Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

by Various

IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

Traveler

Why dost thou wildly rush and roar,

Mad River, O Mad River?

Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour

Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er

This rocky shelf forever?

What secret trouble stirs thy breast?

Why all this fret and flurry?

Dost thou not know that what is best

In this too restless world is rest

From overwork and worry?

The River

What wouldst thou in these mountains seek,

O stranger from the city?

Is it perhaps some foolish freak

Of thine, to put the words I speak

Into a plaintive ditty?

Traveler

Yes; I would learn of thee thy song,

With all its flowing numbers,

And in a voice as fresh and strong

As thine is, sing it all day long,

And hear it in my slumbers.

The River

A brooklet nameless and unknown

Was I at first, resembling

A little child, that all alone

Comes venturing down the stairs of stone,

Irresolute and trembling.

Later, by wayward fancies led,

For the wide world I panted;

Out of the forest dark and dread

Across the open fields I fled,

Like one pursued and haunted.

I tossed my arms, I sang aloud,

My voice exultant blending

With thunder from the passing cloud,

The wind, the forest bent and bowed,

The rush of rain descending.

I heard the distant ocean call,

Imploring and entreating;

Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall

I plunged, and the loud waterfall

Made answer to the greeting.

And now, beset with many ills,

A toilsome life I follow;

Compelled to carry from the hills

These logs to the impatient mills

Below there in the hollow.

Yet something ever cheers and charms

The rudeness of my labors;

Daily I water with these arms

The cattle of a hundred farms,

And have the birds for neighbors.

Men call me Mad, and well they may,

When, full of rage and trouble,

I burst my banks of sand and clay,

And sweep their wooden bridge away,

Like withered reeds or stubble.

Now go and write thy little rhyme,

As of thine own creating.

Thou seest the day is past its prime;

I can no longer waste my time;

The mills are tired of waiting.

Henry W. Longfellow.

---

When Papa Was a Boy

When papa was a little boy you really couldn't find

In all the country round about a child so quick to mind.

His mother never called but once, and he was always there;

He never made the baby cry or pulled his sister's hair.

He never slid down banisters or made the slightest noise,

And never in his life was known to fight with other boys.

He always rose at six o'clock and went to bed at eight,

And never lay abed till noon; and never sat up late.

He finished Latin, French and Greek when he was ten year old,

And knew the Spanish alphabet as soon as he was told.

He never, never thought of play until his work was done,

He labored hard from break of day until the set of sun.

He never scraped his muddy shoes upon the parlor floor,

And never answered, back his ma, and never banged the door.

"But, truly, I could never see," said little Dick Molloy,

"How he could never do these things and really be a boy."

E.A. Brininstool.

---

Which Shall It Be?

"Which shall it be? which shall it be?"

I looked at John,—John looked at me,

(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet

As well as though my locks were jet.)

And when I found that I must speak,

My voice seemed strangely low and weak;

"Tell me again what Robert said";

And then I listening bent my head.

"This is his letter:

'I will give

A house and land while you shall live,

If, in return, from out your seven,

One child to me for aye is given.'"

I looked at John's old garments worn,

I thought of all that John had borne

Of poverty, and work, and care,

Which I, though willing, could not share;

Of seven hungry mouths to feed,

Of seven little children's need,

And then of this.

"Come John," said I,

"We'll choose among them as they lie

Asleep"; so walking hand in hand,

Dear John and I surveyed our band.

First to the cradle lightly stepped,

Where Lilian, the baby, slept;

Her damp curls lay, like gold alight,

A glory 'gainst the pillow white;

Softly her father stooped to lay

His rough hand down in loving way,

When dream or whisper made her stir,

And huskily he said, "Not her."

We stooped beside the trundle-bed,

And one long ray of lamp-light shed

Athwart the boyish faces there,

In sleep so pitiful and fair.

I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek

A tear undried; ere John could speak,

"He's but a baby too," said I,

And kissed him as we hurried by.

Pale, patient Robby's angel face

Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace;

"No, for a thousand crowns not him,"

He whispered, while our eyes were dim.

Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son,

Turbulent, reckless, idle one,—

Could he be spared? "Nay, He who gave

Bids us befriend him to the grave;

Only a mother's heart can be

Patient enough for such as he;

And so," said John, "I would not dare

To send him from her bedside prayer."

Then stole we softly up above,

And knelt by Mary, child of love;

"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"

I said to John. Quite silently

He lifted up a curl, that lay

Across her cheek in wilful way,

And shook his head; "Nay, love, not thee";

The while my heart beat audibly.

Only one more, our eldest lad,

Trusty and truthful, good and glad,—

So like his father: "No, John, no;

I cannot, will not, let him go!"

And so we wrote, in courteous way,

We could not give one child away;

And afterward toil lighter seemed,

Thinking of that of which we dreamed;

Happy, in truth, that not one face

We missed from its accustomed place;

Thankful to work for all the seven,

Trusting then to One in heaven.

Ethel Lynn Beers.

---

The Battle of Bunker's Hill

It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still,

When the "minute-men" from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill;

Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet,

But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms beat;

And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said,

"We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the dead!"

"Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!"

The trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a word,

But stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with spade,

A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made;

So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell;

We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "All's well!"

See how the morn, is breaking; the red is in the sky!

The mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by;

The "Lively's" hall looms through the fog, and they our works have spied,

For the ruddy flash and round-shot part in thunder from her side;

And the "Falcon" and the "Cerberus" make every bosom thrill,

With gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's whistle shrill;

But deep and wider grows the trench, as spade and mattock ply,

For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing nigh!

Up with the pine-tree banner! Our gallant Prescott stands

Amid the plunging shells and shot, and plants it with his hands;

Up with the shout! for Putnam comes upon his reeking bay,

With bloody spur and foaming bit, in haste to join the fray.

But thou whose soul is glowing in the summer of thy years,

Unvanquishable Warren, thou, the youngest of thy peers,

Wert born and bred, and shaped and made, to act a patriot's part,

And dear to us thy presence is as heart's blood to the heart!

Hark! from the town a trumpet! The barges at the wharf

Are crowded with the living freight; and now they're pushing off;

With clash and glitter, trump and drum, in all its bright array,

Behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er the bay!

And still and still the barges fill, and still across the deep,

Like thunder clouds along the sky, the hostile transports sweep.

And now they're forming at the Point; and now the lines advance:

We see beneath the sultry sun their polished bayonets glance;

We hear anear the throbbing drum, the bugle-challenge ring;

Quick bursts and loud the flashing cloud, and rolls from wing to wing;

But on the height our bulwark stands, tremendous in its gloom,—

As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as a tomb.

And so we waited till we saw, at scarce ten rifles' length,

The old vindictive Saxon spite, in all its stubborn strength;

When sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged rampart burst

From every gun the livid light upon the foe accursed.

Then quailed a monarch's might before a free-born people's ire;

Then drank the sward the veteran's life, where swept the yeoman's fire.

Then, staggered by the shot, he saw their serried columns reel,

And fall, as falls the bearded rye beneath the reaper's steel;

And then arose a mighty shout that might have waked the dead,—

"Hurrah! they run! the field is won! Hurrah! the foe is fled!"

And every man hath dropped his gun to clutch a neighbor's hand,

As his heart kept praying all the while for home and native land.

Thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice a thousand foes,

And thrice that day within our lines the shout of victory rose;

And though our swift fire slackened then, and, reddening in the skies,

We saw from Charlestown's roofs and walls the flamy columns rise,

Yet while we had a cartridge left, we still maintained the fight,

Nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that blood-stained height.

What though for us no laurels bloom, and o'er the nameless brave

No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch records a warrior grave!

What though the day to us was lost!—upon that deathless page

The everlasting charter stands for every land and age!

For man hath broke his felon bonds, and cast them in the dust,

And claimed his heritage divine, and justified the trust;

While through his rifted prison-bars the hues of freedom pour,

O'er every nation, race and clime, on every sea and shore,

Such glories as the patriarch viewed, when, mid the darkest skies,

He saw above a ruined world the Bow of Promise rise.

F.S. Cozzens.

---

Health and Wealth

We squander health in search of wealth;

We scheme and toil and save;

Then squander wealth in search of health,

But only find a grave.

We live, and boast of what we own;

We die, and only get a stone.

---

The Heartening

It may be that the words I spoke

To cheer him on his way,

To him were vain, but I myself

Was braver all that day.

Winifred Webb.

---

Billy's Rose

Billy's dead, and gone to glory—so is Billy's sister Nell:

There's a tale I know about them, were I poet I would tell;

Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air

Wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odors there.

In that vile and filthy alley, long ago one winter's day,

Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay,

While beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom,

Cheering with her gentle presence Billy's pathway to the tomb.

Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child,

Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and his worn, wan features smiled;

Tales herself had heard haphazard, caught amid the Babel roar,

Lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mothers' door.

Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told

How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold,

Where, when all the pain was over,—where, when all the tears were shed,—

He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head.

Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour's love,

How He'd built for little children great big playgrounds up above,

Where they sang and played at hopscotch and at horses all the day,

And where beadles and policemen never frightened them away.

This was Nell's idea of heaven,—just a bit of what she'd heard,

With a little bit invented, and a little bit inferred.

But her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to understand,

For he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the promised land.

"Yes," he whispered, "I can see it, I can see it, sister Nell,

Oh, the children look so happy and they're all so strong and well;

I can see them there with Jesus—He is playing with them, too!

Let as run away and join them, if there's room for me and you."

She was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been spent

In the garret and the alley, where they starved to pay the rent;

Where a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's blows

Drove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn to its close.

But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell this sinking boy,

"You must die before you're able all the blessings to enjoy.

You must die," she whispered, "Billy, and I am not even ill;

But I'll come to you, dear brother,—yes, I promise that I will.

"You are dying, little brother, you are dying, oh, so fast;

I heard father say to mother that he knew you couldn't last.

They will put you in a coffin, then you'll wake and be up there,

While I'm left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare."

"Yes, I know it," answered Billy. "Ah, but, sister, I don't mind,

Gentle Jesus will not beat me; He's not cruel or unkind.

But I can't help thinking, Nelly, I should like to take away

Something, sister, that you gave me, I might look at every day.

"In the summer you remember how the mission took us out

To a great green lovely meadow, where we played and ran about,

And the van that took us halted by a sweet bright patch of land,

Where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother's hand.

"Nell, I asked the good kind teacher what they called such flowers as those,

And he told me, I remember, that the pretty name was rose.

I have never seen them since, dear—how I wish that I had one!

Just to keep and think of you, Nell, when I'm up beyond the sun."

Not a word said little Nelly; but at night, when Billy slept,

On she flung her scanty garments and then down the stairs she crept.

Through the silent streets of London she ran nimbly as a fawn,

Running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn.

When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared away,

All around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay.

She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet,

But there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet.

She had traced the road by asking, she had learnt the way to go;

She had found the famous meadow—it was wrapped in cruel snow;

Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade

Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed;

With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground,

And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found.

Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim;

And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb.

"Oh, a rose!" she moaned, "good Jesus,—just a rose to take to Bill!"

And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill;

And a lady sat there, toying with a red rose, rare and sweet;

As she passed she flung it from her, and it fell at Nelly's feet.

Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret,

And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet;

But the poor, half-blinded Nelly thought it fallen from the skies,

And she murmured, "Thank you, Jesus!" as she clasped the dainty prize.

Lo! that night from but the alley did a child's soul pass away,

From dirt and sin and misery up to where God's children play.

Lo! that night a wild, fierce snowstorm burst in fury o'er the land,

And at morn they found Nell frozen, with the red rose in her hand.

Billy's dead, and gone to glory—so is Billy's sister Nell;

Am I bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell,—

That the children met in heaven, after all their earthly woes,

And that Nelly kissed her brother, and said, "Billy, here's your rose"?

George R. Sims.

---

The Old Actor's Story

Mine is a wild, strange story,—the strangest you ever heard;

There are many who won't believe it, but it's gospel, every word;

It's the biggest drama of any in a long, adventurous life;

The scene was a ship, and the actors—were myself and my new-wed wife.

You musn't mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then;

I'm old, you know, and I wander—it's a way with old women and men,

For their lives lie all behind them, and their thoughts go far away,

And are tempted afield, like children lost on a summer day.

The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful night,

But I see it again this evening, I can never shut out the sight.

We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know,

When we had an offer for Melbourne, and made up our minds to go.

We'd acted together in England, traveling up and down

With a strolling band of players, going from town to town;

We played the lovers together—we were leading lady and gent—

And at last we played in earnest, and straight to the church we went.

The parson gave us his blessing, and I gave Nellie the ring,

And swore that I'd love and cherish, and endow her with everything.

How we smiled at that part of the service when I said "I thee endow"!

But as to the "love and cherish," I meant to keep that vow.

We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was good,

When it wasn't we went without it, and we did the best we could.

We were happy, and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we made,—

Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade.

Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit;

Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a flit,—

Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call;

But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet to fall.

We got an offer for Melbourne,—got it that very week.

Those were the days when thousands went over to fortune seek,

The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot

Good for a "spec," and took us as actors among his lot.

We hadn't a friend in England—we'd only ourselves to please—

And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the seas.

We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough;

We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough.

But use is a second nature, and we'd got not to mind a storm,

When misery came upon us,—came in a hideous form.

My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad

That the doctor said she was dying,—I thought 'twould have sent me mad,—

Dying where leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their prey,

And the nearest land was hundreds—aye, thousands—of miles away.

She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death,

So still I'd to bend and listen for the faintest sign of breath.

She seemed in a sleep, and sleeping, with a smile on her thin, wan face,—

She passed away one morning, while I prayed to the throne of grace.

I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said,

Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless—my wife was dead!

Dead! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that night,

For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright.

I was shut in the farthest cabin, and I beat my head on the side,

And all day long in my madness, "They've murdered her!" I cried.

They locked me away from my fellows,—put me in cruel chains,

It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's brains.

I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil sent

To gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent.

I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists,

And my wife lay dead quite near me. I beat with my fettered fists,

Beat at my prison panels, and then—O God!—and then

I heard the shrieks of women and the tramp of hurrying men.

I heard the cry, "Ship afire!" caught up by a hundred throats,

And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats;

Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood,

And the place grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I stood.

I beat at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back,

And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning crack

I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail,

Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale.

I dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, "I will not die!

Die in this burning prison!"—but I caught no answering cry.

Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar,

And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door.

I was free—with the heavy iron door dragging me down to death;

I fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning breath

Of the flames that danced around me like man-mocking fiends at play,

And then—O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying day.

There lay my Nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth that night;

The flames flung a smile on her features,—a horrible, lurid light.

God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by her side;

I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died.

In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain;

I heard a sound as of breathing, and then a low cry of pain;

Oh, was there mercy in heaven? Was there a God in the skies?

The dead woman's lips were moving, the dead woman opened her eyes.

I cursed like a madman raving—I cried to her, "Nell! my Nell!"

They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell;

They had left us alone to perish—forgotten me living—and she

Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven, instead of the sea.

I clutched at her, roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her still;

I seized her in spite of my fetters,—fear gave a giant's will.

God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and the wreck

Up—up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck.

We'd a moment of life together,—a moment of life, the time

For one last word to each other,—'twas a moment supreme, sublime.

From the trance we'd for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to life,

And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband and wife!

It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away,

When a shout came over the water, and I looked, and lo, there lay,

Right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by;

They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky.

I shouted a prayer to Heaven, then called to my wife, and she

Tore with new strength at my fetters—God helped her, and I was free;

Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life.

Did they save us? Well, here I am, sir, and yonder's my dear old wife.

We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by

Took us on board, and at Melbourne landed us by and by.

We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip,

But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship!

George B. Sims.

---

The Boy Who Didn't Pass

A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace,

There's a lump arising in his throat, tears streaming down his face;

He wandered from his playmates, for he doesn't want to hear

Their shouts of merry laughter, since the world has lost its cheer;

He has sipped the cup of sorrow, he has drained the bitter glass,

And his heart is fairly breaking; he's the boy who didn't pass.

In the apple tree the robin sings a cheery little song,

But he doesn't seem to hear it, showing plainly something's wrong;

Comes his faithful little spaniel for a romp and bit of play,

But the troubled little fellow sternly bids him go away.

All alone he sits in sorrow, with his hair a tangled mass,

And his eyes are red with weeping; he's the boy who didn't pass.

How he hates himself for failing, he can hear his playmates jeer,

For they've left him with the dullards—gone ahead a half a year,

And he tried so hard to conquer, oh, he tried to do his best,

But now he knows, he's weaker, yes, and duller than the rest.

He's ashamed to tell his mother, for he thinks she'll hate him, too—

The little boy who didn't pass, who failed of getting through.

Oh, you who boast a laughing son, and speak of him as bright,

And you who love a little girl who comes to you at night

With smiling eyes, with dancing feet, with honors from her school,

Turn to that lonely little boy who thinks he is a fool,

And take him kindly by the hand, the dullest in his class,

He is the one who most needs love, the boy who didn't pass.

---

The Station-Master's Story

Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough;

I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my share o' rough.

This berth that the company gave me, they gave as the work was light;

I was never fit for the signals after one awful night,

I'd been in the box from a younker, and I'd never felt the strain

Of the lives at my right hand's mercy in every passing train.

One day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go queer,

And it's all through that as you find me the station-master here.

I was on at the box down yonder—that's where we turn the mails,

And specials, and fast expresses, on to the center rails;

The side's for the other traffic—the luggage and local slows.

It was rare hard work at Christmas, when double the traffic grows.

I've been in the box down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day,

Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts went all astray;

But I've worked the points half-sleeping—and once I slept outright,

Till the roar of the Limited woke me, and I nearly died with fright.

Then I thought of the lives in peril, and what might have been their fate

Had I sprung to the points that evening a tenth of a tick too late;

And a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through my frame

As I fancied the public clamor, the trial, and bitter shame.

I could see the bloody wreckage—I could see the mangled slain—

And the picture was seared for ever, blood-red, on my heated brain.

That moment my nerve was shattered, for I couldn't shut out the thought

Of the lives I held in my keeping, and the ruin that might be wrought.

That night in our little cottage, as I kissed our sleeping child,

My wife looked up from her sewing, and told me, as she smiled,

That Johnny had made his mind up—he'd be a pointsman, too.

"He says when he's big, like daddy, he'll work in the box with you."

I frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife she saw the look;

Lord bless you! my little Alice could read me like a book.

I'd to tell her of what had happened, and I said that I must leave,

For a pointsman's arm ain't trusty when terror lurks in his sleeve.

But she cheered me up in a minute, and that night, ere we went to sleep,

She made me give her a promise, which I swore that I'd always keep—

It was always to do my duty. "Do that, and then, come what will,

You'll have no worry." said Alice, "if things go well or ill.

There's something that always tells us the thing that we ought to do"—

My wife was a bit religious, and in with the chapel crew.

But I knew she was talking reason, and I said to myself, says I,

"I won't give in like a coward, it's a scare that'll soon go by."

Now, the very next day the missus had to go to the market town;

She'd the Christmas things to see to, and she wanted to buy a gown.

She'd be gone for a spell, for the Parley didn't come back till eight,

And I knew, on a Christmas Eve, too, the trains would be extra late.

So she settled to leave me Johnny, and then she could turn the key—

For she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy would be safe with me.

He was five, was our little Johnny, and quiet, and nice, and good—

He was mad to go with daddy, and I'd often promised he should.

It was noon when the missus started,—her train went by my box;

She could see, as she passed my window, her darling's curly locks,

I lifted him up to mammy, and he kissed his little hand,

Then sat, like a mouse, in the corner, and thought it was fairyland.

But somehow I fell a-thinking of a scene that would not fade,

Of how I had slept on duty, until I grew afraid;

For the thought would weigh upon me, one day I might come to lie

In a felon's cell for the slaughter of those I had doomed to die.

The fit that had come upon me, like a hideous nightmare seemed,

Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed.

For a time the box had vanished—I'd worked like a mere machine—

My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither heard nor seen,

With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the boy to seek,

Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips refused to speak;

There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my startled sight

That it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips white.

It was all in one awful moment—I saw that the boy was lost:

He had gone for a toy, I fancied, some child from a train had tossed;

The local was easing slowly to stop at the station here,

And the limited mail was coming, and I had the line to clear.

I could hear the roar of the engine, I could almost feel its breath,

And right on the center metals stood my boy in the jaws of death;

On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the center line,

And the hand that must wreck or save it, O merciful God, was mine!

'Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's. O Heaven! what could I do?—

Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce question flew—

"What shall I do, O Heaven?" and sudden and loud and clear

On the wind came the words, "Your duty," borne to my listening ear.

Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick.

"My boy!" I cried, but he heard not; and then I went blind and sick;

The hot black smoke of the engine came with a rush before,

I turned the mail to the center, and by it flew with a roar.

Then I sank on my knees in horror, and hid my ashen face—

I had given my child to Heaven; his life was a hundred's grace.

Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the flying mail

To shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail!

Where is my boy, my darling? O God! let me hide my eyes.

How can I look—his father—on that which there mangled lies?

That voice!—O merciful Heaven!—'tis the child's, and he calls my name!

I hear, but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame.

I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell, as I heard the boy;

The place reeled round, and I fainted,—swooned with the sudden joy.

But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm bed

With Alice's arms around me, and a strange wild dream in my head,

That she'd come by the early local, being anxious about the lad,

And had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad—

She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited closed my view,

And she leapt on the line and saved him just as the mail dashed through.

She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound;

The moment they stopped at the station she ran here, and I was found

With my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white:

I heard the boy, and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night.

Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the wind?

Was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there God's lips behind?

If I hadn't 'a' done my duty—had I ventured to disobey—

My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day.

George R. Sims.

---

Hark, Hark! the Lark

(From "Cymbeline")

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes:

With every thing that pretty is,

My lady sweet, arise!

Arise, arise!

William Shakespeare.

---

Tommy's Prayer

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, nought to make his dull life

bright;

Not a single friend to love him, not a loving 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 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.

"Yer 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 your 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 tonight!"

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.

John F. Nicholls.

---

The Two Pictures

It was a bright and lovely summer's morn,

Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet,

The air was redolent with perfumed balm,

And Nature scattered, with unsparing hand,

Her loveliest graces over hill and dale.

An artist, weary of his narrow room

Within the city's pent and heated walls,

Had wandered long amid the ripening fields,

Until, remembering his neglected themes,

He thought to turn his truant steps toward home.

These led him through a rustic, winding lane,

Lined with green hedge-rows spangled close with flowers,

And overarched by trees of noblest growth.

But when at last he reached the farther end

Of this sweet labyrinth, he there beheld

A vision of such pure, pathetic grace,

That weariness and haste were both obscured,

It was a child—a young and lovely child

With eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair,

And dimpled hands clasped in a morning prayer,

Kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee.

Upon that baby brow of spotless snow,

No single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe,

No line of bitter grief or dark despair,

Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care,

Had ever yet been written. With bated breath,

And hand uplifted as in warning, swift,

The artist seized his pencil, and there traced

In soft and tender lines that image fair:

Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word,

A word of holiest import—Innocence.

Years fled and brought with them a subtle change,

Scattering Time's snow upon the artist's brow,

But leaving there the laurel wreath of fame,

While all men spake in words of praise his name;

For he had traced full many a noble work

Upon the canvas that had touched men's souls,

And drawn them from the baser things of earth,

Toward the light and purity of heaven.

One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves,

He chanced upon the picture of the child,

Which he had sketched that bright morn long before,

And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze,

A ray of inspiration seemed to dart

Straight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch,

Placed it before his easel, and with care

That seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme,

Touching and still re-touching each bright lineament,

Until all seemed to glow with life divine—

'Twas innocence personified. But still

The artist could not pause. He needs must have

A meet companion for his fairest theme;

And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin,

Through miry courts of misery and guilt,

Seeking a face which at the last was found.

Within a prison cell there crouched a man—

Nay, rather say a fiend—with countenance seamed

And marred by all the horrid lines of sin;

Each mark of degradation might be traced,

And every scene of horror he had known,

And every wicked deed that he had done,

Were visibly written on his lineaments;

Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here,

A parricide within a murderer's cell.

Here then the artist found him; and with hand

Made skillful by its oft-repeated toil,

Transferred unto his canvas that vile face,

And also wrote beneath it just one word,

A word of darkest import—it was Vice.

Then with some inspiration not his own,

Thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart,

And wake it to repentance e'er too late,

The artist told the tale of that bright morn,

Placed the two pictured faces side by side,

And brought the wretch before them. With a shriek

That echoed through those vaulted corridors,

Like to the cries that issue from the lips

Of souls forever doomed to woe,

Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell,

And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish.

"I was that child once—I, yes, even I—

In the gracious years forever fled,

That innocent and happy little child!

These very hands were raised to God in prayer,

That now are reddened with a mother's blood.

Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power,

Send forth Thy dart and strike me where I lie!"

He rose, laid hold upon the artist's arm

And grasped it with demoniac power,

The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forth

And tell my history to the tempted youth.

I looked upon the wine when it was red,

I heeded not my mother's piteous prayers,

I heeded not the warnings of my friends,

But tasted of the wine when it was red,

Until it left a demon in my heart

That led me onward, step by step, to this,

This horrible place from which my body goes

Unto the gallows, and my soul to hell!"

He ceased as last. The artist turned and fled;

But even as he went, unto his ears

Were borne the awful echoes of despair,

Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air,

Cursing the demon that had brought him there.

---

The Two Kinds of People

There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;

Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.

Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood,

The good are half bad and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,

You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,

Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years

Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean,

Are the people who lift and the people who lean.

Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses

Are always divided in just these two classes.

And, oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween,

There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which class are you? Are you easing the load

Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?

Or are you a leaner, who lets others share

Your portion of labor, and worry and care?

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

---

The Sin of Omission

It isn't the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing you leave undone

That gives you a bit of a heartache

At the setting of the sun.

The tender word forgotten;

The letter you did not write;

The flowers you did not send, dear,

Are your haunting ghosts at night.

The stone you might have lifted

Out of a brother's way;

The bit of hearthstone counsel

You were hurried too much to say;

The loving touch of the hand, dear,

The gentle, winning tone

Which you had no time nor thought for

With troubles enough of your own.

Those little acts of kindness

So easily out of mind,

Those chances to be angels

Which we poor mortals find—

They come in night and silence,

Each sad, reproachful wraith,

When hope is faint and flagging

And a chill has fallen on faith.

For life is all too short, dear,

And sorrow is all too great,

To suffer our slow compassion

That tarries until too late;

And it isn't the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing you leave undone

Which gives you a bit of a heartache

At the setting of the sun,

Margaret E. Sangster.

---

The Bible My Mother Gave Me

Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love,

Tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight above.

Yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold,

Yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of Ophir's gold.

When a child, I've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage home,

And listened to her reading from that prized and cherished tome,

As with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent mien,

God's word fell from her trembling lips, like a presence felt and seen.

Solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page,

Written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age;

Full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod,

Caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to God.

Men who in mind were godlike, and have left on its blazoned scroll

Food for all coming ages in its manna of the soul;

Who, through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of ease,

Still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries.

I can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook,

Take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the Book,

How through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time,

It was handed down as an heirloom, in almost every clime.

How through strong persecution and the struggle of evil days

The precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon blaze.

How in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough,

It was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as now.

He tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break,

Though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake;

How dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame,

But raised up converts to the creed whence Christian comfort came.

That housed in caves and caverns—how it stirs our Scottish blood!—

The Convenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood;

And eloquent grows the preacher, as the Sabbath sunshine falls,

Thro' cobwebbed and checkered pane, a halo on the walls!

That still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt,

Some bear the Gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out,

Till forth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea,

The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free.

So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered boards,

As one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other hoards,

As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment call,

The guide that will lead to the shining shore, where the Father waits for all.

---

Lincoln, the Man of the People

This poem was read by Edwin Markham at the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial at Washington, D.C.,

May 30, 1922. Before reading, he said: "No oration, no poem, can rise to the high level of this historic

hour. Nevertheless, I venture to inscribe this revised version of my Lincoln poem to this stupendous Lincoln

Memorial, to this far-shining monument of remembrance, erected in immortal marble to the honor of our

deathless martyr—the consecrated statesman, the ideal American, the ever-beloved friend of humanity."

When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour

Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,

She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down

To make a man to meet the mortal need,

She took the tried clay of the common road—

Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth,

Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy;

Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears;

Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff.

Into the shape she breathed a flame to light

That tender, tragic, ever-changing face;

And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers,

Moving—all husht—behind the mortal veil.

Here was a man to hold against the world,

A man to match the mountains and the sea.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;

The smack and tang of elemental things;

The rectitude and patience of the cliff;

The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves;

The friendly welcome of the wayside well;

The courage of the bird that dares the sea;

The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;

The pity of the snow that hides all scars;

The secrecy of streams that make their way

Under the mountain to the rifted rock;

The tolerance and equity of light

That gives as freely to the shrinking flower

As to the great oak flaring to the wind—

To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn

That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West,

He drank the valorous youth of a new world.

The strength of virgin forests braced his mind,

The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul.

His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts

Were roots that firmly gript the granite truth.

Up from log cabin to the Capitol,

One fire was on his spirit, one resolve—

To send the keen ax to the root of wrong,

Clearing a free way for the feet of God,

The eyes of conscience testing every stroke,

To make his deed the measure of a man.

He built the rail-pile as he built the State,

Pouring his splendid strength through every blow;

The grip that swung the ax in Illinois

Was on the pen that set a people free.

So came the Captain with the mighty heart;

And when the judgment thunders split the house,

Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest,

He held the ridgepole up, and spikt again

The rafters of the Home. He held his place—

Held the long purpose like a growing tree—

Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.

And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down

As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,

Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,

And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

Edwin Markham.

---

Our Own

If I had known in the morning

How wearily all the day

The words unkind

Would trouble my mind

I said when you went away,

I had been more careful, darling,

Nor given you needless pain;

But we vex "our own"

With look and tone

We may never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening

You may give me the kiss of peace,

Yet it might be

That never for me,

The pain of the heart should cease.

How many go forth in the morning,

That never come home at night!

And hearts have broken

For harsh words spoken

That sorrow can ne'er set right.

We have careful thoughts for the stranger,

And smiles for the sometime guest,

But oft for "our own"

The bitter tone,

Though we love "our own" the best.

Ah, lips with the curve impatient!

Ah, brow with that look of scorn!

'Twere a cruel fate,

Were the night too late

To undo the work of morn.

Margaret E. Sangster.

---

How Salvator Won

The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone,

More proud than a monarch, who sits on a throne.

I am but a jockey, but shout upon shout

Went up from the people who watched me ride out.

And the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowd

Were as earnest as those to which monarch e'er bowed.

My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain,

As I patted my Salvator's soft, silken mane;

And a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my hand

As we passed by the multitude down to the stand.

The great wave of cheering came billowing back

As the hoofs of brave Tenny ran swift down the track,

And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle,

Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussle

That waited us there on the smooth, shining course.

My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horse

As a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight—

Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright—

Stood taking the plaudits as only his due

And nothing at all unexpected or new.

And then there before us as the bright flag is spread,

There's a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny's ahead;

At the sound of the voices that shouted, "A go!"

He sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow.

I tighten the reins on Prince Charlie's great son;

He is off like a rocket, the race is begun.

Half-way down the furlong their heads are together,

Scarce room 'twixt their noses to wedge in a feather;

Past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife,

Ah, Salvator, boy, 'tis the race of your life!

I press my knees closer, I coax him, I urge,

I feel him go out with a leap and a surge;

I see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride,

While backward, still backward, falls Tenny beside.

We are nearing the turn, the first quarter is passed—

'Twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast;

The distance elongates; still Tenny sweeps on,

As graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn,

His awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained—

A noble opponent well born and well trained.

I glanced o'er my shoulder; ha! Tenny! the cost

Of that one second's flagging will be—the race lost;

One second's yielding of courage and strength,

And the daylight between us has doubled its length.

The first mile is covered, the race is mine—no!

For the blue blood of Tenny responds to a blow;

He shoots through the air like a ball from a gun,

And the two lengths between us are shortened to one.

My heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump,

For Tenny's long neck is at Salvator's rump;

And now with new courage grown bolder and bolder,

I see him once more running shoulder to shoulder.

With knees, hands and body I press my grand steed;

I urge him, I coax him, I pray him to heed!

O Salvator! Salvator! List to my calls,

For the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls.

There's a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm,

As close to the saddle leaps Tenny's great form;

One mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand,

I lift my horse first by a nose past the stand.

We are under the string now—the great race is done—

And Salvator, Salvator, Salvator won!

Cheer, hoary-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, I say;

'Tis the race of a century witnessed to-day!

Though ye live twice the space that's allotted to men

Ye never will see such a grand race again.

Let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf,

For Salvator, Salvator, king of the turf,

He has rivaled the record of thirteen long years;

He has won the first place in the vast line of peers.

'Twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race,

And even his enemies grant him his place.

Down into the dust let old records be hurled,

And hang out 2:05 to the gaze of the world!

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

---

I Got to Go to School

I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain!

I'd like to be a pirate an' plow the ragin' main!

An' capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule;

But I just can't be nothin' cause I got to go to school.

'Most all great men, so I have read, has been the ones 'at got

The least amount o' learnin' by a flickerin' pitch pine knot;

An' many a darin' boy like me grows up to be a fool,

An' never 'mounts to nothin' 'cause he's got to go to school.

I'd like to be a cowboy an' rope the Texas steer!

I'd like to be a sleuth-houn' or a bloody buccaneer!

An' leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool;

But how can I git famous? 'cause I got to go to school.

I don't see how my parents kin make the big mistake.

O' keepin' down a boy like me 'at's got a name to make!

It ain't no wonder boys is bad, an' balky as a mule;

Life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school.

I'd like to be regarded as "The Terror of the Plains"!

I'd like to hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison chains!

I'd like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool,

An' wipe 'em off the earth, but pshaw! I got to go to school.

What good is 'rithmetic an' things, exceptin' jest for girls,

Er them there Fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in pretty curls?

An' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'll

Remember 'at it's all because I got to go to school.

Nixon Waterman.

---

With Little Boy Blue

(Written after the death of Eugene Field.)

Silent he watched them—the soldiers and dog—

Tin toys on the little armchair,

Keeping their tryst through the slow going years

For the hand that had stationed them there;

And he said that perchance the dust and the rust

Hid the griefs that the toy friends knew,

And his heart watched with them all the dark years,

Yearning ever for Little Boy Blue.

Three mourners they were for Little Boy Blue,

Three ere the cold winds had begun;

Now two are left watching—the soldier and dog;

But for him the vigil is done.

For him too, the angel has chanted a song

A song that is lulling and true.

He has seen the white gates of the mansions of rest,

Thrown wide by his Little Boy Blue.

God sent not the Angel of Death for his soul—

Not the Reaper who cometh for all—

But out of the shadows that curtained the day

He heard his lost little one call,

Heard the voice that he loved, and following fast,

Passed on to the far-away strand;

And he walks the streets of the City of Peace,

With Little Boy Blue by the hand.

Sarah Beaumont Kennedy.

---

The Charge of Pickett's Brigade

In Gettysburg at break of day

The hosts of war are held in leash

To gird them for the coming fray,

E'er brazen-throated monsters flame,

Mad hounds of death that tear and maim.

Ho, boys in blue,

And gray so true,

Fate calls to-day the roll of fame.

On Cemetery Hill was done

The clangor of four hundred guns;

Through drifting smoke the morning sun

Shone down a line of battled gray

Where Pickett's waiting soldiers lay.

Virginians all,

Heed glory's call,

You die at Gettysburg to-day,

'Twas Pickett's veteran brigade,

Great Lee had named; he knew them well;

Oft had their steel the battle stayed.

O warriors of the eagle plume,

Fate points for you the hour of doom.

Ring rebel yell,

War cry and knell!

The stars, to-night, will set in gloom.

O Pickett's men, ye sons of fate,

Awe-stricken nations bide your deeds.

For you the centuries did wait,

While wrong had writ her lengthening scroll

And God had set the judgment roll.

A thousand years

Shall wait in tears,

And one swift hour bring to goal.

The charge is done, a cause is lost;

But Pickett's men heed not the din

Of ragged columns battle tost;

For fame enshrouds them on the field,

And pierced, Virginia, is thy shield.

But stars and bars

Shall drape thy scars;

No cause is lost till honor yield.

---

Hullo

W'en you see a man in woe,

Walk right up and say "Hullo!"

Say "Hullo" and "How d'ye do?

How's the world a-usin' you?"

Slap the fellow on the back;

Bring your hand down with a whack;

Walk right up, and don't go slow;

Grin an' shake, an' say "Hullo!"

Is he clothed in rags? Oh! sho;

Walk right up an' say "Hullo!"

Rags is but a cotton roll

Jest for wrappin' up a soul;

An' a soul is worth a true

Hale and hearty "How d'ye do?"

Don't wait for the crowd to go,

Walk right up and say "Hullo!"

When big vessels meet, they say

They saloot an' sail away.

Jest the same are you an' me

Lonesome ships upon a sea;

Each one sailin' his own log,

For a port behind the fog;

Let your speakin' trumpet blow;

Lift your horn an' cry "Hullo!"

Say "Hullo!" an' "How d'ye do?"

Other folks are good as you.

W'en you leave your house of clay

Wanderin' in the far away,

W'en you travel through the strange

Country t'other side the range,

Then the souls you've cheered will know

Who ye be, an' say "Hullo."

Sam Walter Foss.

---

The Women of Mumbles Head

Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!

And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.

It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead,

Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head!

Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south;

Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth;

It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way,

And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.

Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone,

In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone;

It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled,or when

There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men.

When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he!

Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea,

Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said,

Had saved some hundred lives apiece—at a shilling or so a head!

So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar,

And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar,

Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons!

Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns;

Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love;

Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!

Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed,

For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?

It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew!

And it snapped the' rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;

And then the anchor parted—'twas a tussle to keep afloat!

But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat.

Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high!

"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye"!

Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,

But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.

Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,

And saw in the boiling breakers a figure—a fighting form;

It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath;

It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death;

It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips

Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships.

They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more,

Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.

There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,

Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land,

'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,

But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?

What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men

Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir—and then

Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent,

Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!

"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come back!"

As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack.

"Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea,

"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!"

"Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale,

"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!"

"Come back!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town,

We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!"

"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand!

Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land!

Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more,

And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore."

Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,

They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest—

Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,

And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!"

Clement Scott.

---

The Fireman's Story

"'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct;

That man on the enjine thar

Don't pack the han'somest countenance—

Every inch of it sportin' a scar;

But I tell you, pard, thar ain't money enough

Piled up in the National Banks

To buy that face, nor a single scar—

(No, I never indulges. Thanks.)

"Yes, Jim is an old-time engineer,

An' a better one never war knowed!

Bin a runnin' yar since the fust machine

War put on the Quincy Road;

An' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plug

From Maine to the jumpin' off place

That knows more about the big iron hoss

Than him with the battered-up face.

"'Got hurt in a smash-up'? No,'twar done

In a sort o' legitimate way;

He got it a-trying to save a gal

Up yar on the road last May.

I heven't much time for to spin you the yarn,

For we pull out at two-twenty-five—

Just wait till I climb up an' toss in some coal,

So's to keep old '90' alive.

"Jim war pullin' the Burlin'ton passenger then,

Left Quincy a half an hour late,

An' war skimmin' along purty lively, so's not

To lay out No. 21 freight.

The '90' war more than whoopin' 'em up

An' a-quiverin' in every nerve!

When all to once Jim yelled 'Merciful God!'

As she shoved her sharp nose 'round a curve.

"I jumped to his side o' the cab, an' ahead

'Bout two hundred paces or so

Stood a gal on the track, her hands raised aloft,

An' her face jist as white as the snow;

It seems she war so paralyzed with the fright

That she couldn't move for'ard or back,

An' when Jim pulled the whistle she fainted an' fell

Right down in a heap on the track!

"I'll never forgit till the day o' my death

The look that cum over Jim's face;

He throw'd the old lever cl'r back like a shot

So's to slacken the '90's' wild pace,

Then let on the air brakes as quick as a flash,

An' out through the window he fled,

An' skinned 'long the runnin' board cla'r in front,

An' lay on the pilot ahead.

"Then just as we reached whar the poor creetur lay,

He grabbed a tight hold, of her arm,

An' raised her right up so's to throw her one side

Out o' reach of danger an' harm.

But somehow he slipped an' fell with his head

On the rail as he throw'd the young lass,

An' the pilot in strikin' him, ground up his face

In a frightful and horrible mass!

"As soon as we stopped I backed up the train

To that spot where the poor fellow lay,

An' there sot the gal with his head in her lap

An' wipin' the warm blood away.

The tears rolled in torrents right down from her eyes,

While she sobbed like her heart war all broke—

I tell you, my friend, such a sight as that 'ar

Would move the tough heart of an oak!

"We put Jim aboard an' ran back to town,

What for week arter week the boy lay

A-hoverin' right in the shadder o' death,

An' that gal by his bed every day.

But nursin' an' doctorin' brought him around—

Kinder snatched him right outer the grave—

His face ain't so han'some as 'twar, but his heart

Remains just as noble an' brave.

"Of course thar's a sequel—as story books say—

He fell dead in love, did this Jim;

But hadn't the heart to ax her to have

Sich a batter'd-up rooster as him.

She know'd how he felt, and last New Year's day

War the fust o' leap year as you know,

So she jist cornered Jim an' proposed on the spot,

An' you bet he didn't say no.

"He's building a house up thar on the hill,

An' has laid up a snug pile o' cash,

The weddin's to be on the first o' next May—

Jist a year from the day o' the smash—

The gal says he risked his dear life to save hers,

An' she'll just turn the tables about,

An' give him the life that he saved—thar's the bell.

Good day, sir, we're goin' to pull out."

---

Little Willie's Hearing

Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows,

My ma she comes to call me, 'cause she wants me, I surpose:

An' then she calls in this way: "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!"

An' you'd be surprised to notice how dretful deef I be;

An' the fellers 'at are playin' they keeps mos' orful still,

W'ile they tell me, jus' in whispers: "Your ma is callin', Bill."

But my hearin' don't git better, so fur as I can see,

W'ile my ma stan's there a-callin': "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!"

An' soon my ma she gives it up, an' says: "Well, I'll allow

It's mighty cur'us w'ere that boy has got to, anyhow";

An' then I keep on playin' jus' the way I did before—

I know if she was wantin' much she'd call to me some more.

An' purty soon she comes agin an' says: "Willie! Willee-e-ee!"

But my hearin's jus' as hard as w'at it useter be.

If a feller has good judgment, an' uses it that way,

He can almos' allers manage to git consid'ble play.

But jus' w'ile I am playin', an' prob'ly I am "it,"

They's somethin' diff'rent happens, an' I have to up, an' git,

Fer my pa comes to the doorway, an' he interrup's our glee;

He jus' says, "William Henry!" but that's enough fer me.

You'd be surprised to notice how quickly I can hear

W'en my pa says, "William Henry!" but never "Willie, dear!"

Fer though my hearin's middlin' bad to hear the voice of ma,

It's apt to show improvement w'en the callin' comes from pa.

---

The Service Flag

Dear little flag in the window there,

Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer,

Child of Old Glory, born with a star—

Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!

Blue is your star in its field of white,

Dipped in the red that was born of fight;

Born of the blood that our forebears shed

To raise your mother, The Flag, o'er-head.

And now you've come, in this frenzied day,

To speak from a window—to speak and say:

"I am the voice of a soldier son,

Gone, to be gone till the victory's won.

"I am the flag of The Service, sir:

The flag of his mother—I speak for her

Who stands by my window and waits and fears,

But hides from the others her unwept tears.

"I am the flag of the wives who wait

For the safe return of a martial mate—

A mate gone forth where the war god thrives,

To save from sacrifice other men's wives.

"I am the flag of the sweethearts true;

The often unthought of—the sisters, too.

I am the flag of a mother's son,

Who won't come home till the victory's won!"

Dear little flag in the window there,

Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer,

Child of Old Glory, born with a star—

Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!

William Herschell.

---

Flying Jim's Last Leap

(The hero of this tale had once been a famous trapeze performer.)

Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. Helped by Bridget's willing hands,

Bustled Hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans.

Little Flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hair

Glinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air;

Slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore,

Tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before.

His shirt was torn, his hat was gone, bare and begrimed his knees,

Face with blood and dirt disfigured, elbows peeped from out his sleeves.

Rat-tat-tat, upon the entrance, brought Aunt Hannah to the door;

Parched lips humbly plead for water, as she scanned his misery o'er;

Wrathful came the dame's quick answer; made him cower, shame, and start

Out of sight, despairing, saddened, hurt and angry to the heart.

"Drink! You've had enough, you rascal. Faugh! The smell now makes me sick,

Move, you thief! Leave now these grounds, sir, or our dogs will help you quick."

Then the man with dragging footsteps hopeless, wishing himself dead,

Crept away from sight of plenty, starved in place of being fed,

Wandered farther from the mansion, till he reached a purling brook,

Babbling, trilling broken music by a green and shady nook,

Here sweet Flossie found him fainting; in her hands were food and drink;

Pale like death lay he before her, yet the child-heart did not shrink;

Then the rags from off his forehead, she with dainty hands offstripped,

In the brooklet's rippling waters, her own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dipped;

Then with sweet and holy pity, which, within her, did not daunt,

Bathed the blood and grime-stained visage of that sin-soiled son of want.

Wrung she then the linen cleanly, bandaged up the wound again

Ere the still eyes opened slowly; white lips murmuring, "Am I sane?"

"Look, poor man, here's food and drink. Now thank our God before you take."

Paused he mute and undecided, while deep sobs his form did shake

With an avalanche of feeling, and great tears came rolling down

O'er a face unused to showing aught except a sullen frown;

That "our God" unsealed a fountain his whole life had never known,

When that human angel near him spoke of her God as his own.

"Is it 'cause my aunty grieved you?" Quickly did the wee one ask.

"I'll tell you my little verse then, 'tis a holy Bible task,

It may help you to forgive her: 'Love your enemies and those

Who despitefully may use you; love them whether friends or foes!'"

Then she glided from his vision, left him prostrate on the ground

Conning o'er and o'er that lesson—with a grace to him new found.

Sunlight filtering through green branches as they wind-wave dance and dip,

Finds a prayer his mother taught him, trembling on his crime-stained lip.

Hist! a step, an angry mutter, and the owner of the place,

Gentle Flossie's haughty father, and the tramp stood face to face!

"Thieving rascal! you've my daughter's 'kerchief bound upon your brow;

Off with it, and cast it down here. Come! be quick about it now."

As the man did not obey him, Flossie's father lashed his cheek

With a riding-whip he carried; struck him hard and cut him deep.

Quick the tramp bore down upon him, felled him, o'er him where he lay

Raised a knife to seek his life-blood. Then there came a thought to stay

All his angry, murderous impulse, caused the knife to shuddering fall:

"He's her father; love your en'mies; 'tis 'our God' reigns over all."

At midnight, lambent, lurid flames light up the sky with fiercest beams,

Wild cries, "Fire! fire!" ring through the air, and red like blood each flame now seems;

They faster grow, they higher throw weird, direful arms which ever lean

About the gray stone mansion old. Now roars the wind to aid the scene;

The flames yet higher, wilder play. A shudder runs through all around—

Distinctly as in light of day, at topmost window from the ground

Sweet Flossie stands, her golden hair enhaloed now by firelit air.

Loud rang the father's cry: "O God! my child! my child! Will no one dare

For her sweet sake the flaming stair?" Look, one steps forth with muffled face,

Leaps through the flames with fleetest feet, on trembling ladder runs a race

With life and death—the window gains. Deep silence falls on all around,

Till bursts aloud a sobbing wail. The ladder falls with crashing sound—

A flaming, treacherous mass. O God! she was so young and he so brave!

Look once again. See! see! on highest roof he stands—the fiery wave

Fierce rolling round—his arms enclasp the child—God help him yet to save!

"For life or for eternal sleep,"

He cries, then makes a vaulting leap,

A tree branch catches, with sure aim,

And by the act proclaims his name;

The air was rent, the cheers rang loud,

A rough voice cried from out the crowd,

"Huzza, my boys, well we know him,

None dares that leap but Flying Jim!"

A jail-bird—outlaw—thief, indeed,

Yet o'er them all takes kingly lead.

"Do now your worst," his gasping cry,

"Do all your worst, I'm doomed to die;

I've breathed the flames, 'twill not be long";

Then hushed all murmurs through the throng.

With reverent hands they bore him where

The summer evening's cooling air

Came softly sighing through the trees;

The child's proud father on his knees

Forgiveness sought of God and Jim,

Which dying lips accorded him.

A mark of whip on white face stirred

To gleaming scarlet at his words.

"Forgive them all who use you ill,

She taught me that and I fulfill;

I would her hand might touch my face,

Though she's so pure and I so base."

Low Flossie bent and kissed the brow,

With smile of bliss transfigured now:

Death, the angel, sealed it there,

'Twas sent to God with "mother's prayer."

Emma Dunning Banks.

---

Betty and the Bear

In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say,

A great big black grizzly trotted one day,

And seated himself on the hearths and began

To lap the contents of a two gallon pan

Of milk and potatoes,—an excellent meal,—

And then looked, about to see what he could steal.

The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep,

And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep

Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there,

And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear.

So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frau,

"Thar's a bar in the kitchen as big's a cow!"

"A what?" "Why, a bar!" "Well murder him, then!"

"Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in."

So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized.

While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed,

As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows.

Now on his forehead, and now on his nose,

Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within,

"Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin,

Now poke with the poker, and' poke his eyes out."

So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty alone

At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone.

Now when the old man saw the bear was no more,

He ventured to poke his nose out of the door,

And there was the grizzly stretched on the floor,

Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tell

All the wonderful things that that morning befell;

And he published the marvellous story afar,

How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar!

O yes, come and see, all the neighbors they seed it,

Come and see what we did, me and Betty, we did it."

---

The Graves of a Household

They grew in beauty, side by side,

They filled one home with glee;—-

Their graves are severed, far and wide,

By mount, and stream and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night

O'er each fair sleeping brow;

She had each folded flower in sight—

Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forest of the West,

By a dark stream is laid—

The Indian knows his place of rest

Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one—

He lies where pearls lie deep;

He was the loved of all, yet none

O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest

Above the noble slain:

He wrapped his colors round his breast

On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one—o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;

She faded 'midst Italian flowers—

The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd

Beneath the same green tree;

Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around the parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheer'd with song the hearth!—

Alas! for love, if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, O earth!

Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

---

The Babie

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes,

Nae stockings on her feet;

Her supple ankles white as snow,

Or early blossoms sweet.

Her simple dress of sprinkled pink,

Her double, dimpled chin;

Her pucker'd lip and bonny mou',

With nae ane tooth between.

Her een sae like her mither's een,

Twa gentle, liquid things;

Her face is like an angel's face—

We're glad she has nae wings.

Hugh Miller.

---

A Legend of the Northland

Away, away in the Northland,

Where the hours of the day are few,

And the nights are so long in winter,

They cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer

To the sledges, when it snows;

And the children look like bears' cubs

In their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story—

I don't believe 't is true;

And yet you may learn a lesson

If I tell the tale to you

Once, when the good Saint Peter

Lived in the world below,

And walked about it, preaching,

Just as he did, you know;

He came to the door of a cottage,

In traveling round the earth,

Where a little woman was making cakes,

And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting,

For the day was almost done,

He asked her, from her store of cakes,

To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake,

But as it baking lay,

She looked at it, and thought it seemed

Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another,

And still a smaller one;

But it looked, when she turned it over,

As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,

And rolled, and rolled it flat;

And baked it thin as a wafer—

But she couldn't part with that.

For she said, "My cakes that seem too small

When I eat of them myself,

Are yet too large to give away,"

So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry,

For he was hungry and faint;

And surely such a woman

Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish

To dwell in a human form,

To have both food and shelter,

And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do,

And shall get your scanty food

By boring, and boring, and boring,

All day in the hard dry wood,"

Then up she went through the chimney,

Never speaking a word,

And out of the top flew a woodpecker.

For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head,

And that was left the same,

Bat all the rest of her clothes were burned

Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country school boy

Has seen her in the wood;

Where she lives in the woods till this very day,

Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches:

Live not for yourself alone,

Lest the needs you will not pity

Shall one day be your own.

Give plenty of what is given to you,

Listen to pity's call;

Don't think the little you give is great,

And the much you get is small.

Now, my little boy, remember that,

And try to be kind and good,

When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress,

And see her scarlet hood.

You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live

As selfishly as you can;

But you will be changed to a smaller thing—

A mean and selfish man.

Phoebe Cary.

---

How Did You Die?

Did you tackle the trouble that came your way

With a resolute heart and cheerful?

Or hide year face from the light of day

With a craven soul and fearful?

Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,

Or a trouble is what you make it,

And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,

But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?

Come up with a smiling face,

Its nothing against you to fall down flat,

But to lie there—that's disgrace.

The harder you're thrown, why, the higher the bounce;

Be proud of your blackened eye!

It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;

It's how did you fight—and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?

If you battled the best you could,

If you played your part in the world of men,

Why, the Critic will call it good.

Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,

And whether he's slow or spry,

It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,

But only how did you die?

Edmund Vance Cooke.

---

The Children

When the lessons and tasks are all ended,

And the school for the day is dismissed,

And the little ones gather around me,

To bid me good-night and be kissed,—

Oh, the little white arms that encircle

My neck in a tender embrace!

Oh, the smiles that are halos of Heaven,

Shedding sunshine and love on my face!

And when they, are gone, I sit dreaming

Of my childhood, too lovely to last;

Of love that my heart will remember

When it wakes to the pulse of the past;

Ere the world and its wickedness made me

A partner of sorrow and sin;

When the glory of God was about me,

And the glory of gladness within.

Oh, my heart grows as weak as a woman's

And the fountains of feeling will flow,

When I think of the paths, steep and stony

Where the feet of the dear ones must go.

Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,

Of the tempests of fate blowing wild—

Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy

As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households,

They are angels of God in disguise.

His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,

His glory still beams in their eyes:

Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven,

They have made me more manly and mild!

And I know how Jesus could liken

The Kingdom of God to a child.

Seek not a life for the dear ones

All radiant, as others have done.

But that life may have just enough shadow

To temper the glare of the sun;

I would pray God to guard them from evil,

But my prayer would bound back to myself.

Ah! A seraph may pray for a sinner,

But the sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended,

I have banished the rule of the rod;

I have taught them the goodness of Knowledge,

They have taught me the goodness of God.

My heart is a dungeon of darkness,

Where I shut them from breaking a rule;

My frown is sufficient correction,

My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn

To traverse the threshold no more,

Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones

That meet me each morn at the door.

I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses,

And the gush of their innocent glee;

The group on the green and the flowers

That are brought every morning to me.

I shall miss them at morn and at evening.

Their song in the school and the street,

I shall miss the low hum of their voices

And the tramp of their delicate feet.

When the lessons and tasks are all ended,

And death says the school is dismissed,

May the little ones gather around me

To bid me good-night and be kissed.

Charles M. Dickinson.

---

The King and the Child

The sunlight shone on walls of stone,

And towers sublime and tall,

King Alfred sat upon his throne

Within his council hall.

And glancing o'er the splendid throng,

With grave and solemn face,

To where his noble vassals stood,

He saw a vacant place.

"Where is the Earl of Holderness?"

With anxious look, he said.

"Alas, O King!" a courtier cried,

"The noble Earl is dead!"

Before the monarch could express

The sorrow that he felt,

A soldier, with a war-worn face,

Approached the throne, and knelt.

"My sword," he said, "has ever been,

O King, at thy command,

And many a proud and haughty Dane

Has fallen by my hand.

"I've fought beside thee in the field,

And 'neath the greenwood tree;

It is but fair for thee to give

Yon vacant place to me."

"It is not just," a statesman cried,

"This soldier's prayer to hear,

My wisdom has done more for thee

Than either sword or spear.

"The victories of thy council hall

Have made thee more renown

Than all the triumphs of the field

Have given to thy crown.

"My name is known in every land,

My talents have been thine,

Bestow this Earldom, then, on me,

For it is justly mine."

Yet, while before the monarch's throne

These men contending stood,

A woman crossed the floor, who wore

The weeds of widowhood.

And slowly to King Alfred's feet

A fair-haired boy she led—

"O King, this is the rightful heir

Of Holderness," she said.

"Helpless, he comes to claim his own,

Let no man do him wrong,

For he is weak and fatherless,

And thou art just and strong."

"What strength or power," the statesman cried,

"Could such a judgement bring?

Can such a feeble child as this

Do aught for thee, O King?

"When thou hast need of brawny arms

To draw thy deadly bows,

When thou art wanting crafty men

To crush thy mortal foes."

With earnest voice the fair young boy

Replied: "I cannot fight,

But I can pray to God, O King,

And God can give thee might!"

The King bent down and kissed the child,

The courtiers turned away,

"The heritage is thine," he said,

"Let none thy right gainsay.

"Our swords may cleave the casques of men,

Our blood may stain the sod,

But what are human strength and power

Without the help of God?"

Eugene J. Hall.

---

Try, Try Again

'Tis a lesson you should heed,

Try, try again;

If at first you don't succeed,

Try, try again;

Then your courage shall appear,

For if you will persevere,

You will conquer, never fear,

Try, try again.

Once or twice though you should fail,

Try, try again;

If at last you would prevail,

Try, try again;

If we strive 'tis no disgrace

Tho' we may not win the race,

What should you do in that case?

Try, try again.

If you find your task is hard,

Try, try again;

Time will bring you your reward,

Try, try again;

All that other folks can do,

Why, with patience, may not you?

Only keep this rule in view,

Try, try again.

---

Indian Names

Ye say they all have passed away—that noble race and brave,

That their light canoes have vanished from off the crested wave;

That,'mid the forests where they roamed, there rings no hunter's shout,

But their name is on your waters—ye may not wash it out.

'Tis where Ontario's billow like ocean's surge is curled,

Where strong Niagara's thunders wake the echo of the world;

Where red Missouri bringeth rich tribute from the west,

And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps on green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their cone-like cabins, that clustered o'er the vale,

Have fled away like withered leaves, before the autumn's gale;

But their memory liveth on your hills, their baptism on your shore,

Your everlasting rivers speak their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it upon her lordly crown,

And broad Ohio bears it amid his young renown;

Connecticut hath wreathed it where her quiet foliage waves,

And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse through all her ancient caves.

Wachusett hides its lingering voice within his rocky heart,

And Alleghany graves its tone throughout his lofty chart;

Monadnock on his forehead hoar doth seal the sacred trust;

Your mountains build their monument, though ye destroy their dust.

Ye call those red-browed brethren the insects of an hour,

Crushed like the noteless worm amid the regions of their power;

Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, ye break of faith the seal,

But can ye from the court of heaven exclude their last appeal?

Ye see their unresisting tribes, with toilsome steps and slow,

On through the trackless desert pass, a caravan of woe.

Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim?

Think ye the soul's blood may not cry from that far land to Him?

Lydia H. Sigourney.

---

More Cruel Than War

(During the Civil War, a Southern prisoner at Camp Chase in Ohio lay sick in the hospital. He

confided to a friend, Colonel Hawkins of Tennessee, that he was grieving because his fiancee,

a Nashville girl, had not written to him. The soldier died soon afterward, Colonel Hawkins

having promised to open and answer any mail that came for him. This poem is in reply to a

letter from his friend's fiancee, in which she curtly broke the engagement.)

Your letter, lady, came too late,

For heaven had claimed its own;

Ah, sudden change—from prison bars

Unto the great white throne;

And yet I think he would have stayed,

To live for his disdain,

Could he have read the careless words

Which you have sent in vain.

So full of patience did he wait,

Through many a weary hour,

That o'er his simple soldier-faith

Not even death had power;

And you—did others whisper low

Their homage in your ear,

As though among their shallow throng

His spirit had a peer?

I would that you were by me now,

To draw the sheet aside

And see how pure the look he wore

The moment when he died.

The sorrow that you gave to him

Had left its weary trace,

As 'twere the shadow of the cross

Upon his pallid face.

"Her love," he said, "could change for me

The winter's cold to spring."

Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love,

Thou art a bitter thing!

For when these valleys, bright in May,

Once more with blossoms wave,

The northern violets shall blow

Above his humble grave.

Your dole of scanty words had been

But one more pang to bear

For him who kissed unto the last

Your tress of golden hair;

I did not put it where he said,

For when the angels come,

I would not have them find the sign

Of falsehood in the tomb.

I've read your letter, and I know

The wiles that you have wrought

To win that trusting heart of his,

And gained it—cruel thought!

What lavish wealth men sometimes give

For what is worthless all!

What manly bosoms beat for them

In folly's falsest thrall!

You shall not pity him, for now

His sorrow has an end;

Yet would that you could stand with me

Beside my fallen friend!

And I forgive you for his sake,

As he—if he be forgiven—

May e'en be pleading grace for you

Before the court of Heaven.

To-night the cold winds whistle by,

As I my vigil keep

Within the prison dead-house, where

Few mourners come to weep.

A rude plank coffin holds his form;

Yet death exalts his face,

And I would rather see him thus

Than clasped in your embrace.

To-night your home may shine with light

And ring with merry song,

And you be smiling as your soul

Had done no deadly wrong;

Your hand so fair that none would think

It penned these words of pain;

Your skin so white—would God your heart

Were half as free from stain.

I'd rather be my comrade dead

Than you in life supreme;

For yours the sinner's waking dread,

And his the martyr's dream!

Whom serve we in this life we serve

In that which is to come;

He chose his way, you—yours; let God

Pronounce the fitting doom.

W.S. Hawkins.

---

Columbus

A harbor in a sunny, southern city;

Ships at their anchor, riding in the lee;

A little lad, with steadfast eyes, and dreamy,

Who ever watched the waters lovingly.

A group of sailors, quaintly garbed and bearded;

Strange tales, that snared the fancy of the child:

Of far-off lands, strange beasts, and birds, and people,

Of storm and sea-fight, danger-filled and wild.

And ever in the boyish soul was ringing

The urging, surging challenge of the sea,

To dare,—as these men dared, its wrath and danger,

To learn,—as they, its charm and mystery.

Columbus, by the sunny, southern harbor,

You dreamed the dreams that manhood years made true;

Thank God for men—their deeds have crowned the ages—

Who once were little dreamy lads like you.

Helen L. Smith.

---

The September Gale

I'm not a chicken; I have seen

Full many a chill September,

And though I was a youngster then,

That gale I well remember;

The day before, my kite-string snapped,

And I, my kite pursuing,

The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;—

For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do,

When married folks get clashing;

There was a heavy sigh or two,

Before the fire was flashing,—

A little stir among the clouds,

Before they rent asunder,—

A little rocking of the trees,

And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled,

And how the shingles rattled!

And oaks were scattered on the ground,

As if the Titans battled;

And all above was in a howl,

And all below a clatter,—

The earth was like a frying-pan.

Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,

And all our things were drying:

The storm came roaring through the lines,

And set them all a-flying;

I saw the shirts and petticoats

Go riding off like witches;

I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,—

I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air,

Alas! too late to win them;

I saw them chase the clouds, as if

The devil had been in them;

They were my darlings and my pride,

My boyhood's only riches,—

"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,—

"My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams,

How changed from what I knew them!

The dews had steeped their faded threads,

The winds had whistled through them!

I saw the wide and ghastly rents

Where demon claws had torn them;

A hole was in their amplest part,

As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years

And tailors kind and clever,

But those young pantaloons have gone

Forever and forever!

And not till fate has cut the last

Of all my earthly stitches,

This aching heart shall cease to mourn

My loved, my long-lost breeches!

O.W. Holmes

---

When My Ship Comes In

Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing,

Where the winds dance and spin;

Beyond the reach of my eager hailing,

Over the breakers' din;

Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting,

Out where the blinding fog is drifting,

Out where the treacherous sand is shifting,

My ship is coming in.

O, I have watched till my eyes were aching,

Day after weary day;

O, I have hoped till my heart was breaking

While the long nights ebbed away;

Could I but know where the waves had tossed her,

Could I but know what storms had crossed her,

Could I but know where the winds had lost her,

Out in the twilight gray!

But though the storms her course have altered,

Surely the port she'll win,

Never my faith in my ship has faltered,

I know she is coming in.

For through the restless ways of her roaming,

Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming,

Through the white crest of the billows combing,

My ship is coming in.

Beating the tides where the gulls are flying,

Swiftly she's coming in:

Shallows and deeps and rocks defying,

Bravely she's coming in.

Precious the love she will bring to bless me,

Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me,

In the proud purple of kings she will dress me—

My ship that is coming in.

White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming,

See, where my ship comes in;

At masthead and peak her colors streaming,

Proudly she's sailing in;

Love, hope and joy on her decks are cheering,

Music will welcome her glad appearing,

And my heart will sing at her stately nearing,

When my ship comes in.

Robert Jones Burdette.

---

Solitude

Laugh, and the world laughs with you,

Weep, and you weep alone;

For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,

But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer,

Sigh, it is lost on the air;

The echoes bound to a joyful sound,

But shirk from voicing care.

Rejoice and men will seek you;

Grieve, and they turn and go;

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;

Be sad, and you lose them all,

There are none to decline your nectar'd wine,

But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;

Fast, and the world goes by;

Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a large and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

Through the narrow aisle of pain.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

---

Sin of the Coppenter Man

The coppenter man said a wicked word,

When he hitted his thumb one day,

En I know what it was, because I heard,

En it's somethin' I dassent say.

He growed us a house with rooms inside it,

En the rooms is full of floors

It's my papa's house, en when he buyed it,

It was nothin' but just outdoors.

En they planted stones in a hole for seeds,

En that's how the house began,

But I guess the stones would have just growed weeds,

Except for the coppenter man.

En the coppenter man took a board and said

He'd skin it and make some curls,

En I hung 'em onto my ears en head,

En they make me look like girls.

En he squinted along one side, he did,

En he squinted the other side twice,

En then he told me, "You squint it, kid,"

'Cause the coppenter man's reel nice.

But the coppenter man said a wicked word,

When he hitted 'his thumb that day;

He said it out loud, too, 'cause I heard,

En it's something I dassent say.

En the coppenter man said it wasn't bad,

When you hitted your thumb, kerspat!

En there'd be no coppenter men to be had,

If it wasn't for words like that.

Edmund Vance Cooke.

---

The Bells of Ostend

No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end,

Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!

The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud,

And rung as it passed through each murmuring shroud.

My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray,

My heart sighed in secret for those far away;

When slowly the morning advanced from the east,

The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased;

The peal from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say,

"Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!"

Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain,

I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again;

I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave,

And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave;

I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned,

Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land.

But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air,

Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear,

And I never, till life and its shadows shall end,

Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!

W.L. Bowles.

---

You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave

With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread,

The flower laden ranks pass the gates of the dead;

And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests

Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom, on his breast.

Ended at last is the labor of love;

Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move—

A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief,

Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief;

Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child

Besought him in accents with grief rendered wild:

"Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave—

Why, why, did you pass by my dear papa's grave?

I know he was poor, but as kind and as true

As ever marched into the battle with you;

His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot,

You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not!

For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there,

And thought him too lowly your offerings to share.

He didn't die lowly—he poured his heart's blood

In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod

Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight—

And died shouting, 'Onward! for God and the right!'

O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave,

But you haven't put one on my papa's grave.

If mamma were here—but she lies by his side,

Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died!"

"Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief,

"This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief."

Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street,

He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate

The long line repasses, and many an eye

Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh.

"This way, it is—here, sir, right under this tree;

They lie close together, with just room for me."

"Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound;

A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground."

"Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay

The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day;

But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live,

'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give.

I shall see papa soon and dear mamma, too—

I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true;

And they will both bless you, I know, when I say

How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day;

How you cheered her sad heart and soothed it to rest,

And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast;

And when the kind angels shall call you to come

We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home

Where death never comes his black banners to wave,

And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave."

C.E.L. Holmes.

---

The Two Little Stockings

Two little stockings hung side by side,

Close to the fireside broad and wide.

"Two?" said Saint Nick, as down he came,

Loaded with toys and many a game.

"Ho, ho!" said he, with a laugh of fun,

"I'll have no cheating, my pretty one.

"I know who dwells in this house, my dear,

There's only one little girl lives here."

So he crept up close to the chimney place,

And measured a sock with a sober face;

Just then a wee little note fell out

And fluttered low, like a bird, about.

"Aha! What's this?" said he, in surprise,

As he pushed his specs up close to his eyes,

And read the address in a child's rough plan.

"Dear Saint Nicholas," so it began,

"The other stocking you see on the wall

I have hung up for a child named Clara Hall.

"She's a poor little girl, but very good,

So I thought, perhaps, you kindly would

Fill up her stocking, too, to-night,

And help to make her Christmas bright.

If you've not enough for both stockings there,

Please put all in Clara's, I shall not care."

Saint Nicholas brushed a tear from his eye,

And, "God bless you, darling," he said with a sigh;

Then softly he blew through the chimney high

A note like a bird's, as it soars on high,

When down came two of the funniest mortals

That ever were seen this side earth's portals.

"Hurry up," said Saint Nick, "and nicely prepare

All a little girl wants where money is rare."

Then, oh, what a scene there was in that room!

Away went the elves, but down from the gloom

Of the sooty old chimney came tumbling low

A child's whole wardrobe, from head to toe.

How Santa Clans laughed, as he gathered them in,

And fastened each one to the sock with a pin;

Right to the toe he hung a blue dress,—

"She'll think it came from the sky, I guess,"

Said Saint Nicholas, smoothing the folds of blue,

And tying the hood to the stocking, too.

When all the warm clothes were fastened on,

And both little socks were filled and done,

Then Santa Claus tucked a toy here and there,

And hurried away to the frosty air,

Saying, "God pity the poor, and bless the dear child

Who pities them, too, on this night so wild."

The wind caught the words and bore them on high

Till they died away in the midnight sky;

While Saint Nicholas flew through the icy air,

Bringing "peace and good will" with him everywhere.

Sara Keables Hunt.

---

I Have a Rendezvous with Death

I have a rendezvous with Death

At some disputed barricade,

When Spring comes back with rustling shade

And apple-blossoms fill the air—

I have a rendezvous with Death

When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand

And lead me into his dark land

And close my eyes and quench my breath—

It may be I shall pass him still.

I have a rendezvous with Death

On some scarred slope of battered hill,

When Spring comes round again this year

And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows't were better to be deep

Pillowed in silk and scented down,

Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,

Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath—

Where hushed awakenings are dear....

But I've a rendezvous with Death

At midnight in some flaming town,

When Spring trips north again this year,

And I to my pledged word am true,

I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Alan Seeger.

---

Let Us Be Kind

Let us be kind;

The way is long and lonely,

And human hearts are asking for this blessing only—

That we be kind.

We cannot know the grief that men may borrow,

We cannot see the souls storm-swept by sorrow,

But love can shine upon the way to-day, to-morrow—

Let us be kind.

Let us be kind;

This is a wealth that has no measure,

This is of Heaven and earth the highest treasure—

Let us be kind.

A tender word, a smile of love in meeting,

A song of hope and victory to those retreating,

A glimpse of God and brotherhood while life is fleeting—

Let us be kind.

Let us be kind;

Around the world the tears of time are falling,

And for the loved and lost these human hearts are calling—

Let us be kind.

To age and youth let gracious words be spoken;

Upon the wheel of pain so many lives are broken,

We live in vain who give no tender token—

Let us be kind.

Let us be kind;

The sunset tints will soon be in the west,

Too late the flowers are laid then on the quiet breast—

Let us be kind.

And when the angel guides have sought and found us,

Their hands shall link the broken ties of earth that bound us,

And Heaven and home shall brighten all around us—

Let us be kind.

W. Lomax Childress.

---

The Water Mill

Oh! listen to the water mill, through all the livelong day,

As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away;

How languidly the autumn wind does stir the withered leaves

As in the fields the reapers sing, while binding up their sheaves!

A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast,

"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main,

The sickle nevermore will reap the yellow garnered grain;

The rippling stream flows on—aye, tranquil, deep and still,

But never glideth back again to busy water mill;

The solemn proverb speaks to all with meaning deep and vast,

"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Ah! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true,

For golden years are fleeting by and youth is passing too;

Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day,

For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away;

Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast—

"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by,

Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh;

Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word,

Thoughts conceived, but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard.

Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast—

"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will,

The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water mill;

Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way,

For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase "to-day."

Possession, power and blooming health must all be lost at last—

"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Oh! love thy God and fellowman, thyself consider last,

For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past;

Soon will this fight of life be o'er and earth recede from view,

And heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and true.

Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast,

"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Sarah Doudney.

---

Why the Dog's Nose Is Always Cold

What makes the dog's nose always cold?

I'll try to tell you, Curls of Gold,

If you will good and quiet be,

And come and stand by mamma's knee.

Well, years and years and years ago—

How many I don't really know—

There came a rain on sea and shore,

Its like was never seen before

Or since. It fell unceasing down,

Till all the world began to drown;

But just before it began to pour,

An old, old man—his name was Noah—

Built him an Ark, that he might save

His family from a wat'ry grave;

And in it also he designed

To shelter two of every kind

Of beast. Well, dear, when it was done,

And heavy clouds obscured the sun,

The Noah folks to it quickly ran,

And then the animals began

To gravely march along in pairs;

The leopards, tigers, wolves and bears,

The deer, the hippopotamuses,

The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses,

The camels, goats, cats and donkeys,

The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys,

The rats, the big rhinoceroses,

The dromedaries and the horses,

The sheep, and mice and kangaroos,

Hyenas, elephants, koodoos,

And hundreds more-'twould take all day,

My dear, so many names to say—

And at the very, very end

Of the procession, by his friend

And master, faithful dog was seen;

The livelong time he'd helping been,

To drive the crowd of creatures in;

And now, with loud, exultant bark,

He gaily sprang abroad the Ark.

Alas! so crowded was the space

He could not in it find a place;

So, patiently, he turned about,

Stood half way in, half way out,

And those extremely heavy showers

Descended through nine hundred hours

And more; and, darling, at the close,

'Most frozen was his honest nose;

And never could it lose again

The dampness of that dreadful rain.

And that is what, my Curls of Gold,

Made all the doggies' noses cold.

---

The African Chief

Chained in the market-place he stood,

A man of giant frame,

Amid the gathering multitude

That shrunk to hear his name—

All stern of look and strong of limb,

His dark eye on the ground:—

And silently they gazed on him,

As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought,

He was a captive now,

Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,

Was written on his brow.

The scars his dark broad bosom wore

Showed warrior true and brave;

A prince among his tribe before,

He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake:

"My brother is a king;

Undo this necklace from my neck,

And take this bracelet ring,

And send me where my brother reigns,

And I will fill thy hands

With store of ivory from the plains,

And gold-dust from the sands."

"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold

Will I unbind thy chain;

That bloody hand shall never hold

The battle-spear again.

A price thy nation never gave

Shall yet be paid for thee;

For thou shalt be the Christian's slave,

In lands beyond the sea."

Then wept the warrior chief and bade

To shred his locks away;

And one by one, each heavy braid

Before the victor lay.

Thick were the platted locks, and long,

And deftly hidden there

Shone many a wedge of gold among

The dark and crispèd hair.

"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold

Long kept for sorest need:

Take it—thou askest sums untold,

And say that I am freed.

Take it—my wife, the long, long day

Weeps by the cocoa-tree,

And my young children leave their play,

And ask in vain for me."

"I take thy gold—but I have made

Thy fetters fast and strong,

And ween that by the cocoa shade

Thy wife will wait thee long,"

Strong was the agony that shook

The captive's frame to hear,

And the proud meaning of his look

Was changed to mortal fear.

His heart was broken—crazed his brain;

At once his eye grew wild;

He struggled fiercely with his chain,

Whispered, and wept, and smiled;

Yet wore not long those fatal bands,

And once, at shut of day,

They drew him forth upon the sands,

The foul hyena's prey.

William Cullen Bryant.

---

He Who Has Vision

Where there is no vision the people perish.—Prov. 29:17.

He who has the vision sees more than you or I;

He who lives the golden dream lives fourfold thereby;

Time may scoff and worlds may laugh, hosts assail his thought,

But the visionary came ere the builders wrought;

Ere the tower bestrode the dome, ere the dome the arch,

He, the dreamer of the dream, saw the vision march!

He who has the vision hears more than you may hear,

Unseen lips from unseen worlds are bent unto his ear;

From the hills beyond the clouds messages are borne,

Drifting on the dews of dream to his heart of morn;

Time awaits and ages stay till he wakes and shows

Glimpses of the larger life that his vision knows!

He who has the vision feels more than you may feel,

Joy beyond the narrow joy in whose realm we reel—

For he knows the stars are glad, dawn and middleday,

In the jocund tide that sweeps dark and dusk away,

He who has the vision lives round and all complete,

And through him alone we draw dews from combs of sweet.

Folger McKinsey.

---

The Children We Keep

The children kept coming one by one,

Till the boys were five and the girls were three.

And the big brown house was alive with fun,

From the basement floor to the old roof-tree,

Like garden flowers the little ones grew,

Nurtured and trained with tenderest care;

Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in dew,

They blossomed into beauty rare.

But one of the boys grew weary one day,

And leaning his head on his mother's breast,

He said, "I am tired and cannot play;

Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest."

She cradled him close to her fond embrace,

She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song,

And rapturous love still lightened his face

When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng.

Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes,

Who stood where the "brook and the river meet,"

Stole softly away into Paradise

E'er "the river" had reached her slender feet.

While the father's eyes on the graves were bent,

The mother looked upward beyond the skies:

"Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent;

Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise."

The years flew by, and the children began

With longings to think of the world outside,

And as each in turn became a man,

The boys proudly went from the father's side.

The girls were women so gentle and fair,

That lovers were speedy to woo and to win;

And with orange-blooms in their braided hair,

Their old home they left, new homes to begin.

So, one by one the children have gone—

The boys were five, the girls were three;

And the big brown house is gloomy and alone,

With but two old folks for its company.

They talk to each other about the past,

As they sit together at eventide,

And say, "All the children we keep at last

Are the boy and girl who in childhood died."

Mrs. E.V. Wilson.

---

The Stranger on the Sill

Between broad fields of wheat and corn

Is the lowly home where I was born;

The peach-tree leans against the wall,

And the woodbine wanders over all;

There is the shaded doorway still,—

But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn—and, as of yore,

I can smell the hay from the open door,

And see the busy swallows throng,

And hear the pewee's mournful song;

But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof—

His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

There is the orchard—the very trees

Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,

And watched the shadowy moments run

Till my life imbibed more shade than sun:

The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,—

But the stranger's children are swinging there.

There bubbles the shady spring below,

With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;

'Twas there I found the calamus root,

And watched the minnows poise and shoot,

And heard the robin lave his wing:—

But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.

Oh, ye who daily cross the sill,

Step lightly, for I love it still!

And when you crowd the old barn eaves,

Then think what countless harvest sheaves

Have passed within' that scented door

To gladden eyes that are no more.

Deal kindly with these orchard trees;

And when your children crowd your knees,

Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,

As if old memories stirred their heart:

To youthful sport still leave the swing,

And in sweet reverence hold the spring.

Thomas Buchanan Read.

---

The Old Man In the Model Church

Well, wife, I've found the model church! I worshiped there to-day!

It made me think of good old times before my hair was gray;

The meetin'-house was fixed up more than they were years ago.

But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show.

The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door;

He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor;

He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through

The long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew.

I wish you'd heard that singin'; it had the old-time ring;

The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!"

The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled,

Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.

My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire;

I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir,

And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall,

Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all."

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more;

I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore;

I almost wanted to lay down this weatherbeaten form,

And anchor in that blessed port forever from the storm.

The preachin'? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said;

I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read;

He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye

Went flashin' long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by.

The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth;

It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth;

'Twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed;

'Twas full of invitations, to Christ and not to creed.

The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews;

He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews;

And—though I can't see very well—I saw the falling tear

That told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near.

How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place!

How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face!

Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend—

"When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths have no end."

I hope to meet that minister—that congregation, too—

In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue;

I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray,

The happy hour of worship in that model church today.

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought; the vict'ry soon be won;

The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run;

O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore,

To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.

John H. Yates.

---

The Volunteer Organist

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

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

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

An' doodes 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer.

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

"Our organist is kept' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz,

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

Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"

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

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

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

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

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

"This man perfanes the house of God! W'y, this is sacrilege!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!!"

An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears,

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

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

Uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' Mother, an' all that!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day,

W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let up pray."

Sam Walter Foss.

---

The Finding of the Lyre

There lay upon the ocean's shore

What once a tortoise served to cover;

A year and more, with rush and roar,

The surf had rolled it over,

Had played with it, and flung it by,

As wind and weather might decide it,

Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry

Cheap burial might provide it.

It rested there to bleach or tan,

The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it;

With many a ban the fisherman

Had stumbled o'er and spurned it;

And there the fisher-girl would stay,

Conjecturing with her brother

How in their play the poor estray

Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry,

As empty as the last new sonnet,

Till by and by came Mercury,

And, having mused upon it,

"Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things

In shape, material, and dimension!

Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings,

A wonderful invention!"

So said, so done; the chords he strained,

And, as his fingers o'er them hovered,

The shell disdained a soul had gained,

The lyre had been discovered.

O empty world that round us lies,

Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,

Brought we but eyes like Mercury's,

In thee what songs should waken!

James Russel Lowell.

---

The High Tide (1571)

(Or "The Brides of Enderby")

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,

The ringers rang by two, by three;

"Pull, if ye never pulled before;

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.

"Play uppe, play uppe O Boston bells!

Play all your changes, all your swells,

Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

Men say it was a stolen tyde—

The Lord that sent it, He knows all;

But in myne ears doth still abide

The message that the bells let fall:

And there was naught of strange, beside

The flight of mews ans peewits pied

By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

I sat and spun within the doore,

My thread break off, I raised myne eyes;

The level sun, like ruddy ore,

Lay sinking in the barren skies,

And dark against day's golden death

She moved where Lindis wandereth,

My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along;

Ere the early dews were falling,

Farre away I heard her song.

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along;

Where the reedy Lindis floweth,

Floweth, floweth,

From the meads where melick groweth

Faintly came her milking song:

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,

"For the dews will soone be falling;

Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,

Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,

From the clovers lift your head;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,

Jetty, to the milking shed."

If it be long, ay, long ago,

When I beginne to think howe long,

Againe I hear the Lindis flow,

Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong;

And all the aire, it seemeth mee,

Bin full of floating bells (sayeth she),

That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay,

And not a shadowe mote be seene,

Save where full fyve good miles away

The steeple towered from out the greene;

And lo! the great bell farre and wide

Was heard in all the country side

That Saturday at eventide.

The swanherds where there sedges are

Moved on in sunset's golden breath,

The shepherde lads I heard affare,

And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;

Till floating o'er the grassy sea

Came down that kindly message free,

The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."

Then some looked uppe into the sky,

And all along where Lindis flows

To where the goodly vessels lie,

And where the lordly steeple shows,

They sayde, "And why should this thing be?

What danger lowers by land or sea?

They ring the tune of Enderby!

"For evil news from Mablethorpe,

Of pyrate galleys warping downe;

For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,

They have not spared to wake the towne;

But while the west bin red to see,

And storms be none, and pyrates flee,

Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"

I looked without, and lo! my sonne

Came riding down with might and main:

He raised a shout as he drew on,

Till all the welkin rang again,

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath

Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The old sea wall (he cried) is downe,

The rising tide comes on apace,

And boats adrift in yonder towne

Go sailing uppe the market-place."

He shook as one that looks on death:

"God save you, mother!" straight he saith,

"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away,

With her two bairns I marked her long;

And ere yon bells beganne to play

Afar I heard her milking song."

He looked across the grassy lea,

To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!"

They rang "The Brides of Enderby"!

With that he cried and beat his breast;

For, lo! along the river's bed

A mighty eygre reared his crest,

And uppe the Lindis raging sped.

It swept with thunderous noises loud;

Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,

Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed,

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine,

Then madly at the eygre's breast

Flung uppe her weltering walls again.

Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout—

Then beaten foam flew round about—

Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave,

The heart had hardly time to beat,

Before a shallow seething wave

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet.

The feet had hardly time to flee

Before it brake against the knee,

And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sat that night,

The noise of bells went sweeping by;

I marked the lofty beacon light

Stream from the church tower, red and high,—

A lurid mark and dread to see;

And awesome bells they were to mee,

That in the dark rang "Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;

And I—my sonne was at my side,

And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;

And yet he moaned beneath his breath,

"Oh, come in life, or come in death!

Oh, lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare;

The waters laid thee at his doore,

Ere yet the early dawn was clear;

Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,

The lifted sun shone on thy face,

Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and me:

But each will mourn his own (she saith),

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath

Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more

By the reedy Lindis shore,

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling

Ere the early dews be falling;

I shall never hear her song,

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along,

Where the sunny Lindis floweth,

Goeth, floweth;

From the meads where melick groweth,

When the water winding down,

Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more

Where the reeds and rushes quiver,

Shiver, quiver;

Stand beside the sobbing river,

Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling

To the sandy lonesome shore;

I shall never hear her calling,

"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;

Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;

Lightfoot, Whitefoot,

From your clovers lift the head;

Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,

Jetty, to the milking-shed."

Jean Ingelow.

---

September Days

O month of fairer, rarer days

Than Summer's best have been;

When skies at noon are burnished blue,

And winds at evening keen;

When tangled, tardy-blooming things

From wild waste places peer,

And drooping golden grain-heads tell

That harvest-time is near.

Though Autumn tints amid the green

Are gleaming, here and there,

And spicy Autumn odors float

Like incense on the air,

And sounds we mark as Autumn's own

Her nearing steps betray,

In gracious mood she seems to stand

And bid the Summer stay.

Though 'neath the trees, with fallen leaves

The sward be lightly strown,

And nests deserted tell the tale

Of summer bird-folk flown;

Though white with frost the lowlands lie

When lifts the morning haze,

Still there's a charm in every hour

Of sweet September days.

Helen L. Smith

---

The New Year

Who comes dancing over the snow,

His soft little feet all bare and rosy?

Open the door, though the wild wind blow,

Take the child in and make him cozy,

Take him in and hold him dear,

Here is the wonderful glad New Year.

Dinah M. Craik

---

An "If" For Girls

(With apologies to Mr. Rudyard Kipling.)

If you can dress to make yourself attractive,

Yet not make puffs and curls your chief delight;

If you can swim and row, be strong and active,

But of the gentler graces lose not sight;

If you can dance without a craze for dancing,

Play without giving play too strong a hold,

Enjoy the love of friends without romancing,

Care for the weak, the friendless and the old;

If you can master French and Greek and Latin,

And not acquire, as well, a priggish mien,

If you can feel the touch of silk and satin

Without despising calico and jean;

If you can ply a saw and use a hammer,

Can do a man's work when the need occurs,

Can sing when asked, without excuse or stammer,

Can rise above unfriendly snubs and slurs;

If you can make good bread as well as fudges,

Can sew with skill and have an eye for dust,

If you can be a friend and hold no grudges,

A girl whom all will love because they must;

If sometime you should meet and love another

And make a home with faith and peace enshrined,

And you its soul—a loyal wife and mother—

You'll work out pretty nearly to my mind

The plan that's been developed through the ages,

And win the best that life can have in store,

You'll be, my girl, the model for the sages—

A woman whom the world will bow before.

Elizabeth Lincoln Otis.

---

Boy and Girl of Plymouth

Little lass of Plymouth,—gentle, shy, and sweet;

Primly, trimly tripping down the queer old street;

Homespun frock and apron, clumsy buckled shoe;

Skirts that reach your ankles, just as Mother's do;

Bonnet closely clinging over braid and curl;

Modest little maiden,—Plymouth's Pilgrim girl!

Little lad of Plymouth, stanchly trudging by;

Strong your frame, and sturdy; kind and keen your eye;

Clad in belted doublet, buckles at your knee;

Every garment fashioned as a man's might be;

Shoulder-cloak and breeches, hat with bell-shaped crown;

Manly little Pilgrim,—boy of Plymouth town!

Boy and girl of Plymouth, brave and blithe, and true;

Finer task than yours was, children never knew;

Sharing toil and hardship in the strange, new land;

Hope, and help, and promise of the weary band;

Grave the life around you, scant its meed of joy;

Yours to make it brighter,—Pilgrim girl and boy!

Helen L. Smith.

---

Work: A Song of Triumph

Work!

Thank God for the might of it,

The ardor, the urge, the delight of it,

Work that springs from the heart's desire,

Setting the brain and the soul on fire—

Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,

And what is so glad as the beat of it,

And what is so kind as the stern command,

Challenging brain and heart and hand?

Work!

Thank God for the pride of it,

For the beautiful, conquering tide of it,

Sweeping the life in its furious flood,

Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood,

Mastering stupor and dull despair,

Moving the dreamer to do and dare—

Oh, what is so good as the urge of it,

And what is so glad as the surge of it,

And what is so strong as the summons deep,

Rousing the torpid soul from sleep?

Work!

Thank God for the pace of it,

For the terrible, swift, keen race of it,

Fiery steeds in full control,

Nostrils a-quiver to reach the goal.

Work, the power that drives behind,

Guiding the purposes, taming the mind,

Holding the runaway wishes back,

Reining the will to one steady track,

Speeding the energies, faster, faster,

Triumphing ever over disaster;

Oh, what is so good as the pain of it,

And what is so great as the gain of it,

And what is so kind as the cruel goad,

Forcing us on through the rugged road?

Work!

Thank God for the swing of it,

For the clamoring, hammering ring of it,

Passion of labor daily hurled

On the mighty anvils of the world.

Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it?

And what is so huge as the aim of it?

Thundering on through dearth and doubt,

Calling the plan of the Maker out,

Work, the Titan; Work, the friend,

Shaping the earth to a glorious end,

Draining the swamps and blasting hills,

Doing whatever the Spirit wills—

Rending a continent apart,

To answer the dream of the Master heart.

Thank God for a world where none may shirk—

Thank God for the splendor of Work!

Angela Morgan.

---

Reply to "A Woman's Question"

("A Woman's Question" is given on page 129 of Book I, "Poems Teachers Ask For.")

You say I have asked for the costliest thing

Ever made by the Hand above—

A woman's heart and a woman's life,

And a woman's wonderful love.

That I have written your duty out,

And, man-like, have questioned free—

You demand that I stand at the bar of your soul,

While you in turn question me.

And when I ask you to be my wife,

The head of my house and home,

Whose path I would scatter with sunshine through life,

Thy shield when sorrow shall come—

You reply with disdain and a curl of the lip,

And point to my coat's missing button,

And haughtily ask if I want a cook,

To serve up my beef and my mutton.

'Tis a king that you look for. Well, I am not he,

But only a plain, earnest man,

Whose feet often shun the hard path they should tread,

Often shrink from the gulf they should span.

'Tis hard to believe that the rose will fade

From the cheek so full, so fair;

'Twere harder to think that a heart proud and cold

Was ever reflected there.

True, the rose will fade, and the leaves will fall,

And the Autumn of life will come;

But the heart that I give thee will be true as in May,

Should I make it thy shelter, thy home.

Thou requir'st "all things that are good and true;

All things that a man should be";

Ah! lady, my truth, in return, doubt not,

For the rest, I leave it to thee.

Nettie H. Pelham.

---

The Romance of Nick Van Stann

I cannot vouch my tale is true,

Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new;

But true or false, or new or old,

I think you'll find it fairly told.

A Frenchman, who had ne'er before

Set foot upon a foreign shore,

Weary of home, resolved to go

And see what Holland had to show.

He didn't know a word of Dutch,

But that could hardly grieve him much;

He thought, as Frenchmen always do,

That all the world could "parley-voo."

At length our eager tourist stands

Within the famous Netherlands,

And, strolling gaily here and there,

In search of something rich or rare,

A lordly mansion greets his eyes;

"How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries,

And, bowing to the man who sate

In livery at the garden gate,

"Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please,

Whose very charming grounds are these?

And, pardon me, be pleased to tell

Who in this splendid house may dwell."

To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man

Replied what seemed like "[Nick Van Stann],"

"Thanks!" said the Gaul; "the owner's taste

Is equally superb and chaste;

So fine a house, upon my word,

Not even Paris can afford.

With statues, too, in every niche;

Of course Monsieur Van Stann is rich,

And lives, I warrant, like a king,—

Ah! wealth mast be a charming thing!"

In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets

A thousand wonders in the streets,

But most he marvels to behold

A lady dressed in silk and gold;

Gazing with rapture on the dame,

He begs to know the lady's name,

And hears, to raise his wonders more,

The very words he heard before!

"Mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life,

Milord has got a charming wife;

'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann

Must be a very happy man."

Next day our tourist chanced to pop

His head within a lottery shop,

And there he saw, with staring eyes,

The drawing of the mammoth prize.

"Ten millions! 'tis a pretty sum;

I wish I had as much at home:

I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner,

What lucky fellow is the winner?"

Conceive our traveler's amaze

To hear again the hackneyed phrase.

"What? no! not Nick Van Stann again?

Faith! he's the luckiest of men.

You may be sure we don't advance

So rapidly as that in France:

A house, the finest in the land;

A lovely garden, nicely planned;

A perfect angel of a wife,

And gold enough to last a life;

There never yet was mortal man

So blest—as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!"

Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet

A pompous funeral in the street;

And, asking one who stood close by

What nobleman had pleased to die,

Was stunned to hear the old reply.

The Frenchman sighed and shook his head,

"Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead;

With such a house, and such a wife,

It must be hard to part with life;

And then, to lose that mammoth prize,—

He wins, and, pop,—the winner dies!

Ah, well! his blessings came so fast,

I greatly feared they could not last:

And thus, we see, the sword of Fate

Cuts down alike the small and great."

John G. Saxe.

Nicht verstehen:—"I don't understand."

---

Armageddon

Marching down to Armageddon—

Brothers, stout and strong!

Let us cheer the way we tread on,

With a soldier's song!

Faint we by the weary road,

Or fall we in the rout,

Dirge or Pæan, Death or Triumph!—

Let the song ring out!

We are they who scorn the scorners—

Love the lovers—hate

None within the world's four corners—

All must share one fate;

We are they whose common banner

Bears no badge nor sign,

Save the Light which dyes it white—

The Hope that makes it shine.

We are they whose bugle rings,

That all the wars may cease;

We are they will pay the Kings

Their cruel price for Peace;

We are they whose steadfast watchword

Is what Christ did teach—

"Each man for his Brother first—

And Heaven, then, for each."

We are they who will not falter—

Many swords or few—

Till we make this Earth the altar

Of a worship new;

We are they who will not take

From palace, priest or code,

A meaner Law than "Brotherhood"—

A lower Lord than God.

Marching down to Armageddon—

Brothers, stout and strong!

Ask not why the way we tread on

Is so rough and long!

God will tell us when our spirits

Grow to grasp His plan!

Let us do our part to-day—

And help Him, helping Man!

Shall we even curse the madness

Which for "ends of State"

Dooms us to the long, long sadness

Of this human hate?

Let us slay in perfect pity

Those that must not live;

Vanquish, and forgive our foes—

Or fall—and still forgive!

We are those whose unpaid legions,

In free ranks arrayed,

Massacred in many regions—

Never once were stayed:

We are they whose torn battalions,

Trained to bleed, not fly,

Make our agonies a triumph,—

Conquer, while we die!

Therefore, down to Armageddon—

Brothers, bold and strong;

Cheer the glorious way we tread on,

With this soldier song!

Let the armies of the old Flags

March in silent dread!

Death and Life are one to us,

Who fight for Quick and Dead!

Edwin Arnold.

---

Picciola

It was a sergeant old and gray,

Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage.

Went tramping in an army's wake

Along the turnpike of the village.

For days and nights the winding host

Had through the little place been marching,

And ever loud the rustics cheered,

Till every throat was hoarse and parching.

The squire and farmer, maid and dame,

All took the sight's electric stirring,

And hats were waved and staves were sung,

And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.

They only saw a gallant show

Of heroes stalwart under banners,

And, in the fierce heroic glow,

'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas.

The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs,

Where he behind in step was keeping;

But, glancing down beside the road,

He saw a little maid sit weeping.

"And how is this?" he gruffly said,

A moment pausing to regard her;—

"Why weepest thou, my little chit?"

And then she only cried the harder.

"And how is this, my little chit?"

The sturdy trooper straight repeated,

"When all the village cheers us on,

That you, in tears, apart are seated?

"We march two hundred thousand strong,

And that's a sight, my baby beauty,

To quicken silence into song

And glorify the soldier's duty."

"It's very, very grand, I know,"

The little maid gave soft replying;

"And father, mother, brother too,

All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying;

"But think, oh, Mr. Soldier, think,

How many little sisters' brothers

Are going all away to fight,

And may be killed, as well as others!"

"Why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said,

His brawny hand her curls caressing,

"'Tis left for little ones like thee

To find that war's not all a blessing."

And "Bless thee!" once again he cried,

Then cleared his throat and looked indignant

And marched away with wrinkled brow

To stop the struggling tear benignant.

And still the ringing shouts went up

From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage;

The pall behind the standard seen

By one alone of all the village.

The oak and cedar bend and writhe

When roars the wind through gap and braken;

But 'tis the tenderest reed of all

That trembles first when Earth is shaken.

Robert Henry Newell.

---

The King's Ring

Once in Persia reigned a king

Who upon his signet ring

Graved a maxim true and wise

Which, if held before his eyes,

Gave him counsel at a glance

Fit for every change and chance.

Solemn words; and these are they:

"Even this shall pass away."

Trains of camels through the sand

Brought him gems from Samarcand,

Fleets of galleys through the seas

Brought him pearls to match with these;

But he counted not his gain—

Treasurer of the mine and main,

"What is wealth?" the king would say;

"Even this shall pass away."

In the revels of his court

At the zenith of the sport,

When the palms of all his guests

Burned with clapping at his jests,

He, amid his figs and wine,

Cried: "O loving friends of mine!

Pleasures come, but not to stay,

Even this shall pass away."

Fighting on a furious field

Once a javelin pierced his shield;

Soldiers with loud lament

Bore him bleeding to his tent,

Groaning with his tortured side.

"Pain is hard to bear," he cried;

"But with patience day by day,

Even this shall pass away."

Struck with palsy, sere and old,

Waiting at the gates of gold,

Spake he with his dying breath:

"Life is done, but what is death?"

Then, in answer to the king,

Fell a sunbeam on his ring,

Showing by a heavenly ray:

"Even this shall pass away."

Theodore Tilton.

---

Leaving the Homestead

You're going to leave the homestead, John,

You're twenty-one to-day:

And very sorry am I, John,

To see you go away.

You've labored late and early, John,

And done the best you could;

I ain't going to stop you, John,

I wouldn't if I could.

Yet something of your feelings, John,

I s'pose I'd ought to know,

Though many a day has passed away—

'Twas forty years ago—

When hope was high within me, John,

And life lay all before,

That I, with strong and measured stroke,

"Cut loose" and pulled from shore.

The years they come and go, my boy,

The years they come and go;

And raven locks and tresses brown

Grow white as driven snow.

My life has known its sorrows, John,

Its trials and troubles sore;

Yet God withal has blessed me, John,

"In basket and in store."

But one thing let me tell you, John,

Before you make a start,

There's more in being honest, John,

Twice o'er than being smart.

Though rogues may seem to flourish, John,

And sterling worth to fail,

Oh! keep in view the good and true;

'Twill in the end prevail.

Don't think too much of money, John,

And dig and delve and plan,

And rake and scrape in every shape,

To hoard up all you can.

Though fools may count their riches, John,

In dollars and in cents,

The best of wealth is youth and health,

And good sound common sense.

And don't be mean and stingy, John,

But lay a little by

Of what you earn; you soon will learn

How fast 'twill multiply.

So when old age comes creeping on,

You'll have a goodly store

Of wealth to furnish all your needs—

And maybe something more.

There's shorter cuts to fortune, John,

We see them every day;

But those who save their self-respect

Climb up the good old way.

"All is not gold that glitters," John,

And makes the vulgar stare,

And those we deem the richest, John,

Have oft the least to spare.

Don't meddle with your neighbors, John,

Their sorrows or their cares;

You'll find enough to do, my boy,

To mind your own affairs.

The world is full of idle tongues—

You can afford to shirk!

There's lots of people ready, John,

To do such dirty work.

And if amid the race for fame

You win a shining prize,

The humbler work of honest men

You never should despise;

For each one has his mission, John,

In life's unchanging plan—

Though lowly be his station, John,

He is no less a man.

Be good, be pure, be noble, John;

Be honest, brave, be true;

And do to others as you would

That they should do to you;

And put your trust in God, my boy,

Though fiery darts be hurled;

Then you can smile at Satan's rage,

And face a frowning world.

Good-by! May Heaven guard and bless

Your footsteps day by day;

The old house will be lonesome, John,

When you are gone away.

The cricket's song upon the hearth

Will have a sadder tone;

The old familiar spots will be

So lonely when you're gone.

---

Bernardo Del Carpio

King Alphonso of Asturias had imprisoned the Count Saldana, about the time of the birth of the

Count's son Bernardo. In an effort to secure his father's release, Bernardo, when old enough,

took up arms. Finally the King offered Bernardo possession of his father's person, in exchange

for the Castle of Carpio and all the King's subjects there imprisoned. The cruel trick played

by the King on Bernardo is here described.

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,

And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire;

"I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train,

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—oh break my father's chain!"

"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day;

Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way."

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,

And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band,

With one that midst them stately rode, as leader in the land:

"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he,

The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went;

He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent;

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took—

What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold,—a frozen thing,—it dropped from his like lead!

He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the dead!

A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fixed and white,

He met, at last, his father's eyes, but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed, but who could paint that gaze?

They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze.

They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood,

For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then;

Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!

He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown;

He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow:

"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now;

My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father—oh, the worth,

The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!

I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet!

I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met!

Thou wouldst have known my spirit then;—for thee my fields were won;

And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,

Amidst the pale and 'wildered looks of all the courtier train;

And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,

And sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead:

"Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?

Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this?

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they?

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!

Into these glassy eyes put light; be still! keep down thine ire;

Bid these white lips a blessing speak, this earth is not my sire.

Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed!

Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head."

He loosed the steed—his slack hand fell; upon the silent face

He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place.

His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain;

His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain.

Felicia Hemans.

---

Mizpah

Go thou thy way, and I go mine,

Apart—but not afar.

Only a thin veil hangs between

The pathways where we are,

And God keep watch 'tween thee and me

This is my prayer.

He looks thy way—He looketh mine

And keeps us near.

I know not where thy road may lie

Nor which way mine will be,

If thine will lead through parching sands

And mine beside the sea.

Yet God keeps watch 'tween thee and me,

So never fear.

He holds thy hand—He claspeth mine

And keeps us near.

Should wealth and fame perchance be thine

And my lot lowly be,

Or you be sad and sorrowful

And glory be for me,

Yet God keep watch 'tween thee and me,

Both are his care.

One arm round me and one round thee

Will keep us near.

I sigh sometimes to see thy face

But since this may not be

I leave thee to the love of Him

Who cares for thee and me.

"I'll keep ye both beneath My wings,"

This comforts—dear.

One wing o'er thee—and one o'er me,

So we are near.

And though our paths be separate

And thy way be not mine—

Yet coming to the mercy seat

My soul shall meet with thine.

And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me"

I'll whisper there.

He blesses me—He blesses thee

And we are near.

---

God

O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright

All space doth occupy, all motion guide—

Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight!

Thou only God—there is no God beside!

Being above all beings! Mighty One,

Whom none can comprehend and none explore,

Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone—

Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er,—

Being whom we call God, and know no more!

In its sublime research, philosophy

May measure out the ocean-deep—may count

The sands or the sun's rays—but, God! for Thee

There is no weight nor measure; none can mount

Up to thy mysteries:* Reason's brightest spark,

Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try

To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark:

And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high,

Even like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call

First chaos, then existence—Lord! in Thee

Eternity had its foundation; all

Sprung forth from Thee—of light, joy, harmony,

Sole Origin—all life, all beauty Thine;

Thy word created all, and doth create;

Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine;

Thou art and wert and shalt be! Glorious! Great!

Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround—

Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath!

Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,

And beautifully mingled life and death!

As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze,

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee;

And as the spangles in the sunny rays

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry

Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.

A million torches, lighted by Thy hand,

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss—

They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command,

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.

What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light—

A glorious company of golden streams—

Lamps of celestial ether burning bright—

Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?

But Thou to these art as the noon to night.

Yes! as a drop of water in the sea,

All this magnificence in Thee is lost:—

What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee?

And what am I then?—Heaven's unnumbered host,

Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed

In all the glory of sublimest thought,

Is but an atom in the balance, weighed

Against Thy greatness—is a cipher brought

Against infinity! What am I then? Naught!

Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine,

Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too;

Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.

Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly

Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee

I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high,

Even to the throne of Thy divinity.

I am, O God! and surely Thou must be!

Thou art!—directing, guiding all—Thou art!

Direct my understanding then to Thee;

Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart;

Though but an atom midst immensity,

Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand!

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth—

On the last verge of mortal being stand.

Close to the realm where angels have their birth,

Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land!

The chain of being is complete in me—

In me is matter's last gradation lost,

And the next step is spirit—Deity!

I can command the lightning, and am dust!

A monarch and a slave—a worm, a god!

Whence came I here, and how? so marvelously

Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod

Lives surely through some higher energy;

For from itself alone it could not be!

Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word

Created me! Thou source of life and good!

Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord!

Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude

Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring

Over the abyss of death; and bade it wear

The garments of eternal day, and wing

Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere,

Even to its source—to Thee—its Author there.

O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest!

Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee,

Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast.

And waft its homage to Thy Deity.

God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar,

Thus seek thy presence—Being wise and good!

Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore;

And when the tongue is eloquent no more

The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.

Gabriel Somanovitch Derzhavin.

---

Casabianca

The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but him had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck

Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though childlike form.

The flames roll'd on—he would not go

Without his father's word;

That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud: "Say, father, say

If yet my task is done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,

"If I may yet be gone!"

And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair;

And looked from that lone post of death

In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

"My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound—

The boy—oh! where was he?

Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea!

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part—

But the noblest thing that perished there

Was that young, faithful heart.

Felicia Hemans.

---

Monterey

We were not many,—we who stood

Before the iron sleet that day;

Yet many a gallant spirit would

Give half his years if he but could

Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed

In deadly drifts of fiery spray,

Yet not a single soldier quailed

When wounded comrades round them wailed

Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on, still on our column kept,

Through walls of flame, its withering way;

Where fell the dead, the living stept,

Still charging on the guns which swept

The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast,

When, striking where he strongest lay,

We swooped his flanking batteries past,

And braving full their murderous blast,

Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave,

And there our evening bugles play;

Where orange boughs above their grave

Keep green the memory of the brave

Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many, we who pressed

Beside the brave who fell that day;

But who of us has not confessed

He'd rather share their warrior rest,

Than not have been at Monterey?

Charles Fenno Hoffman.

---

The Teacher's "If"

If you can take your dreams into the classroom,

And always make them part of each day's work—

If you can face the countless petty problems

Nor turn from them nor ever try to shirk—

If you can live so that the child you work with

Deep in his heart knows you to be a man—

If you can take "I can't" from out his language

And put in place a vigorous "I can"—

If you can take Love with you to the classroom,

And yet on Firmness never shut the door—

If you can teach a child the love of Nature

So that he helps himself to all her store—

If you can teach him life is what we make it,

That he himself can be his only bar—

If you can tell him something of the heavens,

Or something of the wonder of a star—

If you, with simple bits of truth and honor,

His better self occasionally reach—

And yet not overdo nor have him dub you

As one who is inclined to ever preach—

If you impart to him a bit of liking

For all the wondrous things we find in print—

Yet have him understand that to be happy,

Play, exercise, fresh air he must not stint—

If you can give of all the best that's in you,

And in the giving always happy be—

If you can find the good that's hidden somewhere

Deep in the heart of every child you see—

If you can do these things and all the others

That teachers everywhere do every day—

You're in the work that you were surely meant for;

Take hold of it! Know it's your place and stay!

R.J. Gale.

---

The Good Shepherd

There were ninety and nine

Of a flock, sleek and fine

In a sheltering cote in the vale;

But a lamb was away,

On the mountain astray,

Unprotected within the safe pale.

Then the sleet and the rain

On the mountain and plain,

And the wind fiercely blowing a gale,

And the night's growing dark,

And the wolf's hungry bark

Stir the soul of the shepherd so hale.

And he says, "Hireling, go;

For a lamb's in the snow

And exposed to the wild hungry beast;

'Tis no time to keep seat,

Nor to rest weary feet,

Nor to sit at a bounteous feast."

Then the hireling replied,

"Here you have at your side

All your flock save this one little sheep.

Are the ninety and nine,

All so safe and so fine,

Not enough for the shepherd to keep?"

Then the shepherd replied,

"Ah! this lamb from my side

Presses near, very near, to my heart.

Not its value in pay

Makes me urge in this way,

But the longings and achings of heart."

"Let me wait till the day,

O good shepherd, I pray;

For I shudder to go in the dark

On the mountain so high

And its precipice nigh

'Mong the wolves with their frightening bark."

Then the shepherd said, "No;

Surely some one must go

Who can rescue my lamb from the cold,

From the wolf's hungry maw

And the lion's fierce paw

And restore it again to the fold."

Then the shepherd goes out

With his cloak girt about

And his rod and his staff in his hand.

What cares he for the cold

If his sheep to the fold

He can bring from the dark mountain land?

You can hear his clear voice

As the mountains rejoice,

"Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"

Up the hillside so steep,

Into caverns so deep,

"Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"

Now he hears its weak "baa,"

And he answers it, "Ah!

Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"

Then its answering bleat

Hurries on his glad feet,

And his arms gather up his lost sheep.

Wet and cold on his breast

The lost lamb found its rest

As he bore it adown to the fold.

And the ninety and nine

Bleat for joy down the line,

That it's safe from the wolf and the cold.

Then he said to his friends,

"Now let joy make amends

For the steeps and the deeps I have crossed—

For the pelting of sleet

And my sore, weary feet,

For I've found the dear lamb that was lost."

Let the hirelings upbraid

For the nights that He stayed

On the mountains so rugged and high.

Surely never a jeer

From my lips shall one hear,

For—that poor lonely lambkin—was—I.

While the eons shall roll

O'er my glad ransomed soul

I will praise the Good Shepherd above,

For a place on His breast,

For its comfort and rest,

For His wonderful, wonderful love.

D. N. Howe.

---

A Sermon in Rhyme

If you have a friend worth loving,

Love him. Yes, and let him know

That you love him ere life's evening

Tinge his brow with sunset glow;

Why should good words ne'er be said

Of a friend—till he is dead?

If you hear a song that thrills you,

Sung by any child of song,

Praise it. Do not let the singer

Wait deserved praises long;

Why should one that thrills your heart

Lack that joy it may impart?

If you hear a prayer that moves you

By its humble pleading tone,

Join it. Do not let the seeker

Bow before his God alone;

Why should not your brother share

The strength of "two or three" in prayer?

If you see the hot tears falling

From a loving brother's eyes,

Share them, and by sharing,

Own your kinship with the skies;

Why should anyone be glad,

When his brother's heart is sad?

If a silver laugh goes rippling

Through the sunshine on his face,

Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying,

For both grief and joy a place;

There's health and goodness in the mirth

In which an honest laugh has birth.

If your work is made more easy

By a friendly helping hand,

Say so. Speak out brave and truly,

Ere the darkness veil the land.

Should a brother workman dear

Falter for a word of cheer?

Scatter thus your seed of kindness,

All enriching as you go—

Leave them, trust the Harvest-Giver;

He will make each seed to grow.

So, until its happy end,

Your life shall never lack a friend.

---

The Fortunate Isles

You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles,

The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's song?

Then steer right on through the watery miles,

Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong.

Nay, not to the left, nay, not to the right;

But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight,

The Fortunate Isles, where the yellow birds sing

And life lies girt with a golden ring.

These Fortunate Isles, they are not far;

They lie within reach of the lowliest door;

You can see them gleam by the twilight star;

You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore,

Nay, never look back! Those leveled gravestones,

They were landing steps; they were steps unto thrones

Of glory for souls that have sailed before

And have set white feet on the fortunate shore.

And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles?

Why, Duty and Love and a large content.

Lo! there are the isles of the watery miles

That God let down from the firmament;

Lo! Duty and Love, and a true man's trust;

Your forehead to God and your feet in the dust;

Lo! Duty and Love, and a sweet babe's smiles,

And there, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles.

Joaquin Miller.

---

What the Choir Sang About the New Bonnet

A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet,

With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it;

And that the other maidens of the little town might know it,

She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday just to show it.

But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime,

The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time;

So when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing,

And when she came to meeting, sure enough the folks were singing.

So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door;

And she shook her ruffles out behind and smoothed them down before.

"Hallelujah! hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head.

"Hardly knew you! hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said.

This made the little maiden feel so very, very cross,

That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss;

For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet,

With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it.

And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer,

But pattered down the silent street, and hurried up the stair,

Till she reached her little bureau, and in a band-box on it,

Had hidden, safe from critics' eyes, her foolish little bonnet.

Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find

In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind;

And the silly little head, that's filled with silly little airs,

Will never get a blessing from sermon or from prayers.

M. T. Morrison.

---

Work Thou for Pleasure

Work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve

The thing thou lovest, though the body starve.

Who works for glory misses oft the goal;

Who works for money coins his very soul.

Work for work's sake then, and it well may be

That these things shall be added unto thee.

Kenyon Cox.

---

The Tin Gee Gee

I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade,

That place for children's toys,

Where you can purchase a dolly or spade

For your good little girls and boys.

And as I passed a certain stall, said a wee little voice to me:

O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee;

O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee.

Then I looked and a little tin soldier I saw,

In his little cocked hat so fine.

He'd a little tin sword that shone in the light

As he led a glittering line of tin hussars,

Whose sabers flashed in a manner à la military.

And that little tin soldier he rode at their head,

So proud on his tin Gee Gee.

Then that little tin soldier he sobbed and he sighed,

So I patted his little tin head.

What vexes your little tin soul? said I,

And this is what he said:

I've been on this stall a very long time,

And I'm marked twenty-nine, as you see;

Whilst just on the shelf above my head,

There's a fellow marked sixty-three.

Now he hasn't got a sword and he hasn't got a horse,

And I'm quite as good as he.

So why mark me at twenty-nine,

And him at sixty-three?

There's a pretty little dolly girl over there,

And I'm madly in love with she.

But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine,

She turns up her nose at me,

She turns up her little wax nose at me,

And carries on with sixty-three.

And, oh, she's dressed in a beautiful dress;

It's a dress I do admire,

She has pearly blue eyes that open and shut

When worked inside by a wire,

And once on a time when the folks had gone,

She used to ogle at me.

But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine,

She turns up her nose at me.

She turns up her little snub nose at me,

And carries on with sixty-three.

Cheer up, my little tin man, said I,

I'll see what I can do.

You're a fine little fellow, and it's a shame

That she should so treat you.

So I took down the label from the shelf above,

And I labeled him sixty-three,

And I marked the other one twenty-nine,

Which was very, very wrong of me,

But I felt so sorry for that little tin soul,

As he rode on his tin Gee Gee.

Now that little tin soldier he puffed with pride,

At being marked sixty-three,

And that saucy little dolly girl smiled once more,

For he'd risen in life, do you see?

And it's so in this world; for I'm in love

With a maiden of high degree;

But I am only marked twenty-nine,

And the other chap's sixty-three—

And a girl never looks at twenty-nine

With a possible sixty-three!

Fred Cape.

---

"Tommy"

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,

The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."

The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,

I outs into the street again, an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy go away";

But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play,

The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,

O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.

I went into a theater as sober as could be,

They give a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;

They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,

But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy wait outside";

But it's "Special train for Atkins," when the trooper's on the tide,

The troopship's on the tide, my boys, etc.

O makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep

Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;

An' hustlin' drunken sodgers when they're goin' large a bit

Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"

But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,

The drums begin to roll, my boys, etc.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,

But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;

An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,

Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints.

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy fall be'ind";

But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.

There's trouble in the wind, my boys, etc.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:

We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.

Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face,

The Widow's uniform is not the soldierman's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"

But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;

An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;

An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool—you bet that Tommy sees!

Rudyard Kipling.

Widow's uniform"—	i.e., uniform of a soldier of Queen Victoria, who was often affectionately
	called "the Widow of Windsor."

---

The Mystic Weaver

The weaver at his loom is sitting,

Throws his shuttle to and fro;

Foot and treadle,

Hand and pedal,

Upward, downward, hither, thither,

How the weaver makes them go:

As the weaver wills they go.

Up and down the web is plying,

And across the woof is flying;

What a rattling!

What a battling!

What a shuffling!

What a scuffling!

As the weaver makes his shuttle

Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

Threads in single, threads in double;

How they mingle, what a trouble!

Every color, what profusion!

Every motion, what confusion!

While the web and woof are mingling,

Signal bells above are jingling,—

Telling how each figure ranges,

Telling when the color changes,

As the weaver makes his shuttle

Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

The weaver at his loom is sitting,

Throws his shuttle to and fro;

'Mid the noise and wild confusion,

Well the weaver seems to know,

As he makes his shuttle go,

What each motion

And commotion,

What each fusion

And confusion,

In the grand result will show.

Weaving daily,

Singing gaily,

As he makes his busy shuttle

Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

The weaver at his loom is sitting,

Throws his shuttle to and fro;

See you not how shape and order

From the wild confusion grow,

As he makes his shuttle go?—

As the web and woof diminish,

Grows beyond the beauteous finish,—

Tufted plaidings,

Shapes, and shadings;

All the mystery

Now is history;—

And we see the reason subtle,

Why the weaver makes his shuttle

Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

See the Mystic Weaver sitting

High in heaven—His loom below;

Up and down the treadles go;

Takes for web the world's long ages,

Takes for woof its kings and sages,

Takes the nobles and their pages,

Takes all stations and all stages,—

Thrones are bobbins in His shuttle;

Armies make them scud and scuttle;

Web into the woof must flow,

Up and down the nations go,

As the weaver wills they go;

Men are sparring,

Powers are jarring,

Upward, downward, hither, thither

Just like puppets in a show.

Up and down the web is plying,

And across the woof is flying,

What a battling!

What a rattling!

What a shuffling!

What a scuffling!

As the weaver makes his shuttle

Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

Calmly see the Mystic Weaver

Throw His shuttle to and fro;

'Mid the noise and wild confusion.

Well the Weaver seems to know

What each motion

And commotion,

What each fusion

And confusion,

In the grand result will show,

As the nations,

Kings and stations,

Upward, downward, hither, thither,

As in mystic dances, go.

In the present all is mystery;

In the past, 'tis beauteous history.

O'er the mixing and the mingling,

How the signal bells are jingling!

See you not the Weaver leaving

Finished work behind, in weaving?

See you not the reason subtle,

As the web and woof diminish,

Changing into beauteous finish,

Why the Weaver makes his shuttle,

Hither, thither, scud and scuttle?

Glorious wonder! what a weaving!

To the dull beyond believing!

Such, no fabled ages know.

Only Faith can see the mystery,

How, along the aisle of history

Where the feet of sages go,

Loveliest to the purest eyes,

Grand the mystic tapet lies,—

Soft and smooth, and even spreading

Every figure has its plaidings,

As if made for angels' treading;

Tufted circles touching ever,

Inwrought figures fading never;

Brighter form and softer shadings;

Each illumined,—what a riddle

From a cross that gems the middle.

'Tis a saying—some reject it—

That its light is all reflected;

That the tapet's hues are given

By a sun that shines in heaven!

'Tis believed, by all believing,

That great God himself is weaving,—

Bringing out the world's dark mystery,

In the light of truth and history;

And as web and woof diminish,

Comes the grand and glorious finish;

When begin the golden ages

Long foretold by seers and sages.

---

The Mortgage on the Farm

'Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while,

And when the world was light and gay, I could not even smile;

It stood before me like a giant, outstretched its iron arm;

No matter where I looked, I saw the mortgage on the farm.

I'll tell you how it happened, for I want the world to know

How glad I am this winter day whilst earth is white with snow;

I'm just as happy as a lark. No cause for rude alarm

Confronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on the farm.

The children they were growing up and they were smart and trim.

To some big college in the East we'd sent our youngest, Jim;

And every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his screed

He tacked some Latin fol-de-rol which none of us could read.

The girls they ran to music, and to painting, and to rhymes,

They said the house was out of style and far behind the times;

They suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep'm warm—

Another step of course towards a mortgage on the farm.

We took a cranky notion, Hannah Jane and me one day,

While we were coming home from town, a-talking all the way;

The old house wasn't big enough for us, although for years

Beneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's joys and tears.

We built it o'er and when 'twas done, I wish you could have seen it,

It was a most tremendous thing—I really didn't mean it;

Why, it was big enough to hold the people of the town

And not one half as cosy as the old one we pulled down.

I bought a fine pianner and it shortened still the pile,

But, then, it pleased the children and they banged it all the while;

No matter what they played for me, their music had no charm,

For every tune said plainly: "There's a mortgage on the farm!"

I worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often toils the slave

To meet that grisly interest; I tried hard to be brave,

And oft when I came home at night with tired brain and arm,

The chickens hung their heads, they felt the mortgage on the farm.—

But we saved a penny now and then, we laid them in a row,

The girls they played the same old tunes, and let the new ones go;

And when from college came our Jim with laurels on his brow,

I led him to the stumpy field and put him to the plow.

He something said in Latin which I didn't understand,

But it did me good to see his plow turn up the dewy land;

And when the year had ended and empty were the cribs,

We found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow between the ribs.

To-day I harnessed up the team and thundered off to town,

And in the lawyer's sight I planked the last bright dollar down;

And when I trotted up the lanes a-feeling good and warm,

The old red rooster crowed his best: "No mortgage on the farm!"

I'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for many a day,

The skeleton that haunted us has passed fore'er away.

The girls can play the brand-new tunes with no fears to alarm,

And Jim can go to Congress, with no mortgage on the farm!

---

The Legend Beautiful

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"

That is what the vision said.

In his chamber all alone,

Kneeling on the floor of stone,

Prayed the Monk in deep contrition

For his sins of indecision,

Prayed for greater self-denial

In temptation and in trial;

It was noonday by the dial,

And the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lightened,

An unwonted splendor brightened

All within him and without him

In that narrow cell of stone;

And he saw the blessed vision

Of our Lord, with light Elysian

Like a vesture wrapped about Him,

Like a garment round Him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain

Not in agonies of pain,

Not with bleeding hands and feet,

Did the Monk his Master see;

But as in the village street,

In the house or harvest field,

Halt and lame and blind He healed,

When He walked in Galilee.

In as attitude imploring,

Hands upon his bosom crossed,

Wondering, worshiping, adoring,

Knelt the Monk, in rapture lost,

Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,

Who am I that thus Thou deignest

To reveal Thyself to me?

Who am I, that from the center

Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter

This poor cell, my guest to be?

Then amid his exaltation,

Loud the convent bell appalling,

From its belfrey calling, calling,

Rang through court and corridor

With persistent iteration,

He had never heard before.

It was now the appointed hour

When alike in shine or shower,

Winter's cold or summer's heat,

To the convent portals came

All the blind and halt and lame,

All the beggars of the street,

For their daily dole of food

Dealt them by the brotherhood;

And their almoner was he

Who upon his bended knees

Rapt in silent ecstasy

Of divinest self-surrender,

Saw the vision and the splendor.

Deep distress and hesitation

Mingled with his adoration;

Should he go, or should he stay?

Should he leave the poor to wait

Hungry at the convent gate,

Till the vision passed away?

Should he slight his radiant guest,

Slight this visitant celestial

For a crowd of ragged, bestial

Beggars at the convent gate?

Would the vision there remain?

Would the vision come again?

Then a voice within his breast

Whispered audible and clear,

As if to the outward ear:

"Do thy duty; that is best;

Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"

Straightway to his feet he started,

And with longing look intent

On the blessed vision bent,

Slowly from his cell departed,

Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting,

Looking through the iron grating,

With that terror in the eye

That is only seen in those

Who amid their wants and woes

Hear the sound of doors that close.

And of feet that pass them by:

Grown familiar with disfavor,

Grown familiar with the savor

Of the bread by which men die;

But to-day, they knew not why,

Like the gate of Paradise

Seemed the convent gate to rise,

Like a sacrament divine

Seemed to them the bread and wine.

In his heart the Monk was praying,

Thinking of the homeless poor,

What they suffer and endure;

What we see not, what we see;

And the inward voice was saying:

"Whatsoever thing thou doest

To the least of mine and lowest,

That thou doest unto me."

Unto me! but had the vision

Come to him in beggar's clothing,

Come a mendicant imploring,

Would he then have knelt adoring,

Or have listened with derision,

And have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question,

Full of troublesome suggestion,

As at length, with hurried pace,

Toward his cell he turned his face,

And beheld the convent bright

With a supernatural light,

Like a luminous cloud expanding

Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling

At the threshold of his door,

For the vision still was standing

As he left it there before,

When the convent bell appalling,

From its belfry calling, calling,

Summoned him to feed the poor.

Through the long hour intervening

It had waited his return,

And he felt his bosom burn,

Comprehending all the meaning,

When the blessed vision said:

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled."

Henry W. Longfellow.

---

Somebody's Darling

Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,

Where the dead and dying lay,

Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,

Somebody's Darling was borne one day—

Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,

Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,

Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,

Kissing the snow of the fair young brow,

Pale are the lips of delicate mold—

Somebody's Darling is dying now.

Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow

Brush all the wandering waves of gold,

Cross his hands on his bosom now—

Somebody's Darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake,

Murmur a prayer both soft and low;

One bright curl from its fair mates take—

They were somebody's pride, you know.

Somebody's hand hath rested there—

Was it a mother's, soft and white?

And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in their waves of light?

God knows best! he was somebody's love;

Somebody's heart enshrined him there;

Somebody wafted his name above,

Night and morn on the wings of prayer.

Somebody wept when he marched away,

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;

Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,

Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's waiting and watching for him—

Yearning to hold him again to her heart;

And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,

And the smiling, child-like lips apart.

Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;

Carve in the wooden slab at his head,

"Somebody's Darling slumbers here."

Maria La Coste.

---

The Pride of Battery B

South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay,

And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay.

At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan;

At last the gunners pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns began.

When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood

Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood.

A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed,

(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.)

And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head

In grave salute. "And who are you?" at length the sergeant said.

"And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me?

Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery B.

My home? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead;

And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned.

And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too;

And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review.

But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke,

And so they're cross—why, even Ned won't play with me and joke.

And the big colonel said to-day—I hate to hear him swear—

He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had over there.

And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still,

I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill

And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 'Lone Jack.'

Please do: when we get some again, I'll surely bring it back.

Indeed I will, for Ned—says he,—if I do what I say,

I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay."

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh

As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half.

To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men,

Until the sergeant's husky voice said,"'Tention squad!" and then

We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid,

And watched her toddle out of sight—or else 'twas tears that hid

Her tiny form—nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word,

Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard!

We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around;

A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound.

That's all—save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell,

And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell,

Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see

Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B.

Frank H. Gassaway.

---

The Wood-Box

It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide,

And the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside,

And the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear,

Seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near.

Flowered oilcloth tacked around it kept its cracks and knot-holes hid,

And a pair of leather hinges fastened on the heavy lid,

And it hadn't any bottom—or, at least, it seemed that way

When you hurried in to fill it, so's to get outside and play.

When the noons was hot and lazy and the leaves hung dry and still,

And the locust in the pear tree started up his planin'-mill,

And the drum-beat of the breakers was a soothin', temptin' roll,

And you knew the "gang" was waitin' by the brimmin' "swimmin' hole"—

Louder than the locust's buzzin,' louder than the breakers' roar,

You could hear the wood-box holler, "Come and fill me up once more!"

And the old clock ticked and chuckled as you let each armful drop,

Like it said, "Another minute, and you're nowheres near the top!"

In the chilly winter mornin's when the bed was snug and warm,

And the frosted winders tinkled 'neath the fingers of the storm,

And your breath rose off the piller in a smoky cloud of steam—

Then that wood-box, grim and empty, came a-dancin' through your dream,

Came and pounded at your conscience, screamed in aggravatin' glee,

"Would you like to sleep this mornin'? You git up and 'tend to me!"

Land! how plain it is this minute—shed and barn and drifted snow,

And the slabs of oak a-waitin!, piled and ready, in a row.

Never was a fishin' frolic, never was a game of ball,

But that mean, provokin' wood-box had to come and spoil it all;

You might study at your lessons and 'twas full and full to stay,

But jest start an Injun story, and 'twas empty right away.

Seemed as if a spite was in it, and although I might forgit

All the other chores that plagued me, I can hate that wood-box yit:

And when I look back at boyhood—shakin' off the cares of men—

Still it comes to spoil the picture, screamin', "Fill me up again!"

Joseph C. Lincoln.

---

Inasmuch

Good Deacon Roland—"may his tribe increase!"—

Awoke one Sabbath morn feeling at peace

With God and all mankind. His wants supplied,

He read his Bible and then knelt beside

The family altar, and uplifted there

His voice to God in fervent praise and prayer;

In praise for blessings past, so rich and free,

And prayer for benedictions yet to be.

Then on a stile, which spanned the dooryard fence,

He sat him down complacently, and thence

Surveyed with pride, o'er the far-reaching plain,

His flocks and herds and fields of golden grain;

His meadows waving like the billowy seas,

And orchards filled with over-laden trees,

Quoth he: "How vast the products of my lands;

Abundance crowns the labor of my hands,

Great is my substance; God indeed is good,

Who doth in love provide my daily food."

While thus he sat in calm soliloquy,

A voice aroused him from his reverie,—

A childish voice from one whose shoeless feet

Brought him unnoticed to the deacon's seat;

"Please mister, I have eaten naught to-day;

If I had money I would gladly pay

For bread; but I am poor, and cannot buy

My breakfast; mister, would you mind if I

Should ask for something, just for what you call

Cold pieces from your table, that is all?"

The deacon listened to the child's request,

The while his penetrating eye did rest

On him whose tatters, trembling, quick revealed

The agitation of the heart concealed

Within the breast of one unskilled in ruse,

Who asked not alms like one demanding dues.

Then said the deacon: "I am not inclined

To give encouragement to those who find

It easier to beg for bread betimes,

Than to expend their strength in earning dimes

Wherewith to purchase it. A parent ought

To furnish food for those whom he has brought

Into this world, where each one has his share

Of tribulation, sorrow, toil and care.

I sympathize with you, my little lad,

Your destitution makes me feel so sad;

But, for the sake of those who should supply

Your wants, I must your earnest plea deny;

And inasmuch as giving food to you

Would be providing for your parents, too,

Thus fostering vagrancy and idleness,

I cannot think such charity would bless

Who gives or takes; and therefore I repeat,

I cannot give you anything to eat."

Before this "vasty deep" of logic stood

The child nor found it satisfying food.

Nor did he tell the tale he might have told

Of parents slumbering in the grave's damp mould,

But quickly shrank away to find relief

In giving vent to his rekindled grief,

While Deacon Roland soon forgot the appeal

In meditating on his better weal.

Ere long the Sabbath bells their peals rang out

To summon worshippers, with hearts devout,

To wait on God and listen to His word;

And then the deacon's pious heart was stirred;

And in the house of God he soon was found

Engaged in acts of worship most profound.

Wearied, however, with his week-day care,

He fell asleep before the parson's prayer

Was ended; then he dreamed he died and came

To heaven's grand portal, and announced his name:

"I'm Deacon Roland, called from earth afar,

To join the saints; please set the gates ajar,

That I may 'join the everlasting song,'

And mingle ever with the ransomed throng."

Then lo! "a horror of great darkness" came

Upon him, as he heard a voice exclaim:

"Depart from me! you cannot enter here!

I never knew you, for indeed, howe'er

You may have wrought on earth, the sad, sad fact

Remains, that life's sublimest, worthiest act—"

The deacon woke to find it all a dream

Just as the minister announced his theme:

"My text," said he, "doth comfort only such

As practice charity; for 'inasmuch

As ye have done it to the least of these

My little ones' saith He who holds the keys

Of heaven, 'ye have done it unto me,'

And I will give you immortality."

Straightway the deacon left his cushioned pew,

And from the church in sudden haste withdrew,

And up the highway ran, on love's swift feet

To overtake the child of woe, and greet

Him as the worthy representative

Of Christ the Lord and to him freely give

All needful good, that thus he might atone

For the neglect which he before had shown.

Thus journeying, God directed all his way,

O'er hill and dale, to where the outcast lay

Beside the road bemoaning his sad fate.

And then the deacon said, "My child, 'tis late;

Make haste and journey with me to my home;

To guide you thither, I myself have come;

And you shall have the food you asked in vain,

For God himself hath made my duty plain;

If he demand it, all I have is thine;

Shrink not, but trust me; place thy hand in mine."

And as they journeyed toward the deacon's home,

The child related how he came to roam,

Until the listening deacon understood

The touching story of his orphanhood.

Then, finding in the little waif a gem

Worthy to deck the Saviour's diadem,

He drew him to his loving breast, and said,

"My child, you shall by me be clothed and fed;

Nor shall you go from hence again to roam

While God in love provides for us a home."

And as the weeks and months roll on apace,

The deacon held the lad in love's embrace;

And being childless did on him confer

The boon of sonship.

Thus the almoner

Of God's great bounty to the destitute

The deacon came to be; and as the fruit

Of having learned to keep the golden rule

His charity became all-bountiful;

And from thenceforth he lived to benefit

Mankind; and when in life's great book were writ

Their names who heeded charity's request,

Lo! Deacon Roland's "name led all the rest."

S.V.R. Ford.

---

No Sects in Heaven

Talking of sects quite late one eve,

What one and another of saints believe,

That night I stood in a troubled dream

By the side of a darkly-flowing stream.

And a "churchman" down to the river came,

When I heard a strange voice call his name,

"Good father, stop; when you cross this tide

You must leave your robes on the other side."

But the aged father did not mind,

And his long gown floated out behind

As down to the stream his way he took,

His hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book.

"I'm bound for heaven, and when I'm there

I shall want my book of Common Prayer,

And though I put on a starry crown,

I should feel quite lost without my gown."

Then he fixed his eye on the shining track,

But his gown was heavy and held him back,

And the poor old father tried in vain,

A single step in the flood to gain.

I saw him again on the other side,

But his silk gown floated on the tide,

And no one asked, in that blissful spot,

If he belonged to "the church" or not.

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed;

His dress of a sober hue was made,

"My hat and coat must be all of gray,

I cannot go any other way."

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin

And staidly, solemnly, waded in,

And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight

Over his forehead, so cold and white.

But a strong wind carried away his hat,

And he sighed a few moments over that,

And then, as he gazed to the farther shore

The coat slipped off and was seen no more.

Poor, dying Quaker, thy suit of gray

Is quietly sailing—away—away,

But thou'lt go to heaven, as straight as an arrow,

Whether thy brim be broad or narrow.

Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalms

Tied nicely up in his aged arms,

And hymns as many, a very wise thing,

That the people in heaven, "all round," might sing.

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh,

As he saw that the river ran broad and high,

And looked rather surprised, as one by one,

The psalms and hymns in the wave went down.

And after him, with his MSS.,

Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness,

But he cried, "Dear me, what shall I do?

The water has soaked them through and through."

And there, on the river, far and wide,

Away they went on the swollen tide,

And the saint, astonished, passed through alone,

Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.

Then gravely walking, two saints by name,

Down to the stream together came,

But as they stopped at the river's brink,

I saw one saint from the other shrink.

"Sprinkled or plunged—may I ask you, friend,

How you attained to life's great end?"

"Thus, with a few drops on my brow";

"But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now.

"And I really think it will hardly do,

As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you.

You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss,

But you must go that way, and I'll go this."

And straightway plunging with all his might,

Away to the left—his friend at the right,

Apart they went from this world of sin,

But how did the brethren "enter in"?

And now where the river was rolling on,

A Presbyterian church went down;

Of women, there seemed an innumerable throng,

But the men I could count as they passed along.

And concerning the road they could never agree,

The old or the new way, which it could be;

Nor ever a moment paused to think

That both would lead to the river's brink.

And a sound of murmuring long and loud

Came ever up from the moving crowd,

"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new,

That is the false, and this is the true":

Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new,

That is the false, and this is the true."

But the brethren only seemed to speak,

Modest the sisters walked, and meek,

And if ever one of them chanced to say

What troubles she met with on the way,

How she longed to pass to the other side,

Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,

A voice arose from the brethren then,

"Let no one speak but the 'holy men,'

For have ye not heard the words of Paul?

'Oh, let the women keep silence all.'"

I watched them long in my curious dream.

Till they stood by the border of the stream,

Then, just as I thought, the two ways met.

But all the brethren were talking yet,

And would talk on, till the heaving tide

Carried them over, side by side;

Side by side, for the way was one,

The toilsome journey of life was done,

And priest and Quaker, and all who died,

Came out alike on the other side;

No forms or crosses, or books had they,

No gowns of silk, or suits of gray,

No creeds to guide them, or MSS.,

For all had put on "Christ's righteousness."

Elizabeth H. Jocelyn Cleaveland.

---

The Railroad Crossing

I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick;

But 'pears to me I got a most outlandish heavy lick:

It broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked my arm 'most out.

But take a seat: I'll try and tell jest how it kem about.

You see, I'd started down to town, with that 'ere team of mine,

A-haulin' down a load o' corn to Ebenezer Kline,

And drivin' slow; for, jest about a day or two before,

The off-horse run a splinter in his foot, and made it sore.

You know the railroad cuts across the road at Martin's Hole:

Well, thar I seed a great big sign, raised high upon a pole;

I thought I'd stop and read the thing, and find out what it said,

And so I stopped the hosses on the railroad-track, and read.

I ain't no scholar, rekollect, and so I had to spell,

I started kinder cautious like, with R-A-I and L;

And that spelt "rail" as clear as mud; R-O-A-D was "road."

I lumped 'em: "railroad" was the word, and that 'ere much I knowed.

C-R-O and double S, with I-N-G to boot,

Made "crossing" jest as plain as Noah Webster dared to do't.

"Railroad crossing"—good enough!—L double-O-K, "look";

And I wos lookin' all the time, and spellin' like a book.

O-U-T spelt "out" just right; and there it was, "look out,"

I's kinder cur'us like, to know jest what't was all about;

F-O-R and T-H-E; 'twas then "look out for the—"

And then I tried the next word; it commenced with E-N-G.

I'd got that fur, when suddintly there came an awful whack;

A thousand fiery thunderbolts just scooped me off the track;

The hosses went to Davy Jones, the wagon went to smash,

And I was histed seven yards above the tallest ash.

I didn't come to life ag'in fur 'bout a day or two;

But, though I'm crippled up a heap, I sorter struggled through;

It ain't the pain, nor 'taint the loss o' that 'ere team of mine;

But, stranger, how I'd like to know the rest of that 'ere sign!

Hezekiah Strong.

---

The Sunset City

I

Turn back the leaves of history. On yon Pacific shore

A world-known city's fall and rise shall thrill your hearts once more.

'Twas April; nineteen-six the year; old San Francisco lay

Effulgent in the splendor of the dying orb of day

That bathed in flood of crimson light Mount Tamalpais' lonely height

And kissed the sister towns "goodnight" across the misty bay.

It burst in glory on the hills, lit up the princely homes,

And gleamed from lofty towers and spires and flashed from gilded domes;

It glorified the massive blocks caught in its widening flow,

Engulfed the maze of streets and parks that stretched away below,

Till marble white and foliage green and vales of gray, and silvery sheen

Of ocean's surface vast, serene, were tinted by its glow.

The tranquil murmurs of the deep were borne on balmy air

All odorous with lily breath and roses sweet and rare.

The zephyrs sang a lullaby as the slow, fiery ball

Ended its trail of gorgeousness behind horizon's wall.

Then gray absorbed each rainbow hue and dark the beauteous landscape grew

As shadowy Evening softly drew her curtain over all.

II

That night around the festal board, 'mid incandescence gay,

Sat Pomp and Pride and Wealth and Power, in sumptuous array,

That night the happy, careless throng were all on pleasure bent,

And Beauty in her jewelled robes to ball and opera went.

'Mid feasting, laughter, song and jest; by music's soothing tones caressed;

The Sunset City sank to rest in peace, secure, content.

III

Unconscious of approaching doom, old San Francisco sleeps

While from the east, all smilingly, the April morning creeps.

See! Playful sunbeams tinge with gold the mountains in the sky,

And hazy clouds of gray unfold—but, hark! What means that cry?

The ground vibrates with sadden shock. The buildings tremble, groan and rock.

Wild fears the waking senses mock, and some wake but to die.

A frightful subterranean force the earth's foundation shakes;

The city quivers in the throes of fierce, successive quakes,

And massive structures thrill like giant oaks before the blast;

Into the streets with deafening crash the frailer ones are cast.

Half garbed, the multitude rush out in frantic haste, with prayer and shout,

To join the panic stricken rout. Ho! DEATH is marching past.

A rumbling noise! The streets upheave, and sink again, like waves;

And shattered piles and shapeless wrecks are strewn with human graves.

Danger at every corner lurks. Destruction fills the air.

Death-laden showers of mortar, bricks, are falling everywhere.

IV

"Fire! Fire!" And lo! the dread fiend starts. Mothers with babes clasped to their hearts

Are struggling for the open parts in frenzy of despair.

A hundred tiny tongues of flame forth from the ruins burst.

No water! God! what shall we do to slake their quenchless thirst?

The shocks have broken all the mains! "Use wine!" the people cry.

The red flames laugh like drunken fiends; they stagger as to die,

Then up again in fury spring, on high their crimson draperies fling;

From block to block they leap and swing, and smoke clouds hide the sky.

Ha! from the famed Presidio that guards the Golden Gate

Come Funston and his regulars to match their strength with Fate.

The soldiers and the citizens are fighting side by side

To check that onslaught of red wrath, to stem destruction's tide.

With roar, and boom, and blare, and blast, an open space is cleared at last.

The fiends of fury gallop past with flanks outstretched and wide;

Around the city's storehouses they wreathe and twine and dance,

And wealth and splendor shrivel up before their swift advance.

Before their devastating breath the stricken people flee.

"Mine, mine your treasures are!" cried Death, and laughs in fiendish glee.

Into that vortex of red hell sink church and theatre, store, hotel.

With thunderous roar and hissing yell on sweeps the crimson sea.

Again with charge of dynamite the lurid clouds are riven;

Again with heat and sulphur smoke the troops are backward driven.

All day, all night, all day again, with that infernal host

They strive in vain for mastery. Each vantage gained is lost,—

On comes the bellowing flood of flame in furious wrath its own to claim;

Resistless in its awful aim each space is bridged and crossed.

Ah God! the miles and miles of waste! One half the city gone!

And westward now—toward Van Ness—the roaring flames roll on.

"Blow up that mile of palaces!" It is the last command,

And there, at broad Van Ness, the troops make their heroic stand.

The fight is now for life—sweet life, for helpless babe and homeless wife—

The culmination of the strife spectacularly grand.

On sweeps the hurricane of fire. The fatal touch is given.

The detonation of the blast goes shrieking up to heaven.

The mansions of bonanza kings are tottering to their doom;

That swirling tide of fiery fate halts at the gaping tomb.

Beyond the cataclysm's brink, the multitude, too dazed to think,

Behold the red waves rise and—sink into the smoldering gloom.

V

The fire has swept the waterfront and burned the Mission down,

The business section—swallowed up, and wiped out Chinatown—

Full thirty thousand homes destroyed, Nob Hill in ashes lies,

And ghastly skeletons of steel on Market Street arise.

A gruesome picture everywhere! 'Tis desolation grim and bare

Waits artisan and millionaire beneath rank sulphurous skies.

To-night, within the city parks, famished, benumbed and mute,

Two hundred thousand refugees, homeless and destitute!

Upon the hard, cold ground they crouch—the wrecks of Pomp and Pride;

Milady and the city waifs are huddled side by side.

And there, 'neath shelter rude and frail, we hear the new-born infants wail,

While' nations read the tragic tale—how San Francisco died.

VI

PROPHECY—1906

Not dead! Though maimed, her Soul yet lives—indomitable will—

The Faith, the Hope, the Spirit bold nor quake nor fire can kill.

To-morrow hearts shall throb again with western enterprise,

And from the ruins of to-day a city shall arise—

A monument of beauty great reared by the Conquerors of Fate—

The City of the Golden Gate and matchless sunset skies!

VII

FULFILLMENT--1915

Reborn, rebuilt, she rose again, far vaster in expanse—

A radiant city smiling from the ashes of romance!

A San Francisco glorified, more beauteous than of yore,

Enthroned upon her splendid hills, queen of the sunset shore;

Her flags of industry unfurled, her portals open to the world!

Thus, in the Book of Destiny, she lives for evermore.

Isabel Ambler Gilman.

---

Autumn