College Oil Cans

On a board of bright mosaic wrought in many a quaint design,
Gleam a brace of silver goblets wreathed with flowers and filled with wine.
Round the board a group is seated; here and there are threads of white
Which their dark locks lately welcomed; but they're only boys tonight.
Some whose words have thrilled the senate, some who win the critic's praise—
All are "chums" to-night, with voices redolent of college days.
"Boys," said one, "do you remember that old joke—about the wine—
How we used to fill our oil cans and repair to 'No. 9'?
But at last the old professor—never long was he outdone—
Opened up our shining oil cans and demolished all our fun!"
In the laugh that rings so gayly through the richly curtained room,
Join they all, save one; Why is it? Does he see the waxen bloom
Tremble in its vase of silver? Does he see the ruddy wine
Shiver in its crystal goblet, or do those grave eyes divine
Something sadder yet? He pauses till their mirth has died away,
Then in measured tones speaks gravely:
"Boys, a story, if I may, I will tell you, though it may not merit worthily your praise,
It is bitter fruitage ripened from our pranks of college days,"
Eagerly they claim the story, for they know the LL.D.
With his flexible voice would garnish any tale, whate'er it be.
"Just a year ago to-night, boys, I was in my room alone,
At the San Francisco L—— House, when I heard a plaintive moan
Sounding from the room adjoining. Hoping to give some relief
To the suffering one, I entered; but it thrilled my heart with grief
Just to see that wreck of manhood—bloated face, disheveled hair—
Wildly tossing, ever moaning, while his thin hands beat the air.
Broken prayers, vile oaths and curses filled the air as I drew near;
Then in faint and piteous accents, these words I could plainly hear:
'Give me one more chance—one only—let me see my little Belle—
Then I'll follow where they lead me, be it to the depths of hell!'
When he saw me he grew calmer, started strangely—looked me o'er—
Oh, the glory of expression! I had seen those eyes before!
Yes, I knew him; it was Horace, he who won the college prize;
Naught remained of his proud beauty but the splendor of his eyes.
He whom we were all so proud of, lay there in the fading light.
If my years should number fourscore, I shall ne'er forget that sight.
And he knew me—called me 'Albert,' ere a single word I'd said—
We were comrades in the old days; I sat down beside the bed.
"Horace seemed to grow more quiet, but he would not go to sleep;
He kept talking of our boyhood while my hand he still would keep
In his own so white and wasted, and with burning eyes would gaze
On my face, still talking feebly of the dear old college days.
'Ah,' he said, 'life held such promise; but, alas! I am to-day
But a poor degraded outcast—hopes, ambition swept away,
And it dates back to those oil cans that we filled in greatest glee.
Little did I think in those days what the harvest now would be!'
"For a moment he was silent, then a cry whose anguish yet
Wrings my heart, burst from his white lips, though his teeth were tightly set,
And with sudden strength he started—sprang from my detaining arm,
Shrieking wildly, 'Curse the demons; do they think to do me harm?
Back! I say, ye forked-tongued serpents reeking with the filth of hell!
Don't ye see I have her with me—my poor sainted little Belle?'
"When I'd soothed him into quiet, with a trembling arm he drew
My head down, 'Oh, Al,' he whispered, 'such remorse you never knew.'
And again I tried to soothe him, but my eyes o'erbrimmed with tears;
His were dry and clear, as brilliant as they were in college years.
All the flush had left his features, he lay white as marble now;
Tenderly I smoothed his pillow, wiped the moisture from his brow.
Though I begged him to be quiet, he would talk of those old days,
Brokenly at times, but always of 'the boys' with loving praise.
"Once I asked him of Lorena—the sweet girl whom he had wed—
You remember Rena Barstow. When I asked if she were dead,
'No,' he said, his poor voice faltering, 'she is far beyond the Rhine,
But I wish, to God, it were so, and I still might call her mine.
She's divorced—she's mine no longer,' here his voice grew weak and hoarse
'But although I am a drunkard, I have one they can't divorce.
I've a little girl in heaven, playing round the Savior's knee,
Always patient and so faithful that at last she died for me.
"'I had drank so much, so often, that my brain was going wild;
Every one had lost hope in me but my faithful little child.
She would say, "Now stop, dear papa, for I know you can stop now."
I would promise, kiss my darling, and the next day break my vow.
So it went until one Christmas, dark and stormy, cold and drear;
Out I started, just as usual, for the cursed rum shop near,
And my darling followed after, in the storm of rain and sleet,
With no covering wrapped about her, naught but slippers on her feet;
No one knew it, no one missed her, till there came with solemn tread,
Stern-faced men unto our dwelling, bringing back our darling—dead!
They had found her cold and lifeless, like, they said, an angel fair,
Leaning 'gainst the grog shop window—oh, she thought that I was there!
Then he raised his arms toward heaven, called aloud unto the dead,
For his mind again was wandering: 'Belle, my precious Belle!' he said,
'Papa's treasure—papa's darling! oh, my baby—did—you—come
All the way—alone—my darling—just to lead—poor—papa—home?'
And he surely had an answer, for a silence o'er him fell.
And I sat alone and lonely—death had come with little Belle."
Silence in that princely parlor—head of every guest is bowed.
They still see the red wine sparkle, but 'tis through a misty cloud.
Said the host at last, arising, "I have scorned the pledge to sign,
Laughed at temperance all my life long. Never more shall drop of wine
Touch my lips. The fruit was bitter, boys; 'twas I proposed it first—
That foul joke from which poor Horace ever bore a life accurst!
Let us pledge ourselves to-night, boys, never more by word, or deed,
In our own fair homes, or elsewhere, help to plant the poison seed."
Silence once again, but only for a moment's space, and then,
In one voice they all responded with a low and firm "Amen."
Will Victor McGuire.

God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop

The summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet.
'Twas a piteous sight to see all round
The grain lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poor
Crowded round Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last year's store,
And all the neighborhood could tell
His granaries were furnish'd well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced the tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flock'd from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.
Then, when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door,
And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the barn and burnt them all.
"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he,
"And the country is greatly obliged to me
For ridding it, in these times forlorn,
Of rats that only consume the corn."
So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man;
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning, as he enter'd the hall
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he look'd, there came a man from his farm,
He had a countenance white with alarm:
"My lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,
And the rats had eaten all your corn."
Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be.
"Fly, my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he,
"Ten thousand rats are coming this way,
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"
"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he;
"'Tis the safest place in Germany;
The walls are high, and the shores are steep
And the stream is strong, and the water deep."
Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away,
And he cross'd the Rhine without delay,
And reach'd his tower and barr'd with care
All the windows, doors, and loopholes there.
He laid him down and closed his eyes,
But soon a scream made him arise;
He started, and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.
He listen'd and look'd,—it was only the cat,
But the bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sat screaming, mad with fear
At the army of rats that were drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep,
And they have climb'd the shores so steep,
And up the tower their way is bent,
To do the work for which they were sent.
They are not to be told by the dozen or score;
By thousands they come, and by myriads and more;
Such numbers had never been heard of before,
Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore.
Down on his knees the bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder, drawing near,
The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.
And in at the windows and in at the door,
And through the walls helter-skelter they pour;
And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,—
And all at once to the bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the bishop's bones;
They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb,
For they were sent to do judgment on him!
Robert Southey.

The Last Hymn

The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea,
The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly,
And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted west,
And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest.
But they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there;
A fierce spirit moved above them—the wild spirit of the air—
And it lashed and shook and tore them till they thundered, groaned and boomed,
And, alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed.
Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales,
Lest the dawn of coming morrow should be telling awful tales,
When the sea had spent its passion and should cast upon the shore
Bits of wreck and swollen victims as it had done heretofore.
With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained her eyes,
As she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise.
Oh, it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be,
For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea!
Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach.
Oh, for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach!
Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with dread,
And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock-shore sped.
"She's parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down!"
"God have mercy! Is his heaven far to seek for those who drown?"
Lo! when next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the sea,
Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be.
Nearer to the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the wave,
And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save.
"Could we send him a short message? Here's a trumpet. Shout away!"
'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say.
Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no!
There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe.
So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus!
Can you hear?" And "Aye, aye, sir," rang the answer o'er the waters loud and clear.
Then they listened,—"He is singing, 'Jesus, lover of my soul.'"
And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll."
Strange, indeed, it was to hear him,—"Till the storm of life is past,"
Singing bravely o'er the waters, "Oh, receive my soul at last!"
He could have no other refuge,—"Hangs my helpless soul on thee."
"Leave, ah! leave me not"—the singer dropped at last into the sea.
And the watchers, looking homeward, through their eyes by tears made dim,
Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn."
Marianne Faringham.

A Fence or an Ambulance