Trailing Arbutus

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

When the Light Goes Out

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

Prayer and Potatoes

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

The Parts of Speech