankled in my breast for twenty years. Go, and remember the tears of a friendless child.”

DIRGE OF THE DRUMS.

The effect produced by this selection will depend very much upon the manner in which you speak the constantly repeated word, “Dead!” It should be spoken with subdued force, rather slowly, and in a low tone. Show intense emotion, but not in a boisterous manner.

Dead! Dead! Dead!

To the solemn beat of the last retreat

That falls like lead,

Bear the hero now to his honored rest

With the badge of courage upon his breast,

While the sun sinks down in the gleaming West—

Dead! Dead! Dead!

Dead! Dead! Mourn the dead!

While the mournful notes of the bugles float

Across his bed,

And the guns shall toll on the vibrant air

The knell of the victor lying there—

’Tis a fitting sound for a soldier’s prayer—

Dead! Dead! Dead!

Dead! Dead! Dead!

To the muffled beat of the lone retreat

And speeding lead,

Lay the hero low to his well-earned rest,

In the land he loved, on her mother breast,

While the sunlight dies in the darkening West—

Dead! Dead! Dead!

Ralph Alton.

THE OLD DOG’S DEATH POSTPONED.

Any one at all familiar with farm life knows that when the old dog becomes blind, toothless and helpless it is the sad but humane duty of the farmer to put an end to his sufferings; it is generally done by taking him off to the woods and shooting him. Although the new dog quickly wins his place in our affections, the old is not soon forgotten, and more than one story begins: “You remember how old Fide.” Give strong expression in the last verse to the old man’s sudden change of purpose.

Come along old chap, yer time’s ’bout up,

We got another brindle pup;

I ’lows it’s tough an’ mighty hard,

But a toothless dog’s no good on guard,

So trot along right after me,

An’ I’ll put yeh out o’ your misery.

Now, quit yer waggin’ that stumpy tail—

We ain’t a-goin’ fer rabbit er quail;

’Sides, you couldn’t pint a bird no more,

Yer old an’ blind an’ stiff an’ sore,

An’ that’s why I loaded the gun to-day

Yer a-gittin’ cross an’ in the way.

I been thinkin’ it over; ’taint no fun.

I don’t like to do it, but it’s got to be done;

Got sort of a notion, you know, too,

The kind of a job we’re goin’ to do,

Else why would yeh hang back that-a-way,

Yeh ain’t ez young ez yeh once wuz, hey!

Frisky dog in them days, I note,

When yeh nailed the sneakthief by the throat;

Can’t do that now, an’ there ain’t no need

A-keepin’ a dog that don’t earn his feed.

So yeh got to make way for the brindle pup;

Come along, old chap, yer time’s ’bout up.

We’ll travel along at an easy jog—

Course, you don’t know, bein’ only a dog;

But I can mind when you wuz sprier,

’Wakin’ us up when the barn caught fire—

It don’t seem possible, yet I know

That wuz close onto fifteen years ago.

My, but yer hair wuz long an’ thick

When yeh pulled little Sally out o’ the crick;

An’ it came in handy that night in the storm,

We coddled to keep each other warm.

Purty good dog, I’ll admit—but, say,

What’s the use o’ talkin’ yeh had yer day.

I’m hopin’ the children won’t hear the crack,

Er what’ll I say when I get back?

They’d be askin’ questions, I know their talk,

An’ I’d have to lie ’bout a chicken hawk;

But the sound won’t carry beyond this hill,

All done in a minute—don’t bark, stand still.

There, that’ll do; steady, quit lickin’ my hand,

What’s wrong with this gun, I can’t understand;

I’m jest ez shaky ez I can be—

Must be the agey’s the matter with me.

An’ that stitch in the back—what! gitten’ old too—

The—dinner—bell’s—ringin’—fer—me—an’ you.

Charles E. Baer.

THE FALLEN HERO.

He went to the war in the morning—

The roll of the drums could be heard.

But he paused at the gate with his mother

For a kiss and a comforting word.

He was full of the dreams and ambitions

That youth is so ready to weave,

And proud of the clank of his sabre

And the chevrons of gold on his sleeve.

He came from the war in the evening—

The meadows were sprinkled with snow,

The drums and the bugles were silent,

And the steps of the soldier were slow.

He was wrapped in the flag of his country

When they laid him away in the mould,

With the glittering stars of a captain

Replacing the chevrons of gold.

With the heroes who slept on the hillside

He lies with a flag at his head,

But, blind with the years of her weeping,

His mother yet mourns for her dead.

The soldiers who fall in the battle

May feel but a moment of pain,

But the women who wait in the homesteads

Must dwell with the ghosts of the slain.

Minna Irving.

THE SOLDIER’S WIFE.

He offered himself for the land he loved,

But what shall we say for her?

He gave to his country a soldier’s life;

’Twas dearer by far to the soldier’s wife,

All honor to-day to her!

He went to the war while his blood was hot,

But what shall we say of her?

He saw himself through the battle’s flame

A hero’s reward on the scroll of fame:

What honor is due to her?

He offered himself, but his wife did more,

All honor to-day to her!

For dearer than life was the gift she gave

In giving the life she would die to save;

What honor is due to her?

He gave up his life at his country’s call,

But what shall we say of her?

He offered himself as a sacrifice,

But she is the one who pays the price,

All honor we owe to her.

Elliott Flower.

“BREAK THE NEWS GENTLY.”

There on the ground he lay, a fireman so brave,

He’d risked his life, he’d fallen, a little child to save;

Life’s stream was ebbing fast away, his comrades all stood by,

And listened to his dying words, while tears bedimmed each eye:

“Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died,

Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried;

Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone.

Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.”

There in her home she rests, that mother old and gray,

She lost a son, but others—they took his place that day;

And nobly do they care for her and honor her gray head,

In mem’ry of their comrade and the last words that he said:

“Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died,

Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried;

Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone.

Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.”

There on the wall it hangs, within the engine-room,

The picture of the bravest lad that ever faced his doom;

And, as they point it out and speak the virtues of the dead,

They tell about that awful night and the last words that he said:

“Break the news to mother gently, tell her how her brave son died,

Tell her that he did his duty, as in life he ever tried;

Treat her kindly, boys, a friend be to her when I’m dead and gone.

Break the news to mother gently, do not let her weep or mourn.”

ON THE OTHER TRAIN.

“There, Simmons, you blockhead! Why didn’t you trot that old woman aboard her train? She’ll have to wait now until the 1.05 A.M.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Yes, I did tell you. ’Twas only your confounded stupid carelessness.”

“She——”

“She! You fool! What else could you expect of her! Probably she hasn’t any wit; besides, she isn’t bound on a very jolly journey—got a pass up the road to the poor-house. I’ll go and tell her, and if you forget her to-night, see if I don’t make mince-meat of you!” and our worthy ticket-agent shook his fist menacingly at his subordinate.

“You’ve missed your train, marm,” he remarked, coming forward to a queer-looking bundle in the corner.

A trembling hand raised the faded black veil, and revealed the sweetest old face I ever saw.

“Never mind,” said a quivering voice.

“’Tis only three o’clock now; you’ll have to wait until the night train, which doesn’t go up until 1.05.”

“Very well, sir; I can wait.”

“Wouldn’t you like to go to some hotel? Simmons will show you the way.”

“No, thank you, sir. One place is as good as another to me. Besides, I haven’t any money.”

“Very well,” said the agent, turning away indifferently. “Simmons will tell you when it’s time.”

All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I thought sometimes she must be asleep, but when I looked more closely I could see every once in a while a great tear rolling down her cheek, which she would wipe away hastily with her cotton handkerchief.

The depot was crowded and all was bustle and hurry until the 9.50 train going east came due; then every passenger left except the old lady. It is very rare indeed that any one takes the night express, and almost always, after I have struck ten, the depot becomes silent and empty.

The ticket agent put on his great coat, and bidding Simmons keep his wits about him for once in his life, departed for home.

But he had no sooner gone than that functionary stretched himself out upon the table, as usual, and began to snore vociferously. Then it was I witnessed such a sight as I never had before and never expect to again.

The fire had gone down—it was a cold night, and the wind howled dismally outside. The lamps grew dim and flared, casting weird shadows upon the wall. By and by I heard a smothered sob from the corner, then another. I looked in that direction. She had risen from her seat, and oh! the look of agony on the poor, pinched face.

“I can’t believe it,” she sobbed, wringing her thin, white hands. “Oh! I can’t believe it! My babies! my babies! how often have I held them in my arms and kissed them; and how often they used to say back to me, ‘Ise love you, mamma;’ and now, O God! they’ve turned against me. Where am I going? To the poor-house! No! no! no! I cannot! I will not! Oh, the disgrace!”

And sinking upon her knees, she sobbed out in prayer: “O God! spare me this and take me home! O God, spare me this disgrace; spare me!”

The wind rose higher, and swept through the crevices icy cold. How it moaned and seemed to sob like something human that is hurt. I began to shake, but the kneeling figure never stirred. The thin shawl had dropped from her shoulders unheeded. Simmons turned over and drew his heavy blanket more closely around him.

Oh, how cold! Only one lamp remained, burning dimly; the other two had gone out for want of oil. I could hardly see, it was so dark.

At last she became quieter, and ceased to moan. Then I grew drowsy, and kind of lost the run of things after I had struck twelve, when some one entered the depot with a bright light. I started up. It was the brightest light I ever saw, and seemed to fill the room full of glory. I could see ’twas a man. He walked to the kneeling figure and touched her upon the shoulder. She started up and turned her face wildly around. I heard him say:

“’Tis train time, ma’am. Come!”

A look of joy came over her face.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

“Then give me your pass, ma’am.”

She reached him a worn old book, which he took and from it read aloud:

“Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

“That’s the pass over our road, ma’am. Are you ready?”

The light died away and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start, and snatched his lantern. The whistles sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and shook the old woman.

“Wake up, marm; ’tis train time.”

But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white, set face, and dropping his lantern, fled.

The up-train halted, the conductor shouted “All aboard,” but no one made a move that way.

The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the verdict “apoplexy,” and it was in some way hushed up.

They laid her out in the depot, and advertised for her friends, but no one came. So, after the second day they buried her.

The last look on the sweet old face, lit up with a smile so unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of that night, I know that she went out on the other train, that never stopped at the poor-house.

SOME TWENTY YEARS AGO.

It were well worth while to insert this wonderfully beautiful and pathetic selection here to preserve it in enduring type, but it has the additional merit of being a most excellent piece for recitation. The author’s assumed name was “James Pipes, of Pipesville.” His real name you may see below the lines.

I’ve wandered to the village, Tom; I’ve sat beneath the tree

Upon the school house playground that sheltered you and me;

But none were there to greet me, Tom; and few were left to know,

Who played with us upon the green, some twenty years ago.

The grass is just as green, Tom; bare-footed boys at play

Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay.

But the “master” sleeps upon the hill, which coated o’er with snow,

Afforded us a sliding place, some twenty years ago.

The old school house is altered now, the benches are replaced

By new ones, very like the same our penknives once defaced;

But the same old bricks are in the wall; the bell swings to and fro;

It’s music just the same, dear Tom, ’twas twenty years ago.

The boys were playing some old game beneath that same old tree;

I have forgot the name just now—you’ve played the same with me

On that same spot; ’twas played with knives, by throwing so and so;

The loser had a task to do—these twenty years ago.

The river’s running just as still; the willows on its side

Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide;

But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau,

And swung our sweethearts—pretty girls—just twenty years ago.

The spring that bubbled ’neath the hill close by the spreading beach

Is very low—’twas then so high that we could scarcely reach;

And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so,

To see how sadly I am changed, since twenty years ago.

Near by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name;

Your sweetheart’s just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same;

Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark; ’twas dying sure but slow,

Just as she died, whose name you cut, some twenty years ago.

My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes;

I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties;

I visited the old church yard, and took some flowers to strow

Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago.

Some are in the church-yard laid, some sleep beneath the sea;

But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me;

And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go,

I hope they’ll lay us where we played, just twenty years ago.

Stephen Marsell.

ONLY A SOLDIER.

Unarmed and unattended walks the Czar,

Through Moscow’s busy street one winter’s day.

The crowd uncover as his face they see—

“God greet the Czar!” they say.

Along his path there moved a funeral,

Gray spectacle of poverty and woe,

A wretched sledge, dragged by one weary man,

Slowly across the snow.

And on the sledge, blown by the winter wind,

Lay a poor coffin, very rude and bare,

And he who drew it bent before his load,

With dull and sullen air.

The Emperor stopped and beckoned on the man;

“Who is’t thou bearest to the grave?” he said.

“Only a soldier, sire!” the short reply,

“Only a soldier, dead.”

“Only a soldier!” musing, said the Czar;

“Only a Russian, who was poor and brave.

Move on. I follow. Such a one goes not

Unhonored to his grave.”

He bent his head, and silent raised his cap;

The Czar of all the Russias, pacing slow,

Following the coffin, as again it went

Slowly across the snow.

The passers of the street, all wondering,

Looked on that sight, then followed silently;

Peasant and prince, the artisan and clerk,

All in one company.

Still, at they went the crowd grew ever more,

Till thousands stood around the friendless grave,

Led by that princely heart, who royal, true,

Honored the poor and brave.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

The pilgrim fathers—where are they?

The waves that brought them o’er

Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray,

As they break along the shore;

Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day

When the Mayflower moored below,

When the sea around was black with storms,

And white the shore with snow.

The pilgrim fathers are at rest:

When summer’s throned on high,

And the world’s warm breast is in verdure dressed.

Go stand on the hill where they lie:

The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallowed spot is cast,

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,

Looks kindly on that spot last.

The land is holy where they fought,

And holy where they fell;

For by their blood that land was bought,

The land they loved so well,

Then glory to that valiant band,

The honored saviours of the land!

Oh! few and weak their numbers were—

A handful of brave men;

But to their God they gave their prayer,

And rushed to battle then.

The God of battles heard their cry,

And sent them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,

Their flocks and herds without a fold,

The sickle in the unshorn grain,

The corn half garnered on the plain,

And mustered, in their simple dress,

For wrongs to seek a stern redress;

To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe

To perish, or o’ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men,

And where are ye to-day?

I call: the hills reply again,

That ye have passed away;

That on old Bunker’s lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,

The grass grows green, the harvest bright,

Above each soldier’s mound.

The bugle’s wild and warlike blast

Shall muster them no more;

An army now might thunder past,

And they not heed its roar.

The starry flag, ’neath which they fought

In many a bloody fray,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,

For they have passed away.

MASTER JOHNNY’S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR.

It was Spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma moved in

Next door just as skating was over and marbles about to begin,

For the fence in our back-yard was broken, and I saw, as I peeped through the slat,

There were ‘Johnny Jump-ups’ all around her, and I knew it was Spring just by that.

“I never knew whether she saw me—for she didn’t say nothing to me,

But ‘Ma! here’s a slat in the fence broke, and the boy that is next door can see.’

But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know Mamma says I’ve a right,

And she calls out, ‘Well, peekin is manners!’ and I answered her, ‘Sass is perlite!’

“But I wasn’t a bit mad; no, Papa; and to prove it, the very next day,

When she ran past our fence, in the morning I happened to get in her way,

For you know I am ‘chunked’ and clumsy, as she says are all boys of my size,

And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears came in her eyes.

“And then we were friends, from that moment, for I knew that she told Kitty Sage—

And she wasn’t a girl that would flatter—‘that she thought I was tall for my age,’

And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to ride on my sled,

And—‘What am I telling you this for?’ Why, Papa, my neighbor is dead!

“You don’t hear one half I am saying—I really do think it’s too bad!

Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and noticed to-day I’ve been sad;

And they’ve got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they have dressed her in white,

And I’ve never once looked through the fence, Pa, since she died—at eleven last night.

“And Ma says its decent and proper, as I was her neighbor and friend,

That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that you ought to attend;

But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the way,

And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn’t know just what to say.

“So I think I will get up quite early, I know I sleep late, but I know

I’ll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that I’ll tie to my toe,

And I’ll crawl through the fence and I’ll gather the ‘Johnny Jump-ups’ as they grew

Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I’ll give them to you.

“For you’re a big man, and you know, Pa, can come and go just where you choose,

And you’ll take the flowers into her and surely they’ll never refuse;

But, Papa, don’t say they’re from Johnny; they won’t understand, don’t you see;

But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, she’ll know they’re from me.”

Bret Harte.

STONEWALL JACKSON’S DEATH.

Gen. Joseph Hooker, in command of the Army of the Potomac lying opposite Fredericksburg, Md., crossed the Rappahannock River early in May, 1863, and fought the severe battle of Chancellorsville, in which was killed the famous Southern general, Thomas J. Jackson, commonly known as Stonewall Jackson. He received this name at the first battle of Bull Run. Defeat seemed imminent, and one of the Confederate generals exclaimed: “Here stands Jackson like a stone wall, and here let us conquer or die!” Gen. Jackson’s last words were: “Let us cross over the river, and lie down under the trees.”

The lightning flashed across the heaven, the distant thunder rolled,

And, swayed by gusts of angry winds, the far-off church bell tolled,

The billows crashed against the rocks that kiss the ocean’s foam,

And eager pilots trimmed their sails and turned their skiffs for home.

As darkness fell upon the earth, and we were gathered round

Our blazing hearth, and listening to the storm’s terrific sound,

We all looked up to Uncle Tom, who sat beside the fire,

A-dreaming of the bygone days, and of disaster dire.

For memory brought us back again to times of darkest woe,

When, strong in hand and light in heart, he fought the Northern foe.

He often spoke of ’46—the fight on Mexic’s plain—

How Buena Vista heights were reached while bullets fell like rain.

How Shields had gained Chapultepec, how Santa Anna fled,

And how the Sisters labored even where the bullets sped;

And oft he spoke of later times, but always with a sigh,

When South and North rose up to fight en masse for cause or die.

And as beside the fire he sat and piped his meerschaum well,

We asked, to pass the time away, that he a tale should tell.

He paused a moment, then he laid his good old pipe aside,

And said, “I’ll tell you boys, to-night, how Stonewall Jackson died.

“We were retreating from the foe, for Fredericksburg was lost,

And on our flank, still threatening, appeared the Union host;

Down by the Rappahannock, in our dismal tents we lay,

And the lightest heart was heavy with our grave defeat that day.

“For ’tis better for a soldier like Montgomery to die,

Than live to see his comrades from a hated foeman fly;

But reverses often come upon defenders of the right,

And justice seldom conquers, boys, when nations go to fight.

“With heavy hearts we laid us down, but, mind you, not to sleep,

Nor did we turn aside to sing, or turn aside to weep,

But as we pondered o’er our griefs, a sudden moan was heard,

Far louder than the willow’s moan, when by the wind ’tis stirred.

“It woke the camp from reverie, it woke the camp to fear;

And louder, louder grew the wail, most dreadful then to hear.

And nearer came the weeping crowd, and something stiff and still

Was borne, we knew not what it was, but followed with a will.

“At last within our Gen’ral’s tent the precious load was laid,

And then a pallid soldier turned unto us all, and said:

‘We thought it hard, my comrades brave, to lose the field to-day;

But harder will our struggle be, to labor in the fray;

For he is gone, our gallant chief, who could our hopes restore,

And rout and ruin is our fate, since Stonewall is no more.’

“I cannot tell you how we felt, or how we acted then,

For words are weak to tell a tale when grief has mastered men;

But this I know, I pulled the cloth from off brave Jackson’s face,

And almost jumped with joy to see him gaze around the place.

“But, boys, it was a fleeting dream, a vacant stare he cast;

He did not see the canvas shaken by the sudden blast;

He did not see us weeping as we staunched the flowing blood,

But again in battle fighting, he was where the foemen stood.

“‘Order Gen’ral Hill to action!’ loud he cried, as he was wont;

And then he quickly added: ‘Bring the infantry to front!’

As he saw the corps pass by him—as it were—in duty’s call,

Suddenly he shouted: ‘Drive them! charge upon them, one and all!’

“Then he turned aside, and, smiling, said with voice of one in ease:

‘Let us cross the foaming river; let us rest beneath the trees.’

Then we waited, boys, and watched him, but no other word he said;

For adown the foaming river had our leader’s spirit sped.”

Paul M. Russell.

THE STORY OF NELL.

You’re a kind woman, Nan! Ay, kind and true!

God will be good to faithful folk like you!

You knew my Ned?

A better, kinder lad never drew breath.

We loved each other true, and we were wed

In church, like some who took him to his death;

A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost

His senses when he took a drop too much.

Drink did it all—drink made him mad when crossed—

He was a poor man, and they’re hard on such

O Nan! that night! that night!

When I was sitting in this very chair,

Watching and waiting in the candle-light,

And heard his foot come creaking up the stair,

And turned and saw him standing yonder, white

And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair!

And when I caught his arm and called in fright,

He pushed me, swore, and to the door he passed

To lock and bar it fast.

Then down he drops just like a lump of lead,

Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter,

And—Nan—just then the light seemed growing brighter,

And I could see the hands that held his head,

All red! all bloody red!

What could I do but scream? He groaned to hear,

Jumped to his feet, and gripped me by the wrist;

“Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell!” he hissed.

And I was still for fear.

“They’re after me—I’ve knifed a man!” he said,

“Be still!—the drink—drink did it!—he is dead!”

Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn’t weep;

All I could do was cling to Ned and hark,

And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep,

But breathing hard and deep.

The candle flickered out—the room grew dark

And—Nan!—although my heart was true and tried—

When all grew cold and dim,

I shuddered—not for fear of them outside,

But just afraid to be alone with him.

“Ned! Ned!” I whispered—and he moaned and shook,

But did not heed or look!

“Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not true!”

At that he raised his head and looked so wild;

Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw

His arms around me, crying like a child,

And held me close—and not a word was spoken,

While I clung tighter to his heart and pressed him,

And did not fear him, though my heart was broken,

But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, and blessed him!

Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold

With sound of falling rain—

When I could see his face, and it looked old,

Like the pinched face of one that dies in pain;

Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun,

We never thought to hide away or run,

Until we heard those voices in the street,

That hurrying of feet,

And Ned leaped up, and knew that they had come.

“Run, Ned!” I cried, but he was deaf and dumb;

“Hide, Ned!” I screamed, and held him; “Hide thee, man!”

He stared with blood-shot eyes and hearkened, Nan!

And all the rest is like a dream—the sound

Of knocking at the door—

A rush of men—a struggle on the ground—

A mist—a tramp—a roar;

For when I got my senses back again,

The room was empty, and my head went round!

God help him? God will help him! Ay, no fear!

It was the drink, not Ned—he meant no wrong

So kind! So good!—and I am useless here,

Now he is lost that loved me true and long.

That night before he died,

I didn’t cry—my heart was hard and dried;

But when the clocks went “one,” I took my shawl

To cover up my face, and stole away,

And walked along the silent streets, where all

Looked cold and still and gray.

Some men and lads went by,

And turning round, I gazed, and watched ’em go,

Then felt that they were going to see him die,

And drew my shawl more tight, and followed slow.

More people passed me, a country cart with hay

Stopped close beside me, and two or three

Talked about it! I moaned, and crept away!

Next came a hollow sound I knew full well,

For something gripped me round the heart—and then

There came the solemn tolling of a bell!

O God! O God! how could I sit close by,

And neither scream nor cry?

As if I had been stone, all hard and cold,

I listened, listened, listened, still and dumb,

While the folk murmured, and the death-bell tolled,

And the day brightened, and his time had come.

All else was silent but the knell

Of the slow bell!

And I could only wait, and wait, and wait,

And what I waited for I couldn’t tell—

At last there came a groaning deep and great—

St. Paul’s struck “eight”—

I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire and fell!

God bless him, alive or dead!

He never meant no wrong, was kind and true.

They’re wrought their fill of spite upon his head

Why didn’t they be kind, and take me too?

And there’s the dear old things he used to wear,

And there’s a lock of hair.

And Ned, my Ned! is fast asleep, and cannot hear me call.

God bless you, Nan, for all you’ve done and said!

But don’t mind me, my heart is broke, that’s all!

Robert Buchanan.

LITTLE NAN.

The wide gates swung open,

The music softly sounded,

And loving hands were heaping the soldiers’ graves with flowers;

With pansies, pinks, and roses,

And pure, gold-hearted lilies,

The fairest, sweetest blossoms that grace the spring-time bowers.

When down the walk came tripping

A wee, bare-headed girlie,

Her eyes were filled with wonder, her face was grave and sweet;

Her small brown hands were crowded

With dandelions yellow—

The gallant, merry blossoms that children love to greet.

O, many smiled to see her,

That dimple-cheeked wee baby,

Pass by with quaint intentness, as on a mission bound;

And, pausing oft an instant,

Let fall from out her treasures

A yellow dandelion upon each flower-strewn mound.

The music died in silence,

A robin ceased its singing;

And in the fragrant stillness a bird-like whisper grew,

So sweet, so clear and solemn,

That smiles gave place to tear-drops;

“Nan loves ’oo darlin’ soldier; an’ here’s a f’ower for ’oo.”

ONE OF THE LITTLE ONES.

’Twas a crowded street, and a cry of joy

Came from a ragged, barefoot boy—

A cry of eager and glad surprise,

And he opened wide his great black eyes

As he held before him a coin of gold

He had found in a heap of rubbish old

By the curb stone there.

“How it sparkles!” the youngster cried,

As the golden piece he eagerly eyed:

“Oh, see it shine!” and he laughed aloud;

Little heeding the curious crowd

That gathered around, “Hurrah!” said he,

“How glad my poor mother will be!

I’ll buy her a brand-new Sunday hat,

And a pair of shoes for Nell, at that,

And baby sister shall have a dress—

There’ll be enough for all, I guess;

And then I’ll——”

“Here,” said a surly voice

“That money’s mine. You can take your choice

Of giving it up or going to jail.”

The youngster trembled, and then turned pale

As he looked and saw before him stand

A burly drayman with outstretched hand;

Rough and uncouth was the fellow’s face,

And without a single line or trace

Of the goodness that makes the world akin.

“Come, be quick! or I’ll take you in,”

Said he.

“For shame!” said the listening crowd.

The ruffian seemed for the moment cowed.

“The money’s mine,” he blurted out;

“I lost it yesterday hereabout.

I don’t want nothin’ but what’s my own

And I am going to have it.”

The lad alone

Was silent. A tear stood in his eye,

And he brushed it away; he would not cry.

“Here, mister,” he answered, “take it then;

If it’s yours, it’s yours; if it hadn’t been——”

A sob told all he would have said,

Of the hope so suddenly raised, now dead.

And then with a sigh, which volumes told,

He dropped the glittering piece of gold

Into the other’s hand. Once more

He sighed—and his dream of wealth was o’er.

But no! Humanity hath a heart

Always ready to take the part

Of childish sorrow, wherever found.

“Let’s make up a purse”—the word went round

Through the kindly crowd, and the hat was passed

And the coins came falling thick and fast.

“Here, sonny, take this,” said they. Behold,

Full twice as much as the piece of gold

He had given up was in the hand

Of the urchin. He could not understand

It all. The tears came thick and fast,

And his grateful heart found voice at last.

But, lo! when he spoke, the crowd had gone—

Left him, in gratitude, there alone.

Who’ll say there is not some sweet, good-will

And kindness left in this cold world still?

G. L. Catlin.

THE DRUNKARD’S DAUGHTER.

She was a bright and beautiful child, one who seemed born for a better career, yet one on whom the blight of intemperance had left its impress early.

Her father was a drunkard, a worthless, miserable sot, whose only aim and ambition in life seemed to be to contrive ways and means of satisfying the devouring fire that constantly burned within him.

Her mother had died when she was a mere child, leaving her to grow up a wild flower in the forest, uncultured and uncared for.

Yet she was very beautiful; her form and face were of wondrous perfection and loveliness; her disposition was happy and cheerful, notwithstanding the abuse to which she was continually subjected.

The years went by; she grew to be almost a woman. She could not go to school or church, because she had nothing respectable to wear; and had she gone her wicked father would have reviled her for her disposition to make something better of herself and for her simple piety. He sank lower and lower in the miserable slough of intemperance, and yet, when urged by well-meaning friends, to leave him she clung to him with an affection as unaccountable as it was earnest and sincere.

“If I should leave him he would die,” she said. “If I stay and suffer with him here, some time I may save him and make him a worthy man.”

Many would have given her a home, food and comfortable clothes, but she preferred to share her father’s misery rather than selfishly forsake him in his unhappy infirmity.

The summer passed, the berries ripened and disappeared from the bushes. The leaves turned to crimson and yellow, and fell from the trees. The cold November winds howled through the desolate hollows, while, scantily clad, she crouched in a corner of her inhospitable, unhappy home.

She was very ill; bad treatment, poor food, and exposure had brought on a fatal sickness. Her brow burned with fever. Even her wretched father, selfish and inebriated as he was, became alarmed at her condition as he staggered about the room upon his return at a late hour from the village tavern, where he had spent the evening with a company of dissolute companions.

“Father,” she said, “I am very sick; the doctor has been to see me; he left a prescription. Will you not go to the village and get it filled?”

“They won’t trust me, child,” he said, gruffly.

“But I will trust you,” she said sweetly. “There is a little money hidden in the old clock there, which I saved from picking and selling berries. You can take it; there is enough.”

His eyes sparkled with a dangerous glitter.

“Money!” he exclaimed almost fiercely. “I didn’t know you had money. Why didn’t you tell me before? Didn’t you know it belonged by right to me?”

She sighed pitifully.

He staggered to the clock, fumbled about for a few moments, and soon found what he was seeking.

“Yes, I’ll go,” he said, excitedly. “Give me the prescription.”

He snatched it from her extended hand, opened the door and disappeared.

The night grew colder. The sick girl crept into bed and tossed and turned restlessly. The oil in the old lamp burned out. The windows rattled, a storm came, and rain and hail beat upon the window panes. The old clock struck the hour of midnight. The drunkard did not return.

Poor girl, her soul became filled with apprehension and fear for him.

“I must go for him,” she said. “He will perish, and it will be my fault.” She crawled out of bed, drew on her scanty apparel and worn shoes, threw a ragged shawl over her head and shoulders, and went forth into the darkness, heroically facing the driving storm.

The morning came, clear, cloudless and beautiful. The earth was cold and frosty. A neighbor, going early to the village, found two lifeless forms lying by the roadway. Beside the dead man lay an empty black bottle. The girl’s white arms were clasped about his neck. Her soul had gone to intercede for him before the Mercy Seat on high.

Eugene J. Hall.

THE BEAUTIFUL.

Beautiful faces are those that wear—

It matters little if dark or fair—

Whole-souled honesty printed there.

Beautiful eyes are those that show,

Like crystal panes, where earth fires glow,

Beautiful thoughts that burn below.

Beautiful lips are those whose words

Leap from the heart like song of birds,

Yet whose utterance prudence girds.

Beautiful hands are those that do

Work that is earnest and brave and true,

Moment by moment the long day through.

Beautiful feet are those that go

On kindly ministry to and fro,

Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so.

Beautiful shoulders are those that bear

Heavy burdens of homely cart

With patience, grace and daily prayer.

Beautiful lives are those that bless—

Silent rivers of happiness,

Whose hidden fountains but few may guess.

Beautiful twilight at set of sun,

Beautiful goal with race well run,

Beautiful rest with work well done.

Beautiful grave where grasses creep,

Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep,

Over worn-out hands—oh, beautiful sleep.

TROUBLE IN THE AMEN CORNER.

’Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown,

And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town,

And the chorus, all the papers favorably commented on it,

For ’twas said each female member had a forty—dollar bonnet.

Now in the “amen corner” of the church sat Brother Eyer,

Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir;

He was poor, but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white,

And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might.

His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords,

And nearly every Sunday he would mispronounce the words

Of the hymns, and ’twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind,

And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind.

Then the pastor called together in the lecture-room one day

Seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay,

And having asked God’s guidance in a printed prayer or two,

They put their heads together to determine what to do.

They debated, thought, suggested, till at last “dear Brother York,”

Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork,

Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer,

And proceed to rake him lively for “disturbin’ of the choir.”

Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four,

With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer’s door;

And the sleek, well-dressed committee, Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb,

As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jam.

They found the choir’s great trouble sitting in his old arm-chair,

And the summer’s golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair;

He was singing “Rock of Ages” in a voice both cracked and low,

But the angels understood him, ’twas all he cared to know.

Said York: “We’re here, dear brother, with the vestry’s approbation,

To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation;”

“And the choir, too,” said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge,

“And the choir, too!” he echoed with the graveness of a judge.

“It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus

That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us;

If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother,

It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another.

“We don’t want any singing except that what we’ve bought!

The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught;

And so we have decided—are you listening, Brother Eyer?—

That you’ll have to stop your singin’, for it flurrytates the choir.”

The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear,

And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear;

His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow,

As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low;

“I’ve sung the psalms of David for nearly eighty years,

They’ve been my staff and comfort and calmed life’s many fears;

I’m sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I’m doing wrong;

But when my heart is filled with praise, I can’t keep back a song.

“I wonder if beyond the tide that’s breaking at my feet,

In the far-off heavenly temple, where the Master I shall greet,—

Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up higher.

If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven’s choir.”

A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head;

The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead!

Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us,

And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus.

The choir missed him for awhile, but he was soon forgot,

A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not.

Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sings his heart’s desires,

Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs.

C. T. Harbaugh.

LITTLE MAG’S VICTORY.

’Twas a hovel all wretched, forlorn and poor,

With crumbling eves and a hingeless door,

And windows where pitiless midnight rains

Beat fiercely in through the broken panes,

And tottering chimneys, and moss-grown roof,

From the heart of the city far aloof,

Where Nanny, a hideous, wrinkled hag,

Dwelt with her grandchild, “Little Mag.”

The neighbors called old Nanny a witch.

The story went that she’d once been rich—

Aye, rich as any lady in town—

But trouble had come and dragged her down

And down; then sickness, and want, and age

Had filled the rest of her life’s sad page,

And driven her into the slums to hide

Her shame and misery till she died.

The boys, as she hobbled along the street,

Her coming with yells and hoots would greet;

E’en grown folks dreaded old Nan so much

That they’d shun, in passing, her very touch,

And a mocking word or glance would send.

Poor little Mag was her only friend:

Faithful and true was the child, indeed.

What did she ever care or heed

For those cruel words, and those looks of scorn

In patient silence they all were borne;

But she prayed that God would hasten the day

That would take her sorrow and care away.

Alas! that day—that longed-for boon,

That ending of sorrow—came all too soon.

For there came a day when a ruffian crowd,

With stones, and bludgeons, and hootings loud,

Surrounded old Nanny’s hovel door,

Led on by a drunken brute, who swore,

In blasphemous oaths, and in language wild,

She had stolen a necklace from off his child.

Crouched in a corner, dumb with fear,

The old hag sat, with her grandchild near,

As the furious mob of boys and men,

Yelling, entered her dingy den.

“Kill her!” shouted the brutal pack.

“Cowards!” screamed Little Mag. “Stand back!”

As she placed her fragile form before

Her poor old grandmother, on the floor,

And clasped her about the neck, and pressed

The thin gray hairs to her childish breast.

“Cowards!” she said. “Now, do your worst.

If either must die, let me die first!”

Cowed and abashed, the crowd stood still,

Awed by that child’s unaided will;

One by one, in silence and shame,

They all stole out by the way they came,

Till the fair young child and the withered crone

Were left once more in that room—alone.

But stop! What is it the child alarms?

Old Nan lies dead in her grandchild’s arms!

George L. Catlin.

LIFE’S BATTLE.

Alas! I’m growing old, my hair, once thick and brown,

Is now quite white and silky, and sparse about the crown;

A year, that once seemed endless, now, passes like a dream,

Yet my boat still rides the billows, as it floats along the stream.

My eye, once like the eagle’s, is now much dimmed by age,

And art alone enables me to read the printed page,

Yet still it rests with quickened glance upon each lovely scene.

As years roll by with silent pace and changes come between.

Life is full of gladness if we but make it so,

There’s not a wave of sorrow but has an undertow.

A stout heart and a simple faith gives victory o’er the grave,

And God awaits all patiently, all powerful to save.

’Tis not a cross to live, nor is it hard to die,

If we but view the future with steadfast, fearless eye,

Looking ever on the bright side, where falls the sun’s warm beam,

Our boats will ride the billows as they float along the stream.

Wayne Howe Parsons.

THE LOST KISS.

I put by the half-written poem,

While the pen, idly trailed in my hand,

Writes on, “Had I words to complete it,

Who’d read it, or who’d understand?”

But the little bare feet on the stairway,

And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,

And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,

Cry up to me over it all.

So I gather it up—where was broken

The tear—faded thread of my theme,

Telling how, as one night I sat writing,

A fairy broke in on my dream.

A little inquisitive fairy

My own little girl, with the gold

Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy

Blue eyes of the fairies of old.

’Twas the dear little girl that I scolded—

“For was it a moment like this,”

I said, when she knew I was busy,

“To come romping in for a kiss?

Come rowdying up from her mother

And clamoring there at my knee

For ‘One ’ittle kiss for my dolly

And one ’ittle uzzer for me?’”

God pity the heart that repelled her

And the cold hand that turned her away!

And take from the lips that denied her

This answerless prayer of to-day!

Take, Lord, from my mem’ry forever

That pitiful sob of despair,

And the patter and trip of the little bare feet

And the one piercing cry on the stair!

I put by the half-written poem,

While the pen, idly trailed in my hand,

Writes on, “Had I words to complete it,

Who’d read it, or who’d understand?”

But the little bare feet on the stairway,

And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,

And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,

Cry up to me over all.

James Whitcomb Riley.

EXECUTION OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

The Queen arrived in the hall of death. Pale but unflinching she contemplated the dismal preparations. There lay the block and the axe. There stood the executioner and his assistant. All were clothed in mourning. On the floor was scattered the sawdust which was to soak her blood, and in a dark corner lay the bier. It was nine o’clock when the Queen appeared in the funereal hall. Fletcher, Dean of Peterborough, and certain privileged persons, to the number of more than two hundred, were assembled. The hall was hung with black cloth; the scaffold, which was elevated about two feet and a half above the ground, was covered with black frieze of Lancaster; the arm-chair in which Mary was to sit, the footstool on which she was to kneel, the block on which her head was to be laid, were covered with black velvet.

The Queen was clothed in mourning like the hall and as the ensign of punishment. Her black velvet robe, with its high collar and hanging sleeves, was bordered with ermine. Her mantle, lined with marten sable, was of satin, with pearl buttons and a long train. A chain of sweet-smelling beads, to which was attached a scapulary, and beneath that a golden cross, fell upon her bosom. Two rosaries were suspended to her girdle, and a long veil of white lace, which in some measure softened this costume of a widow and of a condemned criminal, was thrown around her.

Arrived on the scaffold, Mary seated herself in the chair provided for her, with her face toward the spectators. The Dean of Peterborough, in ecclesiastical costume, sat on the right of the Queen, with a black velvet footstool before him. The Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury were seated, like him, on the right, but upon larger chairs. On the other side of the Queen stood the Sheriff, Andrews, with white wand. In front of Mary were seen the executioner and his assistant, distinguishable by their vestments of black velvet with red crape round the left arm. Behind the Queen’s chair, ranged by the wall, wept her attendants and maidens.

In the body of the hall, the nobles and citizens from the neighboring counties were guarded by musketeers. Beyond the balustrade was the bar of the tribunal. The sentence was read; the Queen protested against it in the name of royalty and of innocence, but accepted death for the sake of the faith. She then knelt before the block and the executioner proceeded to remove her veil. She repelled him by a gesture, and turning toward the Earls with a blush on her forehead, “I am not accustomed,” she said, “to be undressed before so numerous a company, and by the hands of such grooms of the chamber.”

She then called Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle, who took off her mantle, her veil, her chains, cross and scapulary. On their touching her robe, the Queen told them to unloosen the corsage and fold down the ermine collar, so as to leave her neck bare for the axe. Her maidens weepingly yielded her these last services. Melvil and the three other attendants wept and lamented, and Mary placed her finger on her lips to signify that they should be silent. She then arranged the handkerchief embroidered with thistles of gold with which her eyes had been covered by Jane Kennedy.

Thrice she kissed the crucifix, each time repeating, “Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.” She knelt anew and leant her head on that block which was already scored with deep marks, and in this solemn attitude she again recited some verses from the Psalms. The executioner interrupted her at the third verse by a blow of the axe, but its trembling stroke only grazed her neck; she groaned slightly, and the second blow separated the head from the body.

Lamartine.

OVER THE RANGE.

Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit,

I start and wake, it is so strange

To find myself alone, and Tom

Across the Range.

We brought him in with heavy feet

And eased him down; from eye to eye,

Though no one spoke, there passed a fear

That Tom must die.

He rallied when the sun was low,

And spoke; I thought the words were strange;

“It’s almost night, and I must go

Across the Range.”

“What, Tom?” He smiled and nodded: “Yes,

They’ve struck it rich there, Jim, you know,

The parson told us; you’ll come soon;

Now Tom must go.”

I brought his sweetheart’s pictured face:

Again that smile, so sad and strange,

“Tell her,” said he, “that Tom has gone

Across the Range.”

The last night lingered on the hill.

“There’s a pass, somewhere,” then he said,

And lip, and eye, and hand were still;

And Tom was dead.

Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit:

I start and wake, it is so strange

To find myself alone, and Tom

Across the Range.

J. Harrison Mills.

THE STORY OF CRAZY NELL.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and looked

Out on the road that passed my window wide,

And saw a woman and a fair-haired child

That knelt and picked the daisies at the side.

The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,

And, laughing, held it high above its head;

A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes,

And in that light a mother’s love I read.

She took the little hand, and both passed on;

The prattle of the child I still could hear,

Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,

That came in loving words upon my ear.

“Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,

But yet had left the recollection of that scene—

The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt

And picked the daisies on the roadside green.

I looked. The old familiar road was there—

A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;

And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare

That fixed itself back where the daisies grew.

“Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired child

Run from the daisies with its gathered prize;

“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laugh

To light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.

“Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the road

The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;

Caressing tones—not mixed with prattle now,

But full of loving words—I still could hear.

I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;

He told the story—all there was to tell:

A little mound the village churchyard bore;

And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.

Joseph Whitton.

LITTLE SALLIE’S WISH.

The following poem was written from facts, concerning a sweet little girl who lived in New York. When Summer came her parents took a cottage in the country, where the scene described was enacted.

I have seen the first robin of Spring, mother dear,

And have heard the brown darling sing;

You said, “Hear it and wish, and ’twill surely come true,”

So I’ve wished such a beautiful thing.

I thought I would like to ask something for you,

But couldn’t think what there could be

That you’d want, while you had all these beautiful things;

Besides you have papa and me.

So I wished for a ladder, so long that ’twould stand

One end by our own cottage door,

And the other go up past the moon and the stars,

And lean against heaven’s white floor.

Then I’d get you to put on my pretty white dress,

With my sash and my darling new shoes;

And I’d find some white roses to take up to God,

The most beautiful ones I could choose.

And you, dear papa, would sit on the ground,

And kiss me, and tell me “good-bye;”

Then I’d go up the ladder, far out of your sight,

Till I came to the door in the sky.

I wonder if God keeps the door fastened tight?

If but one little crack I could see,

I would whisper, “Please, God, let this little girl in,

She’s as weary and tired as can be.

“She came all alone from the earth to the sky,

For she’s always been wanting to see

The gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers;

Please, God, is there room there for me?”

And then when the angels had opened the door,

God would say, “Bring the little child here.”

But He’d speak it so softly, I’d not be afraid,

And He’d smile just like you, mother dear.

He would put His kind arms round your dear little girl,

And I’d ask Him to send down for you,

And papa, and cousin, and all that I love—

Oh, dear, don’t you wish ’twould come true?

The next Spring time, when the robins came home,

They sang over grasses and flowers,

That grew where the foot of the long ladder stood,

Whose top reached the heavenly bowers.

And the parents had dressed the pale, still child

For her flight to the Summer land,

In a fair white robe, with one snow-white rose

Folded tight in her pulseless hand.

And now at the foot of the ladder they sit,

Looking upward with quiet tears,

Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe

Of the child at the top re-appears.

DROWNED AMONG THE LILIES.

How the reeds and rushes quiver

On the low banks of the river,

And the leaning willows shiver

In a strange and deep affright,

And the water moans and murmurs

As it eddies round the lilies,

Like a human soul in sorrow,

Over something hid from sight.

How the shadows haunt the edges

Of the river, where the sedges

To the lilies whisper ever

Of some strange and awful deed!

How the sunshine, timid, frightened,

Dares not touch the spot it brightened

Yesterday, among the shadows

Of the lily and the reed.

What is that that floats and shimmers

Where the water gleams and glimmers,

In and out among the rushes,

Growing thick, and tall, and green?

Something yellow, long and shining

Something wondrous fair and silken,

Like a woman’s golden tresses,

With a broken flower between.

What is that, so white and slender,

Hidden, almost, by the splendor

Of a great white water lily,

Floating on the river there?

’Tis a hand stretched up toward Heaven,

As, when we would be forgiven,

We reach out our hands, imploring,

In an agony of prayer.

Tremble, reeds, and moan and shiver,

At your feet, in the still river,

Lies a woman, done forever,

With life’s mockery and woe.

God alone can know the sorrow,

All the bitterness and heartache,

Ended in the moaning river

Where the water lilies blow.

Eben E. Rexford.

THE FATE OF CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

The sunny land of France with streams of noblest blood was dyed,

Nor could a monarch’s royal veins suffice the insatiate tide;

And youth and beauty knelt in vain, and mercy ceased to shine,

And Nature’s holiest ties were loosed beneath the guillotine.

Wild war and rapine, hate and blood, and terror ruled supreme,

Till all who loved its vine-clad vales had ceased of peace to dream;

But there was one whose lover’s blood wrote vengeance in her soul,

Whom zeal for France and blighted hopes had bound in fast control.

Dark “Discord’s demon,” fierce Marat, his country’s fellest foe,

Belzance’s executioner, the fount of war and woe;

Demon alike in mind and face, he dreamt not of his fall,

Yet him the noble maiden doomed to vengeance and to Gaul.

O! had an artist seen them there as face to face they stand;

The noblest and the meanest mind in all that bleeding land;

The loveliest and most hideous forms that pencil could portray—

A picture might on canvas live that would not pass away.

“Point out the foes of France,” he said, “and ere to-morrow shine,

The blood, now warm within their veins, shall stain the guillotine.”

“The guillotine!” the maid exclaimed, the steel a moment gleams,

A moment more ’tis in his heart; adieu to all his dreams!

Before her judges Charlotte stands, undaunted, undismayed,

While eyes that never wept are wet with pity for the maid,

Unstained as beautiful she stands before the judgment seat,

Resigned to fate, her heart is calm while others wildly beat!

Alas! too sure her doom is read in those stern faces, while

Fear from her looks affrighted fled, where shone Minerva’s smile;

Hope she had none, or, if perchance she had, that hope was gone,

Yet in its stead ’twas not despair but brightest triumph shone!

“What was the cause?” “His crimes,” she said, her bleeding country’s foe,

Inspired her hand, impelled the steel, and laid the tyrant low;

Though well she knew her blood would flow for him she caused to bleed,

Yet what was death?—The crowning wreath that graced the noble deed!

Her doom is passed, a lovely smile dawns slowly o’er her face,

And adds another beauty to her calm majestic grace;

She does not weep, she does not shrink, her features are not pale,

The firmness that inspired her hand forbids her heart to fail!

’Tis morn; before the Tuilleries the dawn is breaking gray,

And thousands through the busy streets in haste pursue their way;

What means the bustle and the throng, the scene is nothing new—

A fair young lady, doomed to die, each day the same they view.

Before that home of bygone kings a gloomy scaffold stands,

Upreared in Freedom’s injured name to manacle her hands;

Some crowd to worship, some insult, the martyr in her doom,

But over friends and foes a cloud is cast of sombre gloom.

She stands upon the fatal spot angelically fair,

The roses of her cheek concealed beneath her flowing hair;

“Greater than Brutus,” she displays no sign of fear or dread,

But in a moment will be still and silent with the dead.

Her neck is bared, the fatal knife descends, and all is o’er,

The martyred heroine of France—of freedom dreams no more;

The insults of the wretched throng she hears no longer now,

But Death, man’s universal friend, sits on her pallid brow!

In life, fear never blanched her cheek; but now ’tis calm and pale,

Love and her country asked revenge, and both her fate bewail;

She fell, more glorious in her fall than chief or crowned queen,

A martyr in a noble cause, without a fault to screen!

Clare S. McKinley.

THE LITTLE VOYAGER.

Three little children in a boat

On seas of opal splendor;

The willing waves their treasure float

To rhythm low and tender;

Over their heads the skies are blue—

Where are the darlings sailing to?

They do not know—we do not know,

Who watch their pretty motions;

Safe moored within the harbor, though

They sail untraveled oceans;

They rock and sway and shut their eyes;

“No land in sight!” the helmsman cries!

“Oh, little children have you heard

Of ships that sail for pleasure;

And never wind or wave hath word

Of all their vanished treasure?

They were as blithe and gay as you

And sailed away as fearless, too!”

Then from the pleasure-freighted crew

One spake—a little maiden,

With sunny hair, and eyes of blue,

And lashes fair, dew-laden,

Her wise head gave a thoughtful nod—!

“Perhaps—they sailed—away to God!”

Mrs. M. L. Bayne.

THE DREAM OF ALDARIN.

This selection won a gold medal at a Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution in Philadelphia. It is a remarkable embodiment of tragedy and pathos.

A chamber with a low, dark ceiling, supported by massive rafters of oak; floors and walls of dark stone, unrelieved by wainscot or plaster—bare, rugged, and destitute.

A dim, smoking light, burning in a vessel of iron, threw its red and murky beams over the fearful contents of a table. It was piled high with the unsightly forms of the dead. Prostrate among these mangled bodies, his arms flung carelessly on either side, slept and dreamed Aldarin—Aldarin, the Fratricide.

He hung on the verge of a rock, a rock of melting bitumen, that burned his hands to masses of crisped and blackened flesh. The rock projected over a gulf, to which the cataracts of earth might compare as the rivulet to the vast ocean. It was the Cataract of Hell. He looked below. God of Heaven, what a sight! Fiery waves, convulsed and foaming, with innumerable whirlpools crimsoned by bubbles of flame. Each whirlpool swallowing millions of the lost. Each bubble bearing on its surface the face of a soul, lost and lost forever.

Born on by the waves, they raised their hands and cast their burning eyes to the skies, and shrieked the eternal death-wail of the lost.

Over this scene, awful and vast, towered a figure of ebony blackness, his darkened brow concealed in the clouds, his extended arms grasping the infinitude of the cataract, his feet resting upon islands of bitumen far in the gulf below. The eyes of the figure were fixed upon Aldarin, as he clung with the nervous clasp of despair to the rock, and their gaze curdled his heated blood.

He was losing his grasp; sliding and sliding from the rock, his feet hung over the gulf. There was no hope for him. He must fall—fall—and fall forever. But lo! a stairway, built of white marble, wide, roomy and secure, seemed to spring from the very rock to which he clung, winding upward from the abyss, till it was lost in the distance far, far above. He beheld two figures slowly descending—the figure of a warrior and the form of a dark-eyed woman.

He knew those figures; he knew them well. They were his victims! Her face, his wife’s! beautiful as when he first wooed her in the gardens of Palestine; but there was blood on her vestments, near the heart, and his lip was spotted with one drop of that thick, red blood. “This,” he muttered, “this, indeed, is hell, and yet I must call for aid—call to them!” How the thought writhed like a serpent round his very heart.

He drew himself along the rugged rock, clutching the red-hot ore in the action. He wanted but a single inch, a little inch and he might grasp the marble of the stairway. Another and a desperate effort. His fingers clutched it, but his strength was gone. He could not hold it in his grasp. With an eye of horrible intensity he looked above. “Thou wilt save me, Ilmerine, my wife. Thou wilt drag me up to thee.” She stooped. She clutched his blackened fingers and placed them around the marble. His grasp was tight and desperate. “Julian, O Julian! grasp this hand. Aid me, O Julian! my brother!” The warrior stooped, laid hold on his hand and drawing it toward the casement, wound it around another piece of marble.

But again his strength fails. “Julian, my brother; Ilmerine, my wife, seize me! Drag me from this rock of terror! Save me! O save me!” She stooped. She unwound finger after finger. She looked at his horror-stricken face and pointed to the red wound in her heart. He looked toward the other face. “Thou, Julian, reach me thy hand. Thy hand, or I perish!” The warrior slowly reached forth his hand from beneath the folds of his cloak. He held before the eyes of the doomed a goblet of gold. It shone and glimmered through the foul air like the beacon fire of hell.

“Take it away! ’Tis the death bowl!” shrieked Aldarin’s livid lips. “I murdered thee. Thou canst not save.” He drew back from the maddening sight. He lost his hold, he slid from the rock, he fell.

Above, beneath, around, all was fire, horror, death; and still he fell. “Forever and forever,” rose the shrieks of the lost. All hell groaned aloud, “Ever, ever. Forever and forever,” and his own soul muttered back, “This—this—is—hell!”

George Lippard.

IN THE MINING TOWN.

“Tis the last time, darling,” he gently said,

As he kissed her lips like the cherries red,

While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown.

“My own is the prettiest girl in town!

To-morrow the bell from the tower will ring

A joyful peal. Was there ever a king

So truly blessed, on his royal throne,

As I shall be when I claim my own?”

’Twas a fond farewell, ’twas a sweet good-by,

But she watched him go with a troubled sigh.

So, into the basket that swayed and swung

O’er the yawning abyss, he lightly sprung.

And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe

As they lowered him into the depths below.

Her sweet young face, with its tresses brown,

Was the fairest face in the mining town.

Lo! the morning came; but the marriage-bell,

High up in the tower, rang a mournful knell

For the true heart buried ’neath earth and stone,

Far down in the heart of the mine, alone.

A sorrowful peal on their wedding-day,

For the breaking heart and the heart of clay,

And the face that looked from the tresses brown,

Was the saddest face in the mining town.

Thus time rolled along on its weary way,

Until fifty years, with their shadows gray,

Had darkened the light of her sweet eyes’ glow,

And had turned the brown of her hair to snow.

Oh! never the kiss from a husband’s lips,

Or the clasp of a child’s sweet finger-tips,

Had lifted one moment the shadows brown

From the saddest heart in the mining town.

Far down in the depths of the mine, one day,

In the loosened earth they were digging away.

They discovered a face, so young, so fair;

From the smiling lip to the bright brown hair

Untouched by the finger of Time’s decay.

When they drew him up to the light of day,

The wondering people gathered ’round

To gaze at the man thus strangely found.

Then a woman came from among the crowd,

With her long white hair and her slight form bowed.

She silently knelt by the form of clay,

And kissed the lips that were cold and gray.

Then, the sad old face, with its snowy hair

On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there.

He had found her at last, his waiting bride,

And the people buried them side by side.

Rose Hartwick Thorpe.

TOMMY’S PRAYER.

This beautiful poem is full of the pathos and suffering of poverty. It should be delivered with expression and feeling. Although lengthy the interest is sustained throughout.

In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came,

Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate and lame;

He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born,

Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn.

He was six, was little Tommy, ’twas just five years ago

Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so.

He had never known the comfort of a mother’s tender care,

But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear.

There he lay within the cellar from the morning till the night,

Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, naught to make his dull life bright;

Not a single friend to love him, not a living thing to love—

For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above.

’Twas a quiet summer evening; and the alley, too, was still;

Tommy’s little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till,

Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street,

Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet.

Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing nearer came—

Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn’t lame.

Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound,

And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found.

’Twas a maiden, rough and rugged, hair unkempt and naked feet,

All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat;

“So yer called me,” said the maiden, “wonder wot yer wants o’ me;

Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?”

“My name’s Tommy; I’m a cripple, and I want to hear you sing,

For it makes me feel so happy—sing me something, anything.”

Jessie laughed, and answered, smiling, “I can’t stay here very long,

But I’ll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the ‘Glory song’”

Then she sang to him of Heaven, pearly gates and streets of gold,

Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold;

But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end,

And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend.

Oh! how Tommy’s eyes did glisten as he drank in every word

As it fell from “Singing Jessie”—was it true, what he had heard?

And so anxiously he asked her: “Is there really such a place?”

And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face.

“Tommy, you’re a little heathen; why, it’s up beyond the sky,

And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die.”

“Then,” said Tommy; “tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love,

When I’m down in this ’ere cellar, and he’s up in Heaven above?”

So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday-school

All about the way to Heaven, and the Christian’s golden rule,

Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love and how to pray,

Then she sang a “Song of Jesus,” kissed his cheek and went away.

Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold,

Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold;

And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room,

For the joy in Tommy’s bosom could disperse the deepest gloom.

“Oh! if I could only see it,” thought the cripple, as he lay.

“Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I’ll try and pray;”

So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes,

And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:

“Gentle Jesus, please forgive me, as I didn’t know afore,

That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor,

And I never heard of Heaven till that Jessie came to-day

And told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray.

“You can see me, can’t yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could,

And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good;

And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die,

In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky.

“Lord, I’m only just a cripple, and I’m no use here below,

For I heard my mother whisper she’d be glad if I could go;

And I’m cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too,

Can’t yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to Heaven along o’ you?

“Oh! I’d be so good and patient, and I’d never cry or fret;

And yer kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget;

I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise—

Can’t you find me just a corner, where I’ll watch the other boys?

“Oh! I think yer’ll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so,

For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go;

How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright!

Come and fetch me, won’t yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home to-night!”

Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul’s desire,

And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire;

Then he turned towards his corner, and lay huddled in a heap,

Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep.

Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face

As he lay there in the corner, in that damp and noisome place;

For his countenance was shining like an angel’s, fair and bright,

And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light.

He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl,

He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl;

But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there,

Simply trusting in the Saviour, and His kind and tender care.

In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy,

She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy,

And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple’s face was cold—

He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold.

Tommy’s prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had come

To remove him from his cellar, to His bright and heavenly home

Where sweet comfort, joy and gladness never can decrease or end,

And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend.

I. F. Nichols.

ROBBY AND RUTH.

Robby and Ruth strolled out one day,

Over the meadows, beyond the town;

The robins sang, and the fields looked gay,

And the orchards dropped their blossoms down:

But they took no thought of song or flower,

For this, to them, was love’s sweet hour;

And love’s hour is fleet,

And swift love’s feet,

When a lad and a winsome lassie meet!

Robby and Ruth in the church were wed,

Ere the orchard apples began to fall;

“Till death shall part,” were the words they said,

And love’s pure sunlight hallowed all.

Ah! never a bride more sweet and fair

Wore orange-blooms in her sunny hair!

The maiden sung,

And the joy-bells rung

And echoed the orchards and groves among.

Robby and Ruth kept house together,

Till both were old and bent and gray,

And little they cared for outside weather,

For home’s sweet light gilded all their way;

And many a precious nestling came

To be called by the dear old household name;

And the love that blessed

When first confessed

Remained in their hearts a constant guest.

Robby and Ruth grew weary at last—

Bobby went first the shining way;

And when the earth on his grave was cast,

The faithful Ruth could no longer stay;

And daisy ne’er blossomed or wild-rose grew

O’er hearts more tender, leal and true!

Love’s vows were sweet

When they sat at Love’s feet,

And Heaven makes love itself complete.

Louisa S. Upham.