Day by day the Organ-builder in his lonely chamber wrought;
Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought;
Till at last the work was ended; and no organ voice so grand
Ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic hand.
Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride,
Who, in God's sight were well-pleasing, in the church stood side by side,
Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play,
And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.
He was young, the Organ-builder, and o'er all the land his fame
Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.
All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled,
By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.
So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set
Happy day—the brightest jewel in the glad year's coronet!
But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride—
Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.
"Ah!" thought he, "how great a master am I! When the organ plays,
How the vast cathedral-arches will re-echo with my praise!"
Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,
With every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.
But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer,
For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.
All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest's low monotone,
And the bride's robe trailing softly o'er the floor of fretted stone.
Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him,
Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim!
Whose the fault then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side!
Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride.
Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth;
On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.
Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name:
For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.
Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day
Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray;
Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good;
Thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood;
Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete,
And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.
Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night,
Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!
Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread;
There he met a long procession—mourners following the dead.
"Now why weep ye so, good people? And whom bury ye today?
Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way?
"Has some saint gone up to heaven?" "Yes," they answered, weeping sore;
"For the Organ-builder's saintly wife our eyes shall see no more;
And because her days were given to the service of God's poor,
From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door."
No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain;
No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain.
"'Tis someone she has comforted, who mourns with us," they said,
As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin's head;
Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle,
Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while.
When, oh, hark; the wondrous organ of itself began to play
Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!
All the vaulted arches rang with music sweet and clear;
All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near;
And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin's head,
With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it—dead.
They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride;
Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side by side;
While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before,
And then softly sank to silence—silence kept forevermore.
Julia C. R. Dorr.

Our Folks

"Hi! Harry Holly! Halt; and tell
A fellow just a thing or two;
You've had a furlough, been to see
How all the folks in Jersey do.
It's months ago since I was there—
I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks.
When you were home, old comrade, say,
Did you see any of our folks?
"You did? Shake hands—Oh, ain't I glad!
For if I do look grim and rough,
I've got some feelin'—
People think
A soldier's heart is mighty tough;
But, Harry, when the bullets fly,
And hot saltpetre flames and smokes,
While whole battalions lie afield,
One's apt to think about his folks.
"And so you saw them—when? and where?
The old man—is he hearty yet?
And mother—does she fade at all?
Or does she seem to pine and fret
For me? And Sis?—has she grown tall?
And did you see her friend—you know—
That Annie Moss—
(How this pipe chokes!)
Where did you see her?—Tell: me, Hal,
A lot of news about our folks,
"You saw them in the church—you say,
It's likely, for they're always there.
Not Sunday? No? A funeral? Who?
Who, Harry? how you shake and stare!
All well, you say, and all were out.
What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?
Why don't you tell me like a man:
What is the matter with our folks?"
"I said all well, old comrade, true;
I say all well, for He knows best
Who takes the young ones in his arms,
Before the sun goes to the west.
The axe-man Death deals right and left,
And flowers fall as well as oaks;
And so—
Fair Annie blooms no more!
And that's the matter with your folks.
"See, this long curl was kept for you;
And this white blossom from her breast;
And here—your sister Bessie wrote
A letter telling all the rest.
Bear up, old friend."
Nobody speaks;
Only the old camp-raven croaks,
And soldiers whisper, "Boys, be still;
There's some bad news from Granger's folks."
He turns his back—the only foe
That ever saw it—on this grief,
And, as men will, keeps down the tears
Kind nature sends to woe's relief.
Then answers he: "Ah, Hal, I'll try;
But in my throat there's something chokes,
Because, you see, I've thought so long
To count her in among our folks.
"I s'pose she must be happy now,
But still I will keep thinking, too,
I could have kept all trouble off,
By being tender, kind and true.
But maybe not.
She's safe up there,
And when the Hand deals other strokes,
She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know,
And wait to welcome in our folks."
Ethel Lynn Beers.

The Face upon the Floor

'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,
Which well-nigh filled Joe's bar-room on the corner of the square;
And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.
"Where did it come from?" someone said. "The wind has blown it in."
"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whisky, rum or gin?"
"Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work—
I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk."
This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical, good grace;
In fact, he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place.
"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd—
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.
"Give me a drink—that's what I want—I'm out of funds, you know;
When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow.
What? You laugh as though you thought this pocket never held a sou;
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.
"There, thanks; that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all;
Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call.
Give you a song?No, I can't do that, my singing days are past;
My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.
"Say! give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll do—
I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.
That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think;
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.
"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame—
Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame;
Five fingers—there, that's the scheme—and corking whisky, too.
Well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you.
"You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how
I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,
And but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.
"I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood,
But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good.
I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.
"I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame.'
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name.
And then I met a woman—now comes the funny part—
With eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart.
"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;
But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven.
"Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?
If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.
"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way;
And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprise,
Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.
"It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown,
My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone;
And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,
The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead.
"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,—
I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.
Why, what's the mattter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye,
Come, laugh, like me; 'tis only babes and women that should cry.
"Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad,
And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score—
You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room floor."
Another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
Then as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,
With a fearful shriek, he leaped, and fell across the picture dead.
H. Antoine D'Arcy.

The Calf Path

One day through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail, as all calves do.
Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs a moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way,
And then the wise bell-wether sheep
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bell-wethers always do.
And from that day, o'er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made.
And many men wound in and out,
And turned and dodged and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because 'twas such a crooked path:
But still they followed—do not laugh—
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding woodway stalked
Because he wabbled when he walked.
This forest path became a lane,
That bent and turned and turned again;
This crooked path became a road.
Where many a poor horse, with his load,
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare.
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis.
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf!
Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed the zigzag calf about;
And o'er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By a calf near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way
And lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.
A moral lesson this might teach
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind,
Along the calf-paths of the mind,
And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.
But how the wise wood-gods must laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf;
Ah, many things this tale might teach—
But I am not ordained to preach.
Sam Walter Foss.