Sweet is the voice that calls
From babbling waterfalls
In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;
And soft the breezes blow,
And eddying come and go
In faded gardens where the rose is dying.
Among the stubbled corn
The blithe quail pipes at morn,
The merry partridge drums in hidden places,
And glittering insects gleam
Above the reedy stream,
Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.
At eve, cool shadows fall
Across the garden wall,
And on the clustered grapes to purple turning;
And pearly vapors lie
Along the eastern sky,
Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.
Ah, soon on field and hill
The wind shall whistle chill,
And patriarch swallows call their flocks together,
To fly from frost and snow,
And seek for lands where blow
The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.
The cricket chirps all day,
"O fairest summer, stay!"
The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning;
The wild fowl fly afar
Above the foamy bar,
And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.
Now comes a fragrant breeze
Through the dark cedar-trees
And round about my temples fondly lingers,
In gentle playfulness,
Like to the soft caress
Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers.
Yet, though a sense of grief
Comes with the falling leaf,
And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant,
In all my autumn dreams
A future summer gleams,
Passing the fairest glories of the present!
George Arnold.

The Old Kitchen Floor

Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast
To the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed.
I loved all its rooms from the pantry to hall,
But the blessed old kitchen was dearer than all.
Its chairs and its tables no brighter could be
And all its surroundings were sacred to me,
From the nail in the ceiling to the latch on the door,
And I loved every crack in that old kitchen floor.
I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide
And the old-fashioned oven that stood by its side
Out of which each Thanksgiving came puddings and pies
And they fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes.
And then old St. Nicholas slyly and still
Came down every Christmas our stockings to fill.
But the dearest of memories laid up in store
Is my mother a-sweeping that old kitchen floor.
To-night those old musings come back at their will
But the wheel and its music forever are still.
The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away,
And the fingers that turned it are mold'ring in clay.
The hearthstone so sacred is just as 'twas then
And the voices of children ring out there again.
The sun at the window looks in as of yore,
But it sees other feet on that old kitchen floor.

Rustic Courtship

The night was dark when Sam set out
To court old Jones's daughter;
He kinder felt as if he must,
And kinder hadn't oughter.
His heart against his waistcoat throbbed,
His feelings had a tussle,
Which nearly conquered him despite
Six feet of bone and muscle.
The candle in the window shone
With a most doleful glimmer,
And Sam he felt his courage ooze,
And through his fingers simmer.
Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a fool,
Take courage, shaking doubter,
Go on, and pop the question right,
For you can't live without her."
But still, as he drew near the house,
His knees got in a tremble,
The beating of his heart ne'er beat
His efforts to dissemble.
Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a goose,
And let the female wimmin
Knock all your thoughts a-skelter so,
And set your heart a-swimmin'."
So Sam, he kinder raised the latch,
His courage also raising,
And in a moment he sat inside,
Cid Jones's crops a-praising.
He tried awhile to talk the farm
In words half dull, half witty,
Not knowing that old Jones well knew
His only thought was—Kitty.
At last the old folks went to bed—
The Joneses were but human;
Old Jones was something of a man,
And Mrs. Jones—a woman.
And Kitty she the pitcher took,
And started for the cellar;
It wasn't often that she had
So promising a feller.
And somehow when she came upstairs,
And Sam had drank his cider,
There seemed a difference in the chairs,
And Sam was close beside her;
His stalwart arm dropped round her waist,
Her head dropped on his shoulder,
And Sam—well, he had changed his tune
And grown a trifle bolder.
But this, if you live long enough,
You surely will discover,
There's nothing in this world of ours
Except the loved and lover.
The morning sky was growing gray
As Sam the farm was leaving,
His face was surely not the face
Of one half grieved, or grieving.
And Kitty she walked smiling back,
With blushing face, and slowly;
There's something in the humblest love
That makes it pure and holy.
And did he marry her, you ask?
She stands there with the ladle
A-skimming of the morning's milk—
That's Sam who rocks the cradle.

The Red Jacket

'Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar
The north winds beat and clamor at the door;
The drifted snow lies heaped along the street,
Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet;
The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend
But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend;
Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown,
Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.
In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease,
Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas;
In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet
The weary traveler with their smiles to greet;
In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm
Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,
Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light—
"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"
But hark! above the beating of the storm
Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm.
Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light,
And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright;
From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call,
The ready friend no danger can appall;
Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave,
He hurries forth to battle and to save.
From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out,
Devouring all they coil themselves about,
The flaming furies, mounting high and higher,
Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire.
Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe
In vain attempts their power to overthrow;
With mocking glee they revel with their prey,
Defying human skill to check their way.
And see! far up above the flame's hot breath,
Something that's human waits a horrid death;
A little child, with waving golden hair,
Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,—
Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed,
While sobs of terror shake her tender breast.
And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild,
A mother screams, "O God! my child! my child!"
Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng
A hardy fireman swiftly moves along;
Mounts sure and fast along the slender way,
Fearing no danger, dreading but delay.
The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path,
Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath;
But up, still up he goes! the goal is won!
His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone!
Gone to his death. The wily flames surround
And burn and beat his ladder to the ground,
In flaming columns move with quickened beat
To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat.
Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure,
Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore;
Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live,
Crowned with all honors nobleness can give.
Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears;
Behold! he quickly on the roof appears,
Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm
Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm,
Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance!
Behold, how fast the roaring flames advance!
Quick! quick! brave spirits, to his rescue fly;
Up! up! by heavens, this hero must not die!
Silence! he comes along the burning road,
Bearing, with tender care, his living load;
Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save
The good, true heart that can so nobly brave!
He's up again! and now he's coming fast—
One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed—
And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain.
A happy mother clasps her child again.
George M. Baker.