A DIRGE

The autumn is old;
The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gathered up gold,
And now he is dying:
Old age, begin sighing!
The vintage is ripe;
The harvest is heaping;
But some that have sowed
Have no riches for reaping:—
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!
The year's in the wane;
There is nothing adorning;
The night has no eve,
And the day has no morning;
Cold winter gives warning.
The rivers run chill;
The red sun is sinking;
And I am grown old,
And life is fast shrinking;
Here's enow for sad thinking!
Thomas Hood.

Grandmother's Quilt

Why, yes, dear, we can put it by. It does seem out of place
On top of these down comforts and this spread of silk and lace,
You see, I'm used to having it lie so, across my feet,
But maybe I won't need it here, with this nice furnace heat;
I made it? Yes, dear, long ago. 'Twas lots of work, you think?
Oh, not so much. My rose quilt, now, all white and green and pink,
Is really handsome. This is just a plain, log cabin block,
Pieced out of odds and ends; but still—now that's your papa's frock
Before he walked, and this bit here is his first little suit.
I trimmed it up with silver braid. My, but he did look cute!
That red there in the centers, was your Aunt Ruth's for her name,
Her grandmother almost clothed the child, before the others came.
Those plaids? The younger girls', they were. I dressed them just alike.
And this was baby Winnie's sack—the precious little tyke!
Ma wore this gown to visit me (they drove the whole way then).
And little Edson wore this waist. He never came again.
This lavender par'matta was your Great-aunt Jane's—poor dear!
Mine was a sprig, with the lilac ground; see, in the corner here.
Such goods were high in war times. Ah, that scrap of army blue;
Your bright eyes spied it! Yes, dear child, that has its memories, too.
They sent him home on furlough once—our soldier brother Ned;
But somewhere, now, the dear boy sleeps among the unknown dead.
That flowered patch? Well, now, to think you'd pick that from the rest!
Why, dearie—yes, it's satin ribbed—that's grandpa's wedding vest!
Just odds and ends! no great for looks. My rose quilt's nicer, far,
Or the one in basket pattern, or the double-pointed star.
But, somehow—What! We'll leave it here? The bed won't look so neat,
But I think I would sleep better with it so, across my feet.

The Two Angels

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death,
Passed o'er our village as the morning broke;
The dawn was on their faces, and beneath,
The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke.
Their attitude and aspect were the same,
Alike their features and their robes of white;
But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame,
And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.
I saw them pause on their celestial way;
Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed,
"Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray
The place where thy beloved are at rest!"
And he who wore the crown of asphodels,
Descending, at my door began to knock,
And my soul sank within me, as in wells
The waters sink before an earthquake's shock.
I recognized the nameless agony,
The terror and the tremor and the pain,
That oft before had filled or haunted me,
And now returned with threefold strength again.
The door I opened to my heavenly guest,
And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice;
And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best,
Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice.
Then with a smile, that filled the house with light,
"My errand is not Death, but Life," he said;
And ere I answered, passing out of sight,
On his celestial embassy he sped.
'Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine,
The angel with the amaranthine wreath,
Pausing, descended, and with, voice divine,
Whispered a word that had a sound like Death.
Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,
A shadow on those features fair and thin;
And softly, from that hushed and darkened room,
Two angels issued, where but one went in.
All is of God! If he but waves his hand,
The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud,
Till, with a smile of light on sea and land,
Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud.
Angels of Life and Death alike are his;
Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er;
Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this,
Against his messengers to shut the door?
Henry W. Longfellow.

The Witch's Daughter

It was the pleasant harvest-time,
When cellar-bins are closely stowed,
And garrets bend beneath their load,
And the old swallow-haunted barns—
Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams
Through which the moted sunlight streams—
And winds blow freshly in, to shake
The red plumes of the roosted cocks,
And the loose hay-mow's scented locks—
Are filled with summer's ripened stores,
Its odorous grass and barley sheaves,
From their low scaffolds to their eaves.
On Esek Harden's oaken floor,
With many an autumn threshing worn,
Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn.
And thither came young men and maids,
Beneath a moon that, large and low,
Lit that sweet eve of long ago,
They took their places; some by chance,
And others by a merry voice
Or sweet smile guided to their choice.
How pleasantly the rising moon,
Between the shadow of the mows,
Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!—
On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned,
On girlhood with its solid curves
Of healthful strength and painless nerves!
And jests went round, and laughs that made
The house-dog answer with his howl,
And kept astir the barn-yard fowl.
And quaint old songs their fathers sung,
In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors,
Ere Norman William trod their shores;
And tales, whose merry license shook
The fat sides of the Saxon thane,
Forgetful of the hovering Dane!
But still the sweetest voice was mute
That river-valley ever heard
From lip of maid or throat of bird;
For Mabel Martin sat apart,
And let the hay-mow's shadow 'fall
Upon the loveliest face of all.
She sat apart, as one forbid,
Who knew that none would condescend
To own the Witch-wife's child a friend.
The seasons scarce had gone their round,
Since curious thousands thronged to see
Her mother on the gallows-tree;
And mocked the palsied limbs of age,
That faltered on the fatal stairs,
And wan lip trembling with its prayers!
Few questioned of the sorrowing child,
Or, when they saw the mother die,
Dreamed of the daughter's agony.
They went up to their homes that day,
As men and Christians justified:
God willed it, and the wretch had died!
Dear God and Father of us all,
Forgive our faith in cruel lies,—
Forgive the blindness that denies!
Forgive Thy creature when he takes,
For the all-perfect love Thou art,
Some grim creation of his heart.
Cast down our idols, overturn
Our bloody altars; let us see
Thyself in Thy humanity!
Poor Mabel from her mother's grave
Crept to her desolate hearth-stone,
And wrestled with her fate alone;
With love, and anger, and despair,
The phantoms of disordered sense,
The awful doubts of Providence!
The school-boys jeered her as they passed,
And, when she sought the house of prayer,
Her mother's curse pursued her there.
And still o'er many a neighboring door
She saw the horseshoe's curved charm,
To guard against her mother's harm;—
That mother, poor, and sick, and lame,
Who daily, by the old arm-chair,
Folded her withered hands in prayer;—
Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail,
Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er,
When her dim eyes could read no more!
Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept
Her faith, and trusted that her way,
So dark, would somewhere meet the day.
And still her weary wheel went round,
Day after day, with no relief:
Small leisure have the poor for grief.
So in the shadow Mabel sits;
Untouched by mirth she sees and hears,
Her smile is sadder than her tears.
But cruel eyes have found her out,
And cruel lips repeat her name,
And taunt her with her mother's shame.
She answered not with railing words,
But drew her apron o'er her face,
And, sobbing, glided from the place.
And only pausing at the door,
Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze
Of one who, in her better days,
Had been her warm and steady friend,
Ere yet her mother's doom had made
Even Esek Harden half afraid.
He felt that mute appeal of tears,
And, starting, with an angry frown
Hushed all the wicked murmurs down,
"Good neighbors mine," he sternly said,
"This passes harmless mirth or jest;
I brook no insult to my guest.
"She is indeed her mother's child;
But God's sweet pity ministers
Unto no whiter soul than hers.
Let Goody Martin rest in peace;
I never knew her harm a fly,
And witch or not, God knows,—not I.
I know who swore her life away;
And, as God lives, I'd not condemn
An Indian dog on word of them."
Poor Mabel, in her lonely home,
Sat by the window's narrow pane,
White in the moonlight's silver rain.
The river, on its pebbled rim,
Made music such as childhood knew;
The door-yard tree was whispered through
By voices such as childhood's ear
Had heard in moonlights long ago;
And through the willow boughs below
She saw the rippled waters shine;
Beyond, in waves of shade and light
The hills rolled off into the night.
Sweet sounds and pictures mocking so
The sadness of her human lot,
She saw and heard, but heeded not.
She strove to drown her sense of wrong,
And, in her old and simple way,
To teach, her bitter heart to pray.
Poor child! the prayer, began in faith,
Grew to a low, despairing cry
Of utter misery: "Let me die!
Oh! take me from the scornful eyes,
And hide me where the cruel speech
And mocking finger may not reach!
"I dare not breathe my mother's name;
A daughter's right I dare not crave
To weep above her unblest grave!
Let me not live until my heart,
With few to pity, and with none
To love me, hardens into stone.
O God! have mercy on thy child,
Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small,
And take me ere I lose it all."
The broadest lands in all the town,
The skill to guide, the power to awe,
Were Harden's; and his word was law.
None dared withstand him to his face,
But one sly maiden spake aside:
"The little witch is evil-eyed!
Her mother only killed a cow,
Or witched a churn or dairy-pan;
But she, forsooth, must charm a man!"
A shadow on the moonlight fell,
And murmuring wind and wave became
A voice whose burden was her name.
Had then God heard her? Had he sent
His angel down? In flesh and blood,
Before her Esek Harden stood!
He laid his hand upon her arm:
"Dear Mabel, this no more shall be;
Who scoffs at you, must scoff at me.
You know rough Esek Harden well;
And if he seems no suitor gay,
And if his hair is mixed with gray,
The maiden grown shall never find
His heart less warm than when she smiled
Upon his knees, a little child!"
Her tears of grief were tears of joy,
As folded in his strong embrace,
She looked in Esek Harden's face.
"O truest friend of all!" she said,
"God bless you for your kindly thought,
And make me worthy of my lot!"
He led her through his dewy fields,
To where the swinging lanterns glowed,
And through the doors the huskers showed.
"Good friends and neighbors!" Esek said,
"I'm weary of this lonely life;
In Mabel see my chosen wife!
"She greets you kindly, one and all:
The past is past, and all offence
Falls harmless from her innocence.
Henceforth she stands no more alone;
You know what Esek Harden is;—
He brooks no wrong to him or his."
Now let the merriest tales be told,
And let the sweetest songs be sung,
That ever made the old heart young!
For now the lost has found a home;
And a lone hearth shall brighter burn,
As all the household joys return!
Oh, pleasantly the harvest moon,
Between the shadow of the mows,
Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!
On Mabel's curls of golden hair,
On Esek's shaggy strength it fell;
And the wind whispered, "It is well!"
John G. Whittier.

David's Lament for Absalom

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood
With his faint people for a little rest
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank
And spoke their kindly words, and as the sun
Rose up in heaven he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full—where bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy,—
Are such a mockery—how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel—and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those
Whose love had been his shield—and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,
For his estranged, misguided Absalom—
The proud, bright being who had burst away
In all his princely beauty to defy
The heart that cherished him—for him he prayed,
In agony that would not be controll'd,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there
Before his God for his deep sinfulness.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave, and as the folds
Sank to their still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom,
The mighty Joab stood beside the bier
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang, but the bent form
Of David entered; and he gave command
In a low tone to his few followers,
And left him with the dead.
The King stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child.
He bowed his head upon him and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:
"Alas! my noble boy; that thou shouldst die!
Thou who were made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!
"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee!
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill
Like a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet 'my father!' from those dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
"But death is on thee! I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;—
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!
"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!—
And thy dark sin! Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!"
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer,
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently—and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
N.P. Willis.

Christmas Day in the Workhouse

It is Christmas day in the workhouse,
And the cold bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight:
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the tables,
For this is the hour they dine.
And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates,
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for—with the rates.
Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's";
So long as they fill their stomachs,
What matter whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
"Great God!" he cries; "but it chokes me;
For this is the day she died."
The guardians gazed in horror,
The master's face went white:
"Did a pauper refuse their pudding?"
"Could their ears believe aright?"
Then the ladies clutched their husbands
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.
But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid a silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter,
And trembled in every limb.
He looked at the guardians' ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said:
"I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red,
"Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dark unhallowed graves."
"He's drunk!" said the workhouse master,
"Or else he's mad, and raves."
"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper,
"But only a hunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.
"I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won't be dragged away.
Just let me have the fit out,
It's only on Christmas day
That the black past comes to goad me,
And prey on my burning brain,
I'll tell you the rest in a whisper,—
I swear I won't shout again,
"Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end,
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watch the captured beast,
Hear why a penniless pauper
Spits on your palfry feast.
"Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors—
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us,
My Nance was killed by you!
"Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish,—
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For, ere the ruin came.
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.
"I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife,
Bread for the woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief?
That 'the House' was open to us,
But they wouldn't give 'out relief.'
"I slunk to the filthy alley—
'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve—
And the bakers' shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve:
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.
"Then I told her 'the House' was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger,—
The other would break my heart.'
"All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord, and weeping
Till my lips were salt as brine.
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered 'No,'
The moon shone in at the window
Set in a wreath of snow.
"Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The far-away look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went,
For she raved of our home in Devon
Where our happiest years were spent.
"And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more,
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore.
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust—I'm famished—
For the love of God!' she groaned.
"I rushed from the room like a madman,
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying 'Food for a dying woman?'
And the answer came, 'Too late.'
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street,
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.
"Back, through the filthy by-lanes!
Back, through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush.
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill,
For there in the silv'ry moonlight
My Nance lay, cold and still.
"Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast—
I knew on those lips all bloodless
My name had been the last:
She'd called for her absent husband—
O God! had I but known!—
Had called in vain, and in anguish
Had died in that den—alone.
"Yes, there, in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of the parish bread.
At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life.
You, who would feast us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!
"There, get ye gone to you dinners;
Don't mind me in the least;
Think of the happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your snug, parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day."
George R. Sims.

Our Presidents—A Memory Rhyme

First on the list is Washington, Virginia's proudest name;
John Adams next, the Federalist, from Massachusetts came;
Three sons of old Virginia into the White House go—
'Twas Jefferson, and Madison, and then came James Monroe.
Massachusetts for one term sent Adams called John Q.,
And Tennessee a Democrat, brave Jackson staunch and true.
Martin Van Buren of New York, and Harrison we see,
And Tyler of Virginia, and Polk of Tennessee.
Louisiana Taylor sent; New York Millard Fillmore;
New Hampshire gave us Franklin Pierce; when his term was o'er
The keystone state Buchanan sent. War thunders shook the realm
Abe Lincoln wore a martyr's crown, and Johnson took the helm.
Then U.S. Grant of Illinois who ruled with sword and pen;
And Hayes, and Garfield who was shot, two noble Buckeye men.
Chester Arthur from New York, and Grover Cleveland came;
Ben Harrison served just four years, then Cleveland ruled again.
McKinley—shot at Buffalo—the nation plunged in grief,
And "Teddy" Roosevelt of New York served seven years as chief.
Taft of Ohio followed him. Then Woodrow Wilson came—
New Jersey's learned Democrat; war set the world aflame;
And when the tide of strife and hate its baneful course had run,
The country went Republican and Warren Harding won.
No duty would he shirk,—he died while on a western trip;
Coolidge of Massachusetts then assumed the leadership.
Isabel Ambler Gilman.

Annie and Willie's Prayer

'Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good night" had been said,
And Annie and Willie had crept into bed;
There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes,
And each little bosom was heaving with sighs,
For to-night their stern father's command had been given
That they should retire precisely at seven
Instead of at eight; for they troubled him more
With questions unheard of than ever before;
He had told them he thought this delusion a sin,
No such being as Santa Claus ever had been,
And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear
How he scrambled down chimneys with presents, each year,
And this was the reason that two little heads
So restlessly tossed on their soft downy beds.
Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten;
Not a word had been spoken by either till then;
When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep,
And whispered, "Dear Annie, is oo fast asleep?"
"Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies,
"I've tried it in vain, but I can't shut my eyes;
For somehow, it makes me so sorry because
Dear papa has said there is no Santa Claus;
Now we know there is, and it can't be denied,
For he came every year before mamma died;
But then I've been thinking that she used to pray,
And God would hear everything mamma would say;
And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Claus here
With the sacks full of presents he brought every year."
"Well, why tant we pray dest as mamma did then,
And ask Him to send him with presents aden?"
"I've been thinking so, too," and, without a word more,
Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor,
And four little knees the soft carpet pressed,
And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast.
"Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe
That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive;
You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,'
And by that you will know that your turn has come then.
Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me.
And grant as the favor we are asking of Thee!
I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring,
And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring.
Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see
That Santa Claus loves us far better than he;
Don't let him get fretful and angry again
At dear brother Willie, and Annie, Amen!"
"Peas Desus 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night,
And bing us some pesents before it is 'ight;
I want he should div me a nice ittle sed,
With bight, shiny unners, and all painted yed;
A box full of tandy, a book and a toy—
Amen—and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy."
Their prayers being ended they raised up their heads,
And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds;
They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep,
And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.
Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten
Ere the father had thought of his children again;
He seems now to hear Annie's half suppressed sighs,
And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes.
"I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said,
"And should not have sent them so early to bed;
But then I was troubled,—my feelings found vent,
For bank-stock to-day has gone down ten per cent.
But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this,
And that I denied them the thrice asked-for kiss;
But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door,
For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before."
So saying, he softly ascended the stairs,
And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers.
His Annie's "bless papa" draws forth the big tears,
And Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears.
"Strange, strange I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh,
"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh.
I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said,
"By answering their prayers, ere I sleep in my bed."
Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down,
Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown;
Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street,
A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet,
Nor stopped he until he had bought everything,
From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring.
Indeed he kept adding so much to his store
That the various presents outnumbered a score;
Then homeward he turned with his holiday load
And with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery 'twas stowed.
Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine-tree,
By the side of a table spread out for a tea;
A work-box well filled in the centre was laid,
And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed;
A soldier in uniform stood by a sled
With bright shining runners, and all painted red;
There were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see,
And birds of all colors—were perched in the tree,
While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top,
As if getting ready more presents to drop.
And as the fond father the picture surveyed,
He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid;
And he said to himself as he brushed off a tear,
"I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year,
I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before—
What care I if bank-stocks fall ten per cent more.
Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe,
To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas eve."
So thinking he gently extinguished the light,
And tripped down the stairs to retire for the night.
As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun
Put the darkness to flight, and the stars, one by one,
Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide,
And at the same moment the presents espied;
Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound,
And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found;
They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee,
And shouted for papa to come quick and see
What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night
(Just the things that they wanted) and left before light;
"And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low,
"You'll believe there's a Santa, Clans, papa, I know";
While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee,
Determined no secret between them should be,
And told in soft whispers how Annie had said
That their blessed mamma, so long ago dead,
Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair,
And that God, up in heaven, had answered her prayer!
"Then we dot up, and payed dust as well as we tould,
And Dod answered our payers; now wasn't he dood?"
"I should say that he was if he sent you all these,
And knew just what presents my children would please.
Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf,
'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself."
Blind father! who caused your proud heart to relent,
And the hasty word spoken so soon to repent?
'Twas the Being who made you steal softly upstairs,
And made you His agent to answer their prayers.
Sophia P. Snow.

Trailing Arbutus

I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made
Against the bitter East their barricade,
And, guided by its sweet
Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell,
The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell
Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.
From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines
Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines
Lifted their glad surprise,
While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees
His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze,
And snow-drifts lingered under April skies.
As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent,
I thought of lives thus lowly clogged and pent,
Which yet find room,
Through care and cumber, coldness and decay,
To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day
And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.
J.G. Whittier.

When the Light Goes Out

Tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light,
An' it never seems ter flicker, but it's allers shinin' bright;
Tho' it sheds its rays unbroken for a thousand happy days—
Father Time is ever turnin' down the wick that feeds yer blaze.
So it clearly is yer duty ef you've got a thing to do
Ter put yer shoulder to ther wheel an' try to push her through;
Ef yer upon a wayward track you better turn about—
You've lost ther chance to do it
When the
Light
Goes
Out.
Speak kindly to the woman who is working fer yer praise,
Ther same way as you used ter in those happy courtin' days;
She likes appreciation just the same ez me an' you,
And it's only right and proper that yer give her what is due.
Don't wait until her lamp o' life is burnin' dim an' low,
Afore you tell her what you orter told her long ago—
Now's ther time ter cheer her up an' put her blues to rout—
You've lost ther chance to do it
When the
Light
Goes
Out.
Don't keep a-puttin' matters off an' settin' dates ahead—
To-morrow's sun'll find a hundred thousand of us dead;
Don't think because yer feelin well you won't be sick no more—
Sometimes the reddest pippin has a worm-hole to the core.
Don't let a killin' habit grow upon you soft and still
Because you think thet you ken throw it from you at your will—
Now's ther time ter quit it when yer feelin' brave an' stout—
You've lost ther chance to do it
When the
Light
Goes
Out.
I'd rather die with nothin' then ter hev ther people say
That I had got my money in a robbin', graspin' way;
No words above my restin' place from any tongue or pen
Would hev a deeper meanin' than "He helped his fellow-men."
So ef you hev a fortune and you want to help the poor,
Don't keep a-stavin' off until yon get a little more;
Ef yer upon a miser's track you better turn about—
Yer record keeps on burnin'
When the
Light
Goes
Out.
Harry S. Chester.

Prayer and Potatoes

An old lady sat in her old arm-chair,
With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair,
And pale and hunger-worn features;
For days and for weeks her only fare,
As she sat there in her old arm-chair,
Had been potatoes.
But now they were gone; of bad or good.
Not one was left for the old lady's food
Of those potatoes;
And she sighed and said, "What shall I do?
Where shall I send, and to whom shall I go
For more potatoes?"
And she thought of the deacon over the way,
The deacon so ready to worship and pray,
Whose cellar was full of potatoes;
And she said: "I will send for the deacon to come;
He'll not mind much to give me some
Of such a store of potatoes."
And the deacon came over as fast as he could,
Thinking to do the old lady some good,
But never thought of potatoes;
He asked her at once what was her chief want,
And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,
Immediately answered, "Potatoes."
But the deacon's religion didn't lie that way;
He was more accustomed to preach and pray
Than to give of his hoarded potatoes;
So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,
He rose to pray with uncovered head,
But she only thought of potatoes.
He prayed for patience, and wisdom, and grace,
But when he prayed, "Lord, give her peace,"
She audibly sighed "Give potatoes";
And at the end of each prayer which he said,
He heard, or thought that he heard in its stead,
The same request for potatoes.
The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do;
'Twas very embarrassing to have her act so
About "those carnal potatoes."
So, ending his prayer, he started for home;
As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan,
"Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"
And that groan followed him all the way home;
In the midst of the night it haunted his room—
"Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"
He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed;
From his well-filled cellar taking in haste
A bag of his best potatoes.
Again he went to the widow's lone hut;
Her sleepless eyes she had not shut;
But there she sat in that old arm-chair,
With the same wan features, the same sad air,
And, entering in, he poured on the floor
A bushel or more from his goodly store
Of choicest potatoes.
The widow's cup was running o'er,
Her face was haggard and wan no more.
"Now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?"
"Yes," said the widow, "now you may."
And he kneeled him down on the sanded floor,
Where he had poured his goodly store,
And such a prayer the deacon prayed
As never before his lips essayed;
No longer embarrassed, but free and full,
He poured out the voice of a liberal soul,
And the widow responded aloud "Amen!"
But spake no more of potatoes.
And would you, who hear this simple tale,
Pray for the poor, and praying, "prevail"?
Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds;
Search out the poor, their wants and their needs;
Pray for peace, and grace, and spiritual food,
For wisdom and guidance,-for all these are good,—
But don't forget the potatoes.
J.T. Pettee.

The Parts of Speech

Three little words you often see
Are articles a, an, and the.
A noun's the name of anything,
As house or garden, hoop or swing.
Instead of nouns the pronouns stand—
Her head, your face, his arm, my hand.
Adjectives tell the kind of noun,
As great, small, pretty, white or brown.
Verbs tell something to be done—
To read, count, sing, laugh or run.
How things are done the adverbs tell,
As slowly, quickly, ill or well.
Conjunctions join the words together,
As men and women, wind or weather.
The preposition stands before
A noun, as in or through a door.
The interjection shows surprise,
As oh! how pretty, ah! how wise.
The whole are called nine parts of speech,
Which reading, writing, speaking teach.

A New Leaf

He came to my desk with, quivering lip—
The lesson was done.
"Dear Teacher, I want a new leaf," he said,
"I have spoiled this one."
I took the old leaf, stained and blotted,
And gave him a new one all unspotted,
And into his sad eyes smiled,
"Do better, now, my child."
I went to the throne with a quivering soul—
The old year was done.
"Dear Father, hast Thou a new leaf for me?
I have spoiled this one."
He took the old leaf, stained and blotted,
And gave me a new one all unspotted,
And into my sad heart smiled,
"Do better, now, my child."
Carrie Shaw Rice.

The Boy With the Hoe

How are you hoeing your row, my boy?
Say, how are you hoeing your row?
Do you hoe it fair?
Do you hoe it square?
Do you hoe it the best that you know?
Do you cut out the weeds as you ought to do?
Do you plant what is beautiful there?
For the harvest, you know,
Will be just what you sow;
Are you working it on the square?
Say, are you killing the weeds, my boy?
Are you hoeing your row neat and clean?
Are you going straight
At a hustling gait?
Are you cutting out all that is mean?
Do you whistle and sing as you toil along?
Are you finding your work a delight?
If you do it this way
You will gladden the day,
And your row will be tended right.
Hoeing your row with a will, my boy,
And giving it thought and care,
Will insure success
And your efforts bless,
As the crop to the garner you bear;
For the world will look on as you hoe your row,
And will judge you by that which you do;
Therefore, try for first prize,
Though your utmost it tries,
For the harvest depends on you.
T.B. Weaver.

Our Flag

Fling it from mast and steeple,
Symbol o'er land and sea
Of the life of a happy people,
Gallant and strong and free.
Proudly we view its colors,
Flag of the brave and true,
With the clustered stars and the steadfast bars,
The red, the white, and the blue.
Flag of the fearless-hearted,
Flag of the broken chain,
Flag in a day-dawn started,
Never to pale or wane.
Dearly we prize its colors,
With the heaven light breaking through,
The clustered stars and the steadfast bars,
The red, the white, and the blue.
Flag of the sturdy fathers,
Flag of the loyal sons,
Beneath its folds it gathers
Earth's best and noblest ones.
Boldly we wave its colors,
Our veins are thrilled anew
By the steadfast bars, the clustered stars,
The red, the white, and the blue.
Margaret E. Sangster.

The Little Fir-Trees

Hey! little evergreens,
Sturdy and strong,
Summer and autumn-time
Hasten along.
Harvest the sunbeams, then,
Bind them in sheaves,
Range them and change them
To tufts of green leaves.
Delve in the mellow-mold,
Far, far below.
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
Up, up so airily,
To the blue sky,
Lift up your leafy tips
Stately and high;
Clasp tight your tiny cones,
Tawny and brown,
By and by buffeting
Rains will pelt down.
By and by bitterly
Chill winds will blow,
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
Gather all uttermost
Beauty, because,—
Hark, till I tell it now!
How Santa Claus,
Out of the northern land,
Over the seas,
Soon shall come seeking you,
Evergreen trees!
Seek you with reindeer soon,
Over the snow:
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
What if the maple flare
Flaunting and red,
You shall wear waxen white
Taper instead.
What if now, otherwhere,
Birds are beguiled,
You shall yet nestle
The little Christ-Child.
Ah! the strange splendor
The fir-trees shall know!
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
Evaleen Stein.

He Worried About It

The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more—
And he worried about it.
It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before—
And he worried about it.
It will surely give out, so the scientists said
In all scientifical books he had read,
And the whole boundless universe then will be dead—
And he worried about it.
And some day the earth will fall into the sun—
And he worried about it—
Just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun—
And he worried about it.
When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps,
"Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse!
It will come in a few million ages, perhaps"—
And he worried about it.
And the earth will become much too small for the race—
And he worried about it—
When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space—
And he worried about it.
The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt,
That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out,
Nor room for one's thought to wander about—
And he worried about it.
And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torrider—
And he worried about it—
Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida—
And he worried about it.
Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens,
And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines,
And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans—
And he worried about it.
And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt—
And he worried about it—
Our supply of lumber and coal will give out—
And he worried about it.
Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw,
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe,
As if vainly beseeching a general thaw—
And he worried about it.
His wife took in washing—half a dollar a day—
He didn't worry about it—
His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay—
He didn't worry about it.
While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub
On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub,
He sat by the stoves and he just let her rub—
He didn't worry about it.
Sam Walter Foss.

The President

No gilt or tinsel taints the dress
Of him who holds the natal power,
No weighty helmet's fastenings press
On brow that shares Columbia's dower,
No blaring trumpets mark the step
Of him with mind on peace intent,
And so—HATS OFF! Here comes the State,
A modest King:
THE PRESIDENT.
No cavalcade with galloping squads
Surrounds this man, whose mind controls
The actions of the million minds
Whose hearts the starry banner folds;
Instead, in simple garb he rides,
The King to whom grim Fate has lent
Her dower of righteousness and faith
To guide his will:
THE PRESIDENT.
The ancient lands are struck with awe,
Here stands a power at which they scoffed,
Kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states.
Are dazed,—at Columbia they mocked;
Yet human wills have forged new states,
Their wills on justice full intent,
And fashioned here a lowly King,
The People's choice:
THE PRESIDENT.
War-ravaged, spent, and torn—old worlds
With hatred rent, turn to the West,
"Give help!" they cry—"our souls are wracked,
On every side our kingdom's pressed."
And see! Columbia hastens forth,
Her healing hand to peace is lent,
Her sword unsheathed has forged the calm,
Her sons sent by
THE PRESIDENT.
Full many a storm has tossed the barque
Since first it had its maiden trip,
Full many a conflagration's spark
Has scorched and seared the laboring ship;
And yet it ploughs a straightway course,
Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent,
On sails the troubled Ship of State,
Steered forward by
THE PRESIDENT.
STAND UP! HATS OFF! He's coming by,
No roll of drums peals at his course,
NOW GIVE A CHEER! He's part of you,
Your will with his: the nation's force.
And—as he passes—breathe a prayer,
May justice to his mind be lent,
And may the grace of Heaven be with
The man who rules:
OUR PRESIDENT.
Charles H.L. Johnston.

Lullaby

Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming,
With their airy little, fairy little faces all aglow,
Winking little, blinking little brownies gone a-roaming,
Hear the rustling little, bustling little footfalls as they go.
Laughing little, chaffing little voices sweetly singing
In the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies,
Creep! Creep! Creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!
Cricket in the thicket with the oddest little clatter
Sings his rattling little, prattling little, tattling little tune;
Fleet the feet of tiny stars go patter, patter, patter,
As they scamper from the heavens at the rising of the moon.
Beaming little, gleaming little fireflies go dreaming
To the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies.
Creep! Creep! Creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!
Quaking little, shaking little voices all a-quiver
In the mushy little, rushy little, weedy, reedy bogs,
Droning little, moaning little chorus by the river,
In the croaking little, joking little cadence of the frogs.
Eerie little, cheery little glowworms in the gloaming
Where the clover heads like fairy little nightcaps rise,
Creep! Creep! Creep!
Time to go to sleep!
Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!
J.W. Foley.

Chums

If we should be shipwrecked together
And only had water for one,
And it was the hottest of weather
Right out in the boiling sun,
He'd tell me—no matter how bad he
Might want it—to take a drink first;
And then he would smile—oh, so glad he
Had saved me!—and perish from thirst!
Or, if we were lost on the prairie
And only had food for a day,
He'd come and would give me the share he
Had wrapped up and hidden away;
And after I ate it with sadness
He'd smile with his very last breath,
And lay himself down full of gladness
To save me—and starve right to death.
And if I was wounded in battle
And out where great danger might be,
He'd come through the roar and the rattle
Of guns and of bullets to me,
He'd carry me out, full of glory,
No matter what trouble he had,
And then he would fall down, all gory
With wounds, and would die—but be glad!
We're chums—that's the reason he'd do it;
And that's what a chum ought to be.
And if it was fire he'd go through it,
If I should call him to me.
You see other fellows may know you,
And friends that you have go and come;
But a boy has one boy he can go to,
For help all the time—that's his chum.
J.W. Foley.

Jim Brady's Big Brother

Jim Brady's big brother's a wonderful lad,
And wonderful, wonderful muscles he had;
He swung by one arm from the limb of a tree
And hung there while Jim counted up forty-three
Just as slow as he could; and he leaped at a bound
Across a wide creek and lit square on the ground
Just as light as a deer; and the things he can do,
So Jimmy told us, you would hardly think true.
Jim Brady's big brother could throw a fly ball
From center to home just like nothing at all;
And often while playing a game he would stand
And take a high fly with just only one hand;
Jim Brady showed us where he knocked a home run
And won the big game when it stood three to one
Against the home team, and Jim Brady, he showed
The place where it lit in the old wagon road!
Jim Brady's big brother could bat up a fly
That you hardly could see, for it went up so high;
He'd bring up his muscle and break any string
That you tied on his arm like it wasn't a thing!
He used to turn handsprings, and cartwheels, and he
Could jump through his hands just as slick as could be,
And circuses often would want him to go
And be in the ring, but his mother said no.
Jim Brady's big brother would often make bets
With boys that he'd turn two complete summersets
From off of the spring-board before he would dive,
And you'd hardly think he would come up alive;
And nobody else who went there to swim
Could do it, but it was just easy for him;
And they'd all be scared, so Jim said, when he'd stay
In under and come up a half mile away.
Jim Brady's big brother, so Jim said, could run
Five miles in a race just as easy as one.
Right often he walked on his hands half a block
And could have walked more if he'd wanted to walk!
And Jimmy says wait till he comes home from school,
Where he is gone now, and some day, when it's cool,
He'll get him to prove everything to be true
That Jimmy told us his big brother could do!
J.W. Foley.

The Gray Swan

"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true,
Is my little lad, my Elihu,
A-sailing with your ship?"
The sailor's eyes were dim with dew,—
"Your little lad, your Elihu?"
He said with trembling lip,—
"What little lad? what ship?"
"What little lad! as if there could be
Another such a one as he!
What little lad, do you say?
Why, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee!
It was just the other day
The Gray Swan sailed away."
"The other day?" the sailor's eyes
Stood open with a great surprise,—
"The other day? the Swan?"
His heart began in his throat to rise.
"Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies
The jacket he had on."
"And so your lad is gone?"
"Gone with the Swan." "And did she stand
With her anchor clutching hold of the sand,
For a month, and never stir?"
"Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land,
Like a lover kissing his lady's hand,
The wild sea kissing her,—
A sight to remember, sir."
"But, my good mother, do you know
All this was twenty years ago?
I stood on the Gray Swan's deck,
And to that lad I saw you throw,
Taking it off, as it might be, so,
The kerchief from your neck."
"Ay, and he'll bring it back!"
"And did the little lawless lad
That has made you sick and made you sad,
Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?"
"Lawless! the man is going mad!
The best boy ever mother had,—
Be sure he sailed with the crew!
What would you have him do?"
"And he has never written line,
Nor sent you word, nor made you sign
To say he was alive?"
"Hold! if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine;
Besides, he may be in the brine,
And could he write from the grave?
Tut, man, what would you have?"
"Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise,
'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;
But if the lad still live,
And come back home, think you you can
Forgive him?"—"Miserable man,
You're mad as the sea,—you rave,—
What have I to forgive?"
The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,
And from within his bosom drew
The kerchief. She was wild.
"My God! my Father! is it true
My little lad, My Elihu?
My blessed boy, my child!
My dead,—my living child!"
Alice Cary.

The Circling Year

SPRING
The joys of living wreathe my face,
My heart keeps time to freshet's race;
Of balmy airs I drink my fill—
Why, there's a yellow daffodil!
Along the stream a soft green tinge
Gives hint of feathery willow fringe;
Methinks I heard a Robin's "Cheer"—
I'm glad Spring's here!
SUMMER
An afternoon of buzzing flies.
Heat waves that sear, and quivering rise;
The long white road, the plodding team,
The deep, cool grass in which to dream;
The distant cawing of the crows,
Tall, waving grain, long orchard rows;
The peaceful cattle in the stream—
Midsummer's dream!
AUTUMN
A cold, gray day, a lowering sky,
A lonesome pigeon wheeling by;
The soft, blue smoke that hangs and fades,
The shivering crane that flaps and wades;
Dead leaves that, whispering, quit their tree,
The peace the river sings to me;
The chill aloofness of the Fall—
I love it all!
WINTER
A sheet of ice, the ring of steel,
The crunch of snow beneath the heel;
Loud, jingling bells, the straw-lined sleigh,
A restless pair that prance and neigh;
The early coming of the night,
Red glowing logs, a shaded light;
The firelit realm of books is mine—
Oh, Winter's fine!
Ramona Graham.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

[A fellow near Kentucky's clime]34
[A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet]168
['A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct]125
[A harbor in a sunny, southern city]137
[Alone in the dreary, pitiless street]46
[Among the legends sung or said]63
[An old lady sat in her old arm-chair]200
[An old man going a lone highway]54
[April! April! are you here?]59
[A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace]108
[At Paris it was, at the opera there]72
[A traveler on the dusty road]97
[Away, away in the Northland]131
[Beneath the hot midsummer sun]39
[Between broad fields of wheat and corn]147
[Billy's dead, and gone to glory—so is Billy's sister Nell]104
[Break, break, break]52
[Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!]123
[By Nebo's lonely mountain]45
[Chained in the market-place he stood]145
[Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen]128
[Cleon hath ten thousand acres]37
[Closed eyes can't see the white roses]84
[Come to me, O ye children!]16
"[Corporal Green!" the orderly cried]86
[Could we but draw back the curtains]29
[Dear little flag in the window there]127
[Did you tackle the trouble that came your way]132
[Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds]53
[Every coin of earthly treasure]12
[Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast]75
[Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!]94
[First on the list is Washington, Virginia's proudest name]195
[Fling it from mast and steeple]202
[Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love]117
[God makes sech nights, all white an' still]59
[God said: I am tired of kings]62
[God send us a little home]87
[Good Deacon Roland—"May his tribe increase!"]178
[Go thou thy way, and I go mine]162
[Grandma told me all about it]48
[Great were the hearts and strong the minds]37
["Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"]174
[Han'some, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart as she kin be]96
[Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings]111
[Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?]27
[He came to my desk with quivering lip]202
[He who has the vision sees more than you or I]146
[Hey! little evergreens]203
[Home they brought her warrior dead]74
[How are you hoeing your row, my boy?]202
[Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber]35
[I asked of Echo, t'other day]65
[I cannot vouch my tale is true]156
[I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick]182
[I come, I come! ye have called me long]26
[I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain!]121
[If all the skies were sunshine]36
[If I had known in the morning]119
[If I were hanged on the highest hill]70
[If we should be shipwrecked together]206
[If you can dress to make yourself attractive]153
[If you can take your dreams into the classroom]165
[If you have a friend worth loving]167
[I have a rendezvous with Death]142
[I love my prairies, they are mine]74
[I'm not a chicken; I have seen]137
[In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came]112
[In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim the newsboy dying lay]52
[In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say]130
[In a valley, centuries ago]36
[In Gettysburg at break of day]122
[In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes]90
[In the hush and the lonely silence]65
[Into a ward of the whitewashed halls]175
[I sat alone with my conscience]81
[I saw him once before]20
[It is Christmas day in the workhouse]193
[It isn't the thing you do, dear]116
[It may be that the words I spoke]103
[It's easy to talk of the patience of Job]82
[It takes a heap o' livin' in a houst t' make it home]7
[It was a bright and lovely summer's morn]114
[It was an old, old, old, old lady]30
[It was a sergeant old and gray]158
[It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still]102
[It was in the days when Claverhouse]9
[It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide]177
[It was many and many a year ago]25
[It was the pleasant harvest-time]188
[It was the twilight hour]61
[I've got a letter, parson, from my son away out West]53
[I walked through the woodland meadows]9
[I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made]199
[I was mighty good-lookin' when I was young]44
[I was sitting in my study]40
[I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade]169
[I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint of beer]170
[I, who was always counted, they say]42
[I wish there were some wonderful place]32
[I wrote some lines once on a time]14
[Jim Brady's big brother's a wonderful lad]206
[King David's limbs were weary. He had fled]191
[Laugh, and the world laughs with you]139
[Let us be kind]143
[Life! I know not what thou art]65
[Like a dream, it all comes o'er me as I hear the Christmas bells]47
[Like liquid gold the wheat field lies]8
[Little lamb, who made thee?]86
[Little lass of Plymouth,—gentle, shy, and sweet]154
[Little one, come to my knee!]89
[Marching down to Armageddon]157
[Mine is a wild, strange story,—the strangest you ever heard]106
[My grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf]35
[Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes]131
[Never mind me, Uncle Jared, never mind my bleeding breast]11
[Never yet was a springtime]93
[No, comrades, I thank you—not any for me]87
[No gilt or tinsel taints the dress]204
[No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end]140
[Not far advanced was morning day]95
[Not who you are, but what you are]66
[O for one hour of youthful joy!]58
[O'Grady lived in Shanty row]44
[Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time]51
[Oh, East is East, and West is West]23
[Oh! listen to the water mill through all the livelong day]143
[Oh, such a commotion under the ground]59
["Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true"]207
[O Liberty, thou child of Law]39
[O month of fairer, rarer days]153
[Once in Persia reigned a king]159
[One sweetly solemn thought]48
[On the top of the Crumpetty Tree]91
[O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright]162
[Our band is few, but true and tried]54
[Our old brown homestead reared its walls]55
[Out of the hills of Habersham]66
[Piller fights is fun, I tell you]80
[Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey]32
[Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky]63
[Saint Augustine! well hast thou said]33
[She sat on the sliding cushion]29
[She's up there—Old Glory—where lightnings are sped]21
[She was a Phantom of delight]89
[Silent he watched them—the soldiers and dog]122
[Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming]205
[Slow the Kansas sun was setting]37
[Some die too late and some too soon]84
[Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows]127
[Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing]138
[South mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay]176
[Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!]99
[Sweet is the voice that called]75
[Talking of sects quite late one eve]180
[The autumn is old]186
[The bells of Mount Vernon are ringing to-day]58
[The boy stood on the burning deck]164
[The bravest battle that ever was fought]64
[The children kept coming one by one]146
[The coppenter man said a wicked word]139
[The day is cold, and dark, and dreary]28
[The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk] 68
[The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine]57
[The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone]120
[The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloath an' of silk]149
[The harp that once through Tara's halls]71
[The joys of living wreathe my face]208
[The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year]21
[The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone]55
[The muffled drum's sad roll has beat]15
[The night was dark when Sam set out]76
[The old mayor climbed the belfry tower]150
[There are two kinds of people on earth to-day]116
[There fell an April shower, one night]26
[There lay upon the ocean's shore]150
[There's a dandy little fellow]82
[There was a Boy; you knew him well, ye cliffs]90
[There was a sound of revelry by night]17
[There were ninety and nine]166
[The rich man's son inherits lands]22
[The rosy clouds float overhead]62
[These are the things I hold divine]64
[The shades of night were falling fast]15
[The snow and the silence came down together]83
[The sunlight shone on walls of stone]134
[The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more]203
[The sweetest lives are those to duty wed]20
[The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire]160
[The weaver at this loom is sitting]171
[They grew in beauty, side by side]130
[They said, "The Master is coming"]30
[This is the land where hate should die]18
[Tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light]199
[Three little words you often see]201
['Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar]77
['Tis a lesson you should heed]135
['Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while]173
['Tis only a half truth the poet has sung]28
["To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!"]41
[Turn back the leaves of history. On yon Pacific shore]183
['Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown]18
['Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse]78
['Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good-night" had been said]196
[Two angels, one of Life and one of Death]187
[Two little stockings hung side by side]141
[Want any papers, Mister?]94
[We all look on with anxious eyes]40
[We are two travellers, Roger and I]49
[Well, wife, I found the model church! I worshipped there to-day]148
[W'en you see a man in woe]123
[We squander health in search of wealth]103
[We were crowded in the cabin]56
[We were not many,—we who stood]165
["What fairings will ye that I bring?"]92
[What flower is this that greets the morn]85
[What makes the dog's nose always cold?]144
[Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill]12
[Whene'er a noble deed is wrought]56
[Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track]8
[When I compare]34
[When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay]67
[When papa was a little boy you really couldn't find]100
[When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres]97
[When the lessons and tasks are all ended]133
[When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour]118
[Whichever way the wind doth blow]67
["Which shall it be? which shall it be?"]101
[Who comes dancing over the snow]153
[Who dat knockin' at de do'?]71
[Why dost thou wildly rush and roar]100
[Why, yes, dear, we can put it by. It does seem out of plac]e186
[With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread]140
[Work! Thank God for the might of it]154
[Work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve]169
[Ye banks, and braes, and streams around]88
[Ye say that all have passed away—that noble race and brave]135
[Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough]109
[You bad leetle boy, not moche you care]80
[You may talk o' gin an' beer]98
[You're going to leave the homestead, John]159
[Your letter, lady, came too late]136
[You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles]168
[You say I have asked for the costliest thing]155
Transcriber's Note: The poem "Try Try Again" is not credited with an author in the table of contents.
The author of this poem is William E. Hickerson.