First Sergeant. Another of his own, I guess; homespun And rough, like country cloth.

Fitzgibbon. Hush! what is that he says?

[A Cadet gently pushes one of the folding doors a little wider open.

Roaring Bill. 'Tis but a doleful ditty, boys, With ne'er a chorus; yet I'll be bound You'll hardly quarrel with it.

A Comrade. Let's have it, Bill; we ain't red Injuns, As likes palaver.

Roaring Bill—

SONG.

October blasts had strown the wreaths that erstwhile hung so gay, Above the brows of Queenston Heights where we impatient lay; Niagara fretted at our feet, as chafing at his post, And impotence to turn the fleets that bore the aggressive host.

And gray the dawn and cold the morn of Rensselaer's attack, But warm and true the hearts, though few, that leapt to beat him back. "On, Forth-ninth! On, volunteers! Give tongue, ye batteries twain!" Bold Dennis spake: the guns boomed forth, and down he rushed amain.

They sink! They fly! They drop down stream.—Ah, too delusive sight! A long-abandoned path they find, and gain the wooded height. The batteries now must guard the shore—above, our struggle lies; But down they pour, like surging flood, that skill and strength defies.

Down, down, they press us, inch by inch, beyond the village bound, And there, o'erwhelmed, but not o'ercome, we keep our sullen ground. Short time we stand. A ringing cheer proclaims our hero nigh; Our darling leader, noble Brock—hark to his gallant cry!

"Follow me, boys!" the hero cries. We double to the wall— Waving his gleaming sword on high, he climbs, and follow all; Impetuous up the mountain side he strides in warlike glee, All heedless of the leaden hail that whistles from each tree:

For on and up proud Victory lures—we touch her laurel crown— When by malign, deliberate aim the hero's stricken down. He falls! We fire, but ah, too late—the murderous work is done. No more that voice shall cheer us on, with "Vict'ry!" in its tone.

He falls: nor word nor look may cheer young Jarvis' anxious quest; Among his stricken men he sinks, his hand but seeks his breast. O, Death, could none but him suffice thy cold, insatiate eye? Nor knewed'st thou how many there for him would gladly die!

Nor lonely speeds the parting soul, nor lonely stands the bier— Two forms the bastion-tomb enfolds, two claim the soldier's tear. "Avenge the General!" was the cry. "AVENGE!" McDonell cries, And, leading madly up the Height, McDonell falls and dies.

[Several of the men pass their hands over their eyes; MR. JARVIS goes to the open window, as if to observe something without.

An 8th man. A mournful ditty to a mournful tune, Yet not unworthy of the heroic theme, Nor of a soldier's heart.

Mr. Jarvis (in a low voice). Indeed, you're right. I thank the singer for his memories, Though sad to me, who caught Brock's latest breath.

Fitzgibbon. I did not think there had been such a stroke Of genius in the lad. (Another voice.) But who's this, now?

Second Cadet. It's young Jack Kelley, sir; he has a voice, And emulates old Bill.

Jack Kelley (with the airs of an amateur.) Ugh! ugh! I'm hoarse. Now mind the coal-box, byes, and sing it up. "The Jolly Midshipman's" the tune.

SONG.

I.

It was a bold Canadian boy That loved a winsome girl; And he was bold as ancient knight, She, fair as day's own pearl. And to the greenwood they must go, To build a home and name, So he clasped hands with Industry, For fortune, wealth and fame.

CHORUS

(In which all join, the leader beating time upon his knees with his fists.)

For fortune, wealth and fame, For fortune, wealth and fame; So he clasped hands with Industry, For fortune, wealth and fame.

II.

And when the jocund Spring came in, He crowned the wedded pair. And sent them forth with hearts elate Their wildwood home to share. For he had built a snug log-house, Beneath a maple tree; And his axe had cleared a wide domain, While store of goods spun she.

CHORUS.

While store of goods spun she, While store of goods spun she, And his axe had cleared a wide domain, While store of goods spun she.

III.

The husband whistles at his plough, The wife sings at her wheel, The children wind the shrilly horn That tells the ready meal. And should you roam the wide world o'er, No happier home you'll see, Than this abode of loving toil Beneath the maple tree.

CHORUS.

Beneath the maple tree, Beneath the maple tree, Than this abode of loving toil Beneath the maple tree.

A 49th man. Hurrah, Jack! that's a good tune, Let's have the chorus again.

All— Beneath the maple tree, Beneath the maple tree, Than this abode of lov—

[The Sentry challenges, and a Corporal enters and salutes FITZGIBBON.

Fitzgibbon. Well, Corporal.

Corporal. Sir, here is Mishe-mo-qua and a woman. They say they've news, and wish to speak with you.

Fitzgibbon. Then, Corporal, show them in.

[Exit Corporal.

Enter MRS. SECORD and the Indian Chief, who salutes LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.

Several Militiamen (in surprise, aside to each other.) 'Tis Mrs. Secord, Captain Secord's wife; What can her errand be? So tired, too, And in rags.

Mrs. Secord (courtesying). You are the Captain, sir?

Fitzgibbon. At your service.

Mrs. Secord. I bring you news of great importance, sir.

Fitzgibbon. I am indebted, madam, for what I see Has been no common task. Be seated, pray.

[A Cadet places a chair.

Chief, will you also rest?

[He indicates a couch.

Mishe-mo-qua. No. Woman, she Come far, to tell white chief great words.

Fitzgibbon. I thank her much.

Mrs. Secord. I came to say that General Dearborn tires. Of his inaction, and the narrow space Around his works, he therefore purposes To fall upon your outpost here, to-night, With an o'erwhelming force, and take your stores:

Fitzgibbon. Madam!

Mrs. Secord. Five hundred men, with some dragoons and guns, Start e'en to-night, soon as the moon goes down; Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler in command. A train of waggons, too, is sent for spoil.

Fitzgibbon. And may I ask on what authority To trust such startling news? I know you not.

Mrs. Secord. My name is Secord, I'm Captain Secord's wife, Who fought at Queenston Heights, and there received The wounds that leave him now a helpless cripple. Some here may know him.

Fitzgibbon. I remember now.

Mrs. Secord. We live within the Yankee lines, and hence By victor's right our home is free to them. Last night a sergeant and his new-changed guard Came in and asked for supper; a boy and girl I left to wait on them, seeing the table set With all supplies myself, and then retired. But such their confidence; their talk so loud And free, I could not help but hear some words That raised suspicion; then I listened close And heard, 'mid gibe and jest, the enterprise That was to flout us; make the Loyalist A cringing slave to sneering rebels; make The British lion gnash his teeth with rage;— The Yankee, hand-on-hip, guffawing loud The while. At once, my British blood was up, Nor had I borne their hated presence more, But for the deeper cause. My husband judged As I did, but his helpless frame forbade His active interference, so I came, For well we knew your risk, warning denied.

Fitzgibbon. Alone? You surely did not come alone?

Mrs. Secord. Sir, I have walked the whole way through the woods, For fear of spies, braving all other foes. Nor, since at early morn I left St. David's Mill, Until I met your sentry on the ridge,— Who begged me tell you so, and said "all's well,"— Spoke I, or saw, a soul. Since then, the chief, Whose senior sent him with me for a guide, Has been my kind protector to your post.

Fitzgibbon (to the chief). I thank you, Mishe-mo-qua, and your chief.

(To Mrs. Secord, bowing.) But you, oh; madam, how shall I thank you? You have, indeed, performed a woman's part, A gentle deed; yet at expense of more Than woman's fitting means. I am not schooled In courtly phrases, yet may I undertake To thank you heartily, not on our part Alone, but in our good King George's name, For act so kind achieved. Knew he your care For his brave men—I speak for those around— Of whom some fought for him at Copenhagen, He would convey his thanks, and the Queen's, too— Who loves all nobleness—in better terms Than I, his humble servant. Affliction Leaves him in our hands to do him justice; And justice 'tis, alike to him and you, To thank you in his name, and in the Regent's.

The Soldiers. Hurray! hurray! hurray!

[They toss up their caps.

Mrs. Secord. Sir, you make quite too much of my poor service, I have but done my duty; and I beg Let me not interrupt your movements now: I would not be an obstacle across The path I made.

Fitzgibbon. You add an obligation, madam.

[At a signal the men from the next room file in.

(To the men.) We've hot work coming, boys. Our good friend here Has walked from Queenston, through the woods, this day, To warn me that a sortie from Fort George Is sent to take this post, and starts e'en now. You, Cummings, mount—you know the way—and ride With all your might, to tell De Haren this; He lies at Twelve-Mile Creek with larger force Than mine, and will move up to my support: He'll see my handful cannot keep at bay Five hundred men, or fight in open field. But what strength can't accomplish cunning must— I'll have to circumvent them.

[Exit CUMMINGS.

(To Mishe-mo-qua.) And you, chief, What will you do? You've stood by me so long, So faithfully, I count upon you now.

Mishe-mo-qua. White chief say true: we good King George's men. My warriors yell! hide! shoot! hot bullet fly Like dart of Annee-meekee. We keep dam Long-Knife back. I go just now.

Fitzgibbon (handing the chief a twist of tobacco, which he puts into his girdle with a grunt of satisfaction). A Mohawk is my friend, and you are one.

[FITZGIBBON shakes hands with the Chief, who retires well pleased.

(To Mrs. Secord.) Madam, how may I serve you to secure Your safety? Refreshment comes; but here Is no protection in our present strait.

Mrs. Secord. I thank you, sir, but will not tax you more Than some refreshment. I have friends beyond A mile or two, with whom I'll stay to-night.

Fitzgibbon. I'll spare an escort; Mr. Jarvis here will—

[MRS. SECORD faints.

Poor soul! poor soul! she is exhaust indeed.

(The men run out and bring water, Fitzgibbon gets brandy from a buffet, and Mr. Jarvis unloosens her bonnet and collar. They bathe her hands with the spirit and sprinkle her face with the water, and at last MRS. SECORD sighs heavily.)

Fitzgibbon. She's coming to. Back, men; give her more air.

(MR. JARVIS and another Cadet support MRS. SECORD, while LIEUT. FITZGIBBON offers her coffee, into which he has poured a little brandy, feeding her with the spoon.)

An 8th man (aside). She'll never walk to reach her friends to-night.

A 49th man (to a comrade). Jack, thou an' me can do't. 'Tyent the fust time We've swung a faintin' comrade 'twixt us two; An' her's just like a babby. Fatch a pole An' blanket, an' we'll carry her.

A Sergeant. You'll then be in the rear, for we're to move.

Second 49th man. We'll catch ye oop a foight'n'; its summat wuth To await o' sech as she.

Fitzgibbon (to Mrs. Secord). Are you better now?

Mrs. Secord (trying to stand). I think I am. Oh, sir, I'm losing you The time I tried to save! Pray leave me— I shall be better soon, and I can find my way.

Fitzgibbon. Nay, be not anxious; we are quite prepared. Sheathed though our claws may be, they're always sharp. Pray drink again, nor fear the potent touch That snatches back the life when the spent heart, Oppressed by cruel tasks, as yours, can scarcely beat.

[MRS. SECORD drinks the coffee, and again rises, but can scarcely stand.

49th man (saluting). Sir, me an' Bill has here a hammock ready, An' volunteers to see the lady safe. Among her friends.

Mrs. Secord. But I can walk.

Fitzgibbon. Madam, you cannot. Let these carry you; An honour I do grudge them. I shall move With better heart knowing you cared for.

Mrs. Secord. I'll go at once—

Fitzgibbon. Men, bring your hammock hither.

(The hammock is brought, and MRS. SECORD is assisted into it by LIEUT. FITZGIBBON, who wraps a blanket round her. The men fall into line, and salute as she passes. At the door she offers her hand to FITZGIBBON.)

Mrs. Secord. Farewell, sir. My best thanks for all your goodness, Your hospitality, and this, your escort; You do me too much honour.

Fitzgibbon. Should we not Show our respect for one has done so much For us? We are your debtors, madam.

[He points to the sky, set thick with brilliant stars, the moon having already set.

See how the eyes of heaven look down on you, And smile, in gentle approbation Of a most gentle deed. I pray they light You safely to your friends.

Mrs. Secord. And you to victory, sir. Farewell.

[FITZGIBBON bows.

[Exeunt MRS. SECORD and her escort.

Fitzgibbon (to the men who have crowded round the door, and are awaiting orders). Men, never forget this woman's noble deed. Armed, and in company, inspirited By crash of martial music, soldiers march To duty; but she, alone, defenceless, With no support but kind humanity And burning patriotism, ran all our risks Of hurt, and bloody death, to serve us men, Strangers to her save by quick war-time ties. Therefore, in grateful memory and kind return, Ever treat women well.

Men. Aye, aye, sir.

Fitzgibbon. Now, then, for action. I need not say, Men, do your duty. The hearts that sprung To follow Nelson; Brock; have never failed. I'm proud, my men, to be your leader now.

* * * * *



SCENE 2.—Morning twilight. A little wayside tavern at a cross-road.

Enter FITZGIBBON, reconnoitring.

Fitzgibbon. They must be pretty near by this time, If they are come at all.

(Two American soldiers of the advanced guard rush out of the tavern and present their rifles. FITZGIBBON springs on them, and, seizing each man's weapon, crosses them in front of himself.)

Not yet, my friends.

[They struggle, and one of the Americans draws FITZGIBBON'S sword and is about to plunge it in his shoulder.

Enter a woman, the tavern-keeper.

Woman. Ye Yankee rogue! ye coward!

[She snatches the sword, and runs into the tavern with it.

Fitzgibbon. Take that! and that!

[He trips up one man, and knocks the other down, putting his foot on the man's breast.

Now, give me up your arms.

[They give up their arms.

Enter FITZGIBBON'S command.

Here, Sergeant, march them in and set a guard.

[They are marched into the tavern. Shots are heard.

Fitsgibbon. They're come! Quick—march, my lads.

* * * * *



SCENE 3.—The beech ridge. Frequent firing. The Indian war-whoop. Bugles sounding the advance.

Enter LIEUT. FITZGIBBON and COL. THOMAS CLARKE.

Fitzgibbon. The Mohawks have done well; and I am glad To have your help, sir, too. What is your strength?

Clarke. But twenty, sir, all told.

Fitzgibbon. And I but thirty. Too few to fight such force In open field. But Boerstler's lost his head: Deluded by our calls, your fierce attack, And Indian fighting—which to them has ghosts Of their own raising—scalps, treachery, what not. There is our chance: I mean to summon him To a surrender.

Clarke (in great surprise). Sir!

Fitzgibbon. 'Tis a bold stroke, I grant, and if it fail Why then I'll fight it out. Keep up the scare Some moments longer, and we'll see.

Clarke. Good luck betide so brave a word; I'll do my best.

[Exit COL. CLARKE.

Enter the American force in some confusion.

(FITZGIBBON sends forward a flag of truce; the bugles sound "Cease firing;" an officer advances from the American lines and FITZGIBBON goes forward to meet him.)

Fitzgibbon. Sir, with my compliments to your commander, I am the leader of this large detachment, Backed closely up by reinforcements Larger still. Indians, our good allies, Swarm in the woods around; and in your rear A strong militia force awaits my orders: Therefore, sir, to save a useless loss Of brave men's lives, I offer you fair terms Of full surrender.

American officer. I will report, sir, To Colonel Boerstler.

[Exit.

Fitzgibbon (aside). And I will pray. For after all in God's hand lies the day: I've done the best I know.

Enter the American officer and an orderly.

American officer. Sir, with respect, our colonel bids me say That, seeing fate and fortune both unite To mar success, he'll rather save his men By fair surrender, than waste their lives In useless struggle. He commissions me To act in drawing up the terms. I am McDowell, captain of a troop.

Fitzgibbon (bowing). Your humble servant, sir. We'll try to please Your colonel; rejoicing we have met a foe Who knows the bravery of discretion.

Enter COL. CLARKE, CAPT. KERR, of the Indian contingent, and MISHE-MO-QUA.

(The British officers consult, and then invite CAPT. MCDOWELL to join them. A drum is brought, Major De Haren produces writing materials; and terms of capitulation are drawn up, which are read to CAPT. MCDOWELL.)

Fitzgibbon. Our terms we make as light as possible: I hope you'll find them so, sir.

Capt. McDowell (after reading). Terms generous and honourable sir; I thank you. A noble foe is always half a friend. I'll carry them to Colonel Boerstler, With your consent.

[FITZGIBBON bows.

[Exit CAPT. MCDOWELL.

Enter MAJOR DE HAREN, who hastens to greet LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.

Major De Haren. Why, what is this, Fitzgibbon, that I hear? That with your little handful you have caught Five hundred enemy? A very elephant!

Fitzgibbon. A strait like mine required some strategy.

De Haren. My dear, brave fellow, you have surely won The golden epaulettes! How glad I am I was not here before. Such tact! such skill! You are a soldier born. But who comes hither?

Enter COL. BOERSTLER, CAPT. MCDOWELL and other American officers.

Fitzgibbon. These are the officers to sign our terms.

[The officers on both sides salute.

Boerstler (to Fitzgibbon). I thank you, sir, for honourable terms, For vain it was to cope with force like yours. But ne'er I thought to put my hand to such A document.

[He takes up the pen.

Fitzgibbon. Fortune of war, sir, that we all may meet.

[Each officer signs the document in his order; MISHE-MO-QUA draws his totem—a bear—as his signature.

De Haren (to Col. Boerstler). Will you proceed on the third article?

Boerstler (to Capt. McDowell). Give you the order.

[Exit CAPT. MCDOWELL.

Fitzgibbon (to his men, who are drawn up across the road— De Haren's command forming their right and left wings). Forward—ten paces.

[Enter by companies the American force, who lay down their arms in front of the British officers and defile to the rear.

De Haren (to Fitzgibbon). A glorious day for you, Fitzgibbon; For this fair Canada, and British arms.

Fitzgibbon. Yes, thanks to a brave woman's glorious deed.

[Exeunt.

* * * * *



POEMS



A BALLAD OF 1812.

Now hush the martial trumpet's blare, And tune the softer lyre; Nor shrink lest gentler tones should lack The high, heroic fire:

For many a valiant deed is done, And great achievement wrought, Whose inspiration knows no source Save pure and holy thought.

Nor think some lofty pedestal, Proud-lifted towards the skies, The only plane where Worth can wrest From Fame her highest prize:

For many a nameless nook and lone, And many a tongueless hour, Sees deeds performed whose glories shame The pride of pomp and power.

Nor dream that to a noble deed It needs a noble name; Or that to mighty act achieved Must link a stalwart frame:

For strung by Duty's steady hand, And thrilled by Love's warm touch, Slight forms and simple names may serve At need, to avail for much.

Then lay the blaring trumpet by, And tune the softer lyre To songs of Woman's chivalry, Of Woman's patriot fire.

I.

O heard ye not of Queenston Heights,— Of Brock who fighting fell,— And of the Forty-ninth and York, Who 'venged their hero well?—

And of the gallant stand they made— What prowess kept at bay The swelling foe, till Sheaffe appeared, And won the glorious day!

Yet heard ye how—ban of success— Irresolution ruled, Till all our green peninsula And border-land, were schooled

To bear, nathless all frowningly, The yoke of alien power, And wait in patience, as they might, The dawn of happier hour.

Till Forty-mile, and Stony Creek, Revived our waning hopes, And round Fort-George a limit held The Yankees as with ropes.

Yet, as do cordons oft enclose The unwilling with the fain, Our people, by forced parole held, Could naught but own the rein.

Then heard ye how a little post. Some twenty miles away, A check upon proud Dearborn's hopes, Was fixed upon for prey?

And how lest Britain's bull-dog pluck, Roused by their isolation, Should make these few, brave, lonely men, Fight as in desperation,

And prove a match for thrice their odds, They made them three times three, And thrice of that, with guns to boot, To insure a victory?

Then they would take the Night along —No mean ally with odds, As Stony Creek can testify: But then she marched with gods!—

Yet blame ye not the silent Night That she was forced to go, For oft have captives been compelled To serve the hated foe:

And oft with grave and quiet mien, And Samson-like intent, Have brought about such ends, as by Their lords were never meant.

Then blame ye not the dark-eyed Night, Of grave and silent mien; Her whisper 'twas that foiled the foe, And fired our patriot queen.

II.

"And why, my husband, why so pale?" 'Twas Laura Secord spoke; And when she heard his plaintive tale, Then all the patriot woke.

"Thou knowest how Fitzgibbon holds The post at Beaver Dams, And Dearborn frets, and fumes, and chafes, And calls us British shams:

"Because we will not, willing, give, To feed an alien foe, The substance, all too poor and sparse, Our stinted fields may grow.

"So when the Night puts on her robes Of sad and sable hue, A host he sends, of shameful strength, To oust that noble few.

"And who shall warn Fitzgibbon? Who? My weakness is my bale; At such an hour of pressing need, O that my aid should fail!

"And yet, my country, if my blood, Drawn from me drop by drop, Could save thee in this awful strait, 'Twere thine,'twere thine, to stop

"This massacre, this horrid crime, To baulk this wicked plot! My parole given!—by Heaven I could— I Would—regard it not.

"But here am I, a cripple weak; Great Heaven! and must they fall Because I, wretched I alone, Know what will sure befall!"

"Calm thee, my husband, calm thee now. Heaven ne'er points out a deed, But to the creature by whose means Its action is decreed:

"Thou, had'st thou not been sick and lame, Would'st ne'er have learned this plot, And had'st thou strength thou could'st not pass The lines, and not be shot.

"Wherefore,'tis plain, 'tis not to thee The careful task is given; 'Tis rather me; and I will go, Safe in the care of Heaven."

"Thou go, dear wife! a woman soft, And not too brave to shake At sight of wolf or catamount, Or many-rattled snake:

"Thou go!" "Nay, smile not, I will go; Fitzgibbon shall not fall Unwarned at least; and Heaven will guard Its messenger-in-thrall."

III.

Scarce had Aurora backward drawn The curtains of the night, Scarce had her choristers awaked The echoes with delight;

When Laura Secord left her home, With holy message fraught, And lone Fitzgibbon's distant post With hasty footsteps sought.

She chides the harsh-tongued sentinel Whose musket stops her way, And hies her from his curious sight In such sort as she may.

A second bars her forward path, Nor will he be content; And all her woman's wit she needs Before his doubts are spent.

Beyond, a third the challenge gives;— She almost gasps for breath— "Oh, at the Mill my brother lies Just at the point of death."

But he nor cares for death nor life: Yet when she kneels and weeps, He yields: for—in his rugged heart A tender memory sleeps.

With beating heart and trembling limb, Swift hastes she; yet in ruth That even for her country's sake, She needs must veil the truth.

And when a rise of ground permits A last, fond, lingering look, She, tearful, views her home once more— A lowly, leafy nook.

For there her sleeping children lie Unconscious of her woe; Her choking sobs may not be stayed, For oh, she loves them so!

And there she leaves her maiden choice, Her husband, lover, friend. Oh, were she woman could she less To homely sorrows lend!

On altar of the public weal Must private griefs expire,— Her tender grief exhaled to Heaven On wings of patriot fire.

The dew still glistened on the grass, The morning breezes swung The honeysuckle and the rose, Above, whose sweetness hung.

The fritil' butterfly, the bee, Whose early labours cheer, And point the happy industry That marks the opening year.

The cheerful robin's sturdy note, The gay canary's trill, Blent with the low of new-milked kine That sauntered by the rill:

When Laura Secord stood beside The doomed St. David's door, Whose portals never closed upon The weary or the poor.

"O sister," cries the widowed dame, "What trouble brings you here? Doth Jamie ail? Hath aught arisen To mar your fettered cheer?"

"Nor aileth any at the farm, Nor is our cheer less free, But I must haste to Beaver Dam, Fitzgibbon there to see.

"For many a foe this coming night, To take him by surprise, Is detailed, and he must be warned Before the moon doth rise."

O pallid grew the gentle dame, And tremulous her tone, As Laura Secord, at the board, Made all her errand known.

And oft her pallor turned to red, By indignation fired; And oft her red to pallor turned, For Laura's sake retired.

And many a cogent argument She used, of duteous wives; And many more that mothers thus Should never risk their lives.

And of the dangers of the way She told a trembling tale; But to divert a settled mind Nor words nor woes avail.

And many a tear she let down fall, And some dropt Laura too,— But "'Tis my country!" yet she cried, "My country may not rue."

A tender leave she gently takes Of him all wounded laid Upon his weary couch of pain, But hides her errand sad.

And then, while yet the day was young, The sun scarce quarter high, She plunges 'mid the sheltering bush, In fear of hue and cry,—

Of hue and cry of cruel foes Who yet might learn her route, And mad with rage of baffled aim, Should spring in hot pursuit.

On, on she speeds through bush and brake, O'er log and stone and briar; On, on, for many a lengthening mile Might stouter footsteps tire.

The hot sun mounts the upper skies, Faint grows the fervid air, And wearied nature asks for rest Mid scenes so soft and fair.

The sward all decked with rainbow hues, The whispering of the trees, Nor perfumed airs of flowery June, Can win her to her ease.

Ah, serpent in our Paradise! In choicest cup our gall! 'Twas thou, distraught Anxiety, Wrapped Beauty's self in pall;

And for that lonely traveller Empoisoned those sweet springs, To souls that languish, founts of life Bestirred by angel wings.

Thou gavest each breeze an infant's cry, A wailing, woesome tone; And in each call of wildwood bird Spoke still of freedom gone.

Nay now, why starts she in her path, By yonder tangled brake? 'Tis at the dreaded menace sprung By angry rattlesnake.

But know that fear is not the brand That marks the coward slave; 'Tis conquered fear, and duty done, That tells the truly brave.

With stick, and stone, and weapon mean She drives the wretch away, And then, with fluttering heart, pursues Her solitary way.

And oft she trips, and oft she falls, And oft her gown is torn, And oft her tender skin is pierced By many a clutching thorn.

And weariness her courage tries; And dread of devious way; And oft she hears the wild-cat shriek A requiem o'er its prey.

And when the oppressive summer air Hangs heavy in the woods,— Though many a bank of flowerets fair Invites to restful moods;

And though the ruby humming-bird Drones with the humming bee; And every gnat and butterfly Soars slow and fitfully;

No rest that anxious messenger Of baleful tidings takes, But all the waning afternoon Her morning speed she makes.

Over the hills, and 'mongst the brier, And through the oozy swamp, Her weary steps must never tire Ere burns the firefly's lamp.

Oh, wherefore drops she on her knees, And spreads imploring hands? Why blanches that courageous brow? Alas! the wolves' dread bands!

"Nay, not this death, dear Father! Not A mangled prey to these!" She faintly cries to Heaven, from out The darkening waste of trees.

Fear not, O patriot, courage take, Thy Father holds thy hand, Nor lets the powers of ill prevail Where He doth take command.

Away the prowling ghouls are fled, Some fitter prey to seek; The trembling woman sighs the thanks Her white lips cannot speak.

IV.

Now wherefore halts that sentry bold, And lays his piece in rest, As from the shadowy depths below One gains the beechen crest?

'Tis but a woman, pale and faint,— As woman oft may prove, Whose eagle spirit soars beyond The home-flight of the dove.

How changes now the sentry's mien, How soft his tones and low, As Laura Secord tells her tale Of an impendent foe!

"God bless thee, now, thou woman bold, And give thee great reward." The soldier says, with eyes suffused, And keeps a jealous guard,

As onward, onward still she goes, With steady step and true, Towards her goal, yet far away, Hid in the horizon blue.

Behind her grows the golden moon, Before her fall the shades, And somewhere near her hides the bird Whose death-call haunts the glades.

The early dew blooms all the sod, The fences undulate In the weird light, like living lines That swell with boding hate.

For she has left the tangled woods, And keeps the open plain Where once a fruitful farm-land bloomed, And yet shall bloom again.

And now, as nears the dreaded hour. Her goal the nearer grows, And hope, the stimulus of life, Her weary bosom glows.

Toward's lone Decamp's—whose ancient home Affords Fitzgibbon's band Such shelter as the soldier asks Whose life hangs on his brand—

A steady mile or so, and then— Ah, what is't rends the air With horrent, blood-encurdling tones. The tocsin of despair!

It is the war-whoop of the braves, Of Kerr's famed Mohawk crew, Who near Fitzgibbon ambushed lie To serve that lonely few.

Startled, yet fearless, on she speeds. "Your chief denote," she cries; And, proudly towering o'er the crowd, The chief does swift arise.

Fierce rage is in his savage eye, His tomahawk in air; "Woman! what woman want?" he cries, "Her death does woman dare!"

But quickly springs she to his side, And firmly holds his arm, "Oh, chief, indeed no, spy am I, But friend to spare you harm."

And soon she makes her errand known, And soon, all side by side, The red man and his sister brave In silence quickly glide.

And as the moon surmounts the trees, They gain the sentried door, And faintly to Fitzgibbon she Unfolds her tale once more.

Then, all her errand done, she seeks A lowly dwelling near, And sinks, a worn-out trembling thing, Too faint to shed a tear.

V.

Now let the Lord of Hosts be praised! Cheer brave Fitzgibbon's band, Whose bold discretion won the day, And saved our threatened land!

And cheer that weary traveller, On lowly couch that lies, And scarce can break the heavy spell. That holds her waking eyes.

No chaplet wreathes her aching brows. No paeans rend the air; But in her breast a jewel glows The tried and true may wear.

And Time shall twine her wreath of bays Immortal as her fame, And many a generation joy, In Laura Secord's name.

"Fitzgibbon and the Forty-ninth!" Whene'er ye drink that toast To brave deeds done a grateful land, Praise Laura Secord most.

As one who from the charged mine Coils back the lighted fuse, 'T was hers, at many a fearful risk, To carry fateful news;

And save the dreadnought band; and give To Beaver Dam a name, The pride of true Canadian hearts, Of others, but the shame.

VI.

Now wherefore trembles still the string By lyric fingers crossed, To Laura Secord's praise and fame, When forty years are lost?

Nay, five and forty, one by one, Have borne her from the day When, fired by patriotic zeal, She trod her lonely way:

Her hair is white, her step is slow, Why kindles then her eye, And rings her voice with music sweet Of many a year gone by?

O know ye not proud Canada, With joyful heart, enfolds In fond embrace, the royal boy Whose line her fealty holds?

For him she spreads her choicest cheer, And tells her happiest tale, And leads him to her loveliest haunts, That naught to please may fail.

And great art thou, O Chippewa, Though small in neighbours' eyes, When out Niagara's haze thou seest A cavalcade arise;

And, in its midst, the royal boy, Who, smiling, comes to see An ancient dame whose ancient fame Shines in our history.

He takes the thin and faded hand, He seats him at her side, Of all that gay and noble band, That moment well the pride:

To him the aged Secord tells, With many a fervid glow, How, by her means, Fitzgibbon struck His great historic blow.

Nor deem it ye, as many do, A weak and idle thing That, at that moment Laura loved The praises of a king;

And dwelt on his approving smile, And kissed his royal hand, Who represented, and should wield, The sceptre of our land;

For where should greatness fire her torch, If not at greatness' shrine? And whence should approbation come Did not the gods incline?

VII.

And when, from o'er the parting seas, A royal letter came, And brought a gift to recognize Brave Laura Secord's fame.

What wonder that her kindling eye Should fade, suffused in tears? What wonder that her heart should glow, Oblivious of the years?

And honour ye the kindly grace Of him who still hath been In all things kindly, and the praise Of our beloved Queen.



THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE,

JUNE 21ST, 1887.

A Jubilee! A Jubilee! Waft the glad shout across the laughing sea! A Jubilee! A Jubilee! O bells Ring out our gladness on your merry peals!

O thou, the root and flower of this our joy, Well may thy praise our grateful hearts employ! Fair as the moon and glorious as the sun, Thy fame to many a future age shall run.

"I WILL BE GOOD." 'Twas thus thy judgment spake, When, greatness would allure for greatness' sake. Thou hast been good: herein thy strength hath lain; And not thine only, it hath been our gain: Nor ours alone, for every people's voice, Because thou hast been good, doth now rejoice. Beneath the shelter of that fruitful vine— Thy goodness—hath pure Virtue reared her shrine. Freedom hath lift her flag, and flung it free, Rejoicing in a god-like liberty. Truth hath her gracious lineaments revealed To humble souls, beneath Victoria's shield. Mercy, whose message bore thy first command, Hath carried festival to every land. Justice hath worn his robes unsmirched of gold; Nor longer strikes in vengeance, as of old. Kind Pity, wheresoe'er the tried might be, Widow, and babe, hath borne a balm from thee. Valour hath drawn his sword with surer aim: And Peace hath signed her treaties in thy name. Honour hath worn his plumes with nobler grace: And Piety pursued her readier race. Learning hath pressed where ne'er she walked before: And Science touched on realms undreamt of yore. Commerce hath spread wide wings o'er land and sea, And spoken nations glorious yet to be. Before the light of Temperance' purer grace. Excess hath veiled his spoiled and purpled face. And never since the peopled world began Saw it so strong the brotherhood of man. Great glory thus hath gathered round thy name,— VICTORIA. QUEEN. Goodness hath been thy fame, And greatness shall be, for the twain are one: As thy clear eye discerned ere rule begun. O Queen, receive anew our homage free: Our love and praise on this thy Jubilee.



THE HERO OF ST. HELEN'S ISLAND.

CANADA'S TRIBUTE TO THE TWENTY-FOURTH (2ND WARWICKSHIRE) REGIMENT.

O the roaring and the thunder! O the terror and the wonder! O the surging and the seething of the flood! O the tumbling and the rushing— O the grinding and the crushing— O the plunging and the rearing of the ice! When the great St. Lawrence River, With a mighty swell and shiver, Bursts amain the wintry bonds that hold him fast.

'Twas on an April morning— And the air was full of warning Of the havoc and the crash that was to be.— A deed was done, whose glory Flames from out the simple story, Like the living gleam of diamond in the mine. 'Twas where St. Mary's Ferry In sweet summer makes so merry, 'Twixt St. Helen's fortressed isle and Montreal, There, on an April morning,— As if in haughty scorning Of the tale soft Zephyr told in passing by— Firm and hard, like road of Roman, Under team of sturdy yeoman, Or the guns, the ice lay smooth, and bright, and cold. And watching its resistance To the forces in the distance That nearer and yet nearer ever rolled,

Warning off who tempt the crossing, All too soon so wildly tossing, Stood a party of Old England's Twenty-Fourth. While as yet they gazed in wonder, Sudden boomed the awful thunder That proclaimed the mighty conqueror at hand. O then the fierce uplifting! The trembling, and the rifting! The tearing, and the grinding, and the throes! The chaos and careering, The toppling and the rearing, The crashing and the dashing of the floes!

At such an awful minute A glance,—the horror in it!— Showed a little maiden midway twixt the shores, With hands a-clasp and crying. And, amid the masses, trying,— Vainly trying—to escape on either hand. O child so rashly daring! Who thy dreadful peril sharing Shall, to save thee, tempt the terrors of the flood That roaring, leaping, swirling, And continuously whirling, Threats to whelm in frightful deeps thy tender form! The helpless soldiers, standing On a small precarious landing, Think of nothing but the child and her despair, When a voice as from the Highest,— To the child he being nighest— Falls "Quick-march!" upon the ear of Sergeant Neill. O blessed sense of duty! As on banderole of duty His unswerving eye he fixes on the child; And straight o'er floe and fissure, Fragments yielding to his pressure, Toppling berg, and giddy block, he takes his way;

Sometimes climbing, sometimes crawling. Sometimes leaping, sometimes falling, Till at last he stands where cowers the weeping child. Then with all a victor's bearing. As in warlike honours sharing, With the child all closely clasped upon his breast, O'er floe and hummock taking Any step for safety making, On he goes, till they who watch can see no more.

For both glass and light are failing. As the ice-pack, slowly sailing, Bears him onward past the shore of far Longueil. "Lost!" his comrades cry, and turning. Eyes cast down, and bosoms burning, Gain the shelter of their quiet barrack home; Where, all night, the tortured father Clasps the agonizing mother. In the mute embrace of hopelessness and dread. O the rapid alternations When the loud reverberations Of the evening gun boom forth the hour of rest! The suffering and the sorrow! The praying for the morrow! The fears, the hopes, that tear the parents breasts! And many a word is spoken At the mess, so sadly broken, Of the men who mourn their comrade brave and true And many a tear-drop glistens, Where a watching mother listens To the tumult of the ice along the shore. And ever creeping nearer, Children hold each other dearer, In the gaps of slumber broken by its roar.

Twice broke the rosy dawning Of a sunny April morning, And Hope had drooped her failing wings, to die; When o'er the swelling river, Like an arrow from a quiver, Came the news of rescue, safety, glad return; And the mother, as from Heaven, Clasped her treasure, newly-given; And the father wrung the hand of Sergeant Neill: Who shrunk from their caressing, Nor looked for praise or blessing, But straight returned to duty and his post.

And this the grateful story, To others' praise and glory, That the Sergeant told his comrades round the fire.

"Far down the swelling river, To the ocean flowing ever, With its teeming life of porpoise, fish, and seal, There hardy, brave, and daring, Dwells the habitant; nor caring Save to make his frugal living by his skill. Nor heeds he of the weather, For scale, and fur, and feather, Lay their tribute in his hand the year around. On the sunny April morning, That the ice had given warning Of the havoc and the crash that was to be, Stood Pierre, Louis, gazing, Their prayers to Mary raising, For a season full of bounty from the sea. And when the light was failing, And the ice-pack, slowly-sailing, Crashing, tumbling, roaring, thundering, passed them by, Their quick eye saw with wonder, On the masses torn asunder, An unfortunate who drifted to his doom.

"O then the exclamations! The rapid preparations! The launching of canoes upon the wave! The signalling and shouting!— Death and disaster flouting— The anxious haste, the strife, a human life to save Across the boiling surges, Each man his light bark urges, Though death is in the error of a stroke; And paddling, poising, drifting, O'er the floes the light shell lifting, The gallant fellows reach the whirling pack: And from the frightful danger, They save the worn-out stranger. And oh, to see the nursling in his arms! And oh, the pious caring, The sweet and tender faring, From the gentle hands of Marie and Louise! And the pretty, smiling faces, As the travellers take their places To return again to those who weep their loss.

And the Sergeant's story ending, His head in rev'rence bending, He cried "God bless for ever all noble souls like these!" But cheer on cheer resounded, Till the officers, astounded At their mess, upon their sword-hilts clapped their hands. And the plaudits rose still higher, When they joined with martial fire, In the cry "God bless the Twenty-Fourth, and its gallant Sergeant Neill!"



OCTOBER 13TH, 1872.

A PLEA FOR THE VETERANS OF 1812.

Forget not, Canada, the men who gave, In fierce and bloody fray, their lives for thine. Pause thou, Ontario, in thy forward march, And give a tear to those who, long ago, On this day fell upon those Heights where now Their ashes rest beneath memorial pile. And while those names, BROCK and MACDONELL, wake A throb of emulative gratitude And patriotic fervour in thy breast, Forget not those—"the boys," the nameless ones,— Who also fought and fell on that October day; Nameless their ashes, but their memories dear! Remember, too, Those grandsires at thy hearths who linger still; Whose youthful arms then helped to guard thy peace, Thy peace their own. And ere they go to join Their ancient comrades of the hard-won fight, Glad their brave hearts with one applauding cheer In memory of the day. Comfort their age With plenty. Let them find that sturdy youth, Whose heritage they saved, bows rev'rent head, And lends a strong right arm to ancient men, Whose deeds of patriot prowess deck the silk That waves so proudly from the nation's towers.



LOYAL.

"The Loyalists having sacrificed their property to their politics, were generally poor, and had to work hard and suffer many privations before they could reap crops to support their families. In those early days there were no merchants, no bakeries, no butchers' shop's, no medical men to relieve the fevered brain or soothe a mother's aching heart, no public house, no minister to console the dying or bury the dead, no means of instruction for the young; all was bush, hard labour and pinching privation for the present, and long toil for the rising generations." REV. G. A. ANDERSON, Protestant Chaplain to the Reformatory, Penetanguishene.

O Ye, who with your blood and sweat Watered the furrows of this land,— See where upon a nation's brow In honour's front, ye proudly stand!

Who for her pride abased your own, And gladly on her altar laid All bounty of the older world, All memories that your glory made.

And to her service bowed your strength, Took labour for your shield and crest; See where upon a nation's brow Her diadem, ye proudly test!



ON QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.

I stood on Queenston Heights; And as I gazed from tomb to cenotaph, From cenotaph to tomb, adown and up, My heart grew full, much moved with many thoughts. At length I cried: "O robed with honour and with glory crowned, Tell me again the story of yon pile." And straight the ancient, shuddering cedars wept, The solemn junipers indued their pall, The moaning wind crept through the trembling oaks And, shrieking, fled. Strange clamour filled the air; The steepy hill shook with the rush of arms; Around me rolled the tide of sudden war. The booming guns pealed forth their dreadful knell; Musketry rattled; shouts, cries, groans, were heard; Men met as foes, and deadly strife ensued. From side to side the surging combat rolled, And as it rolled, passed from my ken. A silence! On the hill an alien flag Flies flaunting in the wind, mocking the gun. Dark forms pour o'er the heights, and Britain's day Broods dark. But hark! a ringing cheer peals up the height Once more the battle's tide bursts on my view. Brock to the rescue! Down goes the alien flag! Back, back the dark battalions fall. On, on The "Tigers" come. Down pours the rattling shot From out the verdant grove, like sheets of hail. Up, up they press, York volunteers and all. Aha! the day is ours! See, where the hero comes In conquering might, quick driving all before him! O brave ensample! O beloved chief! Who follows thee keeps ever pace with honour. Shout Victory! Proud victory is ours! Ours, noble Brock!

Ours? DEATH'S! Death wins; THE DAY IS HIS.

Ah! shudder still ye darkling cedars, Chant yet your doleful monotone, ye winds; Indue again your grey funereal pall, Ye solemn junipers; for here he fell, And here he lies,—dust; ashes; nothing.

Such tale the hill-side told me, and I wept. Nay! I wept not! The hot, indignant thoughts That filled my breast burned up the welling tears Ere they had chance to flow, and forward Hate Spake rashly. But calm Reflection Laid her cool hand upon my throbbing brow And whispered, "As up the misty stream The Norseman crept to-day, and signals white Waved kind salutes from yon opposing shore; And as ye peered the dusky vista through, To catch first glimpse of yonder glorious plinth, Yet saw it not till I your glance directed,— So high it towered above the common plane;— So, towering over Time, shall Brock e'er stand.— So, from those banks, shall white-robed Peace e'er smile.

October 12, 1881.



NEW ORLEANS, MONROE, MAYOR, APRIL 29, 1862.

* * * * *

THE HAULING DOWN OF THE STATE FLAG FROM OVER THE CITY HALL.

"The crowd flowed in from every direction and filled the street in a compact mass both above and below the square. They were silent, but angry and threatening. An open way was left in front of the hall, and their force being stationed, Captain Bell and Lieutenant Kantz passed across the street, mounted the hall steps and entered the Mayor's parlour. Approaching the Mayor, Captain Bell said: "I have come in obedience to orders to haul down the State flag from this building." ... As soon as the two officers left the room Mr. Monroe also went out. Descending the front steps he walked out into the street, and placed himself immediately in front of the howitzer pointing down St. Charles Street. There, folding his arms, he fixed his eyes upon the gunner who stood, lanyard in hand, ready for action. Here he remained without once looking up or moving, until the flag had been hauled down by Lieutenant Kantz, and he and Captain Bell reappeared.... As they passed out through the Camp Street gate, Mr. Monroe turned towards the hall, and the people, who had hitherto preserved the silence he had asked from them, broke into cheers for their Mayor." MARION A. BAKER, in July (1886) Century.

A noble man! a man deserving trust. A man in whom the higher elements Worked freely. A man of dignity; On whom the robes and badge of state sat well Because the majesty of self-control, And all its grace, were his. I see him now— Pale with the pallor of a full, proud heart— Descend those steps and take his imminent place Before the deadly piece, as who should say "'Ware ye! these people are my people; such Their inward heat and mine at this poor deed That scarce we can control our kindled blood. But should ye mow them down, ye mow me too. 'Ware ye!" O men for whose dear sake he stood An offering and a hostage; on that scroll Old Chronos doth unfold along the years Are writ in gold names of undaunted Mayors, Pepin and Charlemagne, and Whittington And White. Did not your fathers know them? And shall not he, your Mayor of 'Sixty-two, Monroe, stand side by side with them?



THE EMIGRANT'S SONG.

I.

No work, no home, no wealth have I, But Mary loves me true, And, for her sake, upon my knees I'd beg the wide world through: For her sweet eyes look into mine With fondness soft and deep; My heart's entranced, and I could die Were death a conscious sleep.

II.

But life is work, and work is life, And life's the way to heaven, And hand-in-hand we'd like to go The road that God has given. And England, dear old Motherland, Has plenty mouths to feed Without her sons and daughters fair, Whose strength is as their need.

III.

To Canada! To Canada! To that fair land I'll roam, And till the soil with heart of grace, For Mary and a home. Hurrah for love! Hurrah for hope! Hurrah for industry! Hurrah for bonnie Canada, And her bonnie maple tree!



TO THE INDIAN SUMMER.

And art thou come again, sweet Indian maid! How beautiful thou art where thou dost stand, With step arrested, on the bridge that joins The Past and Future—thy one hand waving Farewell to Summer, whose fond kiss hath set Thy yellow cheeks aglow, the other stretched To greet advancing Winter! Nor can thy veil, tissue diaphanous Of crimsoned haze, conceal thy lustrous eyes;— Those eyes in whose dark depths a tear-drop lurks Ready to fall, for Beauty loved and lost. From thy point gazing, maiden, let us, too, Once more behold the panorama fair Of the lost year. See where, far down yon slope That meets the sun, doth quick advance gay Spring, His dainty fingers filled with swelling buds: O'er his wreathed head, among the enlacing trees, The merry birds flit in and out, to choose A happy resting-place; and singing rills Dwell on his praise. Gladly his laughing eyes Rest on fair Summer's zone set thick with flowers, That chide their own profusion as, tiptoe, And arm outstretched, she reaches to restore The fallen nestling, venturous and weak: While many a nursling claims her tender care. Beneath her smile all Nature doth rejoice, And breaks into a song that sweeps the plain Where now the swarthy Autumn, girded close, Gathers his yellow sheaves and juicy fruit To overflowing garners; measure full, And blest to grateful souls. Through the low air A myriad wings circle in restless sort; And from the rustling woods there comes a sound Of dropping nuts and acorns—welcome store To little chipmunk and to squirrel blithe: Dependants small on Nature's wide largesse. How doth the enchanting picture fill our souls With faith! Sweet Indian maid, we turn with thee And greet gray Winter with a trustful smile.



IN JUNE.

I cannot sleep, and morning's earliest light, All soft and rosy, tempts my restlessness To ask from Nature what of peace she gives. I gaze abroad, and all my soul is moved At that strange calm that floats o'er earth at rest. The silver sickle of the summer moon Hangs on the purple east. The morning star, Like a late watcher's lamp, pales in the dawn. Yonder, the lake, that 'neath the midday sun All restless glows and burns like burnished shield, Lies as a child at rest with curtain drawn. The forest trees are still. The babbling creek Flows softly through the copse and glides away; And the fair flowers, that lie as thick and sweet As posies at a bridal, sleep quietly. No early breeze his perfumed wings unfolds. No painted butterfly to pleasure wakes. The bees, whose busy hum pervades the hours Through all the sultry day, keep yet the hive. And, save the swallow, whose long line of works Beneath each gable, points to labours vast, No bird yet stirs. Upon the dewy mead The kine repose; the active horse lies prone; And the white ewes doze o'er their tender lambs, Like village mothers with their babes at breast. So still, so fair, so calm, the morning broods, That, while I know the gairish day will come, And bring its clouds of gnat-like stinging cares, Rest steals into my heart, and gentle peace.



LIVINGSTONE.

OBIT MAY 1ST, 1883.

Sleep now and take thy rest, thou mighty dead! Thy work is done—thy grand and glorious work. Not "Caput Nili" shall thy trophy be. But broken slave-sticks and a riven chain. As the man Moses, thy great prototype, Snatched, by the hand of God, his groaning millions From out the greedy clutch of Egypt's despot; So hast thou done for Afric's toiling sons: Hast snatched its peoples from the poisonous fangs Of hissing Satan, veiled in commerce foul. For this thy fame shall ring; for this thy praise Shall be in every mouth for ever. Ay, Thy true human heart hath here its guerdon— A continent redeemed from slavery.— To this, how small the other! Yet 'twas great. Ah, not in vain those long delays, those groans Wrung from thy patient soul by obstacle, The work of peevish man; these were the checks From that Hand guiding, that led thee all the way. He willed thy soul should vex at tyranny; Thine ear should ring with murdered women's shrieks, That torturing famine should thy footsteps clog; That captive's broken hearts should ache thine own. And Slavery—that villain plausible— That thief Gehazi!—He stripped before thine eyes And showed him all a leper, foul, accursed. He touched thy lips, and every word of thine Vibrates on chords whose deep electric thrill Shall never cease till that wide wound be healed. And then He took thee home. Ay, home, great heart! Home to His home, where never envious tongue, Nor vile detraction, nor base ingratitude, Nor cold neglect, shall sting the quiv'ring heart. Thou endedst well. One step from earth to Heaven, When His voice called "Friend, come up higher."



ON SEEING THE ENGRAVING

"THE FIRST VISIT OF QUEEN VICTORIA TO HER WOUNDED SOLDIERS ON THEIR RETURN FROM THE CRIMEA."

Yes, go to them, the brave, the tried, the hurt— 'Tis very fitting so! We cannot go— Some scores of million souls—to tell them all We think and feel: To ease the burden of our laden hearts; To give the warm grasp of our British hands In strong assurance of our praise and love; Of our deep gratitude, to them, our friends, Our brothers, who for us toiled, suffered, bled: And left, as we, their dead upon the field, Their comrades tried and true, around Scutari. Go to them, then, dear Queen,'tis very fitting so! Thy hand can clasp for ours. Thy voice express Our hearts. We send thee as our best, as so we ought; We send thee as our dearest, as thou art; We send thee our elect, perfect to fill The office thou hast chosen for our sakes. A gentle woman thou, and therefore tender:— A loving wife, and therefore sympathetic:— A mother, thou, and therefore patient:— Is there a son among those wounded men Has made his mother sad? Thy tear will soften him. Is there a husband kept from wife and bairns? Thy smile will comfort him. Is there a lonely one with none to love? He'll warm beneath thy glance, his dear Queen's glance; And—soldiers all—they'll all forget their pains, And long to fight again, even to fall, for thee. And if for thee, for us; us, who would clasp Their thin worn hands in ours, and smile our thanks, And speak our praise of them, and heal their wounds With gentlest care, each, for himself, if so We might thus ease our o'er-full hearts. Yet happy are we still in this, nay, happier,— Thou being that our best; our dearest; Our elect; perfect epitome Of all we would—that thou dost go to them.

Great Western Hotel, Liverpool, June 9, 1880.



TO A CHILD

SINGING "JESUS LOVES ME, THIS I KNOW."

Sing, little darling, sing, And may thy song be everlasting! Not all the learning wits and sages boast Can equal the sweet burden of thy song;— Can yield such rest amid life's noisiest strife;— Such peace to still the spirit's wildest wars;— Such hope to stem the most tumultuous wave May threat to overwhelm. The love of Jesus,— Sweet, having this thou risest far above All this world's clouds, and catchest glimpse of Heaven.

Did He who blest That infant band that crowded round His knee, See, in a face like thine, a tender memory Of that dear home He left for our sakes? It may be; nay, it must: "Of such," He said, "My Father's kingdom." And His great heart Went out in fondest tones: His soft embrace Encircling such as thou, thrilled out that love That vibrates yet, and still enfolds so warm His tender lambs. Sing, little darling, sing, And may thy song be everlasting.



HOME.

The morning sun shone soft and bright, The air was pure and clear, My steady steps fell quick and light, Nor knew my soul a fear. For though the way was long and cold, The end I knew not where, Hope's vivid pictures made me bold To wait, or do, or dare.

But ah, the change when evening gray Curtained a cloudy sky, And languid, I retraced the way My feet could scarce descry! By rugged care my heart was bruised, Hope's rainbow tints were gone; To this world's watch and ward unused, I could but stumble on.

The rough wind's breath, the dark sky's frown Fell like the stroke of wrath, When—from above a star looked down— A ray beamed on my path. The light of Home—oh, blessed light— To weary wanderers dear! The light of Heaven, oh, glorious light To souls that stumble here!

What matters now the weary road, My toil shall soon be o'er; And, oh, at last, at home with God Life's cares shall cark no more. Be this my hope! Be this my aim! Though rough the road may be, Thy feet, blest Jesus, trod the same, And I would follow Thee.



LOST WITH HIS BOAT.

Alone—alone! I sit, and make my moan. The fire burns low, the candle flickers dim. Alone—alone! I rock, and think of him. Of him who left me in the purple pride Of early manhood. Yestermorn he went. The sun shone bright, and scintillant the tide. O'er which the sea-mew swept, with dewy drops besprent. Before he went he kissed me; and I watched His boat that lay so still and stately, till Automaton she seemed, and that she moved To where she willed of her own force and law. But I knew better: his was the will That set the pretty sprite a-going. His arms controlled her to obedience: Those arms that lately clasped me. No alarms Chilled my fond heart, nor dimmed my vision. As I saw the fair white messenger move off On fleecy puffs of cloud into the blue; My nearest thought to trim my hearth, and make, A dainty dish would please my darling's taste On his return. And all day long, and through The dreamy summer day, my thoughts were full Of many a gay return; my ears reheard The cheery word and joke were wont to mark them. Nor when the sun went down in wrack and mist— A mist that gathers who knows how or where?— Feared I of aught. My little hearth burned bright. The kettle sang, and pussy purred and napped; And—rocking to and fro, as I do now, I hummed a little song; one he, had sung In other days, and with the manly tones Had stolen my heart away. The hearth burned low; I ate my meal alone, And something like a fear I chased away, Despite the deepening surges of the wind That scurried round our cot. I slept: and waked What time the summer storm, that rose and fell In sullen gusts, flew by; and slept again, And dreamed a glad return. When morning broke A glorious day begun. The storm was gone: The sparkling waves toyed with the lilting breeze; The merry sun shone bright; and all the blue Was decked with tiny flecks of feathery white. A gladsome morn! But I, I missed my love.

And now they say he's dead. Lost, with his boat, In that short summer storm of yesternight. Lost! lost! my love is lost! No more may I Welcome his step, hear his glad voice, and kiss His laughing lips. I may not even clasp His cold dead form in one long, last embrace! And here I sit alone.— I drove them all away, their words but maddened me. Alone I sit, And rock, and think,—I cannot weep— And conjure up the depths, those cruel depths That chafe and fret, and roll him to and fro Like a stray log:—he, whose dear limbs should lie Peaceful and soft, in rev'rent care bestowed.— Or in the sunken boat, gulfed at his work, I see his blackened corse, even in death Faithful to duty. O that those waves, That with their gentle lullaby mock my wild woe, Would rise in all their might and 'whelm me too! Oh, love!—oh, love!—my love!



LIFE IN DEATH.

On her pale bier the baby lay, And healthy children from their play, With tip-toe awe and bated breath, Came gently in to look on Death.

One touched the flowers that decked the bier; Another dropped a little tear; One stroked the cheek so waxy white; And one cowered weeping with affright.

But one fair boy won Life from Death By that quick faith that childhood hath; And cried, with gaze past present things, "P'raps baby's trying her new wings."



INVOCATION TO RAIN.

MAY, 1874.

O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King, Where dost thou stay so long? Our sad hearts pine, Our spirits faint, for thee. Our weary eyes Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn Or East or West, no vap'rous haze, nor view Of distant panorama, wins our souls To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant. Thy brother Spring is come. His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray— The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee. Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds Of feathery fern, in strewing o'er his path; The dielytra puts her necklace on, Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose. Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass Grows up in single blades and braves the sun. But thou!—O, where art thou, sweet early Rain, That with thy free libations fill'st our cup? The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note From off the ridge cap, but can find no spot Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence Explores the pasture with his piercing eye, And visits oft the bushes by the stream, But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tuft Are there to hide a home. Oh what is earth Without a home? On the dry garden bed, The sparrow—the little immigrant bird— Hops quick, and looks askance, And pecks, and chirps, asking for kindly crumbs— Just two or three to feed his little mate: Then, on return from some small cunning nook Where he has hidden her, he mounts the wires, Or garden fence, and sings a happy song Of home, and other days. A-missing thee The husbandman goes forth with faltering step And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard The lab'ring plough, but the dry earth falls back As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs The plough-boy's feet with rich encumb'ring mould. The willows have a little tender green. And swallows cross the creek—the gurgling creek Now fallen to pools—but, disappointed, Dart away so swift, and fly so high We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land Doth mourn for thee. Ah! here thou comest—sweet Rain. Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies! See now, what transformation in thy touch! Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white As angel's raiment. Little wood children Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth Offers rich gifts. The little choristers Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake And mingle with the swift roulade of streams. The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!" And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms; And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks: And hear the plover whistling in the fields. And little children dream of daisy chains; And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday; A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers. O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain! Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become Like that Great Heart, whose almoner art thou.



REMONSTRANCE WITH "REMONSTRANCE."

(IN "CANADIAN MONTHLY," APRIL, 1874.)

Why now, sweet Alice, though thy numbers ring Like silver bells, methinks their burden wrong. For if 'tis right, then were the hermits right, And all recluses. And He was wrong Who gave to Adam, Eve: and leaned upon The breast of John the loved. So was He wrong To love the gentle home at Bethany. The sisters, and their brother Lazarus. So was He wrong to weep at Lazarus' grave, Pity's hot tears for Sin, and Death, and Woe. And in that awful hour when manhood failed And God forsook, He still was wrong to think With tenderest solicitude and care Upon his mother, and leave her in the charge Of John. And He was wrong who gave us hearts To yearn, and sensibilities to meet Those "clinging tendrils" thou wouldst have us cut. If thou art right, sweet Alice, There were no ties of infancy, or age; Of consanguinity: or noble bond Of wide humanity, or sacred home: For without love,—e'en our poor earthly love,— The world were dead. Love is the silver cord, that, being loosed, The fabric of humanity falls wide In hopeless wrack. Well for us it is That when our nature, hurt, falls, shrieking, down, The Great Physician's hand may raise it up And bind the wound. But what mad folly 'twere Did we, like peevish child, beat down the hand, And tear afresh the wound. And this we do When of our morbid selves we idols make, And cry "No sorrow like to mine." O rather should we turn our tenderer hearts— Made gentler by our griefs—to gentle cares For weak Humanity, and, knowing what woe Our sinful nature brings upon itself, With God-like pity love it but the more.



THE ABSENT ONES.

How I miss their faces! Faces that I love. Where I read the traces Heart and soul approve. Traces of their father Scattered here and there; Here a little gesture, There a twist of hair. Brave and generous Bertie, Sweet and quiet Fred, Tender-hearted Jackie, Various, but true-bred.

How I miss their voices Raised in laughter gay; And in loving blessing When they go to pray. Even of their quarrels Miss I now the noise, Angry or disdainful, (What are they but boys?) Shouting in the garden, Spurring on the game, Calling a companion By some favourite name.

How I miss the footsteps, Lightsome, loud, or slow; Telling by their echo How the humours go. Lagging when they're lazy. Running when they're wild. Leaping when they're gladsome, Walking when they're mild. Footsteps, voices, faces, Where are ye to-night? Father, keep my darlings Ever in Thy sight.



AWAY.

Oh, where are all the madcaps gone? Why is the house so drear and lone? No merry whistle wakes the day, Nor evening rings with jocund play. No clanging bell, with hasty din, Precedes the shout, "Is Bertie in?" Or "Where is Fred?" "Can I see Jack?" "How soon will he be coming back? Or "Georgie asks may I go out," He has a treasure just found out." The wood lies out in all the rain, No willing arms to load are fain The weeds grow thick among the flowers, And make the best of sunny hours; The drums are silent; fifes are mute; No tones are raised in high dispute; No hearty laughter's cheerful sound Announces fun and frolic round. Here's comic Alan's wit wants sport; And dark-eyed Bessie's quick retort Is spent on Nellie, mild and sweet; And dulness reigns along the street. The table's lessened numbers bring No warm discussion's changeful ring, Of hard-won goal, or slashing play, Or colours blue, or brown, or gray. The chairs stand round like rows of pins; No hoops entrap unwary shins; No marbles—boyhood's gems—roll loose; And stilts may rust for want of use; No book-bags lie upon the stairs; Nor nails inflict three-cornered tears. Mamma may lay her needle down, And take her time to go up town; Albeit, returning she may miss The greeting smile and meeting kiss.

But hark! what message cleaves the air. From skies where roams the Greater Bear! "Safe, well, and happy, here are we, Wild as young colts and just as free! With plenteous hand and kindly heart, Our hosts fulfil a liberal part. Nor lack we food to suit the mind, Our alma-mater here we find, And in her agricultural school We learn to farm by modern rule; Professor Walter fills the chair, But teaches in the open air. And by his side we tend the stock, Or swing the scythe, or bind the shock. Nor miss we academic lore, We walk where Plato walked before, And eloquent Demosthenes, Who taught their youth beneath the trees; Here with sharp eyes we love to scan The rules that point Dame Nature's plan, We mark the track of bear and deer, And long to see them reft of fear.— Though well they shun our changeful moods, Taught by our rifle in the woods. Yet we may tell of mercy shown, Power unabused, the birdling flown,— When caught by thistly gossamer— Set free to wing the ambient air. Cautious we watch the gliding snake, 'Neath sheltering stone, or tangled brake, And list the chipmunk's merry trill Proclaim his wondrous climbing skill. The bird; the beast; the insect; all In turn our various tastes enthrall; The fish; the rock; the tree; the flower; Yield to quick observation's power. And many a treasure swells our store Of joys for days when youth is o'er. Our glowing limbs we love to lave Beneath the lake's translucent wave, Or on its heaving bosom ride In merry boat; or skilful guide The light canoe, with balanced oar, To yonder islet's pebbly shore. Sometimes, with rod and line, we try The bass's appetite for fly; Well pleased if plunge or sudden dart Try all our piscatorial art; And shout with joy to see our catch Prove bigger than we thought our match. Oft when the ardent sun at noon Proclaims his power, we hide full soon Within the cool of shady grove, Or, gathering berries slowly rove And often when the sun goes down, We muse of home, and you in town; And had we but a carrier dove We'd send her home with loads of love."



POOR JOE.

He cannot dance, you say, nor sing, Nor troll a lilting stave; And when the rest are cracking jokes He's silent as the grave.

Poor Joe! I know he cannot sing— His voice is somewhat harsh: But he can whistle loud and clear As plover in the marsh.

Nor does he dance, but he would walk Long miles to serve a friend, And though he cares not crack a joke, He will the truth defend.

And so, though he for company May not be much inclined, I love poor Joe, and think his home Will be just to my mind.



FRAGMENTS.

* * * * *

"I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR."

A happy year, sweet as the breath of flowers: A merry year, glad as the song of birds, A jocund year, gay as brown harvest hours; A prosperous year, rich, as in flocks and herds.

* * * * *

THE LIFE-BOAT MAN.

When the loud minute gun alarms the night, And plunging waters hide the bark from sight, When lurid lightnings threat, and thunders roll. And roaring tempests daunt the trembling soul— 'Tis thine, O Life-boat Man, such fears to brave, And snatch the drowning from a watery grave.

* * * * *

"I am learning the stitch," the lover said As over her work he bent his head. But the scene spake plain to the mother's eye "I am watching these busy fingers ply." And ever anon when a stitch she'd miss, 'Twas because he bent lower her hand to kiss. Oh tender lover, and busy maid, May the sweet enchantment never fade; Nor the thread of life, though a stitch may miss, Know a break that may not be joined by a kiss.

* * * * *



THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE.

A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS.



ACT I.

SCENE 1.—Scugog.

The breakfast-room in the house of BLOGGS, a wealthy Scugog merchant. At the table, KATE, his daughter, reading a letter.

Kate (in much indignation). Refused! I knew it! The crass ingratitude of haughty man, Vested in all the pride of place and power, Brooks not the aspirations of my sex, However just. Is't that he fears to yield, Lest from his laurelled brow the wreath should fall And light on ours? We may matriculate, And graduate—if we can, but he excludes Us from the beaten path he takes himself. The sun-lit heights of steep Parnassus Reach past the clouds, and we below must stay; Not that our alpen-stocks are weak, or that Our breath comes short, but that, forsooth, we wear The Petticoat. Out on such trash!

Enter MR. BLOGGS.

Mr. Bloggs. Why, what's the matter, Kate?

Kate. Not much, papa, only I am refused Admission to the college. Sapient says The Council have considered my request, And find it inconsistent with the rules Of discipline and order to admit Women within their walls.

Mr. B. I thought they'd say so. Now be satisfied; You've studied hard. Have made your mark upon The honour list. Have passed your second year. Let that suffice. You know enough to wed, And Gilmour there would give his very head To have you. Get married, Kate.

Kate. Papa, you vex me; Gilmour has no chance And that I'll let him know. Nor have I spent My youth in studious sort to give up now.

Mr. Bloggs. What will you do? They will not let you in, For fear you'd turn the heads of all the boys. And quite right, too. I wouldn't have the care And worry of a lot of lively girls For all I'm worth.

[He kisses her.

Kate. P'raps not, papa. But yet I mean to have The prize I emulate. If I obtain The honours hung so tantalizingly Before us by the University, Will you defray the cost, as hitherto You've done, like my own kind papa?

[She kisses him.

Mr. Bloggs. I guess I'll have to: they won't send the bills to you.

Kate. Ah, dear papa! I'll make you proud of me As if I were a son.

Enter MRS. BLOGGS. Exit MR. BLOGGS.

Mrs. Bloggs. My dearest Kate, How very late You keep the breakfast things!

Kate. My dear mamma, I had papa To tell of lots of things.

Mrs. Bloggs. Your secret, pray, If so I may Be let into it also.

Kate. Oh, it was just this letter, mamma, from Mr. Sapient, telling me that the Council won't let me go to University College to share the education that can only be had there at a reasonable cost, because the young men would be demoralized by my presence.

Mrs. Bloggs. Kate, I am astonished at you! Have I not always said that women do not need so much education as men, and ought to keep themselves to themselves, and not put themselves forward like impudent minxes? What'll men think of you if you go sittin' down on the same benches at the colleges, and studyin' off of the same desk, and, like enough—for there are girls bold enough for that—out of the same books? And what must the professors think women are comin' to when they want to learn mathyphysics and metamatics and classical history, and such stuff as unfits a woman for her place, and makes her as ignorant of household work, managin' servants, bringin' up children, and such like, as the greenhorns that some people take from the emigrant sheds, though I wouldn't be bothered with such ignoramuses, spoilin' the knives, and burnin' the bread, for anythin'?

Kate. Now, mamma, you know we have gone all over this before, and shall never agree, because I think that the better educated a woman is, the better she can fulfil her home duties, especially in the care and management of the health of her family, and the proper training of her sons and daughters as good citizens.

Mrs. Bloggs. You put me out of all patience, Kate! For goodness' sake get married and be done with it. And that reminds me that Harry Gilmour wants you to go to the picnic with him on Dominion Day, and to the concert at the Gardens at night; and he said you had snubbed him so at Mrs. Gale's that he didn't like to speak about it to you without I thought he might. Now, that's what I call a real shame, the way you do treat that young man. A risin' young lawyer as he is, with no end of lots in Winnipeg, and all the money his father made for him up there; comes of a good old family, and has the best connections; as may be a member yet, perhaps senator some day, and you treat him as if he was quite beneath you. I do hope you'll just show a little common sense and accept his invitations.

Kate. Well, mamma, I think the real shame, as you call it, is that you, and other ladies, will allow your daughters to go, about to picnics, parties, balls, theatres or anywhere else, with any man who happens to ask them, and without even so much as a girl-companion, and yet you see nothing but impropriety in my desire to attend college, where all the opportunity of associating with the other sex is limited to a few lectures delivered by grave and reverend Professors, under conditions of strict discipline, and at which the whole attention of the students must necessarily be concentrated on the subject. As for unlimited opportunities for flirting, there are none; and the necessities of college life compel each student to attend to his duties while within the halls, and then go home; wherever that may be.

Mrs. Bloggs. It's no use talking, Kate, you won't alter my opinion. If they'd build another college specially for ladies, as I hear the Council is willin' to do, and put it under charge of a lady who would look after the girls, I wouldn't object so much, though, as I always say, I don't see the need of so much learnin' for women.

Kate. Well, mamma, how much would be gained by a separate building? The Council, it is true, offer a piece of ground, within a few minutes walk of the college, for a ladies' college, and promise to deliver lectures specially "altered to suit the female capacity." But if there was an intention of giddiness and flirtation on the part of the lady students, how much hindrance do you think the separate college would be? And if we can't understand the same lectures as our brothers, it is evident we can't understand the same books. Rather a hard nut to crack, isn't it?

Mrs. Bloggs. How rude you are, Kate! I am ashamed of you.

[Exit MRS. BLOGGS in a rage.

Kate. Poor mamma, she thinks her only child a very enfant terrible.

* * * * *



SCENE 2.—A lady's bedroom.

KATE BLOGGS and her cousin, ORPHEA BLAGGS, in conversation.

Orphea. What will you do, dear?

Kate. A deed without a name! A deed will waken me at dead of night! A deed whose stony face will stare at me With vile grimace, and freeze my curdling blood! Will make me quake before the eye of day; Shrink from the sun; and welcome fearsome night! A deed will chase my trembling steps by ways Unknown, through lonely streets, into dark haunts!— Will make me tremble if a child observes Me close; and quake, if, in a public crowd, One glances at me twice! A deed I'll blush for, yet I'll do't; and charge Its ugliness on those who forced me to't— In short, I'll wear the breeks.

Orphea. Oh, Katie! You?

Kate. Yes, me, dear coz.

Orphea. But then your hair, and voice!

Kate. I'll train my voice to mouth out short, thick words, As Bosh! Trash! Fudge! Rot! And I'll cultivate An Abernethian, self-assertive style, That men may think there is a deal more in My solid head than e'er comes out. My hair I'll cut short off.

[She looses down her abundant brown hair, and passes her hands through it caressingly.

Ah, woman's simple pride! these tresses brown Must all be shorn. Like to Godiva fair, Whose heart, so true, forgot itself, to serve Her suffering kind; I, too, must make My hair an offering to my sex; a protest strong 'Gainst man's oppression. Oh, wavy locks, that won my father's praise, I must be satisfied to cut ye off, And keep ye in a drawer 'till happier times, When I again may wear ye as a crown: Perchance a bang.

Orphea. 'Twould, perhaps, be best to wear some as moustache.

Kate. The very thing! then whiskers won't be missed.

Orphea. But oh, your mannish garb! How dreadful, Kate!

Kate. True; but it must be done, and you must help.

[Exeunt.

* * * * *



SCENE 3.—The same room. Evening.

KATE alone.

Kate. Not let me in! We'll see. I'll beat 'em yet. To think that down in Canterbury, girls, Like my poor self, have had the badge bestowed That I so fondly covet. To think that they Enjoy the rights I ask, and have received The Cambridge University degree, B.A. Not only wear the gown and cap As college students, but the hood. The hood! And shall Macaulay's proud New Zealander Thus sit on me? Not if I know it. No! I'll don the dreadful clothes, and cheat the Dons.

[She goes to the window.

The blinds are down, the shutters closed, the slats As well, surely no one can see.

[She takes up a man's coat and looks at it, then the vest, then the pants.

I'll do't!

[Invests herself in the masculine apparel. A knock at the door. She starts and turns pale.

A Voice. Katie, dear!

Kate. Pshaw! 'tis only Orphea!

[She unlocks the door.

(In masculine tones.) Come in, dear coz.

[Attempts to kiss her, but receives a slap in the face.

Orphea. How dare you, sir! Oh! let me out.

Kate (in natural voice). Orphea, you goose!

Orphea Oh, Kate, you did so scare me!

Kate. And is it then a good disguise?

Orphea. 'Tis poor old Tom again.

Kate. But how essay it in the street and hall?

Orphea. Well, there's the gown to help. 'Twill cover all.

Kate. And then the cap? But that I do not mind; My Derby hat has used me to a style A trifle jaunty, and a hard stiff crown; So if my hair prove not too trying I yet may like to wear the "mortar-board," If still they wear such things.

Orphea. Oh, Kate, it is an awful risk!

Kate. Awful, my dear; but poor mamma Thinks I'm an awful girl. If she but knew— Yet might I plead that men and women oft Have done the same before; poor Joan of Arc; Portia; and Rosalind. And I have heard That once Achilles donned the woman's garb: Then why not I the student's cap and gown?



ACT II.

SCENE 1—A bedroom in a Toronto boarding-house. KATE BLOGGS in bed.

Enter boarding-house mistress.

Kate. Yes, nursey, I'll be quick, but mind your words And looks, and do not make mistakes.

Nurse. Oh no, Miss Kate—or Mr. Christopher, As that's the name you've chose, I'll not mistake.

Kate. And always mind and keep my room, My time and liberty, intact, and so You'll make it easier for me to obtain By surreptitious means, the rights I should Enjoy in happier sort.

Nurse. I'll do my best, Miss Kate.

[Exit Nurse.

Kate (in masculine attire, about to descend to the breakfast table, turns once more to the mirror). Oh, Harberton, Hadst thou but taught the world The beauty of thy new divided skirt Ere I was born, this had not now been thus. This blush, that burns my cheek, had long been past; These trembling limbs, that blench so from the light, Had gotten strength to bear me manfully. Oh for the mantling night, when city fathers save the gas, and Luna draws her veil!

[She sits down on a box.

Away, weak tears! I must be brave and show myself a man, Nay, more, a student, rollicking and gay. Would I could feel so! (Sniffs at the air.) Somebody smokes, And before breakfast; pah, the nasty things! Would I could smoke! They say some women do; Drink toddy, too; and I do neither: That's not like a man; I'll have to learn. But no! my soul revolts; I'll risk it. Surely there are among a studious band Some who love temperance and godly life. That's the crowd I'll join. They will not plunge into Those dreadful orgies that the Globe describes, Of men half-tight with lager and old rye, Who waylay freshmen and immerse them in The flowing wave of Taddle, Horrors! Why, I shall be a freshman! If they touch me I'll scream! ah—ha, I'll scream! Scream, and betray my sex? No, that won't do; At Rome I'll have to be a Roman; And, to escape that dread ordeal, I Shall cringe and crawl, and in the presence of A fourth year man step soft and bow, And smile if he but condescend to nod. Oh, yes, I'll do't. In tableaux once I played Uriah Heep, and made the character So "'umble" and so crawly, that for days I loathed my hands, and slapped my fingers well For having knuckles. Thus will I to the tyrant play the slave. An old antithesis.

[Some one calls at the door.

Yes, yes, I'm coming, Hannah. Now for that dreaded step yclept the first, Pray Heaven it may cost most; but that I doubt.

[Descends to the breakfast table.



ACT III.

SCENE 1.—The same as Scene 2, Act I.

MISS ORPHEA BLAGGS solus, reading a letter.

Orphea (reading)—

"My Dearest Orphea—Congratulate me! me, your cousin, Tom Christopher, M.A., Gold Medallist.—Mathematics, and also Natural Sciences; Honours in Classics, and Prizeman in German again. You cannot think how queer I feel with all my blushing honours thick upon me, and more to come. Tuesday! my dear Orphea, Tuesday! Only think of it, Master of Arts, or more correctly Mistress of Arts! Now let the New Zealanders boast, and the Cambridge girls bite their tongues, Canada has caught them up! Ah, my dear Orphea, that is the drop of gall in the cup of your successful cousin—the Canterbury Antipodeans got their honours first. It reminds me of the saying that the nearer to church the farther from heaven, since it is evidently the nearer to the centre of civilization the farther from a University Degree, so far as we unfortunate women are concerned. But never mind! I've proved that Canadian girls are equal in mental power with Canadian boys, and I am only impatient to let the Dons know it.

"And now, my love, for the conclusion of the two years' farce. It has cost me a whole week's sleep to sketch a plan by which to declare my sex in the most becoming manner to my fellow students.

"Do you know, dear, when I look back upon the pleasures of the past two years—how soon we forget the pain!—I am not inclined to regret the step rendered necessary by my devotion to my sex, for use has made me quite at home in the—ah—divided skirt! How many lovely girls have I danced with through the rosy hours who will never more smile on me as they were wont to smile! How many flowers of rhetoric have been wasted on me by the irony of fate! How many billets-doux, so perfumed and pretty, lie in my desk addressed to my nether garment! And how many mammas have encouraged Mr. Christopher, who will forever taboo Miss Bloggs! And then the parties and the picnics! Ah, my dear Orphea, what do I not sacrifice on the altar of my sex. But a truce to regrets.