| 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. |
| 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. |
| 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. |