"All through that eve I watched her, Holding her hand in mine, Praying the Lord, and weeping Till my lips were salt as brine. I asked her once if she hungered, And as she answered 'No,' The moon shone in at the window Set in a wreath of snow.

"Then the room was bathed in glory, And I saw in my darling's eyes The far-away look of wonder That comes when the spirit flies; And her lips were parched and parted, And her reason came and went, For she raved of our home in Devon Where our happiest years were spent.

"And the accents, long forgotten, Came back to the tongue once more, For she talked like the country lassie I woo'd by the Devon shore. Then she rose to her feet and trembled, And fell on the rags and moaned, And, 'Give me a crust—I'm famished— For the love of God!' she groaned.

"I rushed from the room like a madman, And flew to the workhouse gate, Crying 'Food for a dying woman?' And the answer came, 'Too late.' They drove me away with curses; Then I fought with a dog in the street, And tore from the mongrel's clutches A crust he was trying to eat.

"Back, through the filthy by-lanes! Back, through the trampled slush! Up to the crazy garret, Wrapped in an awful hush. My heart sank down at the threshold, And I paused with a sudden thrill, For there in the silv'ry moonlight My Nance lay, cold and still.

"Up to the blackened ceiling The sunken eyes were cast— I knew on those lips all bloodless My name had been the last: She'd called for her absent husband— O God! had I but known!— Had called in vain, and in anguish Had died in that den—alone.

"Yes, there, in a land of plenty, Lay a loving woman dead, Cruelly starved and murdered For a loaf of the parish bread. At yonder gate, last Christmas, I craved for a human life. You, who would feast us paupers, What of my murdered wife!

* * * * *

"There, get ye gone to you dinners; Don't mind me in the least; Think of the happy paupers Eating your Christmas feast; And when you recount their blessings In your snug, parochial way, Say what you did for me, too, Only last Christmas Day."

George R. Sims.



Our Presidents—A Memory Rhyme

First on the list is Washington, Virginia's proudest name; John Adams next, the Federalist, from Massachusetts came; Three sons of old Virginia into the White House go— 'Twas Jefferson, and Madison, and then came James Monroe.

Massachusetts for one term sent Adams called John Q., And Tennessee a Democrat, brave Jackson staunch and true. Martin Van Buren of New York, and Harrison we see, And Tyler of Virginia, and Polk of Tennessee.

Louisiana Taylor sent; New York Millard Fillmore; New Hampshire gave us Franklin Pierce; when his term was o'er The keystone state Buchanan sent. War thunders shook the realm Abe Lincoln wore a martyr's crown, and Johnson took the helm.

Then U.S. Grant of Illinois who ruled with sword and pen; And Hayes, and Garfield who was shot, two noble Buckeye men. Chester Arthur from New York, and Grover Cleveland came; Ben Harrison served just four years, then Cleveland ruled again.

McKinley—shot at Buffalo—the nation plunged in grief, And "Teddy" Roosevelt of New York served seven years as chief. Taft of Ohio followed him. Then Woodrow Wilson came— New Jersey's learned Democrat; war set the world aflame;

And when the tide of strife and hate its baneful course had run, The country went Republican and Warren Harding won. No duty would he shirk,—he died while on a western trip; Coolidge of Massachusetts then assumed the leadership.

Isabel Ambler Gilman.



Annie and Willie's Prayer

'Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good night" had been said, And Annie and Willie had crept into bed; There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes, And each little bosom was heaving with sighs, For to-night their stern father's command had been given That they should retire precisely at seven Instead of at eight; for they troubled him more With questions unheard of than ever before; He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, No such being as Santa Claus ever had been, And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear How he scrambled down chimneys with presents, each year, And this was the reason that two little heads So restlessly tossed on their soft downy beds.

Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten; Not a word had been spoken by either till then; When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, And whispered, "Dear Annie, is oo fast asleep?" "Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies, "I've tried it in vain, but I can't shut my eyes; For somehow, it makes me so sorry because Dear papa has said there is no Santa Claus; Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, For he came every year before mamma died; But then I've been thinking that she used to pray, And God would hear everything mamma would say; And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Claus here With the sacks full of presents he brought every year." "Well, why tant we pray dest as mamma did then, And ask Him to send him with presents aden?" "I've been thinking so, too," and, without a word more, Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, And four little knees the soft carpet pressed, And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. "Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive; You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,' And by that you will know that your turn has come then. Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me. And grant as the favor we are asking of Thee! I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring. Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see That Santa Claus loves us far better than he; Don't let him get fretful and angry again At dear brother Willie, and Annie, Amen!" "Peas Desus 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night, And bing us some pesents before it is 'ight; I want he should div me a nice ittle sed, With bight, shiny unners, and all painted yed; A box full of tandy, a book and a toy— Amen—and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy." Their prayers being ended they raised up their heads, And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds; They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep, And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.

Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten Ere the father had thought of his children again; He seems now to hear Annie's half suppressed sighs, And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. "I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, "And should not have sent them so early to bed; But then I was troubled,—my feelings found vent, For bank-stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this, And that I denied them the thrice asked-for kiss; But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door, For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." So saying, he softly ascended the stairs, And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers. His Annie's "bless papa" draws forth the big tears, And Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. "Strange, strange I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh, "How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh. I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, "By answering their prayers, ere I sleep in my bed."

Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down, Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown; Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street, A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet, Nor stopped he until he had bought everything, From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring. Indeed he kept adding so much to his store That the various presents outnumbered a score; Then homeward he turned with his holiday load And with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery 'twas stowed. Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine-tree, By the side of a table spread out for a tea; A work-box well filled in the centre was laid, And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed; A soldier in uniform stood by a sled With bright shining runners, and all painted red; There were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see, And birds of all colors—were perched in the tree, While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top, As if getting ready more presents to drop. And as the fond father the picture surveyed, He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid; And he said to himself as he brushed off a tear, "I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year, I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before— What care I if bank-stocks fall ten per cent more. Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe, To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas eve." So thinking he gently extinguished the light, And tripped down the stairs to retire for the night.

As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun Put the darkness to flight, and the stars, one by one, Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, And at the same moment the presents espied; Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found; They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee, And shouted for papa to come quick and see What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night (Just the things that they wanted) and left before light; "And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low, "You'll believe there's a Santa, Clans, papa, I know"; While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, Determined no secret between them should be, And told in soft whispers how Annie had said That their blessed mamma, so long ago dead, Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair, And that God, up in heaven, had answered her prayer! "Then we dot up, and payed dust as well as we tould, And Dod answered our payers; now wasn't he dood?"

"I should say that he was if he sent you all these, And knew just what presents my children would please. Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, 'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself."

Blind father! who caused your proud heart to relent, And the hasty word spoken so soon to repent? 'Twas the Being who made you steal softly upstairs, And made you His agent to answer their prayers.

Sophia P. Snow.



Trailing Arbutus

I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made Against the bitter East their barricade, And, guided by its sweet Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell, The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.

From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines Lifted their glad surprise, While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze, And snow-drifts lingered under April skies.

As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent, I thought of lives thus lowly clogged and pent, Which yet find room, Through care and cumber, coldness and decay, To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.

J.G. Whittier.



When the Light Goes Out

Tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light, An' it never seems ter flicker, but it's allers shinin' bright; Tho' it sheds its rays unbroken for a thousand happy days— Father Time is ever turnin' down the wick that feeds yer blaze. So it clearly is yer duty ef you've got a thing to do Ter put yer shoulder to ther wheel an' try to push her through; Ef yer upon a wayward track you better turn about— You've lost ther chance to do it When the Light Goes Out.

Speak kindly to the woman who is working fer yer praise, Ther same way as you used ter in those happy courtin' days; She likes appreciation just the same ez me an' you, And it's only right and proper that yer give her what is due. Don't wait until her lamp o' life is burnin' dim an' low, Afore you tell her what you orter told her long ago— Now's ther time ter cheer her up an' put her blues to rout— You've lost ther chance to do it When the Light Goes Out.

Don't keep a-puttin' matters off an' settin' dates ahead— To-morrow's sun'll find a hundred thousand of us dead; Don't think because yer feelin well you won't be sick no more— Sometimes the reddest pippin has a worm-hole to the core. Don't let a killin' habit grow upon you soft and still Because you think thet you ken throw it from you at your will— Now's ther time ter quit it when yer feelin' brave an' stout— You've lost ther chance to do it When the Light Goes Out.

I'd rather die with nothin' then ter hev ther people say That I had got my money in a robbin', graspin' way; No words above my restin' place from any tongue or pen Would hev a deeper meanin' than "He helped his fellow-men." So ef you hev a fortune and you want to help the poor, Don't keep a-stavin' off until yon get a little more; Ef yer upon a miser's track you better turn about— Yer record keeps on burnin' When the Light Goes Out.

Harry S. Chester.



Prayer and Potatoes

An old lady sat in her old arm-chair, With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair, And pale and hunger-worn features; For days and for weeks her only fare, As she sat there in her old arm-chair, Had been potatoes.

But now they were gone; of bad or good. Not one was left for the old lady's food Of those potatoes; And she sighed and said, "What shall I do? Where shall I send, and to whom shall I go For more potatoes?"

And she thought of the deacon over the way, The deacon so ready to worship and pray, Whose cellar was full of potatoes; And she said: "I will send for the deacon to come; He'll not mind much to give me some Of such a store of potatoes."

And the deacon came over as fast as he could, Thinking to do the old lady some good, But never thought of potatoes; He asked her at once what was her chief want, And she, simple soul, expecting a grant, Immediately answered, "Potatoes."

But the deacon's religion didn't lie that way; He was more accustomed to preach and pray Than to give of his hoarded potatoes; So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said, He rose to pray with uncovered head, But she only thought of potatoes.

He prayed for patience, and wisdom, and grace, But when he prayed, "Lord, give her peace," She audibly sighed "Give potatoes"; And at the end of each prayer which he said, He heard, or thought that he heard in its stead, The same request for potatoes.

The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do; 'Twas very embarrassing to have her act so About "those carnal potatoes." So, ending his prayer, he started for home; As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan, "Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"

And that groan followed him all the way home; In the midst of the night it haunted his room— "Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!" He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed; From his well-filled cellar taking in haste A bag of his best potatoes.

Again he went to the widow's lone hut; Her sleepless eyes she had not shut; But there she sat in that old arm-chair, With the same wan features, the same sad air, And, entering in, he poured on the floor A bushel or more from his goodly store Of choicest potatoes.

The widow's cup was running o'er, Her face was haggard and wan no more. "Now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?" "Yes," said the widow, "now you may." And he kneeled him down on the sanded floor, Where he had poured his goodly store, And such a prayer the deacon prayed As never before his lips essayed; No longer embarrassed, but free and full, He poured out the voice of a liberal soul, And the widow responded aloud "Amen!" But spake no more of potatoes.

And would you, who hear this simple tale, Pray for the poor, and praying, "prevail"? Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds; Search out the poor, their wants and their needs; Pray for peace, and grace, and spiritual food, For wisdom and guidance,-for all these are good,— But don't forget the potatoes.

J.T. Pettee.



The Parts of Speech

Three little words you often see Are articles a, an, and the. A noun's the name of anything, As house or garden, hoop or swing. Instead of nouns the pronouns stand— Her head, your face, his arm, my hand. Adjectives tell the kind of noun, As great, small, pretty, white or brown. Verbs tell something to be done— To read, count, sing, laugh or run. How things are done the adverbs tell, As slowly, quickly, ill or well. Conjunctions join the words together, As men and women, wind or weather. The preposition stands before A noun, as in or through a door. The interjection shows surprise, As oh! how pretty, ah! how wise. The whole are called nine parts of speech, Which reading, writing, speaking teach.



A New Leaf

He came to my desk with, quivering lip— The lesson was done. "Dear Teacher, I want a new leaf," he said, "I have spoiled this one." I took the old leaf, stained and blotted, And gave him a new one all unspotted, And into his sad eyes smiled, "Do better, now, my child."

I went to the throne with a quivering soul— The old year was done. "Dear Father, hast Thou a new leaf for me? I have spoiled this one." He took the old leaf, stained and blotted, And gave me a new one all unspotted, And into my sad heart smiled, "Do better, now, my child."

Carrie Shaw Rice.



The Boy With the Hoe

How are you hoeing your row, my boy? Say, how are you hoeing your row? Do you hoe it fair? Do you hoe it square? Do you hoe it the best that you know? Do you cut out the weeds as you ought to do? Do you plant what is beautiful there? For the harvest, you know, Will be just what you sow; Are you working it on the square?

Say, are you killing the weeds, my boy? Are you hoeing your row neat and clean? Are you going straight At a hustling gait? Are you cutting out all that is mean? Do you whistle and sing as you toil along? Are you finding your work a delight? If you do it this way You will gladden the day, And your row will be tended right.

Hoeing your row with a will, my boy, And giving it thought and care, Will insure success And your efforts bless, As the crop to the garner you bear; For the world will look on as you hoe your row, And will judge you by that which you do; Therefore, try for first prize, Though your utmost it tries, For the harvest depends on you.

T.B. Weaver.



Our Flag

Fling it from mast and steeple, Symbol o'er land and sea Of the life of a happy people, Gallant and strong and free. Proudly we view its colors, Flag of the brave and true, With the clustered stars and the steadfast bars, The red, the white, and the blue.

Flag of the fearless-hearted, Flag of the broken chain, Flag in a day-dawn started, Never to pale or wane. Dearly we prize its colors, With the heaven light breaking through, The clustered stars and the steadfast bars, The red, the white, and the blue.

Flag of the sturdy fathers, Flag of the loyal sons, Beneath its folds it gathers Earth's best and noblest ones. Boldly we wave its colors, Our veins are thrilled anew By the steadfast bars, the clustered stars, The red, the white, and the blue.

Margaret E. Sangster.



The Little Fir-Trees

Hey! little evergreens, Sturdy and strong, Summer and autumn-time Hasten along. Harvest the sunbeams, then, Bind them in sheaves, Range them and change them To tufts of green leaves. Delve in the mellow-mold, Far, far below. And so, Little evergreens, grow! Grow! Grow! Grow, little evergreens, grow!

Up, up so airily, To the blue sky, Lift up your leafy tips Stately and high; Clasp tight your tiny cones, Tawny and brown, By and by buffeting Rains will pelt down. By and by bitterly Chill winds will blow, And so, Little evergreens, grow! Grow! Grow! Grow, little evergreens, grow!

Gather all uttermost Beauty, because,— Hark, till I tell it now! How Santa Claus, Out of the northern land, Over the seas, Soon shall come seeking you, Evergreen trees! Seek you with reindeer soon, Over the snow: And so, Little evergreens, grow! Grow! Grow! Grow, little evergreens, grow!

What if the maple flare Flaunting and red, You shall wear waxen white Taper instead. What if now, otherwhere, Birds are beguiled, You shall yet nestle The little Christ-Child. Ah! the strange splendor The fir-trees shall know! And so, Little evergreens, grow! Grow! Grow! Grow, little evergreens, grow!

Evaleen Stein.



He Worried About It

The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more— And he worried about it. It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before— And he worried about it. It will surely give out, so the scientists said In all scientifical books he had read, And the whole boundless universe then will be dead— And he worried about it.

And some day the earth will fall into the sun— And he worried about it— Just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun— And he worried about it. When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps, "Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse! It will come in a few million ages, perhaps"— And he worried about it.

And the earth will become much too small for the race— And he worried about it— When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space— And he worried about it. The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt, That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out, Nor room for one's thought to wander about— And he worried about it.

And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torrider— And he worried about it— Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida— And he worried about it. Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens, And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines, And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans— And he worried about it.

And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt— And he worried about it— Our supply of lumber and coal will give out— And he worried about it. Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw, Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe, As if vainly beseeching a general thaw— And he worried about it.

His wife took in washing—half a dollar a day— He didn't worry about it— His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay— He didn't worry about it. While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub, He sat by the stoves and he just let her rub— He didn't worry about it.

Sam Walter Foss.



The President

No gilt or tinsel taints the dress Of him who holds the natal power, No weighty helmet's fastenings press On brow that shares Columbia's dower, No blaring trumpets mark the step Of him with mind on peace intent, And so—HATS OFF! Here comes the State, A modest King: THE PRESIDENT.

No cavalcade with galloping squads Surrounds this man, whose mind controls The actions of the million minds Whose hearts the starry banner folds; Instead, in simple garb he rides, The King to whom grim Fate has lent Her dower of righteousness and faith To guide his will: THE PRESIDENT.

The ancient lands are struck with awe, Here stands a power at which they scoffed, Kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states. Are dazed,—at Columbia they mocked; Yet human wills have forged new states, Their wills on justice full intent, And fashioned here a lowly King, The People's choice: THE PRESIDENT.

War-ravaged, spent, and torn—old worlds With hatred rent, turn to the West, "Give help!" they cry—"our souls are wracked, On every side our kingdom's pressed." And see! Columbia hastens forth, Her healing hand to peace is lent, Her sword unsheathed has forged the calm, Her sons sent by THE PRESIDENT.

Full many a storm has tossed the barque Since first it had its maiden trip, Full many a conflagration's spark Has scorched and seared the laboring ship; And yet it ploughs a straightway course, Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent, On sails the troubled Ship of State, Steered forward by THE PRESIDENT.

STAND UP! HATS OFF! He's coming by, No roll of drums peals at his course, NOW GIVE A CHEER! He's part of you, Your will with his: the nation's force. And—as he passes—breathe a prayer, May justice to his mind be lent, And may the grace of Heaven be with The man who rules: OUR PRESIDENT.

Charles H.L. Johnston.



Lullaby

Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming, With their airy little, fairy little faces all aglow, Winking little, blinking little brownies gone a-roaming, Hear the rustling little, bustling little footfalls as they go. Laughing little, chaffing little voices sweetly singing In the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies, Creep! Creep! Creep! Time to go to sleep! Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!

Cricket in the thicket with the oddest little clatter Sings his rattling little, prattling little, tattling little tune; Fleet the feet of tiny stars go patter, patter, patter, As they scamper from the heavens at the rising of the moon. Beaming little, gleaming little fireflies go dreaming To the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies. Creep! Creep! Creep! Time to go to sleep! Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!

Quaking little, shaking little voices all a-quiver In the mushy little, rushy little, weedy, reedy bogs, Droning little, moaning little chorus by the river, In the croaking little, joking little cadence of the frogs. Eerie little, cheery little glowworms in the gloaming Where the clover heads like fairy little nightcaps rise, Creep! Creep! Creep! Time to go to sleep! Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!

J.W. Foley.



Chums

If we should be shipwrecked together And only had water for one, And it was the hottest of weather Right out in the boiling sun, He'd tell me—no matter how bad he Might want it—to take a drink first; And then he would smile—oh, so glad he Had saved me!—and perish from thirst!

Or, if we were lost on the prairie And only had food for a day, He'd come and would give me the share he Had wrapped up and hidden away; And after I ate it with sadness He'd smile with his very last breath, And lay himself down full of gladness To save me—and starve right to death.

And if I was wounded in battle And out where great danger might be, He'd come through the roar and the rattle Of guns and of bullets to me, He'd carry me out, full of glory, No matter what trouble he had, And then he would fall down, all gory With wounds, and would die—but be glad!

We're chums—that's the reason he'd do it; And that's what a chum ought to be. And if it was fire he'd go through it, If I should call him to me. You see other fellows may know you, And friends that you have go and come; But a boy has one boy he can go to, For help all the time—that's his chum.

J.W. Foley.



Jim Brady's Big Brother

Jim Brady's big brother's a wonderful lad, And wonderful, wonderful muscles he had; He swung by one arm from the limb of a tree And hung there while Jim counted up forty-three Just as slow as he could; and he leaped at a bound Across a wide creek and lit square on the ground Just as light as a deer; and the things he can do, So Jimmy told us, you would hardly think true.

Jim Brady's big brother could throw a fly ball From center to home just like nothing at all; And often while playing a game he would stand And take a high fly with just only one hand; Jim Brady showed us where he knocked a home run And won the big game when it stood three to one Against the home team, and Jim Brady, he showed The place where it lit in the old wagon road!

Jim Brady's big brother could bat up a fly That you hardly could see, for it went up so high; He'd bring up his muscle and break any string That you tied on his arm like it wasn't a thing! He used to turn handsprings, and cartwheels, and he Could jump through his hands just as slick as could be, And circuses often would want him to go And be in the ring, but his mother said no.

Jim Brady's big brother would often make bets With boys that he'd turn two complete summersets From off of the spring-board before he would dive, And you'd hardly think he would come up alive; And nobody else who went there to swim Could do it, but it was just easy for him; And they'd all be scared, so Jim said, when he'd stay In under and come up a half mile away.

Jim Brady's big brother, so Jim said, could run Five miles in a race just as easy as one. Right often he walked on his hands half a block And could have walked more if he'd wanted to walk! And Jimmy says wait till he comes home from school, Where he is gone now, and some day, when it's cool, He'll get him to prove everything to be true That Jimmy told us his big brother could do!

J.W. Foley.



The Gray Swan

"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true, Is my little lad, my Elihu, A-sailing with your ship?" The sailor's eyes were dim with dew,— "Your little lad, your Elihu?" He said with trembling lip,— "What little lad? what ship?"

"What little lad! as if there could be Another such a one as he! What little lad, do you say? Why, Elihu, that took to the sea The moment I put him off my knee! It was just the other day The Gray Swan sailed away."

"The other day?" the sailor's eyes Stood open with a great surprise,— "The other day? the Swan?" His heart began in his throat to rise. "Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies The jacket he had on." "And so your lad is gone?"

"Gone with the Swan." "And did she stand With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, For a month, and never stir?" "Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, The wild sea kissing her,— A sight to remember, sir."

"But, my good mother, do you know All this was twenty years ago? I stood on the Gray Swan's deck, And to that lad I saw you throw, Taking it off, as it might be, so, The kerchief from your neck." "Ay, and he'll bring it back!"

"And did the little lawless lad That has made you sick and made you sad, Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?" "Lawless! the man is going mad! The best boy ever mother had,— Be sure he sailed with the crew! What would you have him do?"

"And he has never written line, Nor sent you word, nor made you sign To say he was alive?" "Hold! if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; Besides, he may be in the brine, And could he write from the grave? Tut, man, what would you have?"

"Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise, 'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; But if the lad still live, And come back home, think you you can Forgive him?"—"Miserable man, You're mad as the sea,—you rave,— What have I to forgive?"

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild. "My God! my Father! is it true My little lad, My Elihu? My blessed boy, my child! My dead,—my living child!"

Alice Cary.



The Circling Year

SPRING

The joys of living wreathe my face, My heart keeps time to freshet's race; Of balmy airs I drink my fill— Why, there's a yellow daffodil! Along the stream a soft green tinge Gives hint of feathery willow fringe; Methinks I heard a Robin's "Cheer"— I'm glad Spring's here!

SUMMER

An afternoon of buzzing flies. Heat waves that sear, and quivering rise; The long white road, the plodding team, The deep, cool grass in which to dream; The distant cawing of the crows, Tall, waving grain, long orchard rows; The peaceful cattle in the stream— Midsummer's dream!

AUTUMN

A cold, gray day, a lowering sky, A lonesome pigeon wheeling by; The soft, blue smoke that hangs and fades, The shivering crane that flaps and wades; Dead leaves that, whispering, quit their tree, The peace the river sings to me; The chill aloofness of the Fall— I love it all!

WINTER

A sheet of ice, the ring of steel, The crunch of snow beneath the heel; Loud, jingling bells, the straw-lined sleigh, A restless pair that prance and neigh; The early coming of the night, Red glowing logs, a shaded light; The firelit realm of books is mine— Oh, Winter's fine!

Ramona Graham.



INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A fellow near Kentucky's clime 34 A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet 168 'A frightful face'? Wal, yes, yer correct 125 A harbor in a sunny, southern city 137 Alone in the dreary, pitiless street 46 Among the legends sung or said 63 An old lady sat in her old arm-chair 200 An old man going a lone highway 54 April! April! are you here? 59 A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace 108 At Paris it was, at the opera there 72 A traveler on the dusty road 97 Away, away in the Northland 131

Beneath the hot midsummer sun 39 Between broad fields of wheat and corn 147 Billy's dead, and gone to glory—so is Billy's sister Nell 104 Break, break, break 52 Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! 123 By Nebo's lonely mountain 45

Chained in the market-place he stood 145 Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen 128 Cleon hath ten thousand acres 37 Closed eyes can't see the white roses 84 Come to me, O ye children! 16 "Corporal Green!" the orderly cried 86 Could we but draw back the curtains 29

Dear little flag in the window there 127 Did you tackle the trouble that came your way 132 Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds 53

Every coin of earthly treasure 12

Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast 75 Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! 94 First on the list is Washington, Virginia's proudest name 195 Fling it from mast and steeple 202

Give me that grand old volume, the gift of a mother's love 117 God makes sech nights, all white an' still 59 God said: I am tired of kings 62 God send us a little home 87 Good Deacon Roland—"May his tribe increase!" 178 Go thou thy way, and I go mine 162 Grandma told me all about it 48 Great were the hearts and strong the minds 37

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" 174 Han'some, stranger? Yes, she's purty an' ez peart as she kin be 96 Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings 111 Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? 27 He came to my desk with quivering lip 202 He who has the vision sees more than you or I 146 Hey! little evergreens 203 Home they brought her warrior dead 74 How are you hoeing your row, my boy? 202 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber 35

I asked of Echo, t'other day 65 I cannot vouch my tale is true 156 I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick 182 I come, I come! ye have called me long 26 I'd like to hunt the Injuns 't roam the boundless plain! 121 If all the skies were sunshine 36 If I had known in the morning 119 If I were hanged on the highest hill 70 If we should be shipwrecked together 206 If you can dress to make yourself attractive 153 If you can take your dreams into the classroom 165 If you have a friend worth loving 167 I have a rendezvous with Death 142 I love my prairies, they are mine 74 I'm not a chicken; I have seen 137 In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came 112 In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim the newsboy dying lay 52 In a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say 130 In a valley, centuries ago 36 In Gettysburg at break of day 122 In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes 90 In the hush and the lonely silence 65 Into a ward of the whitewashed halls 175 I sat alone with my conscience 81 I saw him once before 20 It is Christmas day in the workhouse 193 It isn't the thing you do, dear 116 It may be that the words I spoke 103 It's easy to talk of the patience of Job 82 It takes a heap o' livin' in a houst t' make it home 7 It was a bright and lovely summer's morn 114 It was an old, old, old, old lady 30 It was a sergeant old and gray 158 It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still 102 It was in the days when Claverhouse 9 It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide 177 It was many and many a year ago 25 It was the pleasant harvest-time 188 It was the twilight hour 61 I've got a letter, parson, from my son away out West 53 I walked through the woodland meadows 9 I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made 199 I was mighty good-lookin' when I was young 44 I was sitting in my study 40 I was strolling one day down the Lawther Arcade 169 I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint of beer 170 I, who was always counted, they say 42 I wish there were some wonderful place 32 I wrote some lines once on a time 14

Jim Brady's big brother's a wonderful lad 206

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled 191

Laugh, and the world laughs with you 139 Let us be kind 143 Life! I know not what thou art 65 Like a dream, it all comes o'er me as I hear the Christmas bells 47 Like liquid gold the wheat field lies 8 Little lamb, who made thee? 86 Little lass of Plymouth,—gentle, shy, and sweet 154 Little one, come to my knee! 89

Marching down to Armageddon 157 Mine is a wild, strange story,—the strangest you ever heard 106 My grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf 35

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes 131 Never mind me, Uncle Jared, never mind my bleeding breast 11 Never yet was a springtime 93 No, comrades, I thank you—not any for me 87 No gilt or tinsel taints the dress 204 No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end 140 Not far advanced was morning day 95 Not who you are, but what you are 66

O for one hour of youthful joy! 58 O'Grady lived in Shanty row 44 Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time 51 Oh, East is East, and West is West 23 Oh! listen to the water mill through all the livelong day 143 Oh, such a commotion under the ground 59 "Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true" 207 O Liberty, thou child of Law 39 O month of fairer, rarer days 153 Once in Persia reigned a king 159 One sweetly solemn thought 48 On the top of the Crumpetty Tree 91 O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright 162 Our band is few, but true and tried 54 Our old brown homestead reared its walls 55 Out of the hills of Habersham 66

Piller fights is fun, I tell you 80 Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey 32

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky 63

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said 33 She sat on the sliding cushion 29 She's up there—Old Glory—where lightnings are sped 21 She was a Phantom of delight 89 Silent he watched them—the soldiers and dog 122 Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming 205 Slow the Kansas sun was setting 37 Some die too late and some too soon 84 Sometimes w'en I am playin' with some fellers 'at I knows 127 Somewhere, out on the blue sea sailing 138 South mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay 176 Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! 99 Sweet is the voice that called 75

Talking of sects quite late one eve 180 The autumn is old 186 The bells of Mount Vernon are ringing to-day 58 The boy stood on the burning deck 164 The bravest battle that ever was fought 64 The children kept coming one by one 146 The coppenter man said a wicked word 139 The day is cold, and dark, and dreary 28 The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk 68 The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine 57 The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone 120 The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloath an' of silk 149 The harp that once through Tara's halls 71 The joys of living wreathe my face 208 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year 21 The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone 55 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 15 The night was dark when Sam set out 76 The old mayor climbed the belfry tower 150 There are two kinds of people on earth to-day 116 There fell an April shower, one night 26 There lay upon the ocean's shore 150 There's a dandy little fellow 82 There was a Boy; you knew him well, ye cliffs 90 There was a sound of revelry by night 17 There were ninety and nine 166 The rich man's son inherits lands 22 The rosy clouds float overhead 62 These are the things I hold divine 64 The shades of night were falling fast 15 The snow and the silence came down together 83 The sunlight shone on walls of stone 134 The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more 203 The sweetest lives are those to duty wed 20 The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire 160 The weaver at this loom is sitting 171 They grew in beauty, side by side 130 They said, "The Master is coming" 30 This is the land where hate should die 18 Tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light 199 Three little words you often see 201 'Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar 77 'Tis a lesson you should heed 135 'Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while 173 'Tis only a half truth the poet has sung 28 "To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!" 41 Turn back the leaves of history. On yon Pacific shore 183 'Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown 18 'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse 78 'Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good-night" had been said 196 Two angels, one of Life and one of Death 187 Two little stockings hung side by side 141

Want any papers, Mister? 94 We all look on with anxious eyes 40 We are two travellers, Roger and I 49 Well, wife, I found the model church! I worshipped there to-day 148 W'en you see a man in woe 123 We squander health in search of wealth 103 We were crowded in the cabin 56 We were not many,—we who stood 165 "What fairings will ye that I bring?" 92 What flower is this that greets the morn 85 What makes the dog's nose always cold? 144 Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill 12 Whene'er a noble deed is wrought 56 Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track 8 When I compare 34 When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay 67 When papa was a little boy you really couldn't find 100 When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres 97 When the lessons and tasks are all ended 133 When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour 118 Whichever way the wind doth blow 67 "Which shall it be? which shall it be?" 101 Who comes dancing over the snow 153 Who dat knockin' at de do'? 71 Why dost thou wildly rush and roar 100 Why, yes, dear, we can put it by. It does seem out of place 186 With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread 140 Work! Thank God for the might of it 154 Work thou for pleasure; paint or sing or carve 169

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 88 Ye say that all have passed away—that noble race and brave 135 Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough 109 You bad leetle boy, not moche you care 80 You may talk o' gin an' beer 98 You're going to leave the homestead, John 159 Your letter, lady, came too late 136 You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles 168 You say I have asked for the costliest thing 155



Transcriber's note:

The poem "Try Try Again" is not credited with an author in the table of contents. The author of this poem is William E. Hickerson.

THE END