E.J. Cutler.



His Mother's Song

Beneath the hot midsummer sun The men had marched all day, And now beside a rippling stream Upon the grass they lay. Tiring of games and idle jest As swept the hours along, They cried to one who mused apart, "Come, friend, give us a song."

"I fear I can not please," he said; "The only songs I know Are those my mother used to sing For me long years ago." "Sing one of those," a rough voice cried. "There's none but true men here; To every mother's son of us A mother's songs are dear."

Then sweetly rose the singer's voice Amid unwonted calm: "Am I a soldier of the Cross, A follower of the Lamb? And shall I fear to own His cause?" The very stream was stilled, And hearts that never throbbed with fear, With tender thoughts were filled.

Ended the song, the singer said, As to his feet he rose, "Thanks to you all, my friends; goodnight. God grant us sweet repose." "Sing us one more," the captain begged. The soldier bent his head, Then, glancing round, with smiling lips, "You'll join with me?" he said.

"We'll sing that old familiar air Sweet as the bugle call, 'All hail the power of Jesus' name! Let angels prostrate fall.'" Ah, wondrous was the old tune's spell. As on the soldiers sang; Man after man fell into line, And loud the voices rang.

The songs are done, the camp is still, Naught but the stream is heard; But, ah! the depths of every soul By those old hymns are stirred, And up from many a bearded lip, In whispers soft and low, Rises the prayer that mother taught Her boy long years ago.



When Father Carves the Duck

We all look on with anxious eyes When Father carves the duck, And Mother almost always sighs When Father carves the duck; Then all of us prepare to rise And hold our bibs before our eyes, And be prepared for some surprise When Father carves the duck.

He braces up and grabs the fork, Whene'er he carves the duck, And won't allow a soul to talk Until he carves the duck. The fork is jabbed into the sides, Across the breast the knife he slides, While every careful person hides From flying chips of duck.

The platter's always sure to slip When Father carves the duck, And how it makes the dishes skip— Potatoes fly amuck. The squash and cabbage leap in space, We get some gravy in our face, And Father mutters Hindoo grace Whene'er he carves a duck.

We then have learned to walk around The dining room and pluck From off the window-sills and walls Our share of Father's duck. While Father growls and blows and jaws, And swears the knife was full of flaws, And Mother laughs at him because He couldn't carve a duck.

E.V. Wright.



Papa's Letter

I was sitting in my study, Writing letters when I heard, "Please, dear mamma, Mary told me Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed.

"But I'se tired of the kitty, Want some ozzer fing to do. Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? Tan't I wite a letter too?"

"Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty, now." "No, no, mamma, me wite letter; Tan if 'ou will show me how."

I would paint my darling's portrait As his sweet eyes searched my face— Hair of gold and eyes of azure, Form of childish, witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded, As I slowly shook my head, Till I said, "I'll make a letter Of you, darling boy, instead."

So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted 'Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said, "Now, little letter, Go away and bear good news." And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes.

Leaving me, the darling hurried Down to Mary in his glee, "Mamma's witing lots of letters; I'se a letter, Mary—see!"

No one heard the little prattler, As once more he climbed the stair, Reached his little cap and tippet, Standing on the entry stair.

No one heard the front door open, No one saw the golden hair, As it floated o'er his shoulders In the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastened Till he reached the office door. "I'se a letter, Mr. Postman; Is there room for any more?

"'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa, Papa lives with God, 'ou know, Mamma sent me for a letter, Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?"

But the clerk in wonder answered, "Not to-day, my little man." "Den I'll find anozzer office, 'Cause I must go if I tan."

Fain the clerk would have detained him, But the pleading face was gone, And the little feet were hastening— By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted, People fled to left and right, As a pair of maddened horses At the moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure— No one saw the golden hair, Till a voice of frightened sweetness Rang out on the autumn air.

'Twas too late—a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there, Then the little face lay lifeless, Covered o'er with golden hair.

Reverently they raised my darling, Brushed away the curls of gold, Saw the stamp upon the forehead, Growing now so icy cold.

Not a mark the face disfigured, Showing where a hoof had trod; But the little life was ended— "Papa's letter" was with God.



Who Stole the Bird's Nest?

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do; I gave you a wisp of hay, But didn't take your nest away. Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow! I gave the hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take. Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! I'm not so mean, anyhow."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the sheep, "oh, no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. I gave the wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine. Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."

"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow; "I should like to know What thief took away A bird's nest to-day?"

"I would not rob a bird," Said little Mary Green; "I think I never heard Of anything so mean."

"It is very cruel, too," Said little Alice Neal; "I wonder if he knew How sad the bird would feel?"

A little boy hung down his head, And went and hid behind the bed, For he stole that pretty nest From poor little yellow-breast; And he felt so full of shame, He didn't like to tell his name.

Lydia Maria Child.



Over the Hill from the Poor-House

I, who was always counted, they say, Rather a bad stick anyway, Splintered all over with dodges and tricks, Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six"; I, the truant, saucy and bold, The one black sheep in my father's fold, "Once on a time," as the stories say, Went over the hill on a winter's day— Over the hill to the poor-house.

Tom could save what twenty could earn; But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn; Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak— Committed a hundred verses a week; Never forgot, an' never slipped; But "Honor thy father and mother," he skipped; So over the hill to the poor-house!

As for Susan, her heart was kind An' good—what there was of it, mind; Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice, Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice For one she loved; an' that 'ere one Was herself, when all was said an' done; An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt, But anyone could pull 'em about; An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see, Save one poor fellow, an' that was me; An' when, one dark an' rainy night, A neighbor's horse went out o' sight, They hitched on me, as the guilty chap That carried one end o' the halter-strap. An' I think, myself, that view of the case Wasn't altogether out o' place; My mother denied it, as mothers do, But I am inclined to believe 'twas true. Though for me one thing might be said— That I, as well as the horse, was led; And the worst of whisky spurred me on, Or else the deed would have never been done. But the keenest grief I ever felt Was when my mother beside me knelt, An' cried, an' prayed, till I melted down, As I wouldn't for half the horses in town. I kissed her fondly, then an' there, An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.

I served my sentence—a bitter pill Some fellows should take who never will; And then I decided to go "out West," Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best; Where, how I prospered, I never could tell, But Fortune seemed to like me well; An' somehow every vein I struck Was always bubbling over with luck. An', better than that, I was steady an' true, An' put my good resolutions through. But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said, "You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead, An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more, Than if I had lived the same as before."

But when this neighbor he wrote to me, "Your mother's in the poor-house," says he, I had a resurrection straightway, An' started for her that very day. And when I arrived where I was grown, I took good care that I shouldn't be known; But I bought the old cottage, through and through, Of someone Charley had sold it to; And held back neither work nor gold To fix it up as it was of old. The same big fire-place, wide and high, Flung up its cinders toward the sky; The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf— I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself; An' if everything wasn't just the same, Neither I nor money was to blame; Then—over the hill to the poor-house!

One blowin', blusterin' winter's day, With a team an' cutter I started away; My fiery nags was as black as coal; (They some'at resembled the horse I stole;) I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door— A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor; She rose to her feet in great surprise, And looked, quite startled, into my eyes; I saw the whole of her trouble's trace In the lines that marred her dear old face; "Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done! You're adopted along o' your horse thief son, Come over the hill from the poor-house!"

She didn't faint; she knelt by my side, An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried. An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay, An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day; An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright, An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight, To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea, An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me; An' maybe we didn't live happy for years, In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers, Who often said, as I have heard, That they wouldn't own a prison-bird; (Though they're gettin' over that, I guess, For all of 'em owe me more or less;) But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man In always a-doin' the best he can; That whether on the big book, a blot Gets over a fellow's name or not, Whenever he does a deed that's white, It's credited to him fair and right. An' when you hear the great bugle's notes, An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats, However they may settle my case, Wherever they may fix my place, My good old Christian mother, you'll see, Will be sure to stand right up for me, With over the hill from the poor-house!

Will Carleton.



"'Specially Jim"

I was mighty good-lookin' when I was young, Peart an' black-eyed an' slim, With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 'Specially Jim.

The likeliest one of 'em all was he, Chipper an' han'som' an' trim, But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowds 'Specially Jim!

I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men, An' I wouldn't take stock in him! But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 'Specially Jim!

I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun' ('Specially Jim!) I made up my mind I'd settle down An' take up with him.

So we was married one Sunday in church, 'Twas crowded full to the brim; 'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 'Specially Jim.



O'Grady's Goat

O'Grady lived in Shanty row, The neighbors often said They wished that Tim would move away Or that his goat was dead. He kept the neighborhood in fear, And the children always vexed; They couldn't tell jist whin or where The goat would pop up next.

Ould Missis Casey stood wan day The dirty clothes to rub Upon the washboard, when she dived Headforemosht o'er the tub; She lit upon her back an' yelled, As she was lying flat: "Go git your goon an' kill the bashte." O'Grady's goat doon that.

Pat Doolan's woife hung out the wash Upon the line to dry. She wint to take it in at night, But stopped to have a cry. The sleeves av two red flannel shirts, That once were worn by Pat, Were chewed off almost to the neck. O'Grady's goat doon that.

They had a party at McCune's, An' they wor having foon, Whin suddinly there was a crash An' ivrybody roon. The iseter soup fell on the floor An' nearly drowned the cat; The stove was knocked to smithereens. O'Grady's goat doon that.

Moike Dyle was coortin' Biddy Shea, Both standin' at the gate, An' they wor just about to kiss Aich oother sly and shwate. They coom togither loike two rams. An' mashed their noses flat. They niver shpake whin they goes by. O'Grady's goat doon that.

O'Hoolerhan brought home a keg Av dannymite wan day To blow a cistern in his yard An' hid the stuff away. But suddinly an airthquake coom, O'Hoolerhan, house an' hat, An' ivrything in sight wint up. O'Grady's goat doon that.

An' there was Dooley's Savhin's Bank, That held the byes' sphare cash. One day the news came doon the sthreet The bank had gone to smash. An' ivrybody 'round was dum Wid anger and wid fear, Fer on the dhoor they red the whords, "O'Grady's goat sthruck here."

The folks in Grady's naborhood All live in fear and fright; They think it's certain death to go Around there after night. An' in their shlape they see a ghost Upon the air afloat, An' wake thimselves by shoutin' out: "Luck out for Grady's goat."

Will S. Hays.



The Burial of Moses

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Bethpeor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."

By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab There lies a lonely grave, And no man knows that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturn'd the sod And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral That ever pass'd on earth; But no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth— Noiselessly as the daylight Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun.

Noiselessly as the springtime Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves; So without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie Look'd on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion, stalking, Still shuns that hallow'd spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drum, Follow his funeral car; They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land We lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honor'd place, With costly marble drest, In the great minster transept Where lights like glories fall, And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings Along the emblazon'd wall.

This was the truest warrior That ever buckled sword, This was the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor,— The hillside for a pall, To lie in state while angels wait With stars for tapers tall, And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave?

In that strange grave without a name, Whence his uncoffin'd clay Shall break again, O wondrous thought! Before the judgment day, And stand with glory wrapt around On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave in Moab's land O dark Beth-peor's hill, Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God hath His mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep like the hidden sleep Of him He loved so well.

Cecil F. Alexander.



Nobody's Child

Alone in the dreary, pitiless street, With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet, All day have I wandered to and fro, Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go; The night's coming on in darkness and dread, And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head. Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild? Is it because I am nobody's child?

Just over the way there's a flood of light, And warmth, and beauty, and all things bright; Beautiful children, in robes so fair, Are caroling songs in their rapture there. I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, Would pity a poor little beggar like me, Wandering alone in the merciless street, Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat?

Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down In its terrible blackness all over the town? Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die, When the beautiful children their prayers have said, And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed? For no dear mother on me ever smiled. Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child?

No father, no mother, no sister, not one In all the world loves me—e'en the little dogs run When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see How everything shrinks from a beggar like me! Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, Watching for hours some large bright star, I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar,

And a host of white-robed, nameless things Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; A hand that is strangely soft and fair Caresses gently my tangled hair, And a voice like the carol of some wild bird— The sweetest voice that was ever heard— Calls me many a dear, pet name, Till my heart and spirit are all aflame.

They tell me of such unbounded love, And bid me come to their home above; And then with such pitiful, sad surprise They look at me with their sweet, tender eyes, And it seems to me, out of the dreary night I am going up to that world of light, And away from the hunger and storm so wild; I am sure I shall then be somebody's child.

Phila H. Case.



A Christmas Long Ago

Like a dream, it all comes o'er me as I hear the Christmas bells; Like a dream it floats before me, while the Christmas anthem swells; Like a dream it bears me onward in the silent, mystic flow, To a dear old sunny Christmas in the happy long ago.

And my thoughts go backward, backward, and the years that intervene Are but as the mists and shadows when the sunlight comes between; And all earthly wealth and splendor seem but as a fleeting show, As there comes to me the picture of a Christmas long ago.

I can see the great, wide hearthstone and the holly hung about; I can see the smiling faces, I can hear the children shout; I can feel the joy and gladness that the old room seem to fill, E'en the shadows on the ceiling—I can see them dancing still.

I can see the little stockings hung about the chimney yet; I can feel my young heart thrilling lest the old man should forget. Ah! that fancy! Were the world mine, I would give it, if I might, To believe in old St. Nicholas, and be a child to-night.

Just to hang my little stocking where it used to hang, and feel For one moment all the old thoughts and the old hopes o'er me steal. But, oh! loved and loving faces, in the firelight's dancing glow, There will never come another like that Christmas long ago!

For the old home is deserted, and the ashes long have lain In the great, old-fashioned fireplace that will never shine again. Friendly hands that then clasped ours now are folded 'neath the snow; Gone the dear ones who were with us on that Christmas long ago.

Let the children have their Christmas—let them have it while they may; Life is short and childhood's fleeting, and there'll surely come a day When St. Nicholas will sadly pass on by the close-shut door, Missing all the merry faces that had greeted him of yore;

When no childish step shall echo through the quiet, silent room; When no childish smile shall brighten, and no laughter lift the gloom; When the shadows that fall 'round us in the fire-light's fitful glow Shall be ghosts of those who sat there in the Christmas long ago.



Nearer Home

One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er,— I am nearer home to-day Than I've ever been before;—

Nearer my Father's house Where the many mansions be, Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the jasper sea;—

Nearer the bound of life Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown.

But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Is the dim and unknown stream That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps Come to the dark abysm; Closer death to my lips Presses the awful chrism.

Father, perfect my trust; Strengthen the might of my faith; Let me feel as I would when I stand On the rock of the shore of death,—

Feel as I would when my feet Are slipping o'er the brink; For it may be I am nearer home, Nearer now than I think.

Phoebe Cary.



The Minuet

Grandma told me all about it, Told me so I could not doubt it, How she danced, my grandma danced, long ago! How she held her pretty head, How her dainty skirts she spread, How she turned her little toes, Smiling little human rose!

Grandma's hair was bright and shining, Dimpled cheeks, too! ah! how funny! Bless me, now she wears a cap, My grandma does, and takes a nap every single day; Yet she danced the minuet long ago; Now she sits there rocking, rocking, Always knitting grandpa's stocking— Every girl was taught to knit long ago— But her figure is so neat, And her ways so staid and sweet, I can almost see her now, Bending to her partner's bow, long ago.

Grandma says our modern jumping, Rushing, whirling, dashing, bumping, Would have shocked the gentle people long ago. No, they moved with stately grace, Everything in proper place, Gliding slowly forward, then Slowly courtesying back again.

Modern ways are quite alarming, grandma says, But boys were charming— Girls and boys I mean, of course—long ago, Sweetly modest, bravely shy! What if all of us should try just to feel Like those who met in the stately minuet, long ago. With the minuet in fashion, Who could fly into a passion? All would wear the calm they wore long ago, And if in years to come, perchance, I tell my grandchild of our dance, I should really like to say, We did it in some such way, long ago.

Mary Mapes Dodge.



The Vagabonds

We are two travellers, Roger and I. Roger's my dog—Come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentleman—mind your eye! Over the table—look out for the lamp!— The rogue is growing a little old; Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept outdoors when nights were cold, And ate, and drank—and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you: A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, The paw he holds up there has been frozen), Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, (This outdoor business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank you, Sir, I never drink. Roger and I are exceedingly moral. Aren't we, Roger? see him wink. Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too—see him nod his head? What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk; He understands every word that's said, And he knows good milk from water and chalk.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog. But he sticks by through thick and thin; And this old coat with its empty pockets And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, To such a miserable, thankless master. No, Sir! see him wag his tail and grin— By George! it makes my old eyes water— That is, there's something in this gin That chokes a fellow, but no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing. And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!) Shall march a little.—Start, you villain! Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer! 'Bout face! attention! take your rifle! (Some dogs have arms, you see.) Now hold Your cap while the gentleman gives a trifle To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the Rebel shakes, When he stands up to hear his sentence; Now tell me how many drams it takes To honor a jolly new acquaintance. Five yelps—that's five; he's mighty knowing; The night's before us, fill the glasses;— Quick, Sir! I'm ill, my brain is going!— Some brandy,—thank you;—there,—it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said; But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform; And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think? At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love,—but I took to drink;— The same old story; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features,— You needn't laugh, Sir; I was not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures; I was one of your handsome men—

If you had seen her, so fair, so young, Whose head was happy on this breast; If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd That ever I, Sir, should be straying From door to door, with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a glass of grog.

She's married since,—a parson's wife, 'Twas better for her that we should part; Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart. I have seen her—once; I was weak and spent On the dusty road; a carriage stopped, But little she dreamed as on she went, Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped.

You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry; It makes me wild to think of the change! What do you care for a beggar's story? Is it amusing? you find it strange? I had a mother so proud of me! 'Twas well she died before—Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden This pain; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing, in place of a heart? He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, No doubt, remembering things that were,— A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming— You rascal! limber your lazy feet! We must be fiddling and performing For supper and bed, or starve in the street.— Not a very gay life to lead, you think. But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;— The sooner, the better for Roger and me.

J.T. Trowbridge.



The Isle of Long Ago

Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, As it blends with the ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, And the summers, like buds between; And the year in the sheaf—so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river of Time, Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of that isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow— There are heaps of dust—but we love them so!— There are trinkets and tresses of hair;

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer, There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle, All the day of our life till night— When the evening comes with its beautiful smile. And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

Benjamin Franklin Taylor.

NOTE: The last line of this poem needs explanation. "Greenwood" is the name of a cemetery in Brooklyn, N.Y. "Greenwood of Soul" means the soul's resting place, or heaven.



The Dying Newsboy

In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim the newsboy dying lay On a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day; Scant the furniture about him but bright flowers were in the room, Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume. On a table by the bedside open at a well-worn page, Where the mother had been reading lay a Bible stained by age, Now he could not hear the verses; he was flighty, and she wept With her arms around her youngest, who close to her side had crept.

Blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day, Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was eating life away, And this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle cost, "'Ere's the morning Sun and 'Erald—latest news of steamship lost. Papers, mister? Morning papers?" Then the cry fell to a moan, Which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone: "Black yer boots, sir? Just a nickel! Shine 'em like an evening star. It grows late, Jack! Night is coming. Evening papers, here they are!"

Soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble bed; Then poor Jim's mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on his head, "Teacher," cried he, "I remember what you said the other day, Ma's been reading of the Saviour, and through Him I see my way. He is with me! Jack, I charge you of our mother take good care When Jim's gone! Hark! boots or papers, which will I be over there? Black yer boots, sir? Shine 'em right up! Papers! Read God's book instead, Better'n papers that to die on! Jack—" one gasp, and Jim was dead!

Floating from that attic chamber came the teacher's voice in prayer, And it soothed the bitter sorrow of the mourners kneeling there, He commended them to Heaven, while the tears rolled down his face, Thanking God that Jim had listened to sweet words of peace and grace, Ever 'mid the want and squalor of the wretched and the poor, Kind hearts find a ready welcome, and an always open door; For the sick are in strange places, mourning hearts are everywhere, And such need the voice of kindness, need sweet sympathy and prayer.

Emily Thornton.



Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

Alfred Tennyson.



Don't Kill the Birds

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds, That sing about your door, Soon as the joyous spring has come, And chilling storms are o'er. The little birds, how sweet they sing! Oh! let them joyous live; And never seek to take the life That you can never give.

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds, That play among the trees; 'Twould make the earth a cheerless place, Should we dispense with these. The little birds, how fond they play! Do not disturb their sport; But let them warble forth their songs, Till winter cuts them short.

Don't kill the birds, the happy birds, That bless the fields and grove; So innocent to look upon, They claim our warmest love. The happy birds, the tuneful birds, How pleasant 'tis to see! No spot can be a cheerless place Where'er their presence be.

D.C. Colesworthy.



Bill's in the Legislature

I've got a letter, parson, from my son away out West, An' my old heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast, To think the boy whose future I had once so nicely planned Should wander from the right and come to such a bitter end.

I told him when he left us, only three short years ago, He'd find himself a-plowing in a mighty crooked row; He'd miss his father's counsel and his mother's prayers, too, But he said the farm was hateful, an' he guessed he'd have to go.

I know there's big temptations for a youngster in the West, But I believed our Billy had the courage to resist; An' when he left I warned him of the ever waitin' snares That lie like hidden serpents in life's pathway everywheres.

But Bill, he promised faithful to be careful, an' allowed That he'd build a reputation that'd make us mighty proud. But it seems as how my counsel sort o' faded from his mind, And now he's got in trouble of the very worstest kind!

His letters came so seldom that I somehow sort o' knowed That Billy was a-trampin' of a mighty rocky road; But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame, And in the dust would woller his old daddy's honored name.

He writes from out in Denver, an' the story's mighty short— I jess can't tell his mother!—It'll crush her poor old heart! An' so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her— Bill's in the Legislature but he doesn't say what fur!



The Bridge Builder

An old man going a lone highway, Came, at the evening cold and gray, To a chasm vast and deep and wide, The old man crossed in the twilight dim, The sullen stream had no fear for him; But he turned when safe on the other side And built a bridge to span the tide.

"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near, "You are wasting your strength with building here; Your journey will end with the ending day, Yon never again will pass this way; You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide, Why build this bridge at evening tide?"

The builder lifted his old gray head; "Good friend, in the path I have come," he said, "There followed after me to-day A youth whose feet must pass this way. This chasm that has been as naught to me To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be; He, too, must cross in the twilight dim; Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!"

Anonymous.



Song of Marion's Men

Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good green wood, Our tent the cypress tree; We know the forest round us As seamen know the sea; We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads— The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide Across the moonlight plains; 'Tis life to feel the night wind That lifts their tossing manes. A moment in the British camp— A moment—and away— Back to the pathless forest Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore.

William Cullen Bryant.



The Minstrel-Boy

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.— "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!" The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said, "No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery!"

Thomas Moore.



Our Homestead

Our old brown homestead reared its walls, From the wayside dust aloof, Where the apple-boughs could almost cast Their fruitage on its roof: And the cherry-tree so near it grew, That when awake I've lain, In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs, As they creaked against the pane: And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees! I've seen my little brothers rocked In their tops by the summer breeze.

The sweet-brier under the window-sill, Which the early birds made glad, And the damask rose by the garden fence Were all the flowers we had. I've looked at many a flower since then, Exotics rich and rare, That to other eyes were lovelier, But not to me so fair; O those roses bright, O those roses bright! I have twined them with my sister's locks, That are hid in the dust from sight!

We had a well, a deep old well, Where the spring was never dry, And the cool drops down from the mossy stones Were falling constantly: And there never was water half so sweet As that in my little cup, Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep, Which my father's hand set up; And that deep old well, O that deep old well! I remember yet the splashing sound Of the bucket as it fell.

Our homestead had an ample hearth, Where at night we loved to meet; There my mother's voice was always kind, And her smile was always sweet; And there I've sat on my father's knee, And watched his thoughtful brow, With my childish hand in his raven hair,— That hair is silver now! But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light! And my father's look, and my mother's smile,— They are in my heart to-night.

Phoebe Gary.



The Ballad of the Tempest

We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep,— It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,— For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy with his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbor, When the morn was shining clear.

James T. Fields.



Santa Filomena

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow, Raise us from what is low!

Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,—

The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent.

On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past.

A lady with a lamp shall stand In the great history of the land A noble type of good, Heroic Womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore.

Henry W. Longfellow.



The Knight's Toast

The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine In lordly cup is seen to shine Before each eager guest; And silence fills the crowded hall, As deep as when the herald's call Thrills in the loyal breast.

Then up arose the noble host, And, smiling, cried: "A toast! a toast! To all our ladies fair! Here before all, I pledge the name Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame, The Ladye Gundamere!"

Then to his feet each gallant sprung, And joyous was the shout that rung, As Stanley gave the word; And every cup was raised on high, Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry Till Stanley's voice was heard.

"Enough, enough," he, smiling, said, And lowly bent his haughty head; "That all may have their due, Now each in turn must play his part, And pledge the lady of his heart, Like gallant knight and true!"

Then one by one each guest sprang up, And drained in turn the brimming cup, And named the loved one's name; And each, as hand on high he raised, His lady's grace or beauty praised, Her constancy and fame.

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise; On him are fixed those countless eyes;— A gallant knight is he; Envied by some, admired by all, Far famed in lady's bower and hall,— The flower of chivalry.

St. Leon raised his kindling eye, And lifts the sparkling cup on high: "I drink to one," he said, "Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart, Till memory be dead.

"To one, whose love for me shall last When lighter passions long have past,— So holy 'tis and true; To one, whose love hath longer dwelt, More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, Than any pledged by you."

Each guest upstarted at the word, And laid a hand upon his sword, With fury flashing eye; And Stanley said: "We crave the name, Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, Whose love you count so high."

St. Leon paused, as if he would Not breathe her name in careless mood, Thus lightly to another; Then bent his noble head, as though To give that word the reverence due, And gently said: "My Mother!"

Sir Walter Scott.



The Old Man Dreams

O for one hour of youthful joy! Give back my twentieth spring! I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy Than reign a gray-beard king;

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age! Away with learning's crown! Tear out life's wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and fame!

My listening angel heard the prayer, And, calmly smiling, said, "If I but touch thy silvered hair, Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track To bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?"

Ah! truest soul of womankind! Without thee what were life? One bliss I cannot leave behind: I'll take—my—precious—wife!

The angel took a sapphire pen And wrote in rainbow dew, "The man would be a boy again, And be a husband, too!"

"And is there nothing yet unsaid Before the change appears? Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years!"

"Why, yes; for memory would recall My fond paternal joys; I could not bear to leave them all: I'll take—my—girl—and—boys!"

The smiling angel dropped his pen— "Why, this will never do; The man would be a boy again, And be a father too!"

And so I laughed—my laughter woke The household with its noise— And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.



Washington's Birthday

The bells of Mount Vernon are ringing to-day, And what say their melodious numbers To the flag blooming air? List, what do they say? "The fame of the hero ne'er slumbers!"

The world's monument stands the Potomac beside, And what says the shaft to the river? "When the hero has lived for his country, and died, Death crowns him a hero forever."

The bards crown the heroes and children rehearse The songs that give heroes to story, And what say the bards to the children? "No verse Can yet measure Washington's glory.

"For Freedom outlives the old crowns of the earth, And Freedom shall triumph forever, And Time must long wait the true song of his birth Who sleeps by the beautiful river."

Hezekiah Butterworth.



April! April! Are You Here?

April! April! are you here? Oh, how fresh the wind is blowing! See! the sky is bright and clear, Oh, how green the grass is growing! April! April! are you here?

April! April! is it you? See how fair the flowers are springing! Sun is warm and brooks are clear, Oh, how glad the birds are singing! April! April! is it you?

April! April! you are here! Though your smiling turn to weeping, Though your skies grow cold and drear, Though your gentle winds are sleeping, April! April! you are here!

Dora Read Goodale.



A Laughing Chorus

Oh, such a commotion under the ground When March called, "Ho, there! ho!" Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, Such whispering to and fro; And, "Are you ready?" the Snowdrop asked, "'Tis time to start, you know." "Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied; "I'll follow as soon as you go." Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came Of laughter soft and low, From the millions of flowers under the ground, Yes—millions—beginning to grow.

O, the pretty brave things! through the coldest days, Imprisoned in walls of brown, They never lost heart though the blast shrieked loud, And the sleet and the hail came down,

But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, Or fashioned her beautiful crown; And now they are coming to brighten the world, Still shadowed by Winter's frown; And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!" In a chorus soft and low, The millions of flowers hid under the ground Yes—millions—beginning to grow.



The Courtin'

God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru the winder. An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in— There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clear grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter,

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells— All is, he couldn't love 'em,

But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlet, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnit Felt somehow thru its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upun it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper,— All ways to once her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle, His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal—no—I come dasignin'"— "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals acts so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin"; Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; Thet last work pricked him like a pin, An'—Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy. An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

James Russell Lowell.



An Old Man's Dreams

It was the twilight hour; Behind the western hill the sun had sunk, Leaving the evening sky aglow with crimson light. The air is filled with fragrance and with sound; High in the tops of shadowy vine-wreathed trees, Grave parent-birds were twittering good-night songs, To still their restless brood. Across the way A noisy little brook made pleasant Music on the summer air, And farther on, the sweet, faint sound Of Whippoorwill Falls rose on the air, and fell Like some sweet chant at vespers. The air is heavy With the scent of mignonette and rose, And from the beds of flowers the tall White lilies point like angel fingers upward, Casting on the air an incense sweet, That brings to mind the old, old story Of the alabaster box that loving Mary Broke upon the Master's feet.

Upon his vine-wreathed porch An old white-headed man sits dreaming Happy, happy dreams of days that are no more; And listening to the quaint old song With which his daughter lulled her child to rest:

"Abide with me," she says; "Fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens,— Lord, with me abide."

And as he listens to the sounds that fill the Summer air, sweet, dreamy thoughts Of his "lost youth" come crowding thickly up; And, for a while, he seems a boy again. With feet all bare He wades the rippling brook, and with a boyish shout Gathers the violets blue, and nodding ferns, That wave a welcome from the other side. With those he wreathes The sunny head of little Nell, a neighbor's child, Companion of his sorrows and his joys. Sweet, dainty Nell, whose baby life Seemed early linked with his, And whom he loved with all a boy's devotion.

Long years have flown. No longer boy and girl, but man and woman grown, They stand again beside the brook, that murmurs Ever in its course, nor stays for time nor man, And tell the old, old story, And promise to be true till life for them shall end.

Again the years roll on, And they are old. The frost of age Has touched the once-brown hair, And left it white as are the chaliced lilies. Children, whose rosy lips once claimed A father's blessing and a mother's love, Have grown to man's estate, save two Whom God called early home to wait For them in heaven.

And then the old man thinks How on a night like this, when faint And sweet as half-remembered dreams Old Whippoorwill Falls did murmur soft Its evening psalms, when fragrant lilies Pointed up the way her Christ had gone, God called the wife and mother home, And bade him wait. Oh! why is it so hard for Man to wait? to sit with folded hands, Apart, amid the busy throng, And hear the buzz and hum of toil around; To see men reap and bind the golden sheaves Of earthly fruits, while he looks idly on, And knows he may not join, But only wait till God has said, "Enough!" And calls him home!

And thus the old man dreams, And then awakes; awakes to hear The sweet old song just dying On the pulsing evening air:

"When other helpers fail, And comforts flee, Lord of the helpless, Oh, abide with me!"

Eliza M. Sherman.



God's Message to Men

God said: I am tired of kings; I suffer them no more; Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor.

Think ye I have made this ball A field of havoc and war, Where tyrants great and tyrants small Might harry the weak and poor?

My angel—his name is Freedom— Choose him to be your king. He shall cut pathways east and west And fend you with his wing.

I will never have a noble; No lineage counted great, Fishers and choppers and plowmen Shall constitute a state,

And ye shall succor man, 'Tis nobleness to serve; Help them who cannot help again; Beware from right to swerve.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.



The Sandman

The rosy clouds float overhead, The sun is going down, And now the Sandman's gentle tread Comes stealing through the town. "White sand, white sand," he softly cries, And, as he shakes his hand, Straightway there lies on babies' eyes His gift of shining sand. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

From sunny beaches far away, Yes, in another land, He gathers up, at break of day, His store of shining sand. No tempests beat that shore remote, No ships may sail that way; His little boat alone may float Within that lovely bay. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

He smiles to see the eyelids close Above the happy eyes, And every child right well he knows— Oh, he is very wise! But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, His other hand takes dull gray sand To close the wakeful eyes. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

So when you hear the Sandman's song Sound through the twilight sweet, Be sure you do not keep him long A-waiting in the street. Lie softly down, dear little head, Rest quiet, busy hands, Till by your bed when good-night's said, He strews the shining sands. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

Margaret Vandegrift.



Ring Out, Wild Bells

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.



The Wishing Bridge

Among the legends sung or said Along our rocky shore, The Wishing Bridge of Marblehead May well be sung once more.

An hundred years ago (so ran The old-time story) all Good wishes said above its span Would, soon or late, befall.

If pure and earnest, never failed The prayers of man or maid For him who on the deep sea sailed, For her at home who stayed.

Once thither came two girls from school And wished in childish glee: And one would be a queen and rule, And one the world would see.

Time passed; with change of hopes and fears And in the selfsame place, Two women, gray with middle years, Stood wondering, face to face.

With wakened memories, as they met, They queried what had been: "A poor man's wife am I, and yet," Said one, "I am a queen.

"My realm a little homestead is, Where, lacking crown and throne, I rule by loving services And patient toil alone."

The other said: "The great world lies Beyond me as it laid; O'er love's and duty's boundaries My feet have never strayed.

"I see but common sights at home, Its common sounds I hear, My widowed mother's sick-bed room Sufficeth for my sphere.

"I read to her some pleasant page Of travel far and wide, And in a dreamy pilgrimage We wander side by side.

"And when, at last, she falls asleep, My book becomes to me A magic glass: my watch I keep, But all the world I see.

"A farm-wife queen your place you fill, While fancy's privilege Is mine to walk the earth at will, Thanks to the Wishing Bridge."

"Nay, leave the legend for the truth," The other cried, "and say God gives the wishes of our youth But in His own best way!"

John Greenleaf Whittier.



The Things Divine

These are the things I hold divine: A trusting chi id's hand laid in mine, Rich brown earth and wind-tossed trees, The taste of grapes and the drone of bees, A rhythmic gallop, long June days, A rose-hedged lane and lovers' lays, The welcome smile on neighbors' faces, Cool, wide hills and open places, Breeze-blown fields of silver rye, The wild, sweet note of the plover's cry, Fresh spring showers and scent of box, The soft, pale tint of the garden phlox, Lilacs blooming, a drowsy noon, A flight of geese and an autumn moon, Rolling meadows and storm-washed heights, A fountain murmur on summer nights, A dappled fawn in the forest hush, Simple words and the song of a thrush, Rose-red dawns and a mate to share With comrade soul my gypsy fare, A waiting fire when the twilight ends, A gallant heart and the voice of friends.

Jean Brooks Burt.



Mothers of Men

The bravest battle that ever was fought! Shall I tell you where and when? On the map of the world you will find it not, 'Twas fought by the mothers of men.

Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, With sword or nobler pen, Nay, not with eloquent words or thought From mouths of wonderful men;

But deep in the walled-up woman's heart— Of woman that would not yield, But bravely, silently, bore her part— Lo, there is that battle field!

No marshaling troup, no bivouac song, No banner to gleam or wave, But oh! these battles, they last so long— From babyhood to the grave.

Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars, She fights in her walled-up town— Fights on and on in the endless wars, Then, silent, unseen, goes down.

Oh, ye with banner and battle shot, And soldiers to shout and praise, I tell you the kingliest victories fought Were fought in those silent ways.

Oh, spotless in a world of shame, With splendid and silent scorn, Go back to God as white as you came— The kingliest warrior born!

Joaquin Miller.



Echo

"I asked of Echo, t'other day (Whose words are often few and funny), What to a novice she could say Of courtship, love and matrimony. Quoth Echo plainly,—'Matter-o'-money!'

"Whom should I marry? Should it be A dashing damsel, gay and pert, A pattern of inconstancy; Or selfish, mercenary flirt? Quoth Echo, sharply,—'Nary flirt!'

"What if, aweary of the strife That long has lured the dear deceiver, She promise to amend her life. And sin no more; can I believe her? Quoth Echo, very promptly;—'Leave her!'

"But if some maiden with a heart On me should venture to bestow it, Pray should I act the wiser part To take the treasure or forgo it? Quoth Echo, with decision,—'Go it!'

"But what if, seemingly afraid To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter, She vow she means to die a maid, In answer to my loving letter? Quoth Echo, rather coolly,—'Let her!'

"What if, in spite of her disdain, I find my heart entwined about With Cupid's dear, delicious chain So closely that I can't get out? Quoth Echo, laughingly,—'Get out!'

"But if some maid with beauty blest, As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, Will share my labor and my rest Till envious Death shall overtake her? Quoth Echo (sotto voce),-'Take her!'"

John G. Saxe.



Life, I Know Not What Thou Art

Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear— Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away; give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning.

Anna L. Barbauld.



Autumn Leaves

In the hush and the lonely silence Of the chill October night, Some wizard has worked his magic With fairy fingers light.

The leaves of the sturdy oak trees Are splendid with crimson and red. And the golden flags of the maple Are fluttering overhead.

Through the tangle of faded grasses There are trailing vines ablaze, And the glory of warmth and color Gleams through the autumn haze.

Like banners of marching armies That farther and farther go; Down the winding roads and valleys The boughs of the sumacs glow.

So open your eyes, little children, And open your hearts as well, Till the charm of the bright October Shall fold you in its spell.

Angelina Wray.



A Message for the Year

Not who you are, but what you are, That's what the world demands to know; Just what you are, what you can do To help mankind to live and grow. Your lineage matters not at all, Nor counts one whit your gold or gear, What can you do to show the world The reason for your being here?

For just what space you occupy The world requires you pay the rent; It does not shower its gifts galore, Its benefits are only lent; And it has need of workers true, Willing of hand, alert of brain; Go forth and prove what you can do, Nor wait to count o'er loss or gain.

Give of your best to help and cheer, The more you give the more you grow; This message evermore rings true, In time you reap whate'er you sow. No failure you have need to fear, Except to fail to do your best— What have you done, what can you do? That is the question, that the test.

Elizabeth Clarke Hardy.



Song of the Chattahoochee[*]

Out of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall, I hurry amain to reach the plain, Run the rapid and leap the fall, Split at the rock and together again, Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, And flee from folly on every side With a lover's pain to attain the plain Far from the hills of Habersham, Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham, All through the valleys of Hall, The rushes cried "Abide, abide," The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, The laving laurel turned my tide, The ferns and the fondling grass said "Stay," The dewberry dipped for to work delay, And the little reeds sighed "Abide, abide Here in the hills of Habersham, Here in the valleys of Hall."

High o'er the hills of Habersham, Veiling the valleys of Hall, The hickory told me manifold Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, O'erleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, Said, "Pass not, so cold, these manifold Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, These glades in the valleys of Hall."

And oft in the hills of Habersham, And oft in the valleys of Hall, The white quartz shone, and the smooth brookstone Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, And many a luminous jewel lone —Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, Ruby, garnet, and amethyst— Made lures with the lights of streaming stone, In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, And oh, not the valleys of Hall Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. Downward the voices of Duty call— Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main. The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, And the lordly main from beyond the plain Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, Calls through the valleys of Hall.

Sidney Lanier.

[Footnote *: Used by special permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons.]



Courting in Kentucky

When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay I was glad, fer I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way, I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high, Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter dew ter fly; But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell She come in her reg-lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell. My Jake an' her has been cronies ever since they could walk, An' it tuk me aback ter hear her kerrectin' him in his talk.

Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work; But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!" Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way, He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay. I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns, An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones. Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long, Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong.

One day I was pickin' currants down by the old quince tree, When I heerd Jake's voice a-sayin', "Be ye willin' ter marry me?" An' Mary Ann kerrectin', "Air ye willin', yeou sh'd say." Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum decided way. "No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me, Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.' Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say; But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay; I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' to marry me?'" An' Mary Ann sez, tremblin', yet anxious-like, "I be."



God's Will is Best

Whichever way the wind doth blow, Some heart is glad to have it so; Then blow it east, or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best. My little craft sails not alone,— A thousand fleets, from every zone, Are out upon a thousand seas, And what for me were favoring breeze Might dash another with the shock Of doom upon some hidden rock.

I leave it to a higher Will To stay or speed me, trusting still That all is well, and sure that He Who launched my bark will sail with me Through storm and calm, and will not fail, Whatever breezes may prevail, To land me, every peril past, Within His Haven at the last. Then blow it east, or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best.

Caroline H. Mason.



The School-Master's Guests

I

The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk, Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque. As whisper the half-leafless branches, when autumn's brisk breezes have come, His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum. There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth. And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth; There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could bloom, And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room, With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin, Queer-bent on a deeply-laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin. There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into their brain, Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its train; There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate, And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate; And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short twist, As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with the fist!" There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some beauty possessed, In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes best; A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains, How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins; And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood, Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all he could.

II

Around were the walls, gray and dingy, which every old school-sanctum hath, With many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood-grating of lath. A patch of thick plaster, just over the school-master's rickety chair, Seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like Damocles' sword, by a hair. There were tracks on the desks where the knife-blades had wandered in search of their prey; Their tops were as duskily spattered as if they drank ink every day. The square stove it puffed and it crackled, and broke out in red flaming sores, Till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to rush out-o'-doors. White snowflakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed its lips to the cracks; And the children's hot faces were streaming, the while they were freezing their backs.

III

Now Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his suff'rings were o'er, And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard at the door; And five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row, And stood themselves up by the fire, and shook off their white cloaks of snow. And the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with countenance solemnly sad, Spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the ears that they had: "We've come here, school-master, in-tendin' to cast an inquirin' eye 'round, Concernin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has lately been found; To pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've been about, An' see if it's paying to keep you, or whether we'd best turn ye out.

"The first thing I'm bid for to mention is, when the class gets up to read You give 'em too tight of a reinin', an' touch 'em up more than they need; You're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in one han', An' you turn a stray g in their doin's, an' tack an odd d on their an'; There ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so polite, as I see, Providin' you know what the facts is, an' tell 'em off jest as they be. An' then there's that readin' in corncert, is censured from first unto last; It kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is a-travelin' past. Whatever is done as to readin', providin' things go to my say, Shan't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the old-fashioned way." And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due, And nodded obliquely, and muttered: "Them 'ere is my sentiments tew." "Then as to your spellin': I've heern tell, by the mas has looked into this, That you turn the u out o' your labour, an' make the word shorter than 'tis; An' clip the k off yer musick, which makes my son Ephraim perplexed, An' when he spells out as he ought'r, you pass the word on to the next. They say there's some new-grafted books here that don't take them letters along; But if it is so, just depend on 't, them new-grafted books is made wrong. You might just as well say that Jackson didn't know all there was about war, As to say that old Spellin'-book Webster didn't know what them letters was for." And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due, And scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew." "Then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me, Is that you have left Tare an' Tret out, an' also the old Rule o' Three; An' likewise brought in a new study, some high-steppin' scholars to please, With saw-bucks an' crosses and pothooks, an' w's, x's, y's an' z's. We ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great good to be reached By tiptoein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was teached." And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due, And cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew." "Another thing, I must here mention, comes into the question to-day, Concernin' some things in the grammar you're teachin' our gals for to say. My gals is as steady as clockwork, and never give cause for much fear, But they come home from school t'other evenin' a-talking such stuff as this here: 'I love,' an' 'Thou lovest,' an' 'He loves,' an' 'We love,' an' 'You love,' an' 'They—' An' they answered my questions: 'It's grammar'—'twas all I could get 'em to say. Now if, 'stead of doin' your duty, you're carryin' matters on so As to make the gals say that they love you, it's just all that I want to know."

IV

Now Jim, the young heaven-built mechanic, in the dusk of the evening before, Had well-nigh unjointed the stovepipe, to make it come down on the floor; And the squire bringing smartly his foot down, as a clincher to what he had said, A joint of the pipe fell upon him, and larruped him square on the head. The soot flew in clouds all about him, and blotted with black all the place And the squire and the other four fathers were peppered with black in the face. The school, ever sharp for amusement, laid down all their cumbersome books And, spite of the teacher's endeavors, laughed loud at their visitors' looks. And the squire, as he stalked to the doorway, swore oaths of a violet hue; And the four district fathers, who followed, seemed to say: "Them's my sentiments tew."

Will Carleton.



Mother o' Mine

If I were hanged on the highest hill, Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine! I know whose love would follow me still; Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea, Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine! I know whose tears would flow down to me, Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine!

If I were damned o' body and soul, Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine! I know whose prayers would make me whole, Mother o' mine! Oh, mother o' mine!

Rudyard Kipling.



Encouragement

Who dat knockin' at de do'? Why, Ike Johnson—yes, fu' sho'! Come in, Ike. I's mighty glad You come down. I t'ought you's mad At me 'bout de othah night, An' was stayin' 'way fu' spite. Say, now, was you mad fu' true W'en I kin' o' laughed at you? Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

'Tain't no use a-lookin' sad, An' a-mekin' out you's mad; Ef you's gwine to be so glum, Wondah why you evah come. I don't lak nobidy 'roun' Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown— Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce! Cain't you talk? I tol' you once, Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night? Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right. I's done all dat I kin do— Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you; Reckon I'd a' bettah wo' My ol' ragged calico. Aftah all de pains I's took, Cain't you tell me how I look? Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Bless my soul! I 'mos' fu'got Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott. Don't you know, come Thu'sday night, She gwine ma'y Lucius White? Miss Lize say I allus wuh Heap sight laklier 'n huh; An' she'll git me somep'n new, Ef I wants to ma'y too. Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

I could ma'y in a week, If de man I wants 'ud speak. Tildy's presents 'll be fine, But dey wouldn't ekal mine. Him whut gits me fu' a wife 'll be proud, you bet yo' life. I's had offers, some ain't quit; But I hasn't ma'ied yit! Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Ike, I loves you—yes, I does; You's my choice, and allus was. Laffin' at you ain't no harm— Go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm? Hug me closer—dah, da's right! Wasn't you a awful sight, Havin' me to baig you so? Now ax whut you want to know— Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Paul Laurence Dunbar.



The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

Thomas Moore.



Aux Italiens

At Paris it was, at the opera there;— And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, Non ti scordar di me?[A]

The emperor there, in his box of state, Looked grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye, You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain.

Well, there in our front-row box we sat Together, my bride betrothed and I; My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad. Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had; So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was! Who died the richest and roundest of men. The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; I wish him well, for the jointure given To my Lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather:

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); And her warm white neck in its golden chain; And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again;

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; (Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) And the one bird singing alone to his nest; And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over; And I thought, "Were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her!"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold; Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned and looked: she was sitting there, In a dim box over the stage, and drest In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair, And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there; And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:— From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous, scornful mien,

To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade, (In short, from the future back to the past,) There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her or the music's strain, Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her—well, we'll let that pass; She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say: For beauty is easy enough to win; But one isn't loved every day,

And I think in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back, and be forgiven.

But oh the smell of that jasmine flower! And oh, that music! and oh, the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me!

Robert Bulwer Lytton.

[Footnote A: A line in the opera "II Trovatore" meaning "Do not forget me."]



My Prairies

I love my prairies, they are mine From zenith to horizon line, Clipping a world of sky and sod Like the bended arm and wrist of God.

I love their grasses. The skies Are larger, and my restless eyes Fasten on more of earth and air Than seashore furnishes anywhere.

I love the hazel thickets; and the breeze, The never resting prairie winds. The trees That stand like spear points high Against the dark blue sky

Are wonderful to me. I love the gold Of newly shaven stubble, rolled A royal carpet toward the sun, fit to be The pathway of a deity.

I love the life of pasture lands; the songs of birds Are not more thrilling to me than the herd's Mad bellowing or the shadow stride Of mounted herdsmen at my side.

I love my prairies, they are mine From high sun to horizon line. The mountains and the cold gray sea Are not for me, are not for me.

Hamlin Garland.



Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead

(From "The Princess")

Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die." Then they praised him, soft and low, Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee— Like summer tempest came her tears— "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.



September

Sweet is the voice that calls From babbling waterfalls In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; And soft the breezes blow, And eddying come and go In faded gardens where the rose is dying.

Among the stubbled corn The blithe quail pipes at morn, The merry partridge drums in hidden places, And glittering insects gleam Above the reedy stream, Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.

At eve, cool shadows fall Across the garden wall, And on the clustered grapes to purple turning; And pearly vapors lie Along the eastern sky, Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.

Ah, soon on field and hill The wind shall whistle chill, And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, To fly from frost and snow, And seek for lands where blow The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.

The cricket chirps all day, "O fairest summer, stay!" The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wild fowl fly afar Above the foamy bar, And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.

Now comes a fragrant breeze Through the dark cedar-trees And round about my temples fondly lingers, In gentle playfulness, Like to the soft caress Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers.

Yet, though a sense of grief Comes with the falling leaf, And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, In all my autumn dreams A future summer gleams, Passing the fairest glories of the present!

George Arnold.



The Old Kitchen Floor

Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast To the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed. I loved all its rooms from the pantry to hall, But the blessed old kitchen was dearer than all. Its chairs and its tables no brighter could be And all its surroundings were sacred to me, From the nail in the ceiling to the latch on the door, And I loved every crack in that old kitchen floor.

I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide And the old-fashioned oven that stood by its side Out of which each Thanksgiving came puddings and pies And they fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes. And then old St. Nicholas slyly and still Came down every Christmas our stockings to fill. But the dearest of memories laid up in store Is my mother a-sweeping that old kitchen floor.

To-night those old musings come back at their will But the wheel and its music forever are still. The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away, And the fingers that turned it are mold'ring in clay. The hearthstone so sacred is just as 'twas then And the voices of children ring out there again. The sun at the window looks in as of yore, But it sees other feet on that old kitchen floor.



Rustic Courtship

The night was dark when Sam set out To court old Jones's daughter; He kinder felt as if he must, And kinder hadn't oughter. His heart against his waistcoat throbbed, His feelings had a tussle, Which nearly conquered him despite Six feet of bone and muscle.

The candle in the window shone With a most doleful glimmer, And Sam he felt his courage ooze, And through his fingers simmer. Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a fool, Take courage, shaking doubter, Go on, and pop the question right, For you can't live without her."

But still, as he drew near the house, His knees got in a tremble, The beating of his heart ne'er beat His efforts to dissemble. Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a goose, And let the female wimmin Knock all your thoughts a-skelter so, And set your heart a-swimmin'."

So Sam, he kinder raised the latch, His courage also raising, And in a moment he sat inside, Cid Jones's crops a-praising. He tried awhile to talk the farm In words half dull, half witty, Not knowing that old Jones well knew His only thought was—Kitty.

At last the old folks went to bed— The Joneses were but human; Old Jones was something of a man, And Mrs. Jones—a woman. And Kitty she the pitcher took, And started for the cellar; It wasn't often that she had So promising a feller.

And somehow when she came upstairs, And Sam had drank his cider, There seemed a difference in the chairs, And Sam was close beside her; His stalwart arm dropped round her waist, Her head dropped on his shoulder, And Sam—well, he had changed his tune And grown a trifle bolder.

But this, if you live long enough, You surely will discover, There's nothing in this world of ours Except the loved and lover. The morning sky was growing gray As Sam the farm was leaving, His face was surely not the face Of one half grieved, or grieving.

And Kitty she walked smiling back, With blushing face, and slowly; There's something in the humblest love That makes it pure and holy. And did he marry her, you ask? She stands there with the ladle A-skimming of the morning's milk— That's Sam who rocks the cradle.



The Red Jacket

'Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar The north winds beat and clamor at the door; The drifted snow lies heaped along the street, Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet; The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend; Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown, Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.

In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease, Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas; In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet The weary traveler with their smiles to greet; In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm, Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light— "Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"

But hark! above the beating of the storm Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm. Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light, And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright; From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call, The ready friend no danger can appall; Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave, He hurries forth to battle and to save.

From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out, Devouring all they coil themselves about, The flaming furies, mounting high and higher, Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe In vain attempts their power to overthrow; With mocking glee they revel with their prey, Defying human skill to check their way.

And see! far up above the flame's hot breath, Something that's human waits a horrid death; A little child, with waving golden hair, Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,— Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed, While sobs of terror shake her tender breast. And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, A mother screams, "O God! my child! my child!"

Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng A hardy fireman swiftly moves along; Mounts sure and fast along the slender way, Fearing no danger, dreading but delay. The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path, Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath; But up, still up he goes! the goal is won! His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone!

Gone to his death. The wily flames surround And burn and beat his ladder to the ground, In flaming columns move with quickened beat To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat. Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure, Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore; Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live, Crowned with all honors nobleness can give.

Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears; Behold! he quickly on the roof appears, Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm, Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance! Behold, how fast the roaring flames advance! Quick! quick! brave spirits, to his rescue fly; Up! up! by heavens, this hero must not die!

Silence! he comes along the burning road, Bearing, with tender care, his living load; Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save The good, true heart that can so nobly brave! He's up again! and now he's coming fast— One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed— And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain. A happy mother clasps her child again.

George M. Baker.



John Maynard

'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse One bright midsummer day, The gallant steamer Ocean Queen Swept proudly on her way. Bright faces clustered on the deck, Or, leaning o'er the side, Watched carelessly the feathery foam That flecked the rippling tide.

Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, That smiling bends serene, Could dream that danger, awful, vast, Impended o'er the scene; Could dream that ere an hour had sped That frame of sturdy oak Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, Blackened with fire and smoke?

A seaman sought the captain's side, A moment whispered low; The captain's swarthy face grew pale; He hurried down below. Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp, And clear his orders came, No human efforts could avail To quench th' insidious flame.

The bad news quickly reached the deck, It sped from lip to lip, And ghastly faces everywhere Looked from the doomed ship. "Is there no hope, no chance of life?" A hundred lips implore; "But one," the captain made reply, "To run the ship on shore."

A sailor, whose heroic soul That hour should yet reveal, By name John Maynard, eastern-born, Stood calmly at the wheel. "Head her southeast!" the captain shouts, Above the smothered roar, "Head her southeast without delay! Make for the nearest shore!"

No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, Or clouds his dauntless eye, As, in a sailor's measured tone, His voice responds, "Ay! ay!" Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight, Crowd forward wild with fear, While at the stern the dreaded flames Above the deck appear.

John Maynard watched the nearing flames, But still with steady hand He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly He steered the ship to land. "John Maynard, can you still hold out?" He heard the captain cry; A voice from out the stifling smoke Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"

But half a mile! a hundred hands Stretch eagerly to shore. But half a mile! That distance sped Peril shall all be o'er. But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames No longer slowly creep, But gather round that helmsman bold, With fierce, impetuous sweep.