John Maynard

'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse
One bright midsummer day,
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen
Swept proudly on her way.
Bright faces clustered on the deck,
Or, leaning o'er the side,
Watched carelessly the feathery foam
That flecked the rippling tide.
Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,
That smiling bends serene,
Could dream that danger, awful, vast,
Impended o'er the scene;
Could dream that ere an hour had sped
That frame of sturdy oak
Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,
Blackened with fire and smoke?
A seaman sought the captain's side,
A moment whispered low;
The captain's swarthy face grew pale;
He hurried down below.
Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp,
And clear his orders came,
No human efforts could avail
To quench th' insidious flame.
The bad news quickly reached the deck,
It sped from lip to lip,
And ghastly faces everywhere
Looked from the doomed ship.
"Is there no hope, no chance of life?"
A hundred lips implore;
"But one," the captain made reply,
"To run the ship on shore."
A sailor, whose heroic soul
That hour should yet reveal,
By name John Maynard, eastern-born,
Stood calmly at the wheel.
"Head her southeast!" the captain shouts,
Above the smothered roar,
"Head her southeast without delay!
Make for the nearest shore!"
No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,
Or clouds his dauntless eye,
As, in a sailor's measured tone,
His voice responds, "Ay! ay!"
Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight,
Crowd forward wild with fear,
While at the stern the dreaded flames
Above the deck appear.
John Maynard watched the nearing flames,
But still with steady hand
He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly
He steered the ship to land.
"John Maynard, can you still hold out?"
He heard the captain cry;
A voice from out the stifling smoke
Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"
But half a mile! a hundred hands
Stretch eagerly to shore.
But half a mile! That distance sped
Peril shall all be o'er.
But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames
No longer slowly creep,
But gather round that helmsman bold,
With fierce, impetuous sweep.
"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice
The captain cries once more,
"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,
And we shall reach the shore."
Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart
Responded firmly still,
Unawed, though face to face with death,
"With God's good help I will!"
The flames approach with giant strides,
They scorch his hand and brow;
One arm, disabled, seeks his side,
Ah! he is conquered now.
But no, his teeth are firmly set,
He crushes down his pain,
His knee upon the stanchion pressed,
He guides the ship again.
One moment yet! one moment yet!
Brave heart, thy task is o'er,
The pebbles grate beneath the keel,
The steamer touches shore.
Three hundred grateful voices rise
In praise to God that He
Hath saved them from the fearful fire,
And from the engulfing sea.
But where is he, that helmsman bold?
The captain saw him reel,
His nerveless hands released their task,
He sank beside the wheel.
The wave received his lifeless corse,
Blackened with smoke and fire.
God rest him! Never hero had
A nobler funeral pyre!
Horatio Alger, Jr.

Piller Fights

Piller fights is fun, I tell you;
There isn't anything I'd rather do
Than get a big piller and hold it tight,
Stand up in bed and then just fight.
Us boys allers have our piller fights
And the best night of all is Pa's lodge night.
Soon as ever he goes, we say "Good night,"
Then go right upstairs for a piller fight.
Sometimes maybe Ma comes to the stairs
And hollers up, "Boys, have you said your prayers?"
And then George will holler "Yes, Mamma," for he always has;
Good deal of preacher about George, Pa says.
Ma says "Pleasant dreams," and shuts the door;
If she's a-listenin' both of us snore,
But as soon as ever she goes we light a light
And pitch right into our piller fight.
We play that the bed is Bunker Hill
And George is Americans, so he stands still.
But I am the British, so I must hit
As hard as ever I can to make him git.
We played Buena Vista one night—
Tell you, that was an awful hard fight!
Held up our pillers like they was a flag,
An' hollered, "Little more grape-juice, Captain Bragg!"
That was the night that George hit the nail—
You just ought to have seen those feathers sail!
I was covered as white as flour,
Me and him picked them up for 'most an hour;
Next day when our ma saw that there mess
She was pretty mad, you better guess;
And she told our pa, and he just said,
"Come right on out to this here shed."
Tell you, he whipped us till we were sore
And made us both promise to do it no more.
That was a long time ago, and now lodge nights
Or when Pa's away we have piller fights,
But in Buena Vista George is bound
To see there aren't any nails anywhere 'round.
Piller fights is fun, I tell you;
There isn't anything I'd rather do
Than get a big piller and hold it tight,
Stand up in bed, and then just fight.
D.A. Ellsworth.

Little Bateese

You bad leetle boy, not moche you care
How busy you're kipin' your poor gran'pere
Tryin' to stop you ev'ry day
Chasin' de hen aroun' de hay.
W'y don't you geev' dem a chance to lay!
Leetle Bateese!
Off on de fiel' you foller de plough,
Den we'en you're tire, you scare de cow,
Sickin' de dog till dey jamp de wall
So de milk ain't good for not'ing at all,
An' you're only five an' a half this fall—
Leetle Bateese!
Too sleepy for sayin' de prayer tonight?
Never min', I s'pose it'll be all right;
Say dem to-morrow—ah! dere he go!
Fas' asleep in a minute or so—
An' he'll stay lak dat till the rooster crow—
Leetle Bateese.
Den wake up right away, toute suite,
Lookin' for somethin' more to eat,
Makin' me t'ink of dem long-lag crane,
Soon as they swaller, dey start again;
I wonder your stomach don't get no pain,
Leetle Bateese.
But see heem now lyin' dere in bed,
Look at de arm onderneat' hees head;
If he grow lak dat till he's twenty year,
I bet he'll be stronger than Louis Cyr
And beat de voyageurs leevin' here—
Leetle Bateese.
Jus' feel de muscle along hees back,—
Won't geev' heem moche bodder for carry pack
On de long portage, any size canoe;
Dere's not many t'ings dat boy won't do,
For he's got double-joint on hees body too—
Leetle Bateese.
But leetle Bateese! please don't forget
We rader you're stayin' de small boy yet.
So chase de chicken and mak' dem scare,
An' do w'at you lak wit' your ole gran'pere,
For w'en you're beeg feller he won't be dere—
Leetle Bateese!
W.H. Drummond.