Or are you a leaner, who lets others share Your portion of labor, and worry and care?

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.



The Sin of Omission

It isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone That gives you a bit of a heartache At the setting of the sun. The tender word forgotten; The letter you did not write; The flowers you did not send, dear, Are your haunting ghosts at night.

The stone you might have lifted Out of a brother's way; The bit of hearthstone counsel You were hurried too much to say; The loving touch of the hand, dear, The gentle, winning tone Which you had no time nor thought for With troubles enough of your own.

Those little acts of kindness So easily out of mind, Those chances to be angels Which we poor mortals find— They come in night and silence, Each sad, reproachful wraith, When hope is faint and flagging And a chill has fallen on faith.

For life is all too short, dear, And sorrow is all too great, To suffer our slow compassion That tarries until too late; And it isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone Which gives you a bit of a heartache At the setting of the sun,

Margaret E. Sangster.



The Bible My Mother Gave Me

Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love, Tho' the spirit that first taught me has winged its flight above. Yet, with no legacy but this, she has left me wealth untold, Yea, mightier than earth's riches, or the wealth of Ophir's gold.

When a child, I've kneeled beside her, in our dear old cottage home, And listened to her reading from that prized and cherished tome, As with low and gentle cadence, and a meek and reverent mien, God's word fell from her trembling lips, like a presence felt and seen.

Solemn and sweet the counsels that spring from its open page, Written with all the fervor and zeal of the prophet age; Full of the inspiration of the holy bards who trod, Caring not for the scoffer's scorn, if they gained a soul to God.

Men who in mind were godlike, and have left on its blazoned scroll Food for all coming ages in its manna of the soul; Who, through long days of anguish, and nights devoid of ease, Still wrote with the burning pen of faith its higher mysteries.

I can list that good man yonder, in the gray church by the brook, Take up that marvelous tale of love, of the story and the Book, How through the twilight glimmer, from the earliest dawn of time, It was handed down as an heirloom, in almost every clime.

How through strong persecution and the struggle of evil days The precious light of the truth ne'er died, but was fanned to a beacon blaze. How in far-off lands, where the cypress bends o'er the laurel bough, It was hid like some precious treasure, and they bled for its truth, as now.

He tells how there stood around it a phalanx none could break, Though steel and fire and lash swept on, and the cruel wave lapt the stake; How dungeon doors and prison bars had never damped the flame, But raised up converts to the creed whence Christian comfort came.

That housed in caves and caverns—how it stirs our Scottish blood!— The Convenanters, sword in hand, poured forth the crimson flood; And eloquent grows the preacher, as the Sabbath sunshine falls, Thro' cobwebbed and checkered pane, a halo on the walls!

That still 'mid sore disaster, in the heat and strife of doubt, Some bear the Gospel oriflamme, and one by one march out, Till forth from heathen kingdoms, and isles beyond the sea, The glorious tidings of the Book spread Christ's salvation free.

So I cling to my mother's Bible, in its torn and tattered boards, As one of the greatest gems of art, and the king of all other hoards, As in life the true consoler, and in death ere the Judgment call, The guide that will lead to the shining shore, where the Father waits for all.



Lincoln, the Man of the People

This poem was read by Edwin Markham at the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial at Washington, D.C., May 30, 1922. Before reading, he said: "No oration, no poem, can rise to the high level of this historic hour. Nevertheless, I venture to inscribe this revised version of my Lincoln poem to this stupendous Lincoln Memorial, to this far-shining monument of remembrance, erected in immortal marble to the honor of our deathless martyr—the consecrated statesman, the ideal American, the ever-beloved friend of humanity."

When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need, She took the tried clay of the common road— Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy; Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff. Into the shape she breathed a flame to light That tender, tragic, ever-changing face; And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers, Moving—all husht—behind the mortal veil. Here was a man to hold against the world, A man to match the mountains and the sea.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The smack and tang of elemental things; The rectitude and patience of the cliff; The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; The friendly welcome of the wayside well; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The secrecy of streams that make their way Under the mountain to the rifted rock; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking flower As to the great oak flaring to the wind— To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West, He drank the valorous youth of a new world. The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts Were roots that firmly gript the granite truth.

Up from log cabin to the Capitol, One fire was on his spirit, one resolve— To send the keen ax to the root of wrong, Clearing a free way for the feet of God, The eyes of conscience testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man. He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow; The grip that swung the ax in Illinois Was on the pen that set a people free.

So came the Captain with the mighty heart; And when the judgment thunders split the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, He held the ridgepole up, and spikt again The rafters of the Home. He held his place— Held the long purpose like a growing tree— Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

Edwin Markham.



Our Own

If I had known in the morning How wearily all the day The words unkind Would trouble my mind I said when you went away, I had been more careful, darling, Nor given you needless pain; But we vex "our own" With look and tone We may never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening You may give me the kiss of peace, Yet it might be That never for me, The pain of the heart should cease. How many go forth in the morning, That never come home at night! And hearts have broken For harsh words spoken That sorrow can ne'er set right.

We have careful thoughts for the stranger, And smiles for the sometime guest, But oft for "our own" The bitter tone, Though we love "our own" the best. Ah, lips with the curve impatient! Ah, brow with that look of scorn! 'Twere a cruel fate, Were the night too late To undo the work of morn.

Margaret E. Sangster.



How Salvator Won

The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone, More proud than a monarch, who sits on a throne. I am but a jockey, but shout upon shout Went up from the people who watched me ride out. And the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowd Were as earnest as those to which monarch e'er bowed. My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain, As I patted my Salvator's soft, silken mane; And a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my hand As we passed by the multitude down to the stand. The great wave of cheering came billowing back As the hoofs of brave Tenny ran swift down the track, And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle, Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussle That waited us there on the smooth, shining course. My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horse As a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight— Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright— Stood taking the plaudits as only his due And nothing at all unexpected or new.

And then there before us as the bright flag is spread, There's a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny's ahead; At the sound of the voices that shouted, "A go!" He sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow. I tighten the reins on Prince Charlie's great son; He is off like a rocket, the race is begun. Half-way down the furlong their heads are together, Scarce room 'twixt their noses to wedge in a feather; Past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife, Ah, Salvator, boy, 'tis the race of your life! I press my knees closer, I coax him, I urge, I feel him go out with a leap and a surge; I see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride, While backward, still backward, falls Tenny beside. We are nearing the turn, the first quarter is passed— 'Twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast; The distance elongates; still Tenny sweeps on, As graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn, His awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained— A noble opponent well born and well trained.

I glanced o'er my shoulder; ha! Tenny! the cost Of that one second's flagging will be—the race lost; One second's yielding of courage and strength, And the daylight between us has doubled its length. The first mile is covered, the race is mine—no! For the blue blood of Tenny responds to a blow; He shoots through the air like a ball from a gun, And the two lengths between us are shortened to one. My heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump, For Tenny's long neck is at Salvator's rump; And now with new courage grown bolder and bolder, I see him once more running shoulder to shoulder. With knees, hands and body I press my grand steed; I urge him, I coax him, I pray him to heed! O Salvator! Salvator! List to my calls, For the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls. There's a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm, As close to the saddle leaps Tenny's great form; One mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand, I lift my horse first by a nose past the stand. We are under the string now—the great race is done— And Salvator, Salvator, Salvator won!

Cheer, hoary-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, I say; 'Tis the race of a century witnessed to-day! Though ye live twice the space that's allotted to men Ye never will see such a grand race again. Let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf, For Salvator, Salvator, king of the turf, He has rivaled the record of thirteen long years; He has won the first place in the vast line of peers. 'Twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race, And even his enemies grant him his place. Down into the dust let old records be hurled, And hang out 2:05 to the gaze of the world!

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.



I Got to Go to School

I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain! I'd like to be a pirate an' plow the ragin' main! An' capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule; But I just can't be nothin' cause I got to go to school.

'Most all great men, so I have read, has been the ones 'at got The least amount o' learnin' by a flickerin' pitch pine knot; An' many a darin' boy like me grows up to be a fool, An' never 'mounts to nothin' 'cause he's got to go to school.

I'd like to be a cowboy an' rope the Texas steer! I'd like to be a sleuth-houn' or a bloody buccaneer! An' leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool; But how can I git famous? 'cause I got to go to school.

I don't see how my parents kin make the big mistake. O' keepin' down a boy like me 'at's got a name to make! It ain't no wonder boys is bad, an' balky as a mule; Life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school.

I'd like to be regarded as "The Terror of the Plains"! I'd like to hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison chains! I'd like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool, An' wipe 'em off the earth, but pshaw! I got to go to school.

What good is 'rithmetic an' things, exceptin' jest for girls, Er them there Fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in pretty curls? An' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'll Remember 'at it's all because I got to go to school.

Nixon Waterman.



With Little Boy Blue

(Written after the death of Eugene Field.)

Silent he watched them—the soldiers and dog— Tin toys on the little armchair, Keeping their tryst through the slow going years For the hand that had stationed them there; And he said that perchance the dust and the rust Hid the griefs that the toy friends knew, And his heart watched with them all the dark years, Yearning ever for Little Boy Blue.

Three mourners they were for Little Boy Blue, Three ere the cold winds had begun; Now two are left watching—the soldier and dog; But for him the vigil is done. For him too, the angel has chanted a song A song that is lulling and true. He has seen the white gates of the mansions of rest, Thrown wide by his Little Boy Blue.

God sent not the Angel of Death for his soul— Not the Reaper who cometh for all— But out of the shadows that curtained the day He heard his lost little one call, Heard the voice that he loved, and following fast, Passed on to the far-away strand; And he walks the streets of the City of Peace, With Little Boy Blue by the hand.

Sarah Beaumont Kennedy.



The Charge of Pickett's Brigade

In Gettysburg at break of day The hosts of war are held in leash To gird them for the coming fray, E'er brazen-throated monsters flame, Mad hounds of death that tear and maim. Ho, boys in blue, And gray so true, Fate calls to-day the roll of fame.

On Cemetery Hill was done The clangor of four hundred guns; Through drifting smoke the morning sun Shone down a line of battled gray Where Pickett's waiting soldiers lay. Virginians all, Heed glory's call, You die at Gettysburg to-day,

'Twas Pickett's veteran brigade, Great Lee had named; he knew them well; Oft had their steel the battle stayed. O warriors of the eagle plume, Fate points for you the hour of doom. Ring rebel yell, War cry and knell! The stars, to-night, will set in gloom.

O Pickett's men, ye sons of fate, Awe-stricken nations bide your deeds. For you the centuries did wait, While wrong had writ her lengthening scroll And God had set the judgment roll. A thousand years Shall wait in tears, And one swift hour bring to goal.

The charge is done, a cause is lost; But Pickett's men heed not the din Of ragged columns battle tost; For fame enshrouds them on the field, And pierced, Virginia, is thy shield. But stars and bars Shall drape thy scars; No cause is lost till honor yield.



Hullo

W'en you see a man in woe, Walk right up and say "Hullo!" Say "Hullo" and "How d'ye do? How's the world a-usin' you?" Slap the fellow on the back; Bring your hand down with a whack; Walk right up, and don't go slow; Grin an' shake, an' say "Hullo!"

Is he clothed in rags? Oh! sho; Walk right up an' say "Hullo!" Rags is but a cotton roll Jest for wrappin' up a soul; An' a soul is worth a true Hale and hearty "How d'ye do?" Don't wait for the crowd to go, Walk right up and say "Hullo!"

When big vessels meet, they say They saloot an' sail away. Jest the same are you an' me Lonesome ships upon a sea; Each one sailin' his own log, For a port behind the fog; Let your speakin' trumpet blow; Lift your horn an' cry "Hullo!"

Say "Hullo!" an' "How d'ye do?" Other folks are good as you. W'en you leave your house of clay Wanderin' in the far away, W'en you travel through the strange Country t'other side the range, Then the souls you've cheered will know Who ye be, an' say "Hullo."

Sam Walter Foss.



The Women of Mumbles Head

Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead, Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head! Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south; Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth; It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way, And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.

Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone, In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or when There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men. When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he! Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, Had saved some hundred lives apiece—at a shilling or so a head!

So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar, Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns; Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love; Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above! Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head? It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew! And it snapped the' rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;

And then the anchor parted—'twas a tussle to keep afloat! But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high! "God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye"! Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.

Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, And saw in the boiling breakers a figure—a fighting form; It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath; It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death; It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships. They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more, Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.

There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land, 'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, But what are a couple of women with only a man to save? What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir—and then Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent, Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!

"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come back!" As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. "Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea, "If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!"

"Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale, "You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!" "Come back!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town, We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!"

"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand! Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land! Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more, And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore." Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest— Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!"

Clement Scott.



The Fireman's Story

"'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct; That man on the enjine thar Don't pack the han'somest countenance— Every inch of it sportin' a scar; But I tell you, pard, thar ain't money enough Piled up in the National Banks To buy that face, nor a single scar— (No, I never indulges. Thanks.)

"Yes, Jim is an old-time engineer, An' a better one never war knowed! Bin a runnin' yar since the fust machine War put on the Quincy Road; An' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plug From Maine to the jumpin' off place That knows more about the big iron hoss Than him with the battered-up face.

"'Got hurt in a smash-up'? No,'twar done In a sort o' legitimate way; He got it a-trying to save a gal Up yar on the road last May. I heven't much time for to spin you the yarn, For we pull out at two-twenty-five— Just wait till I climb up an' toss in some coal, So's to keep old '90' alive.

"Jim war pullin' the Burlin'ton passenger then, Left Quincy a half an hour late, An' war skimmin' along purty lively, so's not To lay out No. 21 freight. The '90' war more than whoopin' 'em up An' a-quiverin' in every nerve! When all to once Jim yelled 'Merciful God!' As she shoved her sharp nose 'round a curve.

"I jumped to his side o' the cab, an' ahead 'Bout two hundred paces or so Stood a gal on the track, her hands raised aloft, An' her face jist as white as the snow; It seems she war so paralyzed with the fright That she couldn't move for'ard or back, An' when Jim pulled the whistle she fainted an' fell Right down in a heap on the track!

"I'll never forgit till the day o' my death The look that cum over Jim's face; He throw'd the old lever cl'r back like a shot So's to slacken the '90's' wild pace, Then let on the air brakes as quick as a flash, An' out through the window he fled, An' skinned 'long the runnin' board cla'r in front, An' lay on the pilot ahead.

"Then just as we reached whar the poor creetur lay, He grabbed a tight hold, of her arm, An' raised her right up so's to throw her one side Out o' reach of danger an' harm. But somehow he slipped an' fell with his head On the rail as he throw'd the young lass, An' the pilot in strikin' him, ground up his face In a frightful and horrible mass!

"As soon as we stopped I backed up the train To that spot where the poor fellow lay, An' there sot the gal with his head in her lap An' wipin' the warm blood away. The tears rolled in torrents right down from her eyes, While she sobbed like her heart war all broke— I tell you, my friend, such a sight as that 'ar Would move the tough heart of an oak!

"We put Jim aboard an' ran back to town, What for week arter week the boy lay A-hoverin' right in the shadder o' death, An' that gal by his bed every day. But nursin' an' doctorin' brought him around— Kinder snatched him right outer the grave— His face ain't so han'some as 'twar, but his heart Remains just as noble an' brave.

* * * * *

"Of course thar's a sequel—as story books say— He fell dead in love, did this Jim; But hadn't the heart to ax her to have Sich a batter'd-up rooster as him. She know'd how he felt, and last New Year's day War the fust o' leap year as you know, So she jist cornered Jim an' proposed on the spot, An' you bet he didn't say no.

"He's building a house up thar on the hill, An' has laid up a snug pile o' cash, The weddin's to be on the first o' next May— Jist a year from the day o' the smash— The gal says he risked his dear life to save hers, An' she'll just turn the tables about, An' give him the life that he saved—thar's the bell. Good day, sir, we're goin' to pull out."



Little Willie's Hearing

Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows, My ma she comes to call me, 'cause she wants me, I surpose: An' then she calls in this way: "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!" An' you'd be surprised to notice how dretful deef I be; An' the fellers 'at are playin' they keeps mos' orful still, W'ile they tell me, jus' in whispers: "Your ma is callin', Bill." But my hearin' don't git better, so fur as I can see, W'ile my ma stan's there a-callin': "Willie! Willie, dear! Willee-e-ee!"

An' soon my ma she gives it up, an' says: "Well, I'll allow It's mighty cur'us w'ere that boy has got to, anyhow"; An' then I keep on playin' jus' the way I did before— I know if she was wantin' much she'd call to me some more. An' purty soon she comes agin an' says: "Willie! Willee-e-ee!" But my hearin's jus' as hard as w'at it useter be. If a feller has good judgment, an' uses it that way, He can almos' allers manage to git consid'ble play.

But jus' w'ile I am playin', an' prob'ly I am "it," They's somethin' diff'rent happens, an' I have to up, an' git, Fer my pa comes to the doorway, an' he interrup's our glee; He jus' says, "William Henry!" but that's enough fer me. You'd be surprised to notice how quickly I can hear W'en my pa says, "William Henry!" but never "Willie, dear!" Fer though my hearin's middlin' bad to hear the voice of ma, It's apt to show improvement w'en the callin' comes from pa.



The Service Flag

Dear little flag in the window there, Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer, Child of Old Glory, born with a star— Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!

Blue is your star in its field of white, Dipped in the red that was born of fight; Born of the blood that our forebears shed To raise your mother, The Flag, o'er-head.

And now you've come, in this frenzied day, To speak from a window—to speak and say: "I am the voice of a soldier son, Gone, to be gone till the victory's won.

"I am the flag of The Service, sir: The flag of his mother—I speak for her Who stands by my window and waits and fears, But hides from the others her unwept tears.

"I am the flag of the wives who wait For the safe return of a martial mate— A mate gone forth where the war god thrives, To save from sacrifice other men's wives.

"I am the flag of the sweethearts true; The often unthought of—the sisters, too. I am the flag of a mother's son, Who won't come home till the victory's won!"

Dear little flag in the window there, Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer, Child of Old Glory, born with a star— Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!

William Herschell.



Flying Jim's Last Leap

(The hero of this tale had once been a famous trapeze performer.)

Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. Helped by Bridget's willing hands, Bustled Hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans. Little Flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hair Glinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air; Slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore, Tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before. His shirt was torn, his hat was gone, bare and begrimed his knees, Face with blood and dirt disfigured, elbows peeped from out his sleeves. Rat-tat-tat, upon the entrance, brought Aunt Hannah to the door; Parched lips humbly plead for water, as she scanned his misery o'er; Wrathful came the dame's quick answer; made him cower, shame, and start Out of sight, despairing, saddened, hurt and angry to the heart. "Drink! You've had enough, you rascal. Faugh! The smell now makes me sick, Move, you thief! Leave now these grounds, sir, or our dogs will help you quick." Then the man with dragging footsteps hopeless, wishing himself dead, Crept away from sight of plenty, starved in place of being fed, Wandered farther from the mansion, till he reached a purling brook, Babbling, trilling broken music by a green and shady nook, Here sweet Flossie found him fainting; in her hands were food and drink; Pale like death lay he before her, yet the child-heart did not shrink; Then the rags from off his forehead, she with dainty hands offstripped, In the brooklet's rippling waters, her own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dipped; Then with sweet and holy pity, which, within her, did not daunt, Bathed the blood and grime-stained visage of that sin-soiled son of want. Wrung she then the linen cleanly, bandaged up the wound again Ere the still eyes opened slowly; white lips murmuring, "Am I sane?" "Look, poor man, here's food and drink. Now thank our God before you take." Paused he mute and undecided, while deep sobs his form did shake With an avalanche of feeling, and great tears came rolling down O'er a face unused to showing aught except a sullen frown; That "our God" unsealed a fountain his whole life had never known, When that human angel near him spoke of her God as his own. "Is it 'cause my aunty grieved you?" Quickly did the wee one ask. "I'll tell you my little verse then, 'tis a holy Bible task, It may help you to forgive her: 'Love your enemies and those Who despitefully may use you; love them whether friends or foes!'"

Then she glided from his vision, left him prostrate on the ground Conning o'er and o'er that lesson—with a grace to him new found. Sunlight filtering through green branches as they wind-wave dance and dip, Finds a prayer his mother taught him, trembling on his crime-stained lip. Hist! a step, an angry mutter, and the owner of the place, Gentle Flossie's haughty father, and the tramp stood face to face! "Thieving rascal! you've my daughter's 'kerchief bound upon your brow; Off with it, and cast it down here. Come! be quick about it now." As the man did not obey him, Flossie's father lashed his cheek With a riding-whip he carried; struck him hard and cut him deep. Quick the tramp bore down upon him, felled him, o'er him where he lay Raised a knife to seek his life-blood. Then there came a thought to stay All his angry, murderous impulse, caused the knife to shuddering fall: "He's her father; love your en'mies; 'tis 'our God' reigns over all." At midnight, lambent, lurid flames light up the sky with fiercest beams, Wild cries, "Fire! fire!" ring through the air, and red like blood each flame now seems; They faster grow, they higher throw weird, direful arms which ever lean About the gray stone mansion old. Now roars the wind to aid the scene; The flames yet higher, wilder play. A shudder runs through all around— Distinctly as in light of day, at topmost window from the ground Sweet Flossie stands, her golden hair enhaloed now by firelit air. Loud rang the father's cry: "O God! my child! my child! Will no one dare For her sweet sake the flaming stair?" Look, one steps forth with muffled face, Leaps through the flames with fleetest feet, on trembling ladder runs a race With life and death—the window gains. Deep silence falls on all around, Till bursts aloud a sobbing wail. The ladder falls with crashing sound— A flaming, treacherous mass. O God! she was so young and he so brave! Look once again. See! see! on highest roof he stands—the fiery wave Fierce rolling round—his arms enclasp the child—God help him yet to save! "For life or for eternal sleep," He cries, then makes a vaulting leap, A tree branch catches, with sure aim, And by the act proclaims his name; The air was rent, the cheers rang loud, A rough voice cried from out the crowd, "Huzza, my boys, well we know him, None dares that leap but Flying Jim!" A jail-bird—outlaw—thief, indeed, Yet o'er them all takes kingly lead. "Do now your worst," his gasping cry, "Do all your worst, I'm doomed to die; I've breathed the flames, 'twill not be long"; Then hushed all murmurs through the throng. With reverent hands they bore him where The summer evening's cooling air Came softly sighing through the trees; The child's proud father on his knees Forgiveness sought of God and Jim, Which dying lips accorded him. A mark of whip on white face stirred To gleaming scarlet at his words. "Forgive them all who use you ill, She taught me that and I fulfill; I would her hand might touch my face, Though she's so pure and I so base." Low Flossie bent and kissed the brow, With smile of bliss transfigured now: Death, the angel, sealed it there, 'Twas sent to God with "mother's prayer."

Emma Dunning Banks.



Betty and the Bear

In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say, A great big black grizzly trotted one day, And seated himself on the hearths and began To lap the contents of a two gallon pan Of milk and potatoes,—an excellent meal,— And then looked, about to see what he could steal. The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there, And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear.

So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frau, "Thar's a bar in the kitchen as big's a cow!" "A what?" "Why, a bar!" "Well murder him, then!" "Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in." So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized. While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed, As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows. Now on his forehead, and now on his nose, Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within, "Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin, Now poke with the poker, and' poke his eyes out." So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty alone At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone.

Now when the old man saw the bear was no more, He ventured to poke his nose out of the door, And there was the grizzly stretched on the floor, Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tell All the wonderful things that that morning befell; And he published the marvellous story afar, How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar! O yes, come and see, all the neighbors they seed it, Come and see what we did, me and Betty, we did it."



The Graves of a Household

They grew in beauty, side by side, They filled one home with glee;—- Their graves are severed, far and wide, By mount, and stream and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow; She had each folded flower in sight— Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forest of the West, By a dark stream is laid— The Indian knows his place of rest Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one— He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain: He wrapped his colors round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one—o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; She faded 'midst Italian flowers— The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they pray'd Around the parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheer'd with song the hearth!— Alas! for love, if thou wert all, And naught beyond, O earth!

Felicia Dorothea Hemans.



The Babie

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, Nae stockings on her feet; Her supple ankles white as snow, Or early blossoms sweet. Her simple dress of sprinkled pink, Her double, dimpled chin; Her pucker'd lip and bonny mou', With nae ane tooth between. Her een sae like her mither's een, Twa gentle, liquid things; Her face is like an angel's face— We're glad she has nae wings.

Hugh Miller.



A Legend of the Northland

Away, away in the Northland, Where the hours of the day are few, And the nights are so long in winter, They cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer To the sledges, when it snows; And the children look like bears' cubs In their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story— I don't believe 't is true; And yet you may learn a lesson If I tell the tale to you

Once, when the good Saint Peter Lived in the world below, And walked about it, preaching, Just as he did, you know;

He came to the door of a cottage, In traveling round the earth, Where a little woman was making cakes, And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting, For the day was almost done, He asked her, from her store of cakes, To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake, But as it baking lay, She looked at it, and thought it seemed Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another, And still a smaller one; But it looked, when she turned it over, As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, And rolled, and rolled it flat; And baked it thin as a wafer— But she couldn't part with that.

For she said, "My cakes that seem too small When I eat of them myself, Are yet too large to give away," So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry, For he was hungry and faint; And surely such a woman Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish To dwell in a human form, To have both food and shelter, And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do, And shall get your scanty food By boring, and boring, and boring, All day in the hard dry wood,"

Then up she went through the chimney, Never speaking a word, And out of the top flew a woodpecker. For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head, And that was left the same, Bat all the rest of her clothes were burned Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country school boy Has seen her in the wood; Where she lives in the woods till this very day, Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches: Live not for yourself alone, Lest the needs you will not pity Shall one day be your own.

Give plenty of what is given to you, Listen to pity's call; Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small.

Now, my little boy, remember that, And try to be kind and good, When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress, And see her scarlet hood.

You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live As selfishly as you can; But you will be changed to a smaller thing— A mean and selfish man.

Phoebe Cary.



How Did You Die?

Did you tackle the trouble that came your way With a resolute heart and cheerful? Or hide year face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful? Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, Or a trouble is what you make it, And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? Come up with a smiling face, Its nothing against you to fall down flat, But to lie there—that's disgrace. The harder you're thrown, why, the higher the bounce; Be proud of your blackened eye! It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; It's how did you fight—and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then? If you battled the best you could, If you played your part in the world of men, Why, the Critic will call it good. Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, And whether he's slow or spry, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, But only how did you die?

Edmund Vance Cooke.



The Children

When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, And the little ones gather around me, To bid me good-night and be kissed,— Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in a tender embrace! Oh, the smiles that are halos of Heaven, Shedding sunshine and love on my face!

And when they, are gone, I sit dreaming Of my childhood, too lovely to last; Of love that my heart will remember When it wakes to the pulse of the past; Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin; When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within.

Oh, my heart grows as weak as a woman's And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths, steep and stony Where the feet of the dear ones must go. Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempests of fate blowing wild— Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households, They are angels of God in disguise. His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still beams in their eyes: Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild! And I know how Jesus could liken The Kingdom of God to a child.

Seek not a life for the dear ones All radiant, as others have done. But that life may have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun; I would pray God to guard them from evil, But my prayer would bound back to myself. Ah! A seraph may pray for a sinner, But the sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended, I have banished the rule of the rod; I have taught them the goodness of Knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of God. My heart is a dungeon of darkness, Where I shut them from breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction, My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn To traverse the threshold no more, Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones That meet me each morn at the door. I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee; The group on the green and the flowers That are brought every morning to me.

I shall miss them at morn and at evening. Their song in the school and the street, I shall miss the low hum of their voices And the tramp of their delicate feet. When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And death says the school is dismissed, May the little ones gather around me To bid me good-night and be kissed.

Charles M. Dickinson.



The King and the Child

The sunlight shone on walls of stone, And towers sublime and tall, King Alfred sat upon his throne Within his council hall.

And glancing o'er the splendid throng, With grave and solemn face, To where his noble vassals stood, He saw a vacant place.

"Where is the Earl of Holderness?" With anxious look, he said. "Alas, O King!" a courtier cried, "The noble Earl is dead!"

Before the monarch could express The sorrow that he felt, A soldier, with a war-worn face, Approached the throne, and knelt.

"My sword," he said, "has ever been, O King, at thy command, And many a proud and haughty Dane Has fallen by my hand.

"I've fought beside thee in the field, And 'neath the greenwood tree; It is but fair for thee to give Yon vacant place to me."

"It is not just," a statesman cried, "This soldier's prayer to hear, My wisdom has done more for thee Than either sword or spear.

"The victories of thy council hall Have made thee more renown Than all the triumphs of the field Have given to thy crown.

"My name is known in every land, My talents have been thine, Bestow this Earldom, then, on me, For it is justly mine."

Yet, while before the monarch's throne These men contending stood, A woman crossed the floor, who wore The weeds of widowhood.

And slowly to King Alfred's feet A fair-haired boy she led— "O King, this is the rightful heir Of Holderness," she said.

"Helpless, he comes to claim his own, Let no man do him wrong, For he is weak and fatherless, And thou art just and strong."

"What strength or power," the statesman cried, "Could such a judgement bring? Can such a feeble child as this Do aught for thee, O King?

"When thou hast need of brawny arms To draw thy deadly bows, When thou art wanting crafty men To crush thy mortal foes."

With earnest voice the fair young boy Replied: "I cannot fight, But I can pray to God, O King, And God can give thee might!"

The King bent down and kissed the child, The courtiers turned away, "The heritage is thine," he said, "Let none thy right gainsay.

"Our swords may cleave the casques of men, Our blood may stain the sod, But what are human strength and power Without the help of God?"

Eugene J. Hall.



Try, Try Again

'Tis a lesson you should heed, Try, try again; If at first you don't succeed, Try, try again; Then your courage shall appear, For if you will persevere, You will conquer, never fear, Try, try again.

Once or twice though you should fail, Try, try again; If at last you would prevail, Try, try again; If we strive 'tis no disgrace Tho' we may not win the race, What should you do in that case? Try, try again.

If you find your task is hard, Try, try again; Time will bring you your reward, Try, try again; All that other folks can do, Why, with patience, may not you? Only keep this rule in view, Try, try again.



Indian Names

Ye say they all have passed away—that noble race and brave, That their light canoes have vanished from off the crested wave; That,'mid the forests where they roamed, there rings no hunter's shout, But their name is on your waters—ye may not wash it out.

'Tis where Ontario's billow like ocean's surge is curled, Where strong Niagara's thunders wake the echo of the world; Where red Missouri bringeth rich tribute from the west, And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps on green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their cone-like cabins, that clustered o'er the vale, Have fled away like withered leaves, before the autumn's gale; But their memory liveth on your hills, their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it upon her lordly crown, And broad Ohio bears it amid his young renown; Connecticut hath wreathed it where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse through all her ancient caves.

Wachusett hides its lingering voice within his rocky heart, And Alleghany graves its tone throughout his lofty chart; Monadnock on his forehead hoar doth seal the sacred trust; Your mountains build their monument, though ye destroy their dust.

Ye call those red-browed brethren the insects of an hour, Crushed like the noteless worm amid the regions of their power; Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, ye break of faith the seal, But can ye from the court of heaven exclude their last appeal?

Ye see their unresisting tribes, with toilsome steps and slow, On through the trackless desert pass, a caravan of woe. Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim? Think ye the soul's blood may not cry from that far land to Him?

Lydia H. Sigourney.



More Cruel Than War

(During the Civil War, a Southern prisoner at Camp Chase in Ohio lay sick in the hospital. He confided to a friend, Colonel Hawkins of Tennessee, that he was grieving because his fiancee, a Nashville girl, had not written to him. The soldier died soon afterward, Colonel Hawkins having promised to open and answer any mail that came for him. This poem is in reply to a letter from his friend's fiancee, in which she curtly broke the engagement.)

Your letter, lady, came too late, For heaven had claimed its own; Ah, sudden change—from prison bars Unto the great white throne; And yet I think he would have stayed, To live for his disdain, Could he have read the careless words Which you have sent in vain.

So full of patience did he wait, Through many a weary hour, That o'er his simple soldier-faith Not even death had power; And you—did others whisper low Their homage in your ear, As though among their shallow throng His spirit had a peer?

I would that you were by me now, To draw the sheet aside And see how pure the look he wore The moment when he died. The sorrow that you gave to him Had left its weary trace, As 'twere the shadow of the cross Upon his pallid face.

"Her love," he said, "could change for me The winter's cold to spring." Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love, Thou art a bitter thing! For when these valleys, bright in May, Once more with blossoms wave, The northern violets shall blow Above his humble grave.

Your dole of scanty words had been But one more pang to bear For him who kissed unto the last Your tress of golden hair; I did not put it where he said, For when the angels come, I would not have them find the sign Of falsehood in the tomb.

I've read your letter, and I know The wiles that you have wrought To win that trusting heart of his, And gained it—cruel thought! What lavish wealth men sometimes give For what is worthless all! What manly bosoms beat for them In folly's falsest thrall!

You shall not pity him, for now His sorrow has an end; Yet would that you could stand with me Beside my fallen friend! And I forgive you for his sake, As he—if he be forgiven— May e'en be pleading grace for you Before the court of Heaven.

To-night the cold winds whistle by, As I my vigil keep Within the prison dead-house, where Few mourners come to weep. A rude plank coffin holds his form; Yet death exalts his face, And I would rather see him thus Than clasped in your embrace.

To-night your home may shine with light And ring with merry song, And you be smiling as your soul Had done no deadly wrong; Your hand so fair that none would think It penned these words of pain; Your skin so white—would God your heart Were half as free from stain.

I'd rather be my comrade dead Than you in life supreme; For yours the sinner's waking dread, And his the martyr's dream! Whom serve we in this life we serve In that which is to come; He chose his way, you—yours; let God Pronounce the fitting doom.

W.S. Hawkins.



Columbus

A harbor in a sunny, southern city; Ships at their anchor, riding in the lee; A little lad, with steadfast eyes, and dreamy, Who ever watched the waters lovingly.

A group of sailors, quaintly garbed and bearded; Strange tales, that snared the fancy of the child: Of far-off lands, strange beasts, and birds, and people, Of storm and sea-fight, danger-filled and wild.

And ever in the boyish soul was ringing The urging, surging challenge of the sea, To dare,—as these men dared, its wrath and danger, To learn,—as they, its charm and mystery.

Columbus, by the sunny, southern harbor, You dreamed the dreams that manhood years made true; Thank God for men—their deeds have crowned the ages— Who once were little dreamy lads like you.

Helen L. Smith.



The September Gale

I'm not a chicken; I have seen Full many a chill September, And though I was a youngster then, That gale I well remember; The day before, my kite-string snapped, And I, my kite pursuing, The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;— For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do, When married folks get clashing; There was a heavy sigh or two, Before the fire was flashing,— A little stir among the clouds, Before they rent asunder,— A little rocking of the trees, And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled, And how the shingles rattled! And oaks were scattered on the ground, As if the Titans battled; And all above was in a howl, And all below a clatter,— The earth was like a frying-pan. Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day, And all our things were drying: The storm came roaring through the lines, And set them all a-flying; I saw the shirts and petticoats Go riding off like witches; I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,— I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air, Alas! too late to win them; I saw them chase the clouds, as if The devil had been in them; They were my darlings and my pride, My boyhood's only riches,— "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,— "My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams, How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded threads, The winds had whistled through them! I saw the wide and ghastly rents Where demon claws had torn them; A hole was in their amplest part, As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years And tailors kind and clever, But those young pantaloons have gone Forever and forever! And not till fate has cut the last Of all my earthly stitches, This aching heart shall cease to mourn My loved, my long-lost breeches!

O.W. Holmes



When My Ship Comes In

Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing, Where the winds dance and spin; Beyond the reach of my eager hailing, Over the breakers' din; Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, Out where the blinding fog is drifting, Out where the treacherous sand is shifting, My ship is coming in.

O, I have watched till my eyes were aching, Day after weary day; O, I have hoped till my heart was breaking While the long nights ebbed away; Could I but know where the waves had tossed her, Could I but know what storms had crossed her, Could I but know where the winds had lost her, Out in the twilight gray!

But though the storms her course have altered, Surely the port she'll win, Never my faith in my ship has faltered, I know she is coming in. For through the restless ways of her roaming, Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming, Through the white crest of the billows combing, My ship is coming in.

Beating the tides where the gulls are flying, Swiftly she's coming in: Shallows and deeps and rocks defying, Bravely she's coming in. Precious the love she will bring to bless me, Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me, In the proud purple of kings she will dress me— My ship that is coming in.

White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming, See, where my ship comes in; At masthead and peak her colors streaming, Proudly she's sailing in; Love, hope and joy on her decks are cheering, Music will welcome her glad appearing, And my heart will sing at her stately nearing, When my ship comes in.

Robert Jones Burdette.



Solitude

Laugh, and the world laughs with you, Weep, and you weep alone; For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer, Sigh, it is lost on the air; The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shirk from voicing care.

Rejoice and men will seek you; Grieve, and they turn and go; They want full measure of all your pleasure, But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many; Be sad, and you lose them all, There are none to decline your nectar'd wine, But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded; Fast, and the world goes by; Succeed and give, and it helps you live, But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure For a large and lordly train, But one by one we must all file on Through the narrow aisle of pain.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.



Sin of the Coppenter Man

The coppenter man said a wicked word, When he hitted his thumb one day, En I know what it was, because I heard, En it's somethin' I dassent say.

He growed us a house with rooms inside it, En the rooms is full of floors It's my papa's house, en when he buyed it, It was nothin' but just outdoors.

En they planted stones in a hole for seeds, En that's how the house began, But I guess the stones would have just growed weeds, Except for the coppenter man.

En the coppenter man took a board and said He'd skin it and make some curls, En I hung 'em onto my ears en head, En they make me look like girls.

En he squinted along one side, he did, En he squinted the other side twice, En then he told me, "You squint it, kid," 'Cause the coppenter man's reel nice.

But the coppenter man said a wicked word, When he hitted 'his thumb that day; He said it out loud, too, 'cause I heard, En it's something I dassent say.

En the coppenter man said it wasn't bad, When you hitted your thumb, kerspat! En there'd be no coppenter men to be had, If it wasn't for words like that.

Edmund Vance Cooke.



The Bells of Ostend

No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end, Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend! The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud, And rung as it passed through each murmuring shroud. My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray, My heart sighed in secret for those far away; When slowly the morning advanced from the east, The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased; The peal from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say, "Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!" Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain, I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again; I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave, And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave; I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned, Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land. But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air, Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear, And I never, till life and its shadows shall end, Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!

W.L. Bowles.



You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave

With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread, The flower laden ranks pass the gates of the dead; And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom, on his breast. Ended at last is the labor of love; Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move— A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child Besought him in accents with grief rendered wild:

"Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave— Why, why, did you pass by my dear papa's grave? I know he was poor, but as kind and as true As ever marched into the battle with you; His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not! For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. He didn't die lowly—he poured his heart's blood In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight— And died shouting, 'Onward! for God and the right!' O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, But you haven't put one on my papa's grave. If mamma were here—but she lies by his side, Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died!"

"Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief, "This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief." Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate The long line repasses, and many an eye Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. "This way, it is—here, sir, right under this tree; They lie close together, with just room for me." "Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound; A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground."

"Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, 'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. I shall see papa soon and dear mamma, too— I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true; And they will both bless you, I know, when I say How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day; How you cheered her sad heart and soothed it to rest, And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast; And when the kind angels shall call you to come We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home Where death never comes his black banners to wave, And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave."

C.E.L. Holmes.



The Two Little Stockings

Two little stockings hung side by side, Close to the fireside broad and wide. "Two?" said Saint Nick, as down he came, Loaded with toys and many a game. "Ho, ho!" said he, with a laugh of fun, "I'll have no cheating, my pretty one.

"I know who dwells in this house, my dear, There's only one little girl lives here." So he crept up close to the chimney place, And measured a sock with a sober face; Just then a wee little note fell out And fluttered low, like a bird, about.

"Aha! What's this?" said he, in surprise, As he pushed his specs up close to his eyes, And read the address in a child's rough plan. "Dear Saint Nicholas," so it began, "The other stocking you see on the wall I have hung up for a child named Clara Hall.

"She's a poor little girl, but very good, So I thought, perhaps, you kindly would Fill up her stocking, too, to-night, And help to make her Christmas bright. If you've not enough for both stockings there, Please put all in Clara's, I shall not care."

Saint Nicholas brushed a tear from his eye, And, "God bless you, darling," he said with a sigh; Then softly he blew through the chimney high A note like a bird's, as it soars on high, When down came two of the funniest mortals That ever were seen this side earth's portals.

"Hurry up," said Saint Nick, "and nicely prepare All a little girl wants where money is rare." Then, oh, what a scene there was in that room! Away went the elves, but down from the gloom Of the sooty old chimney came tumbling low A child's whole wardrobe, from head to toe.

How Santa Clans laughed, as he gathered them in, And fastened each one to the sock with a pin; Right to the toe he hung a blue dress,— "She'll think it came from the sky, I guess," Said Saint Nicholas, smoothing the folds of blue, And tying the hood to the stocking, too.

When all the warm clothes were fastened on, And both little socks were filled and done, Then Santa Claus tucked a toy here and there, And hurried away to the frosty air, Saying, "God pity the poor, and bless the dear child Who pities them, too, on this night so wild."

The wind caught the words and bore them on high Till they died away in the midnight sky; While Saint Nicholas flew through the icy air, Bringing "peace and good will" with him everywhere.

Sara Keables Hunt.



I Have a Rendezvous with Death

I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath— It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows't were better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath— Where hushed awakenings are dear.... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Alan Seeger.



Let Us Be Kind

Let us be kind; The way is long and lonely, And human hearts are asking for this blessing only— That we be kind. We cannot know the grief that men may borrow, We cannot see the souls storm-swept by sorrow, But love can shine upon the way to-day, to-morrow— Let us be kind.

Let us be kind; This is a wealth that has no measure, This is of Heaven and earth the highest treasure— Let us be kind. A tender word, a smile of love in meeting, A song of hope and victory to those retreating, A glimpse of God and brotherhood while life is fleeting— Let us be kind.

Let us be kind; Around the world the tears of time are falling, And for the loved and lost these human hearts are calling— Let us be kind. To age and youth let gracious words be spoken; Upon the wheel of pain so many lives are broken, We live in vain who give no tender token— Let us be kind.

Let us be kind; The sunset tints will soon be in the west, Too late the flowers are laid then on the quiet breast— Let us be kind. And when the angel guides have sought and found us, Their hands shall link the broken ties of earth that bound us, And Heaven and home shall brighten all around us— Let us be kind.

W. Lomax Childress.



The Water Mill

Oh! listen to the water mill, through all the livelong day, As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away; How languidly the autumn wind does stir the withered leaves As in the fields the reapers sing, while binding up their sheaves! A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main, The sickle nevermore will reap the yellow garnered grain; The rippling stream flows on—aye, tranquil, deep and still, But never glideth back again to busy water mill; The solemn proverb speaks to all with meaning deep and vast, "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Ah! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true, For golden years are fleeting by and youth is passing too; Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day, For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away; Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast— "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh; Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word, Thoughts conceived, but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard. Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast— "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will, The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water mill; Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way, For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase "to-day." Possession, power and blooming health must all be lost at last— "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Oh! love thy God and fellowman, thyself consider last, For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past; Soon will this fight of life be o'er and earth recede from view, And heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and true. Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast, "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Sarah Doudney.



Why the Dog's Nose Is Always Cold

What makes the dog's nose always cold? I'll try to tell you, Curls of Gold, If you will good and quiet be, And come and stand by mamma's knee. Well, years and years and years ago— How many I don't really know— There came a rain on sea and shore, Its like was never seen before Or since. It fell unceasing down, Till all the world began to drown; But just before it began to pour, An old, old man—his name was Noah— Built him an Ark, that he might save His family from a wat'ry grave; And in it also he designed To shelter two of every kind Of beast. Well, dear, when it was done, And heavy clouds obscured the sun, The Noah folks to it quickly ran, And then the animals began To gravely march along in pairs; The leopards, tigers, wolves and bears, The deer, the hippopotamuses, The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses, The camels, goats, cats and donkeys, The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys, The rats, the big rhinoceroses, The dromedaries and the horses, The sheep, and mice and kangaroos, Hyenas, elephants, koodoos, And hundreds more-'twould take all day, My dear, so many names to say— And at the very, very end Of the procession, by his friend And master, faithful dog was seen; The livelong time he'd helping been, To drive the crowd of creatures in; And now, with loud, exultant bark, He gaily sprang abroad the Ark. Alas! so crowded was the space He could not in it find a place; So, patiently, he turned about, Stood half way in, half way out, And those extremely heavy showers Descended through nine hundred hours And more; and, darling, at the close, 'Most frozen was his honest nose; And never could it lose again The dampness of that dreadful rain. And that is what, my Curls of Gold, Made all the doggies' noses cold.



The African Chief

Chained in the market-place he stood, A man of giant frame, Amid the gathering multitude That shrunk to hear his name— All stern of look and strong of limb, His dark eye on the ground:— And silently they gazed on him, As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, He was a captive now, Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, Was written on his brow. The scars his dark broad bosom wore Showed warrior true and brave; A prince among his tribe before, He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake: "My brother is a king; Undo this necklace from my neck, And take this bracelet ring, And send me where my brother reigns, And I will fill thy hands With store of ivory from the plains, And gold-dust from the sands."

"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold Will I unbind thy chain; That bloody hand shall never hold The battle-spear again. A price thy nation never gave Shall yet be paid for thee; For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, In lands beyond the sea."

Then wept the warrior chief and bade To shred his locks away; And one by one, each heavy braid Before the victor lay. Thick were the platted locks, and long, And deftly hidden there Shone many a wedge of gold among The dark and crisped hair.

"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold Long kept for sorest need: Take it—thou askest sums untold, And say that I am freed. Take it—my wife, the long, long day Weeps by the cocoa-tree, And my young children leave their play, And ask in vain for me."

"I take thy gold—but I have made Thy fetters fast and strong, And ween that by the cocoa shade Thy wife will wait thee long," Strong was the agony that shook The captive's frame to hear, And the proud meaning of his look Was changed to mortal fear.

His heart was broken—crazed his brain; At once his eye grew wild; He struggled fiercely with his chain, Whispered, and wept, and smiled; Yet wore not long those fatal bands, And once, at shut of day, They drew him forth upon the sands, The foul hyena's prey.

William Cullen Bryant.



He Who Has Vision

Where there is no vision the people perish.—Prov. 29:17.

He who has the vision sees more than you or I; He who lives the golden dream lives fourfold thereby; Time may scoff and worlds may laugh, hosts assail his thought, But the visionary came ere the builders wrought; Ere the tower bestrode the dome, ere the dome the arch, He, the dreamer of the dream, saw the vision march!

He who has the vision hears more than you may hear, Unseen lips from unseen worlds are bent unto his ear; From the hills beyond the clouds messages are borne, Drifting on the dews of dream to his heart of morn; Time awaits and ages stay till he wakes and shows Glimpses of the larger life that his vision knows!

He who has the vision feels more than you may feel, Joy beyond the narrow joy in whose realm we reel— For he knows the stars are glad, dawn and middleday, In the jocund tide that sweeps dark and dusk away, He who has the vision lives round and all complete, And through him alone we draw dews from combs of sweet.

Folger McKinsey.



The Children We Keep

The children kept coming one by one, Till the boys were five and the girls were three. And the big brown house was alive with fun, From the basement floor to the old roof-tree, Like garden flowers the little ones grew, Nurtured and trained with tenderest care; Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in dew, They blossomed into beauty rare.

But one of the boys grew weary one day, And leaning his head on his mother's breast, He said, "I am tired and cannot play; Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest." She cradled him close to her fond embrace, She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song, And rapturous love still lightened his face When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng.

Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes, Who stood where the "brook and the river meet," Stole softly away into Paradise E'er "the river" had reached her slender feet. While the father's eyes on the graves were bent, The mother looked upward beyond the skies: "Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent; Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise."

The years flew by, and the children began With longings to think of the world outside, And as each in turn became a man, The boys proudly went from the father's side. The girls were women so gentle and fair, That lovers were speedy to woo and to win; And with orange-blooms in their braided hair, Their old home they left, new homes to begin.

So, one by one the children have gone— The boys were five, the girls were three; And the big brown house is gloomy and alone, With but two old folks for its company. They talk to each other about the past, As they sit together at eventide, And say, "All the children we keep at last Are the boy and girl who in childhood died."

Mrs. E.V. Wilson.



The Stranger on the Sill

Between broad fields of wheat and corn Is the lowly home where I was born; The peach-tree leans against the wall, And the woodbine wanders over all; There is the shaded doorway still,— But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn—and, as of yore, I can smell the hay from the open door, And see the busy swallows throng, And hear the pewee's mournful song; But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof— His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

There is the orchard—the very trees Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, And watched the shadowy moments run Till my life imbibed more shade than sun: The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,— But the stranger's children are swinging there.

There bubbles the shady spring below, With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow; 'Twas there I found the calamus root, And watched the minnows poise and shoot, And heard the robin lave his wing:— But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.

Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, Step lightly, for I love it still! And when you crowd the old barn eaves, Then think what countless harvest sheaves Have passed within' that scented door To gladden eyes that are no more.

Deal kindly with these orchard trees; And when your children crowd your knees, Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, As if old memories stirred their heart: To youthful sport still leave the swing, And in sweet reverence hold the spring.

Thomas Buchanan Read.



The Old Man In the Model Church

Well, wife, I've found the model church! I worshiped there to-day! It made me think of good old times before my hair was gray; The meetin'-house was fixed up more than they were years ago. But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show.

The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through The long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew.

I wish you'd heard that singin'; it had the old-time ring; The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!" The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled, Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.

My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall, Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all."

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; I almost wanted to lay down this weatherbeaten form, And anchor in that blessed port forever from the storm.

The preachin'? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read; He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye Went flashin' long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by.

The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth; It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; 'Twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed; 'Twas full of invitations, to Christ and not to creed.

The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews; And—though I can't see very well—I saw the falling tear That told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near.

How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place! How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face! Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend— "When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths have no end."

I hope to meet that minister—that congregation, too— In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, The happy hour of worship in that model church today.

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought; the vict'ry soon be won; The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore, To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.

John H. Yates.



The Volunteer Organist

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' of silk, An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an' stove-pipe hats were there, An' doodes 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer.

The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: "Our organist is kept' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, An' as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain't here, Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"

An' then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, Give an interductory hiccup, an' then swaggered up the aisle. Then thro' that holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, An' thro' thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol' gin.

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: "This man perfanes the house of God! W'y, this is sacrilege!" The tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, An' stalked an' swaggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat.

He then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a strain Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify the brain; An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry, It swelled into the rafters, an' bulged out into the sky; The ol' church shook and staggered, an' seemed to reel an' sway, An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!!"

An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears, Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears; An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat, Uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' Mother, an' all that!

An' then he struck a streak uv hope—a song from souls forgiven— Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv heaven; The morning stars together sung—no soul wuz left alone— We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God was on His throne!

An' then a wail of deep despair an' darkness come again, An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men; No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, An' then—the tramp, he swaggered down an' reeled out into the night!

But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a word, An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; He had tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day, W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let up pray."

Sam Walter Foss.



The Finding of the Lyre

There lay upon the ocean's shore What once a tortoise served to cover; A year and more, with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry Cheap burial might provide it. It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry, As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, "Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things In shape, material, and dimension! Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!"

So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, The shell disdained a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered. O empty world that round us lies, Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, In thee what songs should waken!

James Russel Lowell.



The High Tide (1571)

(Or "The Brides of Enderby")

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers rang by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, play uppe O Boston bells! Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

Men say it was a stolen tyde— The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was naught of strange, beside The flight of mews ans peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

I sat and spun within the doore, My thread break off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies, And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song:

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed."

If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayeth she), That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide.

The swanherds where there sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard affare, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came down that kindly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."

Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows, They sayde, "And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby!

"For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping downe; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne; But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"

I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding down with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he saith, "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He looked across the grassy lea, To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!" They rang "The Brides of Enderby"!

With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout— Then beaten foam flew round about— Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet. The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sat that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high,— A lurid mark and dread to see; And awesome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang "Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I—my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "Oh, come in life, or come in death! Oh, lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear; Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith), And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along, Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed."

Jean Ingelow.



September Days

O month of fairer, rarer days Than Summer's best have been; When skies at noon are burnished blue, And winds at evening keen; When tangled, tardy-blooming things From wild waste places peer, And drooping golden grain-heads tell That harvest-time is near.

Though Autumn tints amid the green Are gleaming, here and there, And spicy Autumn odors float Like incense on the air, And sounds we mark as Autumn's own Her nearing steps betray, In gracious mood she seems to stand And bid the Summer stay.

Though 'neath the trees, with fallen leaves The sward be lightly strown, And nests deserted tell the tale Of summer bird-folk flown; Though white with frost the lowlands lie When lifts the morning haze, Still there's a charm in every hour Of sweet September days.

Helen L. Smith



The New Year

Who comes dancing over the snow, His soft little feet all bare and rosy? Open the door, though the wild wind blow, Take the child in and make him cozy, Take him in and hold him dear, Here is the wonderful glad New Year.

Dinah M. Craik



An "If" For Girls

(With apologies to Mr. Rudyard Kipling.)

If you can dress to make yourself attractive, Yet not make puffs and curls your chief delight; If you can swim and row, be strong and active, But of the gentler graces lose not sight; If you can dance without a craze for dancing, Play without giving play too strong a hold, Enjoy the love of friends without romancing, Care for the weak, the friendless and the old;

If you can master French and Greek and Latin, And not acquire, as well, a priggish mien, If you can feel the touch of silk and satin Without despising calico and jean; If you can ply a saw and use a hammer, Can do a man's work when the need occurs, Can sing when asked, without excuse or stammer, Can rise above unfriendly snubs and slurs;

If you can make good bread as well as fudges, Can sew with skill and have an eye for dust, If you can be a friend and hold no grudges, A girl whom all will love because they must;

If sometime you should meet and love another And make a home with faith and peace enshrined, And you its soul—a loyal wife and mother— You'll work out pretty nearly to my mind The plan that's been developed through the ages, And win the best that life can have in store, You'll be, my girl, the model for the sages— A woman whom the world will bow before.

Elizabeth Lincoln Otis.



Boy and Girl of Plymouth

Little lass of Plymouth,—gentle, shy, and sweet; Primly, trimly tripping down the queer old street; Homespun frock and apron, clumsy buckled shoe; Skirts that reach your ankles, just as Mother's do; Bonnet closely clinging over braid and curl; Modest little maiden,—Plymouth's Pilgrim girl!

Little lad of Plymouth, stanchly trudging by; Strong your frame, and sturdy; kind and keen your eye; Clad in belted doublet, buckles at your knee; Every garment fashioned as a man's might be; Shoulder-cloak and breeches, hat with bell-shaped crown; Manly little Pilgrim,—boy of Plymouth town!

Boy and girl of Plymouth, brave and blithe, and true; Finer task than yours was, children never knew; Sharing toil and hardship in the strange, new land; Hope, and help, and promise of the weary band; Grave the life around you, scant its meed of joy; Yours to make it brighter,—Pilgrim girl and boy!

Helen L. Smith.



Work: A Song of Triumph

Work! Thank God for the might of it, The ardor, the urge, the delight of it, Work that springs from the heart's desire, Setting the brain and the soul on fire— Oh, what is so good as the heat of it, And what is so glad as the beat of it, And what is so kind as the stern command, Challenging brain and heart and hand?

Work! Thank God for the pride of it, For the beautiful, conquering tide of it, Sweeping the life in its furious flood, Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood, Mastering stupor and dull despair, Moving the dreamer to do and dare— Oh, what is so good as the urge of it, And what is so glad as the surge of it, And what is so strong as the summons deep, Rousing the torpid soul from sleep?

Work! Thank God for the pace of it, For the terrible, swift, keen race of it, Fiery steeds in full control, Nostrils a-quiver to reach the goal. Work, the power that drives behind, Guiding the purposes, taming the mind, Holding the runaway wishes back, Reining the will to one steady track, Speeding the energies, faster, faster, Triumphing ever over disaster; Oh, what is so good as the pain of it, And what is so great as the gain of it, And what is so kind as the cruel goad, Forcing us on through the rugged road?

Work! Thank God for the swing of it, For the clamoring, hammering ring of it, Passion of labor daily hurled On the mighty anvils of the world. Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it? And what is so huge as the aim of it? Thundering on through dearth and doubt, Calling the plan of the Maker out, Work, the Titan; Work, the friend, Shaping the earth to a glorious end, Draining the swamps and blasting hills, Doing whatever the Spirit wills— Rending a continent apart, To answer the dream of the Master heart. Thank God for a world where none may shirk— Thank God for the splendor of Work!

Angela Morgan.



Reply to "A Woman's Question"

("A Woman's Question" is given on page 129 of Book I, "Poems Teachers Ask For.")

You say I have asked for the costliest thing Ever made by the Hand above— A woman's heart and a woman's life, And a woman's wonderful love.

That I have written your duty out, And, man-like, have questioned free— You demand that I stand at the bar of your soul, While you in turn question me.

And when I ask you to be my wife, The head of my house and home, Whose path I would scatter with sunshine through life, Thy shield when sorrow shall come—

You reply with disdain and a curl of the lip, And point to my coat's missing button, And haughtily ask if I want a cook, To serve up my beef and my mutton.

'Tis a king that you look for. Well, I am not he, But only a plain, earnest man, Whose feet often shun the hard path they should tread, Often shrink from the gulf they should span.

'Tis hard to believe that the rose will fade From the cheek so full, so fair; 'Twere harder to think that a heart proud and cold Was ever reflected there.

True, the rose will fade, and the leaves will fall, And the Autumn of life will come; But the heart that I give thee will be true as in May, Should I make it thy shelter, thy home.

Thou requir'st "all things that are good and true; All things that a man should be"; Ah! lady, my truth, in return, doubt not, For the rest, I leave it to thee.

Nettie H. Pelham.



The Romance of Nick Van Stann

I cannot vouch my tale is true, Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new; But true or false, or new or old, I think you'll find it fairly told. A Frenchman, who had ne'er before Set foot upon a foreign shore, Weary of home, resolved to go And see what Holland had to show. He didn't know a word of Dutch, But that could hardly grieve him much; He thought, as Frenchmen always do, That all the world could "parley-voo." At length our eager tourist stands Within the famous Netherlands, And, strolling gaily here and there, In search of something rich or rare, A lordly mansion greets his eyes; "How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries, And, bowing to the man who sate In livery at the garden gate, "Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please, Whose very charming grounds are these? And, pardon me, be pleased to tell Who in this splendid house may dwell." To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man Replied what seemed like "Nick Van Stann,"[*]

"Thanks!" said the Gaul; "the owner's taste Is equally superb and chaste; So fine a house, upon my word, Not even Paris can afford. With statues, too, in every niche; Of course Monsieur Van Stann is rich, And lives, I warrant, like a king,— Ah! wealth mast be a charming thing!" In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets A thousand wonders in the streets, But most he marvels to behold A lady dressed in silk and gold; Gazing with rapture on the dame, He begs to know the lady's name, And hears, to raise his wonders more, The very words he heard before! "Mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life, Milord has got a charming wife; 'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann Must be a very happy man."

Next day our tourist chanced to pop His head within a lottery shop, And there he saw, with staring eyes, The drawing of the mammoth prize. "Ten millions! 'tis a pretty sum; I wish I had as much at home: I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner, What lucky fellow is the winner?" Conceive our traveler's amaze To hear again the hackneyed phrase. "What? no! not Nick Van Stann again? Faith! he's the luckiest of men. You may be sure we don't advance So rapidly as that in France: A house, the finest in the land; A lovely garden, nicely planned; A perfect angel of a wife, And gold enough to last a life; There never yet was mortal man So blest—as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!"

Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet A pompous funeral in the street; And, asking one who stood close by What nobleman had pleased to die, Was stunned to hear the old reply. The Frenchman sighed and shook his head, "Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead; With such a house, and such a wife, It must be hard to part with life; And then, to lose that mammoth prize,— He wins, and, pop,—the winner dies! Ah, well! his blessings came so fast, I greatly feared they could not last: And thus, we see, the sword of Fate Cuts down alike the small and great."

[Footnote *: Nicht verstehen:—"I don't understand."]

John G. Saxe.



Armageddon

Marching down to Armageddon— Brothers, stout and strong! Let us cheer the way we tread on, With a soldier's song! Faint we by the weary road, Or fall we in the rout, Dirge or Paean, Death or Triumph!— Let the song ring out!

We are they who scorn the scorners— Love the lovers—hate None within the world's four corners— All must share one fate; We are they whose common banner Bears no badge nor sign, Save the Light which dyes it white— The Hope that makes it shine.

We are they whose bugle rings, That all the wars may cease; We are they will pay the Kings Their cruel price for Peace; We are they whose steadfast watchword Is what Christ did teach— "Each man for his Brother first— And Heaven, then, for each."

We are they who will not falter— Many swords or few— Till we make this Earth the altar Of a worship new; We are they who will not take From palace, priest or code, A meaner Law than "Brotherhood"— A lower Lord than God.

Marching down to Armageddon— Brothers, stout and strong! Ask not why the way we tread on Is so rough and long! God will tell us when our spirits Grow to grasp His plan! Let us do our part to-day— And help Him, helping Man!

Shall we even curse the madness Which for "ends of State" Dooms us to the long, long sadness Of this human hate? Let us slay in perfect pity Those that must not live; Vanquish, and forgive our foes— Or fall—and still forgive!

We are those whose unpaid legions, In free ranks arrayed, Massacred in many regions— Never once were stayed: We are they whose torn battalions, Trained to bleed, not fly, Make our agonies a triumph,— Conquer, while we die!

Therefore, down to Armageddon— Brothers, bold and strong; Cheer the glorious way we tread on, With this soldier song! Let the armies of the old Flags March in silent dread! Death and Life are one to us, Who fight for Quick and Dead!

Edwin Arnold.



Picciola

It was a sergeant old and gray, Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage. Went tramping in an army's wake Along the turnpike of the village.

For days and nights the winding host Had through the little place been marching, And ever loud the rustics cheered, Till every throat was hoarse and parching.

The squire and farmer, maid and dame, All took the sight's electric stirring, And hats were waved and staves were sung, And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.