"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice The captain cries once more, "Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, And we shall reach the shore." Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart Responded firmly still, Unawed, though face to face with death, "With God's good help I will!"

The flames approach with giant strides, They scorch his hand and brow; One arm, disabled, seeks his side, Ah! he is conquered now. But no, his teeth are firmly set, He crushes down his pain, His knee upon the stanchion pressed, He guides the ship again.

One moment yet! one moment yet! Brave heart, thy task is o'er, The pebbles grate beneath the keel, The steamer touches shore. Three hundred grateful voices rise In praise to God that He Hath saved them from the fearful fire, And from the engulfing sea.

But where is he, that helmsman bold? The captain saw him reel, His nerveless hands released their task, He sank beside the wheel. The wave received his lifeless corse, Blackened with smoke and fire. God rest him! Never hero had A nobler funeral pyre!

Horatio Alger, Jr.



Piller Fights

Piller fights is fun, I tell you; There isn't anything I'd rather do Than get a big piller and hold it tight, Stand up in bed and then just fight.

Us boys allers have our piller fights And the best night of all is Pa's lodge night. Soon as ever he goes, we say "Good night," Then go right upstairs for a piller fight.

Sometimes maybe Ma comes to the stairs And hollers up, "Boys, have you said your prayers?" And then George will holler "Yes, Mamma," for he always has; Good deal of preacher about George, Pa says.

Ma says "Pleasant dreams," and shuts the door; If she's a-listenin' both of us snore, But as soon as ever she goes we light a light And pitch right into our piller fight.

We play that the bed is Bunker Hill And George is Americans, so he stands still. But I am the British, so I must hit As hard as ever I can to make him git. We played Buena Vista one night— Tell you, that was an awful hard fight!

Held up our pillers like they was a flag, An' hollered, "Little more grape-juice, Captain Bragg!" That was the night that George hit the nail— You just ought to have seen those feathers sail!

I was covered as white as flour, Me and him picked them up for 'most an hour; Next day when our ma saw that there mess She was pretty mad, you better guess;

And she told our pa, and he just said, "Come right on out to this here shed." Tell you, he whipped us till we were sore And made us both promise to do it no more.

That was a long time ago, and now lodge nights Or when Pa's away we have piller fights, But in Buena Vista George is bound To see there aren't any nails anywhere 'round.

Piller fights is fun, I tell you; There isn't anything I'd rather do Than get a big piller and hold it tight, Stand up in bed, and then just fight.

D.A. Ellsworth.



Little Bateese

You bad leetle boy, not moche you care How busy you're kipin' your poor gran'pere Tryin' to stop you ev'ry day Chasin' de hen aroun' de hay. W'y don't you geev' dem a chance to lay! Leetle Bateese!

Off on de fiel' you foller de plough, Den we'en you're tire, you scare de cow, Sickin' de dog till dey jamp de wall So de milk ain't good for not'ing at all, An' you're only five an' a half this fall— Leetle Bateese!

Too sleepy for sayin' de prayer tonight? Never min', I s'pose it'll be all right; Say dem to-morrow—ah! dere he go! Fas' asleep in a minute or so— An' he'll stay lak dat till the rooster crow— Leetle Bateese.

Den wake up right away, toute suite, Lookin' for somethin' more to eat, Makin' me t'ink of dem long-lag crane, Soon as they swaller, dey start again; I wonder your stomach don't get no pain, Leetle Bateese.

But see heem now lyin' dere in bed, Look at de arm onderneat' hees head; If he grow lak dat till he's twenty year, I bet he'll be stronger than Louis Cyr And beat de voyageurs leevin' here— Leetle Bateese.

Jus' feel de muscle along hees back,— Won't geev' heem moche bodder for carry pack On de long portage, any size canoe; Dere's not many t'ings dat boy won't do, For he's got double-joint on hees body too— Leetle Bateese.

But leetle Bateese! please don't forget We rader you're stayin' de small boy yet. So chase de chicken and mak' dem scare, An' do w'at you lak wit' your ole gran'pere, For w'en you're beeg feller he won't be dere— Leetle Bateese!

W.H. Drummond.



Conscience and Future Judgment

I sat alone with my conscience, In a place where time had ceased, And we talked of my former living In the land where the years increased; And I felt I should have to answer The question it might put to me, And to face the question and answer Throughout an eternity.

The ghosts of forgotten actions Came floating before my sight, And things that I thought had perished Were alive with a terrible might; And the vision of life's dark record Was an awful thing to face— Alone with my conscience sitting In that solemnly silent place.

And I thought of a far-away warning, Of a sorrow that was to be mine, In a land that then was the future, But now is the present time; And I thought of my former thinking Of the judgment day to be; But sitting alone with my conscience Seemed judgment enough for me.

And I wondered if there was a future To this land beyond the grave; But no one gave me an answer And no one came to save. Then I felt that the future was present, And the present would never go by, For it was but the thought of a future Become an eternity.

Then I woke from my timely dreaming, And the vision passed away; And I knew the far-away warning Was a warning of yesterday. And I pray that I may not forget it In this land before the grave, That I may not cry out in the future, And no one come to save.

I have learned a solemn lesson Which I ought to have known before, And which, though I learned it dreaming, I hope to forget no more.

So I sit alone with my conscience In the place where the years increase, And I try to fathom the future, In the land where time shall cease. And I know of the future judgment, How dreadful soe'er it be, That to sit alone with my conscience Will be judgment enough for me.



Dandelion

There's a dandy little fellow, Who dresses all in yellow, In yellow with an overcoat of green; With his hair all crisp and curly, In the springtime bright and early A-tripping o'er the meadow he is seen. Through all the bright June weather, Like a jolly little tramp, He wanders o'er the hillside, down the road; Around his yellow feather, Thy gypsy fireflies camp; His companions are the wood lark and the toad.

But at last this little fellow Doffs his dainty coat of yellow, And very feebly totters o'er the green; For he very old is growing And with hair all white and flowing, A-nodding in the sunlight he is seen. Oh, poor dandy, once so spandy, Golden dancer on the lea! Older growing, white hair flowing, Poor little baldhead dandy now is he!

Nellie M. Garabrant.



The Inventor's Wife

It's easy to talk of the patience of Job, Humph! Job hed nothin' to try him! Ef he'd been married to 'Bijah Brown, folks wouldn't have dared come nigh him. Trials, indeed! Now I'll tell you what—ef you want to be sick of your life, Jest come and change places with me a spell—for I'm an inventor's wife. And such inventions! I'm never sure, when I take up my coffee-pot, That 'Bijah hain't been "improvin'" it and it mayn't go off like a shot. Why, didn't he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin'; And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin'? And there was his "Patent Peeler," too—a wonderful thing, I'll say; But it hed one fault-it never stopped till the apple was peeled away. As for locks and clocks, and mowin' machines and reapers, and all such trash, Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of 'em but they don't bring in no cash. Law! that don't worry him—not at all; he's the most aggravatin'est man— He'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle, and think, and plan, Inventin' a jew's-harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn, While the children's goin' barefoot to school and the weeds is chokin' our corn. When 'Bijah and me kep' company, he warn't like this, you know; Our folks all thought he was dreadful smart—but that was years ago. He was handsome as any pictur then, and he had such a glib, bright way— I never thought that a time would come when I'd rue my weddin' day; But when I've been forced to chop wood, and tend to the farm beside, And look at Bijah a-settin' there, I've jest dropped down and cried. We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gun But I counted it one of my marcies when it bu'st before 'twas done. So he turned it into a "burglar alarm." It ought to give thieves a fright— 'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night. Sometimes I wonder if 'Bijah's crazy, he does sech cur'ous things. Hev I told you about his bedstead yit?—'Twas full of wheels and springs; It hed a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head; All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said, That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor, And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more. Wa'al, 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five, But he hadn't mor'n got into it when—dear me! sakes alive! Them wheels began to whiz and whir! I heered a fearful snap! And there was that bedstead, with 'Bijah inside, shet up jest like a trap! I screamed, of course, but 'twan't no use, then I worked that hull long night A-trying to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright; I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin'; So I took a crow-bar and smashed it in.—There was 'Bijah peacefully lyin', Inventin' a way to git out agin. That was all very well to say, But I don't b'lieve he'd have found it out if I'd left him in all day. Now, sence I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm tired of life? Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's wife?

Mrs. E.T. Corbett.



Out in the Snow

The snow and the silence came down together, Through the night so white and so still; And young folks housed from the bitter weather, Housed from the storm and the chill—

Heard in their dreams the sleigh-bells jingle, Coasted the hill-sides under the moon, Felt their cheeks with the keen air tingle, Skimmed the ice with their steel-clad shoon.

They saw the snow when they rose in the morning, Glittering ghosts of the vanished night, Though the sun shone clear in the winter dawning, And the day with a frosty pomp was bright.

Out in the clear, cold, winter weather— Out in the winter air, like wine— Kate with her dancing scarlet feather, Bess with her peacock plumage fine,

Joe and Jack with their pealing laughter, Frank and Tom with their gay hallo, And half a score of roisterers after, Out in the witching, wonderful snow,

Shivering graybeards shuffle and stumble, Righting themselves with a frozen frown, Grumbling at every snowy tumble; But young folks know why the snow came down.

Louise Chandler Moulton.



Give Them the Flowers Now

Closed eyes can't see the white roses, Cold hands can't hold them, you know; Breath that is stilled cannot gather The odors that sweet from them blow. Death, with a peace beyond dreaming, Its children of earth doth endow; Life is the time we can help them, So give them the flowers now!

Here are the struggles and striving, Here are the cares and the tears; Now is the time to be smoothing The frowns and the furrows and fears. What to closed eyes are kind sayings? What to hushed heart is deep vow? Naught can avail after parting, So give them the flowers now!

Just a kind word or a greeting; Just a warm grasp or a smile— These are the flowers that will lighten The burdens for many a mile. After the journey is over What is the use of them; how Can they carry them who must be carried? Oh, give them the flowers now!

Blooms from the happy heart's garden, Plucked in the spirit of love; Blooms that are earthly reflections Of flowers that blossom above. Words cannot tell what a measure Of blessing such gifts will allow To dwell in the lives of many, So give them the flowers now!

Leigh M. Hodges.



The Lost Occasion

(Written in memory of Daniel Webster.)

Some die too late and some too soon, At early morning, heat of noon, Or the chill evening twilight. Thou, Whom the rich heavens did so endow With eyes of power and Jove's own brow, With all the massive strength that fills Thy home-horizon's granite hills, With rarest gifts of heart and head From manliest stock inherited— New England's stateliest type of man, In port and speech Olympian; Whom no one met, at first, but took A second awed and wondering look (As turned, perchance, the eyes of Greece On Phidias' unveiled masterpiece); Whose words, in simplest home-spun clad, The Saxon strength of Caedmon's had, With power reserved at need to reach The Roman forum's loftiest speech, Sweet with persuasion, eloquent In passion, cool in argument, Or, ponderous, falling on thy foes As fell the Norse god's hammer blows. Crushing as if with Talus' flail Through Error's logic-woven mail, And failing only when they tried The adamant of the righteous side,— Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved Of old friends, by the new deceived, Too soon for us, too soon for thee, Beside thy lonely Northern sea, Where long and low the marsh-lands spread, Laid wearily down thy august head.

Thou shouldst have lived to feel below Thy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow,— The late-sprung mine that underlaid Thy sad concessions vainly made. Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wall The star-flag of the Union fall, And armed Rebellion pressing on The broken lines of Washington! No stronger voice than thine had then Called out the utmost might of men, To make the Union's charter free And strengthen law by liberty. How had that stern arbitrament To thy gray age youth's vigor lent, Shaming ambition's paltry prize Before thy disillusioned eyes; Breaking the spell about thee wound Like the green withes that Samson bound; Redeeming, in one effort grand, Thyself and thy imperiled land! Ah cruel fate, that closed to thee, O sleeper by the Northern sea, The gates of opportunity! God fills the gaps of human need, Each crisis brings its word and deed. Wise men and strong we did not lack; But still, with memory turning back, In the dark hours we thought of thee, And thy lone grave beside the sea.

Above that grave the east winds blow, And from the marsh-lands drifting slow The sea-fog comes, with evermore The wave-wash of a lonely shore, And sea-bird's melancholy cry, As Nature fain would typify The sadness of a closing scene, The loss of that which should have been. But, where thy native mountains bare Their foreheads to diviner air, Fit emblem of enduring fame, One lofty summit keeps thy name. For thee the cosmic forces did The rearing of that pyramid, The prescient ages shaping with Fire, flood, and frost thy monolith. Sunrise and sunset lay thereon With hands of light their benison, The stars of midnight pause to set Their jewels in its coronet. And evermore that mountain mass Seems climbing from the shadowy pass To light, as if to manifest Thy nobler self, they life at best!

John G. Whittier.



The Flower of Liberty

What flower is this that greets the morn, Its hues from Heaven so freshly born? With burning star and flaming band It kindles all the sunset land: O tell us what its name may be,— Is this the Flower of Liberty? It is the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

In savage Nature's far abode Its tender seed our fathers sowed; The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud, Its opening leaves were streaked with blood, Till lo! earth's tyrants shook to see The full-blown Flower of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

Behold its streaming rays unite, One mingling flood of braided light— The red that fires the Southern rose, With spotless white from Northern snows, And, spangled o'er its azure, see The sister Stars of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

The blades of heroes fence it round, Where'er it springs is holy ground; From tower and dome its glories spread; It waves where lonely sentries tread; It makes the land as ocean free, And plants an empire on the sea! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower, Shall ever float on dome and tower, To all their heavenly colors true, In blackening frost or crimson dew,— And God love us as we love thee, Thrice holy Flower of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.



The Lamb

Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and made thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead? Gave thee clothing of delight,— Softest clothing, woolly, bright? Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee; He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a lamb. He is meek and He is mild; He became a little child: I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee!

William Blake.



The Roll Call

"Corporal Green!" the orderly cried; "Here!" was the answer, loud and clear, From the lips of the soldier standing near, And "Here" was the answer the next replied.

"Cyrus Drew!"—then a silence fell— This time no answer followed the call, Only the rear man had seen him fall, Killed or wounded he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light, These men of battle, with grave dark looks, As plain to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hillside was splashed with blood, And down in the corn, where the poppies grew Were redder stains than the poppies knew And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

"Herbert Kline!" At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

"Ezra Kerr!"—and a voice said "Here!" "Hiram Kerr!"—but no man replied. They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

"Ephraim Deane!" then a soldier spoke; "Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said; "Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

"Close by the roadside his body lies; I paused a moment and gave him a drink, He murmured his mother's name I think, And Death came with it and closed his eyes."

'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear— For that company's roll when called that night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!"

N.G. Shepherd.



A Prayer for a Little Home

God send us a little home To come back to when we roam— Low walls and fluted tiles, Wide windows, a view for miles; Red firelight and deep chairs; Small white beds upstairs; Great talk in little nooks; Dim colors, rows of books; One picture on each wall; Not many things at all. God send us a little ground— Tall trees standing round, Homely flowers in brown sod, Overhead, Thy stars, O God! God bless, when winds blow, Our home and all we know.

London "Spectator."



I Have Drank My Last Glass

No, comrades, I thank you—not any for me; My last chain is riven—henceforward I'm free! I will go to my home and my children to-night With no fumes of liquor their spirits to blight; And, with tears in my eyes, I will beg my poor wife To forgive me the wreck I have made of her life. I have never refused you before? Let that pass, For I've drank my last glass, boys, I have drank my last glass.

Just look at me now, boys, in rags and disgrace, With my bleared, haggard eyes, and my red, bloated face; Mark my faltering step and my weak, palsied hand, And the mark on my brow that is worse than Cain's brand; See my crownless old hat, and my elbows and knees, Alike, warmed by the sun, or chilled by the breeze. Why, even the children will hoot as I pass;— But I've drank my last glass, boys, I have drank my last glass.

You would hardly believe, boys, to look at me now That a mother's soft hand was pressed on my brow— When she kissed me, and blessed me, her darling, her pride, Ere she lay down to rest by my dead father's side; But with love in her eyes, she looked up to the sky Bidding me meet her there and whispered "Good-bye." And I'll do it, God helping! Your smile I let pass, For I've drank my last glass, boys, I have drank my last glass.

Ah! I reeled home last night, it was not very late, For I'd spent my last sixpence, and landlords won't wait On a fellow who's left every cent in their till, And has pawned his last bed, their coffers to fill. Oh, the torments I felt, and the pangs I endured! And I begged for one glass—just one would have cured,— But they kicked me out doors! I let that, too, pass, For I've drank my last glass, boys, I have drank my last glass.

At home, my pet Susie, with her rich golden hair, I saw through the window, just kneeling in prayer; From her pale, bony hands, her torn sleeves hung down, And her feet, cold and bare, shrank beneath her scant gown, And she prayed—prayed for bread, just a poor crust of bread, For one crust, on her knees my pet darling plead! And I heard, with no penny to buy one, alas! For I've drank my last glass, boys, I have drank my last glass.

For Susie, my darling, my wee six-year-old, Though fainting with hunger and shivering with cold, There, on the bare floor, asked God to bless me! And she said, "Don't cry, mamma! He will; for you see, I believe what I ask for!" Then sobered, I crept Away from the house; and that night, when I slept, Next my heart lay the PLEDGE! You smile! let it pass, For I've drank my last glass, boys I have drank my last glass.

My darling child saved me! Her faith and her love Are akin to my dear sainted mother's above! I will make my words true, or I'll die in the race, And sober I'll go to my last resting place; And she shall kneel there, and, weeping, thank God No drunkard lies under the daisy-strewn sod! Not a drop more of poison my lips shall e'er pass, For I've drank my last glass, boys, I have drank my last glass.



Highland Mary

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As, underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary!

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But, oh, fell death's untimely frost, That nipp'd my flower sae early! Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft ha'e kiss'd, sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwalt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly; But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary!

Robert Burns.



A Night with a Wolf

Little one, come to my knee! Hark, how the rain is pouring Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, And the wind in the woods a-roaring!

Hush, my darling, and listen, Then pay for the story with kisses; Father was lost in the pitch-black night, In just such a storm as this is!

High up on the lonely mountains, Where the wild men watched and waited Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, And I on my path belated.

The rain and the night together Came down, and the wind came after, Bending the props of the pine-tree roof, And snapping many a rafter.

I crept along in the darkness, Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,— Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, And a sheltering rock behind it.

There, from the blowing and raining Crouching, I sought to hide me: Something rustled, two green eyes shone, And a wolf lay down beside me.

Little one, be not frightened; I and the wolf together, Side by side, through the long, long night Hid from the awful weather.

His wet fur pressed against me; Each of us warmed the other; Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, That beast and man was brother.

And when the falling forest No longer crashed in warning, Each of us went from our hiding-place Forth in the wild, wet morning.

Darling, kiss me in payment! Hark, how the wind is roaring; Father's house is a better place When the stormy rain is pouring!

Bayard Taylor.



She Was a Phantom of Delight

She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveler between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.

William Wordsworth.



The Rhodora

(On Being Asked Whence Is The Flower)

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.



There Was a Boy

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander!—many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him,—And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild Of jocund din! and, when there came a pause Of silence such as baffled his best skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received Into the bosom of the steady lake. This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village-school; And through that church-yard when my way has led On Summer-evenings, I believe, that there A long half-hour together I have stood Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies!

William Wordsworth.



The Quangle Wangle's Hat

On the top of the Crumpetty Tree The Quangle Wangle sat, But his face you could not see, On account of his Beaver Hat. For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide, With ribbons and bibbons on every side, And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, So that nobody ever could see the face Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

The Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, "Jam, and jelly, and bread Are the best of food for me! But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree The plainer than ever it seems to me That very few people come this way And that life on the whole is far from gay!" Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.

But there came to the Crumpetty Tree Mr. and Mrs. Canary; And they said, "Did ever you see Any spot so charmingly airy? May we build a nest on your lovely Hat? Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! Oh, please let us come and build a nest Of whatever material suits you best, Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"

And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; The Snail and the Bumblebee, The Frog and the Fimble Fowl (The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg); And all of them said, "We humbly beg We may build our homes on your lovely Hat,— Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"

And the Golden Grouse came there, And the Pobble who has no toes, And the small Olympian bear, And the Dong with a luminous nose. And the Blue Baboon who played the flute, And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat,— All came and built on the lovely Hat Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

And the Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, "When all these creatures move What a wonderful noise there'll be!" And at night by the light of the Mulberry Moon They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, And all were as happy as happy could be, With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

Edward Lear.



The Singing Leaves

I

"What fairings will ye that I bring?" Said the King to his daughters three; "For I to Vanity Fair am boun, Now say what shall they be?"

Then up and spake the eldest daughter, That lady tall and grand: "Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great, And gold rings for my hand."

Thereafter spake the second daughter, That was both white and red: "For me bring silks that will stand alone, And a gold comb for my head."

Then came the turn of the least daughter, That was whiter than thistle-down, And among the gold of her blithesome hair Dim shone the golden crown.

"There came a bird this morning, And sang 'neath my bower eaves, Till I dreamed, as his music made me, 'Ask thou for the Singing Leaves.'"

Then the brow of the King swelled crimson With a flush of angry scorn: "Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, And chosen as ye were born,

"But she, like a thing of peasant race, That is happy binding the sheaves"; Then he saw her dead mother in her face, And said, "Thou shalt have thy leaves."

II

He mounted and rode three days and nights Till he came to Vanity Fair, And 'twas easy to buy the gems and the silk, But no Singing Leaves were there.

Then deep in the greenwood rode he, And asked of every tree, "Oh, if you have, ever a Singing Leaf, I pray you give it me!"

But the trees all kept their counsel, And never a word said they, Only there sighed from the pine-tops A music of seas far away.

Only the pattering aspen Made a sound of growing rain, That fell ever faster and faster. Then faltered to silence again.

"Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page That would win both hose and shoon, And will bring to me the Singing Leaves If they grow under the moon?"

Then lightly turned him Walter the page, By the stirrup as he ran: "Now pledge you me the truesome word Of a king and gentleman,

"That you will give me the first, first thing You meet at your castle-gate, And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves, Or mine be a traitor's fate."

The King's head dropt upon his breast A moment, as it might be; 'Twill be my dog, he thought, and said, "My faith I plight to thee."

Then Walter took from next his heart A packet small and thin, "Now give you this to the Princess Anne, The Singing Leaves are therein."

III

As the King rode in at his castle-gate, A maiden to meet him ran, And "Welcome, father!" she laughed and cried Together, the Princess Anne.

"Lo, here the Singing Leaves," quoth he, "And woe, but they cost me dear!" She took the packet, and the smile Deepened down beneath the tear.

It deepened down till it reached her heart, And then gushed up again, And lighted her tears as the sudden sun Transfigures the summer rain.

And the first Leaf, when it was opened, Sang: "I am Walter the page, And the songs I sing 'neath thy window Are my only heritage."

And the second Leaf sang: "But in the land That is neither on earth nor sea, My lute and I are lords of more Than thrice this kingdom's fee."

And the third Leaf sang, "Be mine! Be mine!" And ever it sang, "Be mine!" Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, And said, "I am thine, thine, thine!"

At the first Leaf she grew pale enough, At the second she turned aside, At the third,'twas as if a lily flushed With a rose's red heart's tide.

"Good counsel gave the bird," said she, "I have my hope thrice o'er, For they sing to my very heart," she said, "And it sings to them evermore."

She brought to him her beauty and truth, But and broad earldoms three, And he made her queen of the broader lands He held of his lute in fee.

James Russell Lowell.



Awakening

Never yet was a springtime, Late though lingered the snow, That the sap stirred not at the whisper Of the south wind, sweet and low; Never yet was a springtime When the buds forgot to blow.

Ever the wings of the summer Are folded under the mold; Life that has known no dying Is Love's to have and to hold, Till sudden, the burgeoning Easter! The song! the green and the gold!

Margaret E. Sangster.



Wolsey's Farewell to His Greatness

(From "King Henry VIII")

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening,—nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.

William Shakespeare.



The Newsboy

Want any papers, Mister? Wish you'd buy 'em of me— Ten year old, an' a fam'ly, An' bizness dull, you see. Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby, An' Dad, an' Mam, an' Mam's cat, None on 'em earning money— What do you think of that?

Couldn't Dad work? Why yes, Boss, He's workin' for Gov'ment now— They give him his board for nothin', All along of a drunken row, An' Mam? well, she's in the poor-house, Been there a year or so, So I'm taking care of the others, Doing as well as I know.

Tibby my sister? Not much, Boss, She's a kitten, a real Maltee; I picked her up last summer— Some boys was a drownin' of she; Throw'd her inter a hogshead; But a p'liceman came along, So I jest grabbed up the kitten And put for home, right strong.

And Tom's my dog; he an' Tibby Hain't never quarreled yet— They sleep in my bed in winter An' keeps me warm—you bet! Mam's cat sleeps in the corner, With a piller made of her paw— Can't she growl like a tiger If anyone comes to our straw!

Oughtn't to live so? Why, Mister, What's a feller to do? Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry, Seems as if each on 'em knew— They'll all three cuddle around me, Till I get cheery, and say: Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers, An' money an' clothes, too, some day.

But if I do git rich, Boss, (An' a lecturin' chap one night Said newsboys could be Presidents If only they acted right); So, if I was President, Mister, The very first thing I'd do, I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby A dinner—an' Mam's cat, too!

None o' your scraps an' leavin's, But a good square meal for all three; If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss, That shows you don't know me. So 'ere's your papers—come take one, Gimme a lift if you can— For now you've heard my story, You see I'm a fam'ly man!

E.T. Corbett.



Parting of Marmion and Douglas

Not far advanced was morning day, When Marmion did his troop array To Surrey's camp to ride; He had safe conduct for his band, Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide: The ancient Earl, with stately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whispered in an undertone, "Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopped to bid adieu.— "Though something I might plain," he said, "Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your king's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand."— But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:— "My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open, at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation-stone,— The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And—"This to me!" he said,— "An't were not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, He who does England's message here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee thou'rt defied! And if thou said'st I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"— On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth,—"And dar'st thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go? No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms,—what, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall."— Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need!— And dashed the rowels in his steed; Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous grate behind him rung; To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies. Just as it trembled on the rise; Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim; And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers, "Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!" But soon he reined his fury's pace: "A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name.

* * * * *

St. Mary, mend my fiery mood! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. 'Tis pity of him too," he cried; "Bold can he speak, and fairly ride: I warrant him a warrior tried." With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls.

Sir Walter Scott.



The Engineer's Story

Han'som, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart ez she kin be. Clever? W'y! she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough for me. What's her name? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed to tell, She's ole "Fiddler" Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he calls her "Nell."

I wuz drivin' on the "Central" jist about a year ago On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe. There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one who dreams, With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain streams.

'Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour, An' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower, Round the bends an' by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we could go, With the mountain peaks above us an' the river down below.

Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an' wild, Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's child, Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fearless tread, Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.

I jist jumped an' grabbed the throttle an' I fa'rly held my breath, Fur I felt I couldn't stop her till the child wuz crushed to death, When a woman sprang afore me, like a sudden streak o' light. Caught the boy, an' 'twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.

I jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with might an' main, Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the train, An' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by, An' the river roared below us—I shall hear her till I die!

Then we stopt; the sun wuz shinin'; I ran back along the ridge An' I found her—dead? No! livin'! She wuz hangin' to the bridge Where she dropt down thro' the crossties, with one arm about a sill, An' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to kill!

So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez she kin be— Now we're married—she's no chicken, but she's good enough for me. An' ef eny ask who owns her, w'y, I ain't ashamed to tell— She's my wife. Ther' ain't none better than ole Filkin's daughter "Nell."

Eugene J. Hall.



Small Beginnings

A traveler on the dusty road Strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, And grew into a tree. Love sought its shade, at evening time, To breathe his early vows; And age was pleased, in heats of noon, To bask beneath its boughs; The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, The birds sweet music bore; It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern, A passing stranger scooped a well Where weary men might turn; He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle at the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that all might drink. He paused again, and lo! the well, By summer never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues And saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'Twas old, and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain, But strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind, And, lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, A monitory flame; The thought was small, its issue great; A watch-fire on the hill; It shed its radiance far adown, And cheers the valley still.

A nameless man, amid a crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of Hope and Love, Unstudied from the heart; A whisper on the tumult thrown, A transitory breath— It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, But mighty at the last.

Charles Mackay.



Rain on the Roof

When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, 'Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed, And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.

Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart, And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start; And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof, As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.

There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone, To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn. I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair, And her bright-eyed, cherub brother—a serene, angelic pair— Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue, I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue, I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.

There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell, In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell, As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain, Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain!

Coates Kinney.



Gunga Din

The "bhisti," or water-carriers attached to regiments in India, is often one of the most devoted subjects of the British crown, and he is much appreciated by the men.

You may talk o' gin an' beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But if it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them black-faced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. He was "Din! Din! Din! You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! Slippy hitherao! Water, get it! Panee lao! You squidgy-nosed, old idol, Gunga Din!"

The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a twisty piece o' rag An' a goatskin water bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find, When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, We shouted "Harry By!" Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all, It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some juldee in it, Or I'll marrow you this minute If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done, An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is mussick on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire." An' for all 'is dirty 'ide 'E was white, clear white, inside When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was "Din! Din! Din!" With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could 'ear the front-files shout: "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. I was chokin' mad with thirst, An' the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 'E lifted up my 'ead, An' 'e plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me arf-a-pint o' water—green: It was crawlin' and it stunk, But of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was "Din! Din! Din! 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away To where a dooli lay, An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'E put me safe inside, An', just before 'e died: "I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din. So I'll meet 'im later on In the place where 'e is gone— Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drink to pore damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din! Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Rudyard Kipling.

"Panee lao"—Bring water swiftly.

"Harry Ry"-The British soldier's equivalent of "O Brother!"

"Put some juldee in it"—Be quick.

"Marrow you"—Hit you.

"Mussick"—Water-skin.



Warren's Address to the American Soldiers

(Bunker Hill, June 17, 1775)

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it—ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you! They're afire! And, before you, see Who have done it! From the vale On they come! and will ye quail? Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust! Die we may—and die we must; But, O where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell!

John Pierpont.



Mad River

IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

Traveler

Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, Mad River, O Mad River? Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er This rocky shelf forever?

What secret trouble stirs thy breast? Why all this fret and flurry? Dost thou not know that what is best In this too restless world is rest From overwork and worry?

The River

What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, O stranger from the city? Is it perhaps some foolish freak Of thine, to put the words I speak Into a plaintive ditty?

Traveler

Yes; I would learn of thee thy song, With all its flowing numbers, And in a voice as fresh and strong As thine is, sing it all day long, And hear it in my slumbers.

The River

A brooklet nameless and unknown Was I at first, resembling A little child, that all alone Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, Irresolute and trembling.

Later, by wayward fancies led, For the wide world I panted; Out of the forest dark and dread Across the open fields I fled, Like one pursued and haunted.

I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, My voice exultant blending With thunder from the passing cloud, The wind, the forest bent and bowed, The rush of rain descending.

I heard the distant ocean call, Imploring and entreating; Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall I plunged, and the loud waterfall Made answer to the greeting.

And now, beset with many ills, A toilsome life I follow; Compelled to carry from the hills These logs to the impatient mills Below there in the hollow.

Yet something ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labors; Daily I water with these arms The cattle of a hundred farms, And have the birds for neighbors.

Men call me Mad, and well they may, When, full of rage and trouble, I burst my banks of sand and clay, And sweep their wooden bridge away, Like withered reeds or stubble.

Now go and write thy little rhyme, As of thine own creating. Thou seest the day is past its prime; I can no longer waste my time; The mills are tired of waiting.

Henry W. Longfellow.



When Papa Was a Boy

When papa was a little boy you really couldn't find In all the country round about a child so quick to mind. His mother never called but once, and he was always there; He never made the baby cry or pulled his sister's hair. He never slid down banisters or made the slightest noise, And never in his life was known to fight with other boys. He always rose at six o'clock and went to bed at eight, And never lay abed till noon; and never sat up late.

He finished Latin, French and Greek when he was ten year old, And knew the Spanish alphabet as soon as he was told. He never, never thought of play until his work was done, He labored hard from break of day until the set of sun. He never scraped his muddy shoes upon the parlor floor, And never answered, back his ma, and never banged the door. "But, truly, I could never see," said little Dick Molloy, "How he could never do these things and really be a boy."

E.A. Brininstool.



Which Shall It Be?

"Which shall it be? which shall it be?" I looked at John,—John looked at me, (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet.) And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak; "Tell me again what Robert said"; And then I listening bent my head. "This is his letter: 'I will give A house and land while you shall live, If, in return, from out your seven, One child to me for aye is given.'"

I looked at John's old garments worn, I thought of all that John had borne Of poverty, and work, and care, Which I, though willing, could not share; Of seven hungry mouths to feed, Of seven little children's need, And then of this. "Come John," said I, "We'll choose among them as they lie Asleep"; so walking hand in hand, Dear John and I surveyed our band.

First to the cradle lightly stepped, Where Lilian, the baby, slept; Her damp curls lay, like gold alight, A glory 'gainst the pillow white; Softly her father stooped to lay His rough hand down in loving way, When dream or whisper made her stir, And huskily he said, "Not her." We stooped beside the trundle-bed, And one long ray of lamp-light shed Athwart the boyish faces there, In sleep so pitiful and fair. I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek A tear undried; ere John could speak, "He's but a baby too," said I, And kissed him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robby's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace; "No, for a thousand crowns not him," He whispered, while our eyes were dim. Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son, Turbulent, reckless, idle one,— Could he be spared? "Nay, He who gave Bids us befriend him to the grave; Only a mother's heart can be Patient enough for such as he; And so," said John, "I would not dare To send him from her bedside prayer." Then stole we softly up above, And knelt by Mary, child of love; "Perhaps for her 'twould better be," I said to John. Quite silently He lifted up a curl, that lay Across her cheek in wilful way, And shook his head; "Nay, love, not thee"; The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our eldest lad, Trusty and truthful, good and glad,— So like his father: "No, John, no; I cannot, will not, let him go!"

And so we wrote, in courteous way, We could not give one child away; And afterward toil lighter seemed, Thinking of that of which we dreamed; Happy, in truth, that not one face We missed from its accustomed place; Thankful to work for all the seven, Trusting then to One in heaven.

Ethel Lynn Beers.



The Battle of Bunker's Hill

It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still, When the "minute-men" from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill; Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet, But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms beat; And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, "We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the dead!"

"Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!" The trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a word, But stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with spade, A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made; So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell; We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "All's well!"

See how the morn, is breaking; the red is in the sky! The mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by; The "Lively's" hall looms through the fog, and they our works have spied, For the ruddy flash and round-shot part in thunder from her side; And the "Falcon" and the "Cerberus" make every bosom thrill, With gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's whistle shrill; But deep and wider grows the trench, as spade and mattock ply, For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing nigh!

Up with the pine-tree banner! Our gallant Prescott stands Amid the plunging shells and shot, and plants it with his hands; Up with the shout! for Putnam comes upon his reeking bay, With bloody spur and foaming bit, in haste to join the fray. But thou whose soul is glowing in the summer of thy years, Unvanquishable Warren, thou, the youngest of thy peers, Wert born and bred, and shaped and made, to act a patriot's part, And dear to us thy presence is as heart's blood to the heart!

Hark! from the town a trumpet! The barges at the wharf Are crowded with the living freight; and now they're pushing off; With clash and glitter, trump and drum, in all its bright array, Behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er the bay! And still and still the barges fill, and still across the deep, Like thunder clouds along the sky, the hostile transports sweep.

And now they're forming at the Point; and now the lines advance: We see beneath the sultry sun their polished bayonets glance; We hear anear the throbbing drum, the bugle-challenge ring; Quick bursts and loud the flashing cloud, and rolls from wing to wing; But on the height our bulwark stands, tremendous in its gloom,— As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as a tomb.

And so we waited till we saw, at scarce ten rifles' length, The old vindictive Saxon spite, in all its stubborn strength; When sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged rampart burst From every gun the livid light upon the foe accursed. Then quailed a monarch's might before a free-born people's ire; Then drank the sward the veteran's life, where swept the yeoman's fire.

Then, staggered by the shot, he saw their serried columns reel, And fall, as falls the bearded rye beneath the reaper's steel; And then arose a mighty shout that might have waked the dead,— "Hurrah! they run! the field is won! Hurrah! the foe is fled!" And every man hath dropped his gun to clutch a neighbor's hand, As his heart kept praying all the while for home and native land.

Thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice a thousand foes, And thrice that day within our lines the shout of victory rose; And though our swift fire slackened then, and, reddening in the skies, We saw from Charlestown's roofs and walls the flamy columns rise, Yet while we had a cartridge left, we still maintained the fight, Nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that blood-stained height.

What though for us no laurels bloom, and o'er the nameless brave No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch records a warrior grave! What though the day to us was lost!—upon that deathless page The everlasting charter stands for every land and age!

For man hath broke his felon bonds, and cast them in the dust, And claimed his heritage divine, and justified the trust; While through his rifted prison-bars the hues of freedom pour, O'er every nation, race and clime, on every sea and shore, Such glories as the patriarch viewed, when, mid the darkest skies, He saw above a ruined world the Bow of Promise rise.

F.S. Cozzens.



Health and Wealth

We squander health in search of wealth; We scheme and toil and save; Then squander wealth in search of health, But only find a grave. We live, and boast of what we own; We die, and only get a stone.



The Heartening

It may be that the words I spoke To cheer him on his way, To him were vain, but I myself Was braver all that day.

Winifred Webb.



Billy's Rose

Billy's dead, and gone to glory—so is Billy's sister Nell: There's a tale I know about them, were I poet I would tell; Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air Wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odors there.

In that vile and filthy alley, long ago one winter's day, Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay, While beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom, Cheering with her gentle presence Billy's pathway to the tomb.

Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child, Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and his worn, wan features smiled; Tales herself had heard haphazard, caught amid the Babel roar, Lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mothers' door.

Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold, Where, when all the pain was over,—where, when all the tears were shed,— He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head.

Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour's love, How He'd built for little children great big playgrounds up above, Where they sang and played at hopscotch and at horses all the day, And where beadles and policemen never frightened them away.

This was Nell's idea of heaven,—just a bit of what she'd heard, With a little bit invented, and a little bit inferred. But her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to understand, For he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the promised land.

"Yes," he whispered, "I can see it, I can see it, sister Nell, Oh, the children look so happy and they're all so strong and well; I can see them there with Jesus—He is playing with them, too! Let as run away and join them, if there's room for me and you."

She was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been spent In the garret and the alley, where they starved to pay the rent; Where a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's blows Drove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn to its close.

But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell this sinking boy, "You must die before you're able all the blessings to enjoy. You must die," she whispered, "Billy, and I am not even ill; But I'll come to you, dear brother,—yes, I promise that I will.

"You are dying, little brother, you are dying, oh, so fast; I heard father say to mother that he knew you couldn't last. They will put you in a coffin, then you'll wake and be up there, While I'm left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare."

"Yes, I know it," answered Billy. "Ah, but, sister, I don't mind, Gentle Jesus will not beat me; He's not cruel or unkind. But I can't help thinking, Nelly, I should like to take away Something, sister, that you gave me, I might look at every day.

"In the summer you remember how the mission took us out To a great green lovely meadow, where we played and ran about, And the van that took us halted by a sweet bright patch of land, Where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother's hand.

"Nell, I asked the good kind teacher what they called such flowers as those, And he told me, I remember, that the pretty name was rose. I have never seen them since, dear—how I wish that I had one! Just to keep and think of you, Nell, when I'm up beyond the sun."

Not a word said little Nelly; but at night, when Billy slept, On she flung her scanty garments and then down the stairs she crept. Through the silent streets of London she ran nimbly as a fawn, Running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn.

When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared away, All around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay. She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet, But there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet.

She had traced the road by asking, she had learnt the way to go; She had found the famous meadow—it was wrapped in cruel snow; Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed;

With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground, And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found. Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim; And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb.

"Oh, a rose!" she moaned, "good Jesus,—just a rose to take to Bill!" And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill; And a lady sat there, toying with a red rose, rare and sweet; As she passed she flung it from her, and it fell at Nelly's feet.

Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret, And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet; But the poor, half-blinded Nelly thought it fallen from the skies, And she murmured, "Thank you, Jesus!" as she clasped the dainty prize.

Lo! that night from but the alley did a child's soul pass away, From dirt and sin and misery up to where God's children play. Lo! that night a wild, fierce snowstorm burst in fury o'er the land, And at morn they found Nell frozen, with the red rose in her hand.

Billy's dead, and gone to glory—so is Billy's sister Nell; Am I bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell,— That the children met in heaven, after all their earthly woes, And that Nelly kissed her brother, and said, "Billy, here's your rose"?

George R. Sims.



The Old Actor's Story

Mine is a wild, strange story,—the strangest you ever heard; There are many who won't believe it, but it's gospel, every word; It's the biggest drama of any in a long, adventurous life; The scene was a ship, and the actors—were myself and my new-wed wife.

You musn't mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then; I'm old, you know, and I wander—it's a way with old women and men, For their lives lie all behind them, and their thoughts go far away, And are tempted afield, like children lost on a summer day.

The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful night, But I see it again this evening, I can never shut out the sight. We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know, When we had an offer for Melbourne, and made up our minds to go.

We'd acted together in England, traveling up and down With a strolling band of players, going from town to town; We played the lovers together—we were leading lady and gent— And at last we played in earnest, and straight to the church we went.

The parson gave us his blessing, and I gave Nellie the ring, And swore that I'd love and cherish, and endow her with everything. How we smiled at that part of the service when I said "I thee endow"! But as to the "love and cherish," I meant to keep that vow.

We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was good, When it wasn't we went without it, and we did the best we could. We were happy, and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we made,— Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade.

Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit; Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a flit,— Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call; But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet to fall.

We got an offer for Melbourne,—got it that very week. Those were the days when thousands went over to fortune seek, The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot Good for a "spec," and took us as actors among his lot.

We hadn't a friend in England—we'd only ourselves to please— And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the seas. We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough; We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough.

But use is a second nature, and we'd got not to mind a storm, When misery came upon us,—came in a hideous form. My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad That the doctor said she was dying,—I thought 'twould have sent me mad,—

Dying where leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their prey, And the nearest land was hundreds—aye, thousands—of miles away. She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, So still I'd to bend and listen for the faintest sign of breath.

She seemed in a sleep, and sleeping, with a smile on her thin, wan face,— She passed away one morning, while I prayed to the throne of grace. I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless—my wife was dead!

Dead! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that night, For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright. I was shut in the farthest cabin, and I beat my head on the side, And all day long in my madness, "They've murdered her!" I cried.

They locked me away from my fellows,—put me in cruel chains, It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's brains. I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil sent To gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent.

I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, And my wife lay dead quite near me. I beat with my fettered fists, Beat at my prison panels, and then—O God!—and then I heard the shrieks of women and the tramp of hurrying men.

I heard the cry, "Ship afire!" caught up by a hundred throats, And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats; Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood, And the place grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I stood.

I beat at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back, And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning crack I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail, Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale.

I dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, "I will not die! Die in this burning prison!"—but I caught no answering cry. Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar, And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door.

I was free—with the heavy iron door dragging me down to death; I fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning breath Of the flames that danced around me like man-mocking fiends at play, And then—O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying day.

There lay my Nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth that night; The flames flung a smile on her features,—a horrible, lurid light. God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by her side; I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died.

In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain; I heard a sound as of breathing, and then a low cry of pain; Oh, was there mercy in heaven? Was there a God in the skies? The dead woman's lips were moving, the dead woman opened her eyes.

I cursed like a madman raving—I cried to her, "Nell! my Nell!" They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell; They had left us alone to perish—forgotten me living—and she Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven, instead of the sea.

I clutched at her, roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her still; I seized her in spite of my fetters,—fear gave a giant's will. God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and the wreck Up—up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck.

We'd a moment of life together,—a moment of life, the time For one last word to each other,—'twas a moment supreme, sublime. From the trance we'd for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to life, And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband and wife!

It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, When a shout came over the water, and I looked, and lo, there lay, Right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by; They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky.

I shouted a prayer to Heaven, then called to my wife, and she Tore with new strength at my fetters—God helped her, and I was free; Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life. Did they save us? Well, here I am, sir, and yonder's my dear old wife.

We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by Took us on board, and at Melbourne landed us by and by. We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip, But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship!

George B. Sims.



The Boy Who Didn't Pass

A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace, There's a lump arising in his throat, tears streaming down his face; He wandered from his playmates, for he doesn't want to hear Their shouts of merry laughter, since the world has lost its cheer; He has sipped the cup of sorrow, he has drained the bitter glass, And his heart is fairly breaking; he's the boy who didn't pass.

In the apple tree the robin sings a cheery little song, But he doesn't seem to hear it, showing plainly something's wrong; Comes his faithful little spaniel for a romp and bit of play, But the troubled little fellow sternly bids him go away. All alone he sits in sorrow, with his hair a tangled mass, And his eyes are red with weeping; he's the boy who didn't pass.

How he hates himself for failing, he can hear his playmates jeer, For they've left him with the dullards—gone ahead a half a year, And he tried so hard to conquer, oh, he tried to do his best, But now he knows, he's weaker, yes, and duller than the rest. He's ashamed to tell his mother, for he thinks she'll hate him, too— The little boy who didn't pass, who failed of getting through.

Oh, you who boast a laughing son, and speak of him as bright, And you who love a little girl who comes to you at night With smiling eyes, with dancing feet, with honors from her school, Turn to that lonely little boy who thinks he is a fool, And take him kindly by the hand, the dullest in his class, He is the one who most needs love, the boy who didn't pass.



The Station-Master's Story

Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough; I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my share o' rough. This berth that the company gave me, they gave as the work was light; I was never fit for the signals after one awful night, I'd been in the box from a younker, and I'd never felt the strain Of the lives at my right hand's mercy in every passing train. One day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go queer, And it's all through that as you find me the station-master here.

I was on at the box down yonder—that's where we turn the mails, And specials, and fast expresses, on to the center rails; The side's for the other traffic—the luggage and local slows. It was rare hard work at Christmas, when double the traffic grows. I've been in the box down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day, Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts went all astray; But I've worked the points half-sleeping—and once I slept outright, Till the roar of the Limited woke me, and I nearly died with fright.

Then I thought of the lives in peril, and what might have been their fate Had I sprung to the points that evening a tenth of a tick too late; And a cold and ghastly shiver ran icily through my frame As I fancied the public clamor, the trial, and bitter shame. I could see the bloody wreckage—I could see the mangled slain— And the picture was seared for ever, blood-red, on my heated brain. That moment my nerve was shattered, for I couldn't shut out the thought Of the lives I held in my keeping, and the ruin that might be wrought.

That night in our little cottage, as I kissed our sleeping child, My wife looked up from her sewing, and told me, as she smiled, That Johnny had made his mind up—he'd be a pointsman, too. "He says when he's big, like daddy, he'll work in the box with you." I frowned, for my heart was heavy, and my wife she saw the look; Lord bless you! my little Alice could read me like a book. I'd to tell her of what had happened, and I said that I must leave, For a pointsman's arm ain't trusty when terror lurks in his sleeve.

But she cheered me up in a minute, and that night, ere we went to sleep, She made me give her a promise, which I swore that I'd always keep— It was always to do my duty. "Do that, and then, come what will, You'll have no worry." said Alice, "if things go well or ill. There's something that always tells us the thing that we ought to do"— My wife was a bit religious, and in with the chapel crew. But I knew she was talking reason, and I said to myself, says I, "I won't give in like a coward, it's a scare that'll soon go by."

Now, the very next day the missus had to go to the market town; She'd the Christmas things to see to, and she wanted to buy a gown. She'd be gone for a spell, for the Parley didn't come back till eight, And I knew, on a Christmas Eve, too, the trains would be extra late. So she settled to leave me Johnny, and then she could turn the key— For she'd have some parcels to carry, and the boy would be safe with me. He was five, was our little Johnny, and quiet, and nice, and good— He was mad to go with daddy, and I'd often promised he should.

It was noon when the missus started,—her train went by my box; She could see, as she passed my window, her darling's curly locks, I lifted him up to mammy, and he kissed his little hand, Then sat, like a mouse, in the corner, and thought it was fairyland. But somehow I fell a-thinking of a scene that would not fade, Of how I had slept on duty, until I grew afraid; For the thought would weigh upon me, one day I might come to lie In a felon's cell for the slaughter of those I had doomed to die.

The fit that had come upon me, like a hideous nightmare seemed, Till I rubbed my eyes and started like a sleeper who has dreamed. For a time the box had vanished—I'd worked like a mere machine— My mind had been on the wander, and I'd neither heard nor seen, With a start I thought of Johnny, and I turned the boy to seek, Then I uttered a groan of anguish, for my lips refused to speak; There had flashed such a scene of horror swift on my startled sight That it curdled my blood in terror and sent my red lips white.

It was all in one awful moment—I saw that the boy was lost: He had gone for a toy, I fancied, some child from a train had tossed; The local was easing slowly to stop at the station here, And the limited mail was coming, and I had the line to clear. I could hear the roar of the engine, I could almost feel its breath, And right on the center metals stood my boy in the jaws of death; On came the fierce fiend, tearing straight for the center line, And the hand that must wreck or save it, O merciful God, was mine!

'Twas a hundred lives or Johnny's. O Heaven! what could I do?— Up to God's ear that moment a wild, fierce question flew— "What shall I do, O Heaven?" and sudden and loud and clear On the wind came the words, "Your duty," borne to my listening ear. Then I set my teeth, and my breathing was fierce and short and quick. "My boy!" I cried, but he heard not; and then I went blind and sick; The hot black smoke of the engine came with a rush before, I turned the mail to the center, and by it flew with a roar.

Then I sank on my knees in horror, and hid my ashen face— I had given my child to Heaven; his life was a hundred's grace. Had I held my hand a moment, I had hurled the flying mail To shatter the creeping local that stood on the other rail! Where is my boy, my darling? O God! let me hide my eyes. How can I look—his father—on that which there mangled lies? That voice!—O merciful Heaven!—'tis the child's, and he calls my name! I hear, but I cannot see him, for my eyes are filled with flame.

I knew no more that night, sir, for I fell, as I heard the boy; The place reeled round, and I fainted,—swooned with the sudden joy. But I heard on the Christmas morning, when I woke in my own warm bed With Alice's arms around me, and a strange wild dream in my head, That she'd come by the early local, being anxious about the lad, And had seen him there on the metals, and the sight nigh drove her mad— She had seen him just as the engine of the Limited closed my view, And she leapt on the line and saved him just as the mail dashed through.

She was back in the train in a second, and both were safe and sound; The moment they stopped at the station she ran here, and I was found With my eyes like a madman's glaring, and my face a ghastly white: I heard the boy, and I fainted, and I hadn't my wits that night. Who told me to do my duty? What voice was that on the wind? Was it fancy that brought it to me? or were there God's lips behind? If I hadn't 'a' done my duty—had I ventured to disobey— My bonny boy and his mother might have died by my hand that day.

George R. Sims.



Hark, Hark! the Lark

(From "Cymbeline")

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise! Arise, arise!

William Shakespeare.



Tommy's Prayer

In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came, Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate, and lame; He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn.

He was six, was little Tommy, 'twas just five years ago Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so. He had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care, But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear.

There he lay within the cellar, from the morning till the night, Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, nought to make his dull life bright; Not a single friend to love him, not a loving thing to love— For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above.

'Twas a quiet, summer evening, and the alley, too, was still; Tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till, Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street, Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet.

Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing came— Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn't lame. Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound, And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found.

'Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair unkempt, and naked feet, All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat; "So yer called me," said the maiden, "wonder wot yer wants o' me; Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?"

"My name's Tommy; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing, For it makes me feel so happy—sing me something, anything," Jessie laughed, and answered smiling, "I can't stay here very long, But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the 'Glory Song.'"

Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold, Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold; But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end, And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend.

Oh! how Tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every word As it fell from "Singing Jessie"—was it true, what he had heard? And so anxiously he asked her, "Is there really such a place?" And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face.

"Tommy, you're a little heathen; why, it's up beyond the sky, And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die." "Then," said Tommy, "tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love, When I'm down in this 'ere cellar, and He's up in heaven above?"

So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday School All about the way to heaven, and the Christian's golden rule, Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love, and how to pray, Then she sang a "Song of Jesus," kissed his cheek and went away.

Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold, Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold; And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room, For the joy in Tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom.

"Oh! if I could only see it," thought the cripple, as he lay, "Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I'll try and pray"; So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes, And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:—

"Gentle Jesus, please forgive me as I didn't know afore, That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor, And I never heard of heaven till that Jessie came to-day And told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray.

"Yer can see me, can't yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could, And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good; And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die, In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky.

"Lord, I'm only just a cripple, and I'm no use here below, For I heard my mother whisper, she'd be glad if I could go; And I'm cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too, Can't yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to heaven along o' you?

"Oh! I'd be so good and patient, and I'd never cry or fret, And your kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget; I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise— Can't you find me just a corner, where I'll watch the other boys?

"Oh! I think yer'll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so, For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go, How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright! Come and fetch me, won't yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home tonight!"

Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul's desire, And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire; Then he turned towards his corner and lay huddled in a heap, Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep.

Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face As he lay there in the corner, in that damp, and noisome place; For his countenance was shining like an angel's, fair and bright, And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light.

He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl, He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl; But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there, Simply trusting in the Saviour, and his kind and tender care.

In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy, She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy, And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple's face was cold— He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold.

Tommy's prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had come To remove him from his cellar, to his bright and heavenly home Where sweet comfort, joy, and gladness never can decrease or end, And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend.

John F. Nicholls.



The Two Pictures

It was a bright and lovely summer's morn, Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet, The air was redolent with perfumed balm, And Nature scattered, with unsparing hand, Her loveliest graces over hill and dale. An artist, weary of his narrow room Within the city's pent and heated walls, Had wandered long amid the ripening fields, Until, remembering his neglected themes, He thought to turn his truant steps toward home. These led him through a rustic, winding lane, Lined with green hedge-rows spangled close with flowers, And overarched by trees of noblest growth. But when at last he reached the farther end Of this sweet labyrinth, he there beheld A vision of such pure, pathetic grace, That weariness and haste were both obscured, It was a child—a young and lovely child With eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair, And dimpled hands clasped in a morning prayer, Kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee. Upon that baby brow of spotless snow, No single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe, No line of bitter grief or dark despair, Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care, Had ever yet been written. With bated breath, And hand uplifted as in warning, swift, The artist seized his pencil, and there traced In soft and tender lines that image fair: Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word, A word of holiest import—Innocence.

Years fled and brought with them a subtle change, Scattering Time's snow upon the artist's brow, But leaving there the laurel wreath of fame, While all men spake in words of praise his name; For he had traced full many a noble work Upon the canvas that had touched men's souls, And drawn them from the baser things of earth, Toward the light and purity of heaven. One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves, He chanced upon the picture of the child, Which he had sketched that bright morn long before, And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze, A ray of inspiration seemed to dart Straight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch, Placed it before his easel, and with care That seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme, Touching and still re-touching each bright lineament, Until all seemed to glow with life divine— 'Twas innocence personified. But still The artist could not pause. He needs must have A meet companion for his fairest theme; And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin, Through miry courts of misery and guilt, Seeking a face which at the last was found. Within a prison cell there crouched a man— Nay, rather say a fiend—with countenance seamed And marred by all the horrid lines of sin; Each mark of degradation might be traced, And every scene of horror he had known, And every wicked deed that he had done, Were visibly written on his lineaments; Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here, A parricide within a murderer's cell.

Here then the artist found him; and with hand Made skillful by its oft-repeated toil, Transferred unto his canvas that vile face, And also wrote beneath it just one word, A word of darkest import—it was Vice. Then with some inspiration not his own, Thinking, perchance, to touch that guilty heart, And wake it to repentance e'er too late, The artist told the tale of that bright morn, Placed the two pictured faces side by side, And brought the wretch before them. With a shriek That echoed through those vaulted corridors, Like to the cries that issue from the lips Of souls forever doomed to woe, Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell, And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish. "I was that child once—I, yes, even I— In the gracious years forever fled, That innocent and happy little child! These very hands were raised to God in prayer, That now are reddened with a mother's blood. Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power, Send forth Thy dart and strike me where I lie!"

He rose, laid hold upon the artist's arm And grasped it with demoniac power, The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forth And tell my history to the tempted youth. I looked upon the wine when it was red, I heeded not my mother's piteous prayers, I heeded not the warnings of my friends, But tasted of the wine when it was red, Until it left a demon in my heart That led me onward, step by step, to this, This horrible place from which my body goes Unto the gallows, and my soul to hell!" He ceased as last. The artist turned and fled; But even as he went, unto his ears Were borne the awful echoes of despair, Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air, Cursing the demon that had brought him there.



The Two Kinds of People

There are two kinds of people on earth to-day; Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.

Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood, The good are half bad and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth, You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span, Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.

No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean, Are the people who lift and the people who lean.

Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses Are always divided in just these two classes.

And, oddly enough, you will find, too, I ween, There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which class are you? Are you easing the load Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?