They only saw a gallant show Of heroes stalwart under banners, And, in the fierce heroic glow, 'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas.

The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, Where he behind in step was keeping; But, glancing down beside the road, He saw a little maid sit weeping.

"And how is this?" he gruffly said, A moment pausing to regard her;— "Why weepest thou, my little chit?" And then she only cried the harder.

"And how is this, my little chit?" The sturdy trooper straight repeated, "When all the village cheers us on, That you, in tears, apart are seated?

"We march two hundred thousand strong, And that's a sight, my baby beauty, To quicken silence into song And glorify the soldier's duty."

"It's very, very grand, I know," The little maid gave soft replying; "And father, mother, brother too, All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying;

"But think, oh, Mr. Soldier, think, How many little sisters' brothers Are going all away to fight, And may be killed, as well as others!"

"Why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said, His brawny hand her curls caressing, "'Tis left for little ones like thee To find that war's not all a blessing."

And "Bless thee!" once again he cried, Then cleared his throat and looked indignant And marched away with wrinkled brow To stop the struggling tear benignant.

And still the ringing shouts went up From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; The pall behind the standard seen By one alone of all the village.

The oak and cedar bend and writhe When roars the wind through gap and braken; But 'tis the tenderest reed of all That trembles first when Earth is shaken.

Robert Henry Newell.



The King's Ring

Once in Persia reigned a king Who upon his signet ring Graved a maxim true and wise Which, if held before his eyes, Gave him counsel at a glance Fit for every change and chance. Solemn words; and these are they: "Even this shall pass away."

Trains of camels through the sand Brought him gems from Samarcand, Fleets of galleys through the seas Brought him pearls to match with these; But he counted not his gain— Treasurer of the mine and main, "What is wealth?" the king would say; "Even this shall pass away."

In the revels of his court At the zenith of the sport, When the palms of all his guests Burned with clapping at his jests, He, amid his figs and wine, Cried: "O loving friends of mine! Pleasures come, but not to stay, Even this shall pass away."

Fighting on a furious field Once a javelin pierced his shield; Soldiers with loud lament Bore him bleeding to his tent, Groaning with his tortured side. "Pain is hard to bear," he cried; "But with patience day by day, Even this shall pass away."

Struck with palsy, sere and old, Waiting at the gates of gold, Spake he with his dying breath: "Life is done, but what is death?" Then, in answer to the king, Fell a sunbeam on his ring, Showing by a heavenly ray: "Even this shall pass away."

Theodore Tilton.



Leaving the Homestead

You're going to leave the homestead, John, You're twenty-one to-day: And very sorry am I, John, To see you go away. You've labored late and early, John, And done the best you could; I ain't going to stop you, John, I wouldn't if I could.

Yet something of your feelings, John, I s'pose I'd ought to know, Though many a day has passed away— 'Twas forty years ago— When hope was high within me, John, And life lay all before, That I, with strong and measured stroke, "Cut loose" and pulled from shore.

The years they come and go, my boy, The years they come and go; And raven locks and tresses brown Grow white as driven snow. My life has known its sorrows, John, Its trials and troubles sore; Yet God withal has blessed me, John, "In basket and in store."

But one thing let me tell you, John, Before you make a start, There's more in being honest, John, Twice o'er than being smart. Though rogues may seem to flourish, John, And sterling worth to fail, Oh! keep in view the good and true; 'Twill in the end prevail.

Don't think too much of money, John, And dig and delve and plan, And rake and scrape in every shape, To hoard up all you can. Though fools may count their riches, John, In dollars and in cents, The best of wealth is youth and health, And good sound common sense.

And don't be mean and stingy, John, But lay a little by Of what you earn; you soon will learn How fast 'twill multiply. So when old age comes creeping on, You'll have a goodly store Of wealth to furnish all your needs— And maybe something more.

There's shorter cuts to fortune, John, We see them every day; But those who save their self-respect Climb up the good old way. "All is not gold that glitters," John, And makes the vulgar stare, And those we deem the richest, John, Have oft the least to spare.

Don't meddle with your neighbors, John, Their sorrows or their cares; You'll find enough to do, my boy, To mind your own affairs. The world is full of idle tongues— You can afford to shirk! There's lots of people ready, John, To do such dirty work.

And if amid the race for fame You win a shining prize, The humbler work of honest men You never should despise; For each one has his mission, John, In life's unchanging plan— Though lowly be his station, John, He is no less a man.

Be good, be pure, be noble, John; Be honest, brave, be true; And do to others as you would That they should do to you; And put your trust in God, my boy, Though fiery darts be hurled; Then you can smile at Satan's rage, And face a frowning world.

Good-by! May Heaven guard and bless Your footsteps day by day; The old house will be lonesome, John, When you are gone away. The cricket's song upon the hearth Will have a sadder tone; The old familiar spots will be So lonely when you're gone.



Bernardo Del Carpio

King Alphonso of Asturias had imprisoned the Count Saldana, about the time of the birth of the Count's son Bernardo. In an effort to secure his father's release, Bernardo, when old enough, took up arms. Finally the King offered Bernardo possession of his father's person, in exchange for the Castle of Carpio and all the King's subjects there imprisoned. The cruel trick played by the King on Bernardo is here described.

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; "I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—oh break my father's chain!" "Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day; Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way."

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, With one that midst them stately rode, as leader in the land: "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went; He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took— What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? That hand was cold,—a frozen thing,—it dropped from his like lead! He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the dead! A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fixed and white, He met, at last, his father's eyes, but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze. They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. "Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then; Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!

He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown; He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow: "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now; My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father—oh, the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth! I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet! I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! Thou wouldst have known my spirit then;—for thee my fields were won; And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and 'wildered looks of all the courtier train; And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead: "Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay! Into these glassy eyes put light; be still! keep down thine ire; Bid these white lips a blessing speak, this earth is not my sire. Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed! Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head."

He loosed the steed—his slack hand fell; upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place. His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain; His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain.

Felicia Hemans.



Mizpah

Go thou thy way, and I go mine, Apart—but not afar. Only a thin veil hangs between The pathways where we are, And God keep watch 'tween thee and me This is my prayer. He looks thy way—He looketh mine And keeps us near.

I know not where thy road may lie Nor which way mine will be, If thine will lead through parching sands And mine beside the sea. Yet God keeps watch 'tween thee and me, So never fear. He holds thy hand—He claspeth mine And keeps us near.

Should wealth and fame perchance be thine And my lot lowly be, Or you be sad and sorrowful And glory be for me, Yet God keep watch 'tween thee and me, Both are his care. One arm round me and one round thee Will keep us near.

I sigh sometimes to see thy face But since this may not be I leave thee to the love of Him Who cares for thee and me. "I'll keep ye both beneath My wings," This comforts—dear. One wing o'er thee—and one o'er me, So we are near.

And though our paths be separate And thy way be not mine— Yet coming to the mercy seat My soul shall meet with thine. And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me" I'll whisper there. He blesses me—He blesses thee And we are near.



God

O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright All space doth occupy, all motion guide— Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight! Thou only God—there is no God beside! Being above all beings! Mighty One, Whom none can comprehend and none explore, Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone— Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er,— Being whom we call God, and know no more!

In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean-deep—may count The sands or the sun's rays—but, God! for Thee There is no weight nor measure; none can mount Up to thy mysteries:* Reason's brightest spark, Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark: And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, Even like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call First chaos, then existence—Lord! in Thee Eternity had its foundation; all Sprung forth from Thee—of light, joy, harmony, Sole Origin—all life, all beauty Thine; Thy word created all, and doth create; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine; Thou art and wert and shalt be! Glorious! Great! Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround— Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath! Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, And beautifully mingled life and death! As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee; And as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.

A million torches, lighted by Thy hand, Wander unwearied through the blue abyss— They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light— A glorious company of golden streams— Lamps of celestial ether burning bright— Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? But Thou to these art as the noon to night.

Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in Thee is lost:— What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? And what am I then?—Heaven's unnumbered host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed In all the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in the balance, weighed Against Thy greatness—is a cipher brought Against infinity! What am I then? Naught!

Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine, Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too; Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high, Even to the throne of Thy divinity. I am, O God! and surely Thou must be!

Thou art!—directing, guiding all—Thou art! Direct my understanding then to Thee; Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand! I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth— On the last verge of mortal being stand. Close to the realm where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land!

The chain of being is complete in me— In me is matter's last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit—Deity! I can command the lightning, and am dust! A monarch and a slave—a worm, a god! Whence came I here, and how? so marvelously Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod Lives surely through some higher energy; For from itself alone it could not be!

Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word Created me! Thou source of life and good! Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring Over the abyss of death; and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, Even to its source—to Thee—its Author there.

O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast. And waft its homage to Thy Deity. God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar, Thus seek thy presence—Being wise and good! Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; And when the tongue is eloquent no more The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.

Gabriel Somanovitch Derzhavin.



Casabianca

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike form.

The flames roll'd on—he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud: "Say, father, say If yet my task is done?" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound— The boy—oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea!

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part— But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young, faithful heart.

Felicia Hemans.



Monterey

We were not many,—we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if he but could Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on, still on our column kept, Through walls of flame, its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play; Where orange boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many, we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day; But who of us has not confessed He'd rather share their warrior rest, Than not have been at Monterey?

Charles Fenno Hoffman.



The Teacher's "If"

If you can take your dreams into the classroom, And always make them part of each day's work— If you can face the countless petty problems Nor turn from them nor ever try to shirk— If you can live so that the child you work with Deep in his heart knows you to be a man— If you can take "I can't" from out his language And put in place a vigorous "I can"—

If you can take Love with you to the classroom, And yet on Firmness never shut the door— If you can teach a child the love of Nature So that he helps himself to all her store— If you can teach him life is what we make it, That he himself can be his only bar— If you can tell him something of the heavens, Or something of the wonder of a star—

If you, with simple bits of truth and honor, His better self occasionally reach— And yet not overdo nor have him dub you As one who is inclined to ever preach— If you impart to him a bit of liking For all the wondrous things we find in print— Yet have him understand that to be happy, Play, exercise, fresh air he must not stint—

If you can give of all the best that's in you, And in the giving always happy be— If you can find the good that's hidden somewhere Deep in the heart of every child you see— If you can do these things and all the others That teachers everywhere do every day— You're in the work that you were surely meant for; Take hold of it! Know it's your place and stay!

R.J. Gale.



The Good Shepherd

There were ninety and nine Of a flock, sleek and fine In a sheltering cote in the vale; But a lamb was away, On the mountain astray, Unprotected within the safe pale.

Then the sleet and the rain On the mountain and plain, And the wind fiercely blowing a gale, And the night's growing dark, And the wolf's hungry bark Stir the soul of the shepherd so hale.

And he says, "Hireling, go; For a lamb's in the snow And exposed to the wild hungry beast; 'Tis no time to keep seat, Nor to rest weary feet, Nor to sit at a bounteous feast."

Then the hireling replied, "Here you have at your side All your flock save this one little sheep. Are the ninety and nine, All so safe and so fine, Not enough for the shepherd to keep?"

Then the shepherd replied, "Ah! this lamb from my side Presses near, very near, to my heart. Not its value in pay Makes me urge in this way, But the longings and achings of heart."

"Let me wait till the day, O good shepherd, I pray; For I shudder to go in the dark On the mountain so high And its precipice nigh 'Mong the wolves with their frightening bark."

Then the shepherd said, "No; Surely some one must go Who can rescue my lamb from the cold, From the wolf's hungry maw And the lion's fierce paw And restore it again to the fold."

Then the shepherd goes out With his cloak girt about And his rod and his staff in his hand. What cares he for the cold If his sheep to the fold He can bring from the dark mountain land?

You can hear his clear voice As the mountains rejoice, "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" Up the hillside so steep, Into caverns so deep, "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"

Now he hears its weak "baa," And he answers it, "Ah! Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" Then its answering bleat Hurries on his glad feet, And his arms gather up his lost sheep.

Wet and cold on his breast The lost lamb found its rest As he bore it adown to the fold. And the ninety and nine Bleat for joy down the line, That it's safe from the wolf and the cold.

Then he said to his friends, "Now let joy make amends For the steeps and the deeps I have crossed— For the pelting of sleet And my sore, weary feet, For I've found the dear lamb that was lost."

Let the hirelings upbraid For the nights that He stayed On the mountains so rugged and high. Surely never a jeer From my lips shall one hear, For—that poor lonely lambkin—was—I.

While the eons shall roll O'er my glad ransomed soul I will praise the Good Shepherd above, For a place on His breast, For its comfort and rest, For His wonderful, wonderful love.

D. N. Howe.



A Sermon in Rhyme

If you have a friend worth loving, Love him. Yes, and let him know That you love him ere life's evening Tinge his brow with sunset glow; Why should good words ne'er be said Of a friend—till he is dead?

If you hear a song that thrills you, Sung by any child of song, Praise it. Do not let the singer Wait deserved praises long; Why should one that thrills your heart Lack that joy it may impart?

If you hear a prayer that moves you By its humble pleading tone, Join it. Do not let the seeker Bow before his God alone; Why should not your brother share The strength of "two or three" in prayer?

If you see the hot tears falling From a loving brother's eyes, Share them, and by sharing, Own your kinship with the skies; Why should anyone be glad, When his brother's heart is sad?

If a silver laugh goes rippling Through the sunshine on his face, Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying, For both grief and joy a place; There's health and goodness in the mirth In which an honest laugh has birth.

If your work is made more easy By a friendly helping hand, Say so. Speak out brave and truly, Ere the darkness veil the land. Should a brother workman dear Falter for a word of cheer?

Scatter thus your seed of kindness, All enriching as you go— Leave them, trust the Harvest-Giver; He will make each seed to grow. So, until its happy end, Your life shall never lack a friend.



The Fortunate Isles

You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles, The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's song? Then steer right on through the watery miles, Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong. Nay, not to the left, nay, not to the right; But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight, The Fortunate Isles, where the yellow birds sing And life lies girt with a golden ring.

These Fortunate Isles, they are not far; They lie within reach of the lowliest door; You can see them gleam by the twilight star; You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore, Nay, never look back! Those leveled gravestones, They were landing steps; they were steps unto thrones Of glory for souls that have sailed before And have set white feet on the fortunate shore.

And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles? Why, Duty and Love and a large content. Lo! there are the isles of the watery miles That God let down from the firmament; Lo! Duty and Love, and a true man's trust; Your forehead to God and your feet in the dust; Lo! Duty and Love, and a sweet babe's smiles, And there, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles.

Joaquin Miller.



What the Choir Sang About the New Bonnet

A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet, With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it; And that the other maidens of the little town might know it, She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday just to show it.

But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime, The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time; So when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing, And when she came to meeting, sure enough the folks were singing.

So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door; And she shook her ruffles out behind and smoothed them down before. "Hallelujah! hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head. "Hardly knew you! hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said.

This made the little maiden feel so very, very cross, That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss; For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet, With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it.

And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer, But pattered down the silent street, and hurried up the stair, Till she reached her little bureau, and in a band-box on it, Had hidden, safe from critics' eyes, her foolish little bonnet.

Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind; And the silly little head, that's filled with silly little airs, Will never get a blessing from sermon or from prayers.

M. T. Morrison.



Work Thou for Pleasure

Work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve The thing thou lovest, though the body starve. Who works for glory misses oft the goal; Who works for money coins his very soul. Work for work's sake then, and it well may be That these things shall be added unto thee.

Kenyon Cox.



The Tin Gee Gee

I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade, That place for children's toys, Where you can purchase a dolly or spade For your good little girls and boys. And as I passed a certain stall, said a wee little voice to me: O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee; O, I am a Colonel in a little cocked hat, and I ride on a tin Gee Gee.

Then I looked and a little tin soldier I saw, In his little cocked hat so fine. He'd a little tin sword that shone in the light As he led a glittering line of tin hussars, Whose sabers flashed in a manner a la military. And that little tin soldier he rode at their head, So proud on his tin Gee Gee.

Then that little tin soldier he sobbed and he sighed, So I patted his little tin head. What vexes your little tin soul? said I, And this is what he said: I've been on this stall a very long time, And I'm marked twenty-nine, as you see; Whilst just on the shelf above my head, There's a fellow marked sixty-three.

Now he hasn't got a sword and he hasn't got a horse, And I'm quite as good as he. So why mark me at twenty-nine, And him at sixty-three? There's a pretty little dolly girl over there, And I'm madly in love with she. But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine, She turns up her nose at me, She turns up her little wax nose at me, And carries on with sixty-three.

And, oh, she's dressed in a beautiful dress; It's a dress I do admire, She has pearly blue eyes that open and shut When worked inside by a wire, And once on a time when the folks had gone, She used to ogle at me. But now that I'm only marked twenty-nine, She turns up her nose at me. She turns up her little snub nose at me, And carries on with sixty-three.

Cheer up, my little tin man, said I, I'll see what I can do. You're a fine little fellow, and it's a shame That she should so treat you. So I took down the label from the shelf above, And I labeled him sixty-three, And I marked the other one twenty-nine, Which was very, very wrong of me, But I felt so sorry for that little tin soul, As he rode on his tin Gee Gee.

Now that little tin soldier he puffed with pride, At being marked sixty-three, And that saucy little dolly girl smiled once more, For he'd risen in life, do you see? And it's so in this world; for I'm in love With a maiden of high degree; But I am only marked twenty-nine, And the other chap's sixty-three— And a girl never looks at twenty-nine With a possible sixty-three!

Fred Cape.



"Tommy"

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again, an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy go away"; But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.

I went into a theater as sober as could be, They give a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy wait outside"; But it's "Special train for Atkins," when the trooper's on the tide, The troopship's on the tide, my boys, etc.

O makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken sodgers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, etc.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints. While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy fall be'ind"; But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind. There's trouble in the wind, my boys, etc.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face, The Widow's uniform[1] is not the soldierman's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!" But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool—you bet that Tommy sees!

Rudyard Kipling.

[Footnote 1: "Widow's uniform"—i. e., uniform of a soldier of Queen Victoria, who was often affectionately called "the Widow of Windsor."]



The Mystic Weaver

The weaver at his loom is sitting, Throws his shuttle to and fro; Foot and treadle, Hand and pedal, Upward, downward, hither, thither, How the weaver makes them go: As the weaver wills they go. Up and down the web is plying, And across the woof is flying; What a rattling! What a battling! What a shuffling! What a scuffling! As the weaver makes his shuttle Hither, thither, scud and scuttle. Threads in single, threads in double; How they mingle, what a trouble! Every color, what profusion! Every motion, what confusion! While the web and woof are mingling, Signal bells above are jingling,— Telling how each figure ranges, Telling when the color changes, As the weaver makes his shuttle Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

The weaver at his loom is sitting, Throws his shuttle to and fro; 'Mid the noise and wild confusion, Well the weaver seems to know, As he makes his shuttle go, What each motion And commotion, What each fusion And confusion, In the grand result will show. Weaving daily, Singing gaily, As he makes his busy shuttle Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

The weaver at his loom is sitting, Throws his shuttle to and fro; See you not how shape and order From the wild confusion grow, As he makes his shuttle go?— As the web and woof diminish, Grows beyond the beauteous finish,— Tufted plaidings, Shapes, and shadings; All the mystery Now is history;— And we see the reason subtle, Why the weaver makes his shuttle Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

See the Mystic Weaver sitting High in heaven—His loom below; Up and down the treadles go; Takes for web the world's long ages, Takes for woof its kings and sages, Takes the nobles and their pages, Takes all stations and all stages,— Thrones are bobbins in His shuttle; Armies make them scud and scuttle; Web into the woof must flow, Up and down the nations go, As the weaver wills they go; Men are sparring, Powers are jarring, Upward, downward, hither, thither Just like puppets in a show. Up and down the web is plying, And across the woof is flying, What a battling! What a rattling! What a shuffling! What a scuffling! As the weaver makes his shuttle Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.

Calmly see the Mystic Weaver Throw His shuttle to and fro; 'Mid the noise and wild confusion. Well the Weaver seems to know What each motion And commotion, What each fusion And confusion, In the grand result will show, As the nations, Kings and stations, Upward, downward, hither, thither, As in mystic dances, go. In the present all is mystery; In the past, 'tis beauteous history. O'er the mixing and the mingling, How the signal bells are jingling! See you not the Weaver leaving Finished work behind, in weaving? See you not the reason subtle, As the web and woof diminish, Changing into beauteous finish, Why the Weaver makes his shuttle, Hither, thither, scud and scuttle?

Glorious wonder! what a weaving! To the dull beyond believing! Such, no fabled ages know. Only Faith can see the mystery, How, along the aisle of history Where the feet of sages go, Loveliest to the purest eyes, Grand the mystic tapet lies,— Soft and smooth, and even spreading Every figure has its plaidings, As if made for angels' treading; Tufted circles touching ever, Inwrought figures fading never; Brighter form and softer shadings; Each illumined,—what a riddle From a cross that gems the middle.

'Tis a saying—some reject it— That its light is all reflected; That the tapet's hues are given By a sun that shines in heaven! 'Tis believed, by all believing, That great God himself is weaving,— Bringing out the world's dark mystery, In the light of truth and history; And as web and woof diminish, Comes the grand and glorious finish; When begin the golden ages Long foretold by seers and sages.



The Mortgage on the Farm

'Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while, And when the world was light and gay, I could not even smile; It stood before me like a giant, outstretched its iron arm; No matter where I looked, I saw the mortgage on the farm.

I'll tell you how it happened, for I want the world to know How glad I am this winter day whilst earth is white with snow; I'm just as happy as a lark. No cause for rude alarm Confronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on the farm.

The children they were growing up and they were smart and trim. To some big college in the East we'd sent our youngest, Jim; And every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his screed He tacked some Latin fol-de-rol which none of us could read.

The girls they ran to music, and to painting, and to rhymes, They said the house was out of style and far behind the times; They suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep'm warm— Another step of course towards a mortgage on the farm.

We took a cranky notion, Hannah Jane and me one day, While we were coming home from town, a-talking all the way; The old house wasn't big enough for us, although for years Beneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's joys and tears.

We built it o'er and when 'twas done, I wish you could have seen it, It was a most tremendous thing—I really didn't mean it; Why, it was big enough to hold the people of the town And not one half as cosy as the old one we pulled down.

I bought a fine pianner and it shortened still the pile, But, then, it pleased the children and they banged it all the while; No matter what they played for me, their music had no charm, For every tune said plainly: "There's a mortgage on the farm!"

I worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often toils the slave To meet that grisly interest; I tried hard to be brave, And oft when I came home at night with tired brain and arm, The chickens hung their heads, they felt the mortgage on the farm.—

But we saved a penny now and then, we laid them in a row, The girls they played the same old tunes, and let the new ones go; And when from college came our Jim with laurels on his brow, I led him to the stumpy field and put him to the plow.

He something said in Latin which I didn't understand, But it did me good to see his plow turn up the dewy land; And when the year had ended and empty were the cribs, We found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow between the ribs.

To-day I harnessed up the team and thundered off to town, And in the lawyer's sight I planked the last bright dollar down; And when I trotted up the lanes a-feeling good and warm, The old red rooster crowed his best: "No mortgage on the farm!"

I'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for many a day, The skeleton that haunted us has passed fore'er away. The girls can play the brand-new tunes with no fears to alarm, And Jim can go to Congress, with no mortgage on the farm!



The Legend Beautiful

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" That is what the vision said.

In his chamber all alone, Kneeling on the floor of stone, Prayed the Monk in deep contrition For his sins of indecision, Prayed for greater self-denial In temptation and in trial; It was noonday by the dial, And the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lightened, An unwonted splendor brightened All within him and without him In that narrow cell of stone; And he saw the blessed vision Of our Lord, with light Elysian Like a vesture wrapped about Him, Like a garment round Him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain Not in agonies of pain, Not with bleeding hands and feet, Did the Monk his Master see; But as in the village street, In the house or harvest field, Halt and lame and blind He healed, When He walked in Galilee.

In as attitude imploring, Hands upon his bosom crossed, Wondering, worshiping, adoring, Knelt the Monk, in rapture lost, Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, Who am I that thus Thou deignest To reveal Thyself to me? Who am I, that from the center Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter This poor cell, my guest to be?

Then amid his exaltation, Loud the convent bell appalling, From its belfrey calling, calling, Rang through court and corridor With persistent iteration, He had never heard before. It was now the appointed hour When alike in shine or shower, Winter's cold or summer's heat, To the convent portals came All the blind and halt and lame, All the beggars of the street, For their daily dole of food Dealt them by the brotherhood;

And their almoner was he Who upon his bended knees Rapt in silent ecstasy Of divinest self-surrender, Saw the vision and the splendor.

Deep distress and hesitation Mingled with his adoration; Should he go, or should he stay? Should he leave the poor to wait Hungry at the convent gate, Till the vision passed away? Should he slight his radiant guest, Slight this visitant celestial For a crowd of ragged, bestial Beggars at the convent gate? Would the vision there remain? Would the vision come again? Then a voice within his breast Whispered audible and clear, As if to the outward ear: "Do thy duty; that is best; Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"

Straightway to his feet he started, And with longing look intent On the blessed vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close. And of feet that pass them by: Grown familiar with disfavor, Grown familiar with the savor Of the bread by which men die; But to-day, they knew not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent gate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine. In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see; And the inward voice was saying: "Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of mine and lowest, That thou doest unto me."

Unto me! but had the vision Come to him in beggar's clothing, Come a mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision, And have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Toward his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door, For the vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor. Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the blessed vision said: "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled."

Henry W. Longfellow.



Somebody's Darling

Into a ward of the whitewashed halls, Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody's Darling was borne one day—

Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave, Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold, Kissing the snow of the fair young brow, Pale are the lips of delicate mold— Somebody's Darling is dying now.

Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow Brush all the wandering waves of gold, Cross his hands on his bosom now— Somebody's Darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer both soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take— They were somebody's pride, you know.

Somebody's hand hath rested there— Was it a mother's, soft and white? And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their waves of light?

God knows best! he was somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above, Night and morn on the wings of prayer.

Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's waiting and watching for him— Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, child-like lips apart.

Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve in the wooden slab at his head, "Somebody's Darling slumbers here."

Maria La Coste.



The Pride of Battery B

South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay, And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay. At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan; At last the gunners pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns began. When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood. A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed, (Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.) And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head In grave salute. "And who are you?" at length the sergeant said. "And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me? Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery B. My home? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead; And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned. And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too; And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review. But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke, And so they're cross—why, even Ned won't play with me and joke. And the big colonel said to-day—I hate to hear him swear— He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had over there. And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still, I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 'Lone Jack.' Please do: when we get some again, I'll surely bring it back. Indeed I will, for Ned—says he,—if I do what I say, I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay."

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half. To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men, Until the sergeant's husky voice said,"'Tention squad!" and then We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid, And watched her toddle out of sight—or else 'twas tears that hid Her tiny form—nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word, Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard! We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around; A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound.

That's all—save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell, And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell, Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B.

Frank H. Gassaway.



The Wood-Box

It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide, And the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside, And the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear, Seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near. Flowered oilcloth tacked around it kept its cracks and knot-holes hid, And a pair of leather hinges fastened on the heavy lid, And it hadn't any bottom—or, at least, it seemed that way When you hurried in to fill it, so's to get outside and play.

When the noons was hot and lazy and the leaves hung dry and still, And the locust in the pear tree started up his planin'-mill, And the drum-beat of the breakers was a soothin', temptin' roll, And you knew the "gang" was waitin' by the brimmin' "swimmin' hole"— Louder than the locust's buzzin,' louder than the breakers' roar, You could hear the wood-box holler, "Come and fill me up once more!" And the old clock ticked and chuckled as you let each armful drop, Like it said, "Another minute, and you're nowheres near the top!"

In the chilly winter mornin's when the bed was snug and warm, And the frosted winders tinkled 'neath the fingers of the storm, And your breath rose off the piller in a smoky cloud of steam— Then that wood-box, grim and empty, came a-dancin' through your dream, Came and pounded at your conscience, screamed in aggravatin' glee, "Would you like to sleep this mornin'? You git up and 'tend to me!" Land! how plain it is this minute—shed and barn and drifted snow, And the slabs of oak a-waitin!, piled and ready, in a row.

Never was a fishin' frolic, never was a game of ball, But that mean, provokin' wood-box had to come and spoil it all; You might study at your lessons and 'twas full and full to stay, But jest start an Injun story, and 'twas empty right away. Seemed as if a spite was in it, and although I might forgit All the other chores that plagued me, I can hate that wood-box yit: And when I look back at boyhood—shakin' off the cares of men— Still it comes to spoil the picture, screamin', "Fill me up again!"

Joseph C. Lincoln.



Inasmuch

Good Deacon Roland—"may his tribe increase!"— Awoke one Sabbath morn feeling at peace With God and all mankind. His wants supplied, He read his Bible and then knelt beside The family altar, and uplifted there His voice to God in fervent praise and prayer; In praise for blessings past, so rich and free, And prayer for benedictions yet to be. Then on a stile, which spanned the dooryard fence, He sat him down complacently, and thence Surveyed with pride, o'er the far-reaching plain, His flocks and herds and fields of golden grain; His meadows waving like the billowy seas, And orchards filled with over-laden trees, Quoth he: "How vast the products of my lands; Abundance crowns the labor of my hands, Great is my substance; God indeed is good, Who doth in love provide my daily food."

While thus he sat in calm soliloquy, A voice aroused him from his reverie,— A childish voice from one whose shoeless feet Brought him unnoticed to the deacon's seat; "Please mister, I have eaten naught to-day; If I had money I would gladly pay For bread; but I am poor, and cannot buy My breakfast; mister, would you mind if I Should ask for something, just for what you call Cold pieces from your table, that is all?" The deacon listened to the child's request, The while his penetrating eye did rest On him whose tatters, trembling, quick revealed The agitation of the heart concealed Within the breast of one unskilled in ruse, Who asked not alms like one demanding dues. Then said the deacon: "I am not inclined To give encouragement to those who find It easier to beg for bread betimes, Than to expend their strength in earning dimes Wherewith to purchase it. A parent ought To furnish food for those whom he has brought Into this world, where each one has his share Of tribulation, sorrow, toil and care. I sympathize with you, my little lad, Your destitution makes me feel so sad; But, for the sake of those who should supply Your wants, I must your earnest plea deny; And inasmuch as giving food to you Would be providing for your parents, too, Thus fostering vagrancy and idleness, I cannot think such charity would bless Who gives or takes; and therefore I repeat, I cannot give you anything to eat." Before this "vasty deep" of logic stood The child nor found it satisfying food. Nor did he tell the tale he might have told Of parents slumbering in the grave's damp mould, But quickly shrank away to find relief In giving vent to his rekindled grief, While Deacon Roland soon forgot the appeal In meditating on his better weal.

Ere long the Sabbath bells their peals rang out To summon worshippers, with hearts devout, To wait on God and listen to His word; And then the deacon's pious heart was stirred; And in the house of God he soon was found Engaged in acts of worship most profound. Wearied, however, with his week-day care, He fell asleep before the parson's prayer Was ended; then he dreamed he died and came To heaven's grand portal, and announced his name: "I'm Deacon Roland, called from earth afar, To join the saints; please set the gates ajar, That I may 'join the everlasting song,' And mingle ever with the ransomed throng." Then lo! "a horror of great darkness" came Upon him, as he heard a voice exclaim: "Depart from me! you cannot enter here! I never knew you, for indeed, howe'er You may have wrought on earth, the sad, sad fact Remains, that life's sublimest, worthiest act—" The deacon woke to find it all a dream Just as the minister announced his theme: "My text," said he, "doth comfort only such As practice charity; for 'inasmuch As ye have done it to the least of these My little ones' saith He who holds the keys Of heaven, 'ye have done it unto me,' And I will give you immortality."

Straightway the deacon left his cushioned pew, And from the church in sudden haste withdrew, And up the highway ran, on love's swift feet To overtake the child of woe, and greet Him as the worthy representative Of Christ the Lord and to him freely give All needful good, that thus he might atone For the neglect which he before had shown. Thus journeying, God directed all his way, O'er hill and dale, to where the outcast lay Beside the road bemoaning his sad fate. And then the deacon said, "My child, 'tis late; Make haste and journey with me to my home; To guide you thither, I myself have come; And you shall have the food you asked in vain, For God himself hath made my duty plain; If he demand it, all I have is thine; Shrink not, but trust me; place thy hand in mine." And as they journeyed toward the deacon's home, The child related how he came to roam, Until the listening deacon understood The touching story of his orphanhood. Then, finding in the little waif a gem Worthy to deck the Saviour's diadem, He drew him to his loving breast, and said, "My child, you shall by me be clothed and fed; Nor shall you go from hence again to roam While God in love provides for us a home." And as the weeks and months roll on apace, The deacon held the lad in love's embrace; And being childless did on him confer The boon of sonship.

Thus the almoner Of God's great bounty to the destitute The deacon came to be; and as the fruit Of having learned to keep the golden rule His charity became all-bountiful; And from thenceforth he lived to benefit Mankind; and when in life's great book were writ Their names who heeded charity's request, Lo! Deacon Roland's "name led all the rest."

S.V.R. Ford.



No Sects in Heaven

Talking of sects quite late one eve, What one and another of saints believe, That night I stood in a troubled dream By the side of a darkly-flowing stream.

And a "churchman" down to the river came, When I heard a strange voice call his name, "Good father, stop; when you cross this tide You must leave your robes on the other side."

But the aged father did not mind, And his long gown floated out behind As down to the stream his way he took, His hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book.

"I'm bound for heaven, and when I'm there I shall want my book of Common Prayer, And though I put on a starry crown, I should feel quite lost without my gown."

Then he fixed his eye on the shining track, But his gown was heavy and held him back, And the poor old father tried in vain, A single step in the flood to gain.

I saw him again on the other side, But his silk gown floated on the tide, And no one asked, in that blissful spot, If he belonged to "the church" or not.

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed; His dress of a sober hue was made, "My hat and coat must be all of gray, I cannot go any other way."

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin And staidly, solemnly, waded in, And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight Over his forehead, so cold and white.

But a strong wind carried away his hat, And he sighed a few moments over that, And then, as he gazed to the farther shore The coat slipped off and was seen no more.

Poor, dying Quaker, thy suit of gray Is quietly sailing—away—away, But thou'lt go to heaven, as straight as an arrow, Whether thy brim be broad or narrow.

Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalms Tied nicely up in his aged arms, And hymns as many, a very wise thing, That the people in heaven, "all round," might sing.

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, As he saw that the river ran broad and high, And looked rather surprised, as one by one, The psalms and hymns in the wave went down.

And after him, with his MSS., Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness, But he cried, "Dear me, what shall I do? The water has soaked them through and through."

And there, on the river, far and wide, Away they went on the swollen tide, And the saint, astonished, passed through alone, Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.

Then gravely walking, two saints by name, Down to the stream together came, But as they stopped at the river's brink, I saw one saint from the other shrink.

"Sprinkled or plunged—may I ask you, friend, How you attained to life's great end?" "Thus, with a few drops on my brow"; "But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now.

"And I really think it will hardly do, As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you. You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss, But you must go that way, and I'll go this."

And straightway plunging with all his might, Away to the left—his friend at the right, Apart they went from this world of sin, But how did the brethren "enter in"?

And now where the river was rolling on, A Presbyterian church went down; Of women, there seemed an innumerable throng, But the men I could count as they passed along.

And concerning the road they could never agree, The old or the new way, which it could be; Nor ever a moment paused to think That both would lead to the river's brink.

And a sound of murmuring long and loud Came ever up from the moving crowd, "You're in the old way, and I'm in the new, That is the false, and this is the true": Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new, That is the false, and this is the true."

But the brethren only seemed to speak, Modest the sisters walked, and meek, And if ever one of them chanced to say What troubles she met with on the way, How she longed to pass to the other side, Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, A voice arose from the brethren then, "Let no one speak but the 'holy men,' For have ye not heard the words of Paul? 'Oh, let the women keep silence all.'"

I watched them long in my curious dream. Till they stood by the border of the stream, Then, just as I thought, the two ways met. But all the brethren were talking yet, And would talk on, till the heaving tide Carried them over, side by side; Side by side, for the way was one, The toilsome journey of life was done, And priest and Quaker, and all who died, Came out alike on the other side; No forms or crosses, or books had they, No gowns of silk, or suits of gray, No creeds to guide them, or MSS., For all had put on "Christ's righteousness."

Elizabeth H. Jocelyn Cleaveland.



The Railroad Crossing

I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick; But 'pears to me I got a most outlandish heavy lick: It broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked my arm 'most out. But take a seat: I'll try and tell jest how it kem about.

You see, I'd started down to town, with that 'ere team of mine, A-haulin' down a load o' corn to Ebenezer Kline, And drivin' slow; for, jest about a day or two before, The off-horse run a splinter in his foot, and made it sore.

You know the railroad cuts across the road at Martin's Hole: Well, thar I seed a great big sign, raised high upon a pole; I thought I'd stop and read the thing, and find out what it said, And so I stopped the hosses on the railroad-track, and read.

I ain't no scholar, rekollect, and so I had to spell, I started kinder cautious like, with R-A-I and L; And that spelt "rail" as clear as mud; R-O-A-D was "road." I lumped 'em: "railroad" was the word, and that 'ere much I knowed.

C-R-O and double S, with I-N-G to boot, Made "crossing" jest as plain as Noah Webster dared to do't. "Railroad crossing"—good enough!—L double-O-K, "look"; And I wos lookin' all the time, and spellin' like a book.

O-U-T spelt "out" just right; and there it was, "look out," I's kinder cur'us like, to know jest what't was all about; F-O-R and T-H-E; 'twas then "look out for the—" And then I tried the next word; it commenced with E-N-G.

I'd got that fur, when suddintly there came an awful whack; A thousand fiery thunderbolts just scooped me off the track; The hosses went to Davy Jones, the wagon went to smash, And I was histed seven yards above the tallest ash.

I didn't come to life ag'in fur 'bout a day or two; But, though I'm crippled up a heap, I sorter struggled through; It ain't the pain, nor 'taint the loss o' that 'ere team of mine; But, stranger, how I'd like to know the rest of that 'ere sign!

Hezekiah Strong.



The Sunset City

I

Turn back the leaves of history. On yon Pacific shore A world-known city's fall and rise shall thrill your hearts once more. 'Twas April; nineteen-six the year; old San Francisco lay Effulgent in the splendor of the dying orb of day That bathed in flood of crimson light Mount Tamalpais' lonely height And kissed the sister towns "goodnight" across the misty bay.

It burst in glory on the hills, lit up the princely homes, And gleamed from lofty towers and spires and flashed from gilded domes; It glorified the massive blocks caught in its widening flow, Engulfed the maze of streets and parks that stretched away below, Till marble white and foliage green and vales of gray, and silvery sheen Of ocean's surface vast, serene, were tinted by its glow.

The tranquil murmurs of the deep were borne on balmy air All odorous with lily breath and roses sweet and rare. The zephyrs sang a lullaby as the slow, fiery ball Ended its trail of gorgeousness behind horizon's wall. Then gray absorbed each rainbow hue and dark the beauteous landscape grew As shadowy Evening softly drew her curtain over all.

II

That night around the festal board, 'mid incandescence gay, Sat Pomp and Pride and Wealth and Power, in sumptuous array, That night the happy, careless throng were all on pleasure bent, And Beauty in her jewelled robes to ball and opera went. 'Mid feasting, laughter, song and jest; by music's soothing tones caressed; The Sunset City sank to rest in peace, secure, content.

III

Unconscious of approaching doom, old San Francisco sleeps While from the east, all smilingly, the April morning creeps. See! Playful sunbeams tinge with gold the mountains in the sky, And hazy clouds of gray unfold—but, hark! What means that cry? The ground vibrates with sadden shock. The buildings tremble, groan and rock. Wild fears the waking senses mock, and some wake but to die.

A frightful subterranean force the earth's foundation shakes; The city quivers in the throes of fierce, successive quakes, And massive structures thrill like giant oaks before the blast; Into the streets with deafening crash the frailer ones are cast. Half garbed, the multitude rush out in frantic haste, with prayer and shout, To join the panic stricken rout. Ho! DEATH is marching past.

A rumbling noise! The streets upheave, and sink again, like waves; And shattered piles and shapeless wrecks are strewn with human graves. Danger at every corner lurks. Destruction fills the air. Death-laden showers of mortar, bricks, are falling everywhere.

IV

"Fire! Fire!" And lo! the dread fiend starts. Mothers with babes clasped to their hearts Are struggling for the open parts in frenzy of despair.

A hundred tiny tongues of flame forth from the ruins burst. No water! God! what shall we do to slake their quenchless thirst? The shocks have broken all the mains! "Use wine!" the people cry. The red flames laugh like drunken fiends; they stagger as to die, Then up again in fury spring, on high their crimson draperies fling; From block to block they leap and swing, and smoke clouds hide the sky.

Ha! from the famed Presidio that guards the Golden Gate Come Funston and his regulars to match their strength with Fate. The soldiers and the citizens are fighting side by side To check that onslaught of red wrath, to stem destruction's tide. With roar, and boom, and blare, and blast, an open space is cleared at last. The fiends of fury gallop past with flanks outstretched and wide;

Around the city's storehouses they wreathe and twine and dance, And wealth and splendor shrivel up before their swift advance. Before their devastating breath the stricken people flee. "Mine, mine your treasures are!" cried Death, and laughs in fiendish glee. Into that vortex of red hell sink church and theatre, store, hotel. With thunderous roar and hissing yell on sweeps the crimson sea.

Again with charge of dynamite the lurid clouds are riven; Again with heat and sulphur smoke the troops are backward driven. All day, all night, all day again, with that infernal host They strive in vain for mastery. Each vantage gained is lost,— On comes the bellowing flood of flame in furious wrath its own to claim; Resistless in its awful aim each space is bridged and crossed.

Ah God! the miles and miles of waste! One half the city gone! And westward now—toward Van Ness—the roaring flames roll on. "Blow up that mile of palaces!" It is the last command, And there, at broad Van Ness, the troops make their heroic stand. The fight is now for life—sweet life, for helpless babe and homeless wife— The culmination of the strife spectacularly grand.

On sweeps the hurricane of fire. The fatal touch is given. The detonation of the blast goes shrieking up to heaven. The mansions of bonanza kings are tottering to their doom; That swirling tide of fiery fate halts at the gaping tomb. Beyond the cataclysm's brink, the multitude, too dazed to think, Behold the red waves rise and—sink into the smoldering gloom.

V

The fire has swept the waterfront and burned the Mission down, The business section—swallowed up, and wiped out Chinatown— Full thirty thousand homes destroyed, Nob Hill in ashes lies, And ghastly skeletons of steel on Market Street arise. A gruesome picture everywhere! 'Tis desolation grim and bare Waits artisan and millionaire beneath rank sulphurous skies.

To-night, within the city parks, famished, benumbed and mute, Two hundred thousand refugees, homeless and destitute! Upon the hard, cold ground they crouch—the wrecks of Pomp and Pride; Milady and the city waifs are huddled side by side. And there, 'neath shelter rude and frail, we hear the new-born infants wail, While' nations read the tragic tale—how San Francisco died.

VI

PROPHECY—1906

Not dead! Though maimed, her Soul yet lives—indomitable will— The Faith, the Hope, the Spirit bold nor quake nor fire can kill. To-morrow hearts shall throb again with western enterprise, And from the ruins of to-day a city shall arise— A monument of beauty great reared by the Conquerors of Fate— The City of the Golden Gate and matchless sunset skies!

VII

FULFILLMENT—1915

Reborn, rebuilt, she rose again, far vaster in expanse— A radiant city smiling from the ashes of romance! A San Francisco glorified, more beauteous than of yore, Enthroned upon her splendid hills, queen of the sunset shore; Her flags of industry unfurled, her portals open to the world! Thus, in the Book of Destiny, she lives for evermore.

Isabel Ambler Gilman.



Autumn

A DIRGE

The autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gathered up gold, And now he is dying: Old age, begin sighing!

The vintage is ripe; The harvest is heaping; But some that have sowed Have no riches for reaping:— Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!

The year's in the wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning.

The rivers run chill; The red sun is sinking; And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking; Here's enow for sad thinking!

Thomas Hood.



Grandmother's Quilt

Why, yes, dear, we can put it by. It does seem out of place On top of these down comforts and this spread of silk and lace, You see, I'm used to having it lie so, across my feet, But maybe I won't need it here, with this nice furnace heat; I made it? Yes, dear, long ago. 'Twas lots of work, you think? Oh, not so much. My rose quilt, now, all white and green and pink, Is really handsome. This is just a plain, log cabin block, Pieced out of odds and ends; but still—now that's your papa's frock Before he walked, and this bit here is his first little suit. I trimmed it up with silver braid. My, but he did look cute! That red there in the centers, was your Aunt Ruth's for her name, Her grandmother almost clothed the child, before the others came. Those plaids? The younger girls', they were. I dressed them just alike. And this was baby Winnie's sack—the precious little tyke! Ma wore this gown to visit me (they drove the whole way then). And little Edson wore this waist. He never came again. This lavender par'matta was your Great-aunt Jane's—poor dear! Mine was a sprig, with the lilac ground; see, in the corner here. Such goods were high in war times. Ah, that scrap of army blue; Your bright eyes spied it! Yes, dear child, that has its memories, too. They sent him home on furlough once—our soldier brother Ned; But somewhere, now, the dear boy sleeps among the unknown dead. That flowered patch? Well, now, to think you'd pick that from the rest! Why, dearie—yes, it's satin ribbed—that's grandpa's wedding vest! Just odds and ends! no great for looks. My rose quilt's nicer, far, Or the one in basket pattern, or the double-pointed star. But, somehow—What! We'll leave it here? The bed won't look so neat, But I think I would sleep better with it so, across my feet.



The Two Angels

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, Passed o'er our village as the morning broke; The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke.

Their attitude and aspect were the same, Alike their features and their robes of white; But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.

I saw them pause on their celestial way; Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, "Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy beloved are at rest!"

And he who wore the crown of asphodels, Descending, at my door began to knock, And my soul sank within me, as in wells The waters sink before an earthquake's shock.

I recognized the nameless agony, The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled or haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again.

The door I opened to my heavenly guest, And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice; And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice.

Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, "My errand is not Death, but Life," he said; And ere I answered, passing out of sight, On his celestial embassy he sped.

'Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, The angel with the amaranthine wreath, Pausing, descended, and with, voice divine, Whispered a word that had a sound like Death.

Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features fair and thin; And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, Two angels issued, where but one went in.

All is of God! If he but waves his hand, The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud.

Angels of Life and Death alike are his; Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against his messengers to shut the door?

Henry W. Longfellow.



The Witch's Daughter

It was the pleasant harvest-time, When cellar-bins are closely stowed, And garrets bend beneath their load, And the old swallow-haunted barns— Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams Through which the moted sunlight streams—

And winds blow freshly in, to shake The red plumes of the roosted cocks, And the loose hay-mow's scented locks— Are filled with summer's ripened stores, Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, From their low scaffolds to their eaves.

On Esek Harden's oaken floor, With many an autumn threshing worn, Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. And thither came young men and maids, Beneath a moon that, large and low, Lit that sweet eve of long ago, They took their places; some by chance, And others by a merry voice Or sweet smile guided to their choice.

How pleasantly the rising moon, Between the shadow of the mows, Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!— On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, On girlhood with its solid curves Of healthful strength and painless nerves! And jests went round, and laughs that made The house-dog answer with his howl, And kept astir the barn-yard fowl.

And quaint old songs their fathers sung, In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, Ere Norman William trod their shores; And tales, whose merry license shook The fat sides of the Saxon thane, Forgetful of the hovering Dane!

But still the sweetest voice was mute That river-valley ever heard From lip of maid or throat of bird; For Mabel Martin sat apart, And let the hay-mow's shadow 'fall Upon the loveliest face of all. She sat apart, as one forbid, Who knew that none would condescend To own the Witch-wife's child a friend.

The seasons scarce had gone their round, Since curious thousands thronged to see Her mother on the gallows-tree; And mocked the palsied limbs of age, That faltered on the fatal stairs, And wan lip trembling with its prayers!

Few questioned of the sorrowing child, Or, when they saw the mother die, Dreamed of the daughter's agony. They went up to their homes that day, As men and Christians justified: God willed it, and the wretch had died!

Dear God and Father of us all, Forgive our faith in cruel lies,— Forgive the blindness that denies! Forgive Thy creature when he takes, For the all-perfect love Thou art, Some grim creation of his heart. Cast down our idols, overturn Our bloody altars; let us see Thyself in Thy humanity!

Poor Mabel from her mother's grave Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, And wrestled with her fate alone; With love, and anger, and despair, The phantoms of disordered sense, The awful doubts of Providence! The school-boys jeered her as they passed, And, when she sought the house of prayer, Her mother's curse pursued her there. And still o'er many a neighboring door She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, To guard against her mother's harm;—

That mother, poor, and sick, and lame, Who daily, by the old arm-chair, Folded her withered hands in prayer;— Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, When her dim eyes could read no more!

Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept Her faith, and trusted that her way, So dark, would somewhere meet the day. And still her weary wheel went round, Day after day, with no relief: Small leisure have the poor for grief.

So in the shadow Mabel sits; Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, Her smile is sadder than her tears. But cruel eyes have found her out, And cruel lips repeat her name, And taunt her with her mother's shame.

She answered not with railing words, But drew her apron o'er her face, And, sobbing, glided from the place. And only pausing at the door, Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze Of one who, in her better days, Had been her warm and steady friend, Ere yet her mother's doom had made Even Esek Harden half afraid.

He felt that mute appeal of tears, And, starting, with an angry frown Hushed all the wicked murmurs down, "Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, "This passes harmless mirth or jest; I brook no insult to my guest.

"She is indeed her mother's child; But God's sweet pity ministers Unto no whiter soul than hers. Let Goody Martin rest in peace; I never knew her harm a fly, And witch or not, God knows,—not I. I know who swore her life away; And, as God lives, I'd not condemn An Indian dog on word of them."

Poor Mabel, in her lonely home, Sat by the window's narrow pane, White in the moonlight's silver rain. The river, on its pebbled rim, Made music such as childhood knew; The door-yard tree was whispered through By voices such as childhood's ear Had heard in moonlights long ago; And through the willow boughs below She saw the rippled waters shine; Beyond, in waves of shade and light The hills rolled off into the night.

Sweet sounds and pictures mocking so The sadness of her human lot, She saw and heard, but heeded not. She strove to drown her sense of wrong, And, in her old and simple way, To teach, her bitter heart to pray.

Poor child! the prayer, began in faith, Grew to a low, despairing cry Of utter misery: "Let me die! Oh! take me from the scornful eyes, And hide me where the cruel speech And mocking finger may not reach!

"I dare not breathe my mother's name; A daughter's right I dare not crave To weep above her unblest grave! Let me not live until my heart, With few to pity, and with none To love me, hardens into stone. O God! have mercy on thy child, Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small, And take me ere I lose it all."

The broadest lands in all the town, The skill to guide, the power to awe, Were Harden's; and his word was law. None dared withstand him to his face, But one sly maiden spake aside: "The little witch is evil-eyed! Her mother only killed a cow, Or witched a churn or dairy-pan; But she, forsooth, must charm a man!"

A shadow on the moonlight fell, And murmuring wind and wave became A voice whose burden was her name. Had then God heard her? Had he sent His angel down? In flesh and blood, Before her Esek Harden stood!

He laid his hand upon her arm: "Dear Mabel, this no more shall be; Who scoffs at you, must scoff at me. You know rough Esek Harden well; And if he seems no suitor gay, And if his hair is mixed with gray, The maiden grown shall never find His heart less warm than when she smiled Upon his knees, a little child!"

Her tears of grief were tears of joy, As folded in his strong embrace, She looked in Esek Harden's face. "O truest friend of all!" she said, "God bless you for your kindly thought, And make me worthy of my lot!"

He led her through his dewy fields, To where the swinging lanterns glowed, And through the doors the huskers showed. "Good friends and neighbors!" Esek said, "I'm weary of this lonely life; In Mabel see my chosen wife!

"She greets you kindly, one and all: The past is past, and all offence Falls harmless from her innocence. Henceforth she stands no more alone; You know what Esek Harden is;— He brooks no wrong to him or his."

Now let the merriest tales be told, And let the sweetest songs be sung, That ever made the old heart young! For now the lost has found a home; And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, As all the household joys return!

Oh, pleasantly the harvest moon, Between the shadow of the mows, Looked on them through the great elm-boughs! On Mabel's curls of golden hair, On Esek's shaggy strength it fell; And the wind whispered, "It is well!"

John G. Whittier.



David's Lament for Absalom

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem; and now he stood With his faint people for a little rest Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now.

They gathered round him on the fresh green bank And spoke their kindly words, and as the sun Rose up in heaven he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh! when the heart is full—where bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy,— Are such a mockery—how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! He prayed for Israel—and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those Whose love had been his shield—and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom, For his estranged, misguided Absalom— The proud, bright being who had burst away In all his princely beauty to defy The heart that cherished him—for him he prayed, In agony that would not be controll'd, Strong supplication, and forgave him there Before his God for his deep sinfulness.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave, and as the folds Sank to their still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom, The mighty Joab stood beside the bier And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang, but the bent form Of David entered; and he gave command In a low tone to his few followers, And left him with the dead.

The King stood still Till the last echo died; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child. He bowed his head upon him and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe:

"Alas! my noble boy; that thou shouldst die! Thou who were made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill Like a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'my father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee! I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;— But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!— And thy dark sin! Oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer, And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently—and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

N.P. Willis.



Christmas Day in the Workhouse

It is Christmas day in the workhouse, And the cold bare walls are bright With garlands of green and holly, And the place is a pleasant sight: For with clean-washed hands and faces, In a long and hungry line The paupers sit at the tables, For this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies, Although the wind is east, Have come in their furs and wrappers To watch their charges feast; To smile and be condescending, Put pudding on pauper plates, To be hosts at the workhouse banquet They've paid for—with the rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's"; So long as they fill their stomachs, What matter whence it comes? But one of the old men mutters, And pushes his plate aside: "Great God!" he cries; "but it chokes me; For this is the day she died."

The guardians gazed in horror, The master's face went white: "Did a pauper refuse their pudding?" "Could their ears believe aright?" Then the ladies clutched their husbands Thinking the man would die, Struck by a bolt, or something, By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment, Then rose 'mid a silence grim, For the others had ceased to chatter, And trembled in every limb. He looked at the guardians' ladies, Then, eyeing their lords, he said: "I eat not the food of villains Whose hands are foul and red,

"Whose victims cry for vengeance From their dark unhallowed graves." "He's drunk!" said the workhouse master, "Or else he's mad, and raves." "Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper, "But only a hunted beast, Who, torn by the hounds and mangled, Declines the vulture's feast.

"I care not a curse for the guardians, And I won't be dragged away. Just let me have the fit out, It's only on Christmas day That the black past comes to goad me, And prey on my burning brain, I'll tell you the rest in a whisper,— I swear I won't shout again,

"Keep your hands off me, curse you! Hear me right out to the end, You come here to see how paupers The season of Christmas spend. You come here to watch us feeding, As they watch the captured beast, Hear why a penniless pauper Spits on your palfry feast.

"Do you think I will take your bounty, And let you smile and think You're doing a noble action With the parish's meat and drink? Where is my wife, you traitors— The poor old wife you slew? Yes, by the God above us, My Nance was killed by you!

"Last winter my wife lay dying, Starved in a filthy den; I had never been to the parish,— I came to the parish then. I swallowed my pride in coming, For, ere the ruin came. I held up my head as a trader, And I bore a spotless name.

"I came to the parish, craving Bread for a starving wife, Bread for the woman who'd loved me Through fifty years of life; And what do you think they told me, Mocking my awful grief? That 'the House' was open to us, But they wouldn't give 'out relief.'

"I slunk to the filthy alley— 'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve— And the bakers' shops were open, Tempting a man to thieve: But I clenched my fists together, Holding my head awry, So I came to her empty-handed And mournfully told her why.

"Then I told her 'the House' was open; She had heard of the ways of that, For her bloodless cheeks went crimson, And up in her rags she sat, Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John, We've never had one apart; I think I can bear the hunger,— The other would break my heart.'