The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems Teachers Ask For, by AUTHOR.

Seldom does a book of poems appear that is definitely a response to demand and a reflection of readers' preferences. Of this collection that can properly be claimed. For a decade Normal instructor-primary plans has carried monthly a page entitled "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For." The interest in this page has been, and is, phenomenal. Occasionally space considerations or copyright restrictions have prevented compliance with requests, but so far as practicable poems asked for have been printed. Because it has become impossible to furnish many of the earlier issues of the magazine, the publishers decided to select the poems most often requested and, carefully revising these for possible errors, to include them in the present collection. In some cases the desired poems are old favorite dramatic recitations, but many of them are poems that are required or recommended for memorizing in state courses of study. This latter feature will of itself make the book extremely valuable to teachers throughout the country. We are glad to offer here certain poems, often requested, but too long for insertion on our magazine Poetry Page. We are pleased also to be able to include a number of popular copyright poems. Special permission to use these has been granted through arrangement with the authorized publishers, whose courtesy is acknowledged below in detail:

Charles Scribner's Sons—Seein' Things and Little Boy Blue, by Eugene Field; Gradatim and Give Us Men, from "The Poetical Works of J.G. Holland"; and You and You, by Edith Wharton, copyright 1919.

Harper and Brothers—Over the Hill to the Poor-House, The Ride of Jennie M'Neal, The Little Black-Eyed Rebel, and The First Settler's Story, by Will Carleton.

The Dodge Publishing Company—The Moo Cow Moo and The Young Man Waited, by Edmund Vance Cooke.

Lothrop, Lee and Shepard Company—The House by the Side of the Road and The Calf Path, by Sam Walter Foss.

Little, Brown and Company—October's Bright Blue Weather, by Helen Hunt Jackson.

Houghton Mifflin Company—Poems by John G. Whittier, Alice Cary, Phoebe Cary, James T. Fields, and Lucy Larcom.

POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR

O Captain! My Captain!

(This poem was written in memory of Abraham Lincoln.)

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But, O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen, cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will;

The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen, cold and dead.

Walt Whitman.

A Poet's Prophecy

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales;

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew

From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm,

With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunderstorm;

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battleflags were furl'd

In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,

And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.

Tennyson, "Locksley Hall," 1842.

The Landing of the Pilgrims

The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came,—

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear;

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storms they sang;

And the stars heard, and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

To the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam;

And the rocking pines of the forest roared—

This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair

Amidst that pilgrim band:

Why had they come to wither there

Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;

There was manhood's brow serenely high,

And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—

They sought a faith's pure shrine.

Ay, call it holy ground,—

The soil where first they trod!

They have left unstained what there they found—

Freedom to worship God!

Felicia Hemans.

Bobby Shaftoe

"Marie, will you marry me?

For you know how I love thee!

Tell me, darling, will you be

The wife of Bobby Shaftoe?"

"Bobby, pray don't ask me more,

For you've asked me twice before;

Let us be good friends, no more,

No more, Bobby Shaftoe."

"If you will not marry me,

I will go away to sea;

And you ne'er again shall be

A friend of Bobby Shaftoe."

"Oh, you will not go away

For you've said so twice to-day.

Stop! He's gone! Dear Bobby, stay!

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe!

"Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea,

Silver buckles on his knee,

But he'll come back and marry me,

Pretty Bobby Shaftoe.

"He will soon come back to me,

And how happy I shall be,

He'll come back and marry me,

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."

"Bobby Shaftoe's lost at sea,

He cannot come back to thee.

And you ne'er again will see

Your dear Bobby Shaftoe.

"Oh, we sadly mourn for thee,

And regret we ne'er shall see

Our friend Bobby, true and free,

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."

"Bobby Shaftoe's lost at sea.

And can ne'er come back to me,

But I'll ever faithful be,

True to Bobby Shaftoe."

"Darling, I've come home from sea,

I've come back to marry thee,

For I know you're true to me,

True to Bobby Shaftoe."

"Yes, I always cared for thee,

And now you've come back to me,

And we will always happy be,

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."

"Bobby Shaftoe's come from sea,

And we will united be,

Heart and hand in unity,

Mr. and Mrs. Shaftoe."

The Overworked Elocutionist

(Or "ROBERT REESE")

Once there was a little boy

Whose name was Robert Reese,

And every Friday afternoon

He had to speak a piece.

So many poems thus he learned

That soon he had a store

Of recitations in his head

And still kept learning more.

Now this it is what happened:

He was called upon one week

And totally forgot the piece

He was about to speak.

His brain he vainly cudgeled

But no word was in his head,

And so he spoke at random,

And this is what he said;

My beautiful, my beautiful,

Who standest proudly by,

It was the schooner Hesperus

The breaking waves dashed high.

Why is the Forum crowded?

What means this stir in Rome?

Under a spreading chestnut tree

There is no place like home.

When Freedom from her mountain height

Cried, "Twinkle, little star,"

Shoot if you must this old gray head,

King Henry of Navarre.

If you're waking, call me early

To be or not to be,

Curfew must not ring to-night,

Oh, woodman, spare that tree.

Charge, Chester, Charge! On, Stanley, on!

And let who will be clever,

The boy stood on the burning deck

But I go on for ever.

The Kid Has Gone to the Colors

The Kid has gone to the Colors

And we don't know what to say;

The Kid we have loved and cuddled

Stepped out for the Flag to-day.

We thought him a child, a baby

With never a care at all,

But his country called him man-size

And the Kid has heard the call.

He paused to watch the recruiting,

Where, fired by the fife and drum,

He bowed his head to Old Glory

And thought that it whispered: "Come!"

The Kid, not being a slacker,

Stood forth with patriot-joy

To add his name to the roster—

And God, we're proud of the boy!

The Kid has gone to the Colors;

It seems but a little while

Since he drilled a schoolboy army

In a truly martial style,

But now he's a man, a soldier,

And we lend him a listening ear,

For his heart is a heart all loyal,

Unscourged by the curse of fear.

His dad, when he told him, shuddered,

His mother—God bless her!—cried;

Yet, blest with a mother-nature,

She wept with a mother-pride,

But he whose old shoulders straightened

Was Granddad—for memory ran

To years when he, too, a youngster,

Was changed by the Flag to a man!

W.M. Herschell.

Kentucky Belle

Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away—

Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay—

We lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've seen;

Roschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.

Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle.

How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell—

Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to me

When I rode north with Conrad, away from the Tennessee.

Conrad lived in Ohio—a German he is, you know—

The house stood in broad cornfields, stretching on, row after row.

The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be;

But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of the Tennessee.

Oh, for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill!

Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still!

But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky—

Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye!

From east to west, no river to shine out under the moon,

Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon:

Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn;

Only the rustle, rustle, as I walked among the corn.

When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more,

But moved away from the cornlands, out to this river shore—

The Tuscarawas it's called, sir—off there's a hill, you see—

And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee.

I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like mad

Over the bridge and up the road—Farmer Rouf's little lad.

Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say,

"Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way.

"I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind;

He sweeps up all the horses—every horse that he can find.

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men,

With bowie knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!"

The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door;

The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor;

Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone.

Nearer, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!

Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture bar.

"Kentuck!" I called—"Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far!

I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right,

And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.

As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound—

The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground—

Coming into the turnpike out from the White Woman Glen—

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.

As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm;

But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my arm.

They came, they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along—

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.

Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day;

Pushing on east to the river, many long miles away,

To the border strip where Virginia runs up into the West,

And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest.

On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance;

Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance.

And I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain,

When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.

Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face,

As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place.

I gave him a cup, and he smiled—'twas only a boy, you see;

Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Tennessee.

Only sixteen he was, sir—a fond mother's only son—

Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun!

The damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boyish mouth;

And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South.

Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through;

Boasted and bragged like a trooper; but the big words wouldn't do;—

The boy was dying, sir, dying as plain as plain could be,

Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.

But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South,

Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth.

"Do you know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistful began to say;

Then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted dead away.

I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to;

I fed him, and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do;

And when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was gone,

Morgan's men—were miles; away, galloping, galloping on.

"Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away!

Morgan—Morgan is waiting for me; Oh, what will Morgan say?"

But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door—

The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.

And on, on, came the soldiers—the Michigan cavalry—

And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,—

They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night;

But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.

And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days;

For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways—

Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west,

Through river-valleys and cornland farms, sweeping away her best.

A bold ride and a long ride; but they were taken at last.

They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast;

But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford,

And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.

Well, I kept the boy till evening—kept him against his will—

But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still.

When it was cool and dusky—you'll wonder to hear me tell—

But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle.

I kissed the star on her forehead—my pretty gentle lass—

But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue-Grass.

A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had,

And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad.

I guided him to the southward as well as I know how;

The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow;

And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell,

As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!

When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high;

Baby and I were both crying—I couldn't tell him why—

But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall,

And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall.

Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me;

He knew I couldn't help it—'twas all for the Tennessee,

But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass—

A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue-Grass.

The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle;

And Kentuck, she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well;

He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur.

Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her!

Constance F. Woolson.

An Inventor's Wife

I remember it all so very well, the first of my married life,

That I can't believe it was years ago—it doesn't seem true at all;

Why, I just can see the little church where they made us man and wife,

And the merry glow of the first wood-fire that danced on our cottage wall.

We were happy? Yes; and we prospered, too; the house belonged to Joe,

And then, he worked in the planing mill, and drew the best of pay;

And our cup was full when Joey came,—our baby-boy, you know;

So, all went well till that mill burned down and the owner moved away.

It wasn't long till Joe found work, but 'twas never quite the same,—

Never steady, with smaller pay; so to make the two ends meet

He fell to inventin' some machine—I don't recall the name,

But he'd sit for hours in his little shop that opens toward the street,—

Sit for hours, bent over his work, his tools all strewn about.

I used to want to go in there to dust and sweep the floor,

But 'twas just as if 'twas the parson there, writing his sermon out;

Even the baby—bless the child!—learned never to slam that door!

People called him a clever man, and folks from the city came

To look at his new invention and wish my Joe success;

And Joe would say, "Little woman,"—for that was my old pet-name,—

"If my plan succeeds, you shall have a coach and pair, and a fine silk dress!"

I didn't want 'em, the grand new things, but it made the big tears start

To see my Joe with his restless eyes, his fingers worn away

To the skin and bone, for he wouldn't eat; and it almost broke my heart

When he tossed at night from side to side, till the dawning of the day.

Of course, with it all he lost his place. I couldn't blame the man,

The foreman there at the factory, for losing faith in Joe,

For his mind was never upon his work, but on some invention-plan,

As with folded arms and his head bent down he wandered to and fro.

Yet, he kept on workin' at various things, till our little money went

For wheels and screws and metal casts and things I had never seen;

And I ceased to ask, "Any pay, my dear?" with the answer, "Not a cent!"

When his lock and his patent-saw had failed, he clung to that great machine.

I remember one special thing that year. He had bought some costly tool,

When we wanted our boy to learn to read—he was five years old, you know;

He went to his class with cold, bare feet, till at last he came from school

And gravely said, "Don't send me back; the children tease me so!"

I hadn't the heart to cross the child, so, while I sat and sewed

He would rock his little sister in the cradle at my side;

And when the struggle was hardest and I felt keen hunger's goad

Driving me almost to despair—the little baby died.

Her father came to the cradle-side, as she lay, so small and white;

"Maggie," he said, "I have killed this child, and now I am killing you!

I swear by heaven, I will give it up!" Yet, like a thief, that night

He stole to the shop and worked; his brow all wet with a clammy dew.

I cannot tell how I lived that week, my little boy and I,

Too proud to beg; too weak to work; and the weather cold and wild.

I can only think of one dark night when the rain poured from the sky,

And the wind went wailing round the house, like the ghost of my buried child.

Joe still toiled in the little shop. Somebody clicked the gate;

A neighbor-lad brought in the mail and laid it on the floor,

But I sat half-stunned by my heavy grief crouched over the empty grate,

Till I heard—the crack of a pistol-shot; and I sprang to the workshop door.

That door was locked and the bolt shut fast. I could not cry, nor speak,

But I snatched my boy from the corner there, sick with a sudden dread,

And carried him out through the garden plot, forgetting my arms were weak,

Forgetting the rainy torrent that beat on my bare young head;

The front door yielded to my touch. I staggered faintly in,

Fearing—what? He stood unharmed, though the wall showed a jagged hole.

In his trembling hand, his aim had failed, and the great and deadly sin

Of his own life's blood was not yet laid on the poor man's tortured soul.

But the pistol held another charge, I knew; and like something mad

I shook my fist in my poor man's face, and shrieked at him, fierce and wild,

"How can you dare to rob us so?"—and I seized the little lad;

"How can you dare to rob your wife and your little helpless child?"

All of a sudden, he bowed his head, while from his nerveless hand

That hung so limp, I almost feared to see the pistol fall.

"Maggie," he said in a low, low voice, "you see me as I stand

A hopeless man. My plan has failed. That letter tells you all."

Then for a moment the house was still as ever the house of death;

Only the drip of the rain outside, for the storm was almost o'er;

But no;—there followed another sound, and I started, caught my breath;

As a stalwart man with a heavy step came in at the open door.

I shall always think him an angel sent from heaven in a human guise;

He must have guessed our awful state; he couldn't help but see

There was something wrong; but never a word, never a look in his eyes

Told what he thought, as in kindly way he talked to Joe and me.

He was come from a thriving city firm, and they'd sent him here to say

That one of Joe's inventions was a great, successful thing;

And which do you think? His window-catch that he'd tinkered up one day;

And we were to have a good per cent on the sum that each would bring.

And then the pleasant stranger went, and we wakened as from a dream.

My man bent down his head and said, "Little woman, you've saved my life!"

The worn look gone from his dear gray eyes, and in its place, a gleam

From the sun that has shone so brightly since, on Joe and his happy wife!

Jeannie Pendleton Ewing.

The Two Glasses

There sat two glasses filled to the brim

On a rich man's table, rim to rim,

One was ruddy and red as blood,

And one was clear as the crystal flood.

Said the Glass of Wine to his paler brother:

"Let us tell tales of the past to each other;

I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth,

Where I was king, for I ruled in might;

For the proudest and grandest souls of earth

Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.

From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;

From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.

I have blasted many an honored name;

I have taken virtue and given shame;

I have tempted youth with a sip, a taste,

That has made his future a barren waste.

Far greater than any king am I,

Or than any army beneath the sky.

I have made the arm of the driver fail,

And sent the train from the iron rail.

I have made good ships go down at sea.

And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.

Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;

And my might and power are over all!

Ho, ho, pale brother," said the Wine,

"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"

Said the Water Glass: "I cannot boast

Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host;

But I can tell of hearts that were sad,

By my crystal drops made bright and glad;

Of thirsts I have quenched and brows I have laved,

Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.

I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,

Slipped from the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain,

I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,

And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;

I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,

I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.

I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,

That ground out the flour, and turned at my will.

I can tell of manhood debased by you

That I have uplifted and crowned anew;

I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid,

I gladden the heart of man and maid;

I set the wine-chained captive free,

And all are better for knowing me."

These are the tales they told each other,

The Glass of Wine, and its paler brother,

As they sat together, filled to the brim,

On a rich man's table, rim to rim.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

Abraham Lincoln

(Written after Lincoln's death by Tom Taylor, famous cartoonist of the London "Punch.")

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier!

You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,

Broad for the self-complacent British sneer,

His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,

His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,

His lack of all we prize as debonair,

Of power or will to shine, of art to please!

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,

Judging each step, as though the way were plain;

Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,

Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain!

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet

The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,

Between the mourners at his head and feet—

Say, scurril jester, is there room for you?

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer—

To lame my pencil and confute my pen—

To make me own this hind, of princes peer,

This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,

Noting how to occasion's height he rose;

How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true,

How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows;

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be;

How in good fortune and in ill the same;

Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work—such work as few

Ever had laid on head, and heart, and hand—

As one who knows where there's a task to do,

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,

That God makes instruments to work His will,

If but that will we can arrive to know,

Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle, on the side

That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,

As in his peasant boyhood he had plied

His warfare with rude nature's thwarting mights;—

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,

The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe,

The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil,

The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian and the prowling bear—

Such were the needs that helped his youth to train:

Rough culture—but such trees large fruit may bear,

If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do,

And lived to do it: four long, suffering years

Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,

And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,

And took both with the same unwavering mood;

Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,

And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him,

Beached from behind his back, a trigger prest—

And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,

Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!

The words of mercy were upon his lips,

Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,

When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse

To thoughts of peace on earth, goodwill to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,

Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!

Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high;

Sad life, cut short as its triumph came!

The Old Clock on the Stairs

Somewhat back from the village street

Stands the old-fashioned country-seat;

Across its antique portico

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw;

And, from its station in the hall,

An ancient timepiece says to all,

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

Half-way up the stairs it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands,

From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk who, under his cloak,

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;

But in the silent dead of night,

Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,

It echoes along the vacant hall,

Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say at each chamber door,

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,

Through days of death and days of birth,

Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,

And as if, like God, it all things saw,

It calmly repeats those words of awe,

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roared;

The stranger feasted at his board;

But, like the skeleton at the feast,

That warning timepiece never ceased,—

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

There groups of merry children played;

There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;

Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime

And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,—

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,

The bride came forth on her wedding night;

There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay, in his shroud of snow;

And, in the hush that followed the prayer,

Was heard the old clock on the stair,—

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

All are scattered, now, and fled,—

Some are married, some are dead;

And when I ask, with throbs of pain,

"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"

As in the days long since gone by,

The ancient timepiece makes reply,—

"Forever—never!

Never-forever!"

Never here, forever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,

And death, and time, shall disappear,—

Forever there, but never here!

The horologe of Eternity

Sayeth this incessantly,—

"Forever—never!

Never—forever!"

H.W. Longfellow.

Christ in Flanders

We had forgotten You, or very nearly—

You did not seem to touch us very nearly—

Of course we thought about You now and then;

Especially in any time of trouble—

We knew that you were good in time of trouble—

But we were very ordinary men.

And there were always other things to think of—

There's lots of things a man has got to think of—

His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife;

And so we only thought of You on Sunday—

Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday—

Because there's always lots to fill one's life.

And, all the while, in street or lane or byway—

In country lane, in city street, or byway—

You walked among us, and we did not see.

Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements—

How did we miss Your footprints on our pavements?—

Can there be other folk as blind as we?

Now we remember; over here in Flanders—

(It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders)—

This hideous warfare seems to make things clear.

We never thought about You much in England—

But now that we are far away from England—

We have no doubts, we know that You are here.

You helped us pass the jest along the trenches—

Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches—

You touched its ribaldry and made it fine.

You stood beside us in our pain and weakness—

We're glad to think You understand our weakness—

Somehow it seems to help us not to whine.

We think about You kneeling in the Garden—

Ah, God, the agony of that dread Garden—

We know You prayed for us upon the cross.

If anything could make us glad to bear it—

'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it—

Pain—death—the uttermost of human loss.

Though we forgot You—You will not forget us—

We feel so sure that You will not forget us—

But stay with us until this dream is past.

And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon—

Especially, I think, we ask for pardon—

And that You'll stand beside us to the last.

L.W. in London "Spectator."

We Are Seven

—A simple Child,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

—Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,

And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the church-yard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,

Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,

"Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the church-yard lie,

Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little Maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,

And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit,

And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;

And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,

"If they two are in heaven?"

Quick was the little Maid's reply,

"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'T was throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

William Wordsworth.

Echo

"I asked of Echo, t'other day

(Whose words are often few and funny),

What to a novice she could say

Of courtship, love and matrimony.

Quoth Echo plainly,—'Matter-o'-money!'

"Whom should I marry? Should it be

A dashing damsel, gay and pert,

A pattern of inconstancy;

Or selfish, mercenary flirt?

Quoth Echo, sharply,—'Nary flirt!'

"What if, aweary of the strife

That long has lured the dear deceiver,

She promise to amend her life,

And sin no more; can I believe her?

Quoth Echo, very promptly,—'Leave her!'

"But if some maiden with a heart

On me should venture to bestow it,

Pray should I act the wiser part

To take the treasure or forego it?

Quoth Echo, with decision,—'Go it!'

"But what if, seemingly afraid

To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,

She vow she means to die a maid,

In answer to my loving letter?

Quoth Echo, rather coolly,-'Let her!'

"What if, in spite of her disdain,

I find my heart entwined about

With Cupid's dear, delicious chain

So closely that I can't get out?

Quoth Echo, laughingly,—'Get out!'

"But if some maid with beauty blest,

As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,

Will share my labor and my rest

Till envious Death shall overtake her?

Quoth Echo (sotto voce),—'Take her!'"

John G. Saxe.

Engineers Making Love

It's noon when Thirty-five is due,

An' she comes on time like a flash of light,

An' you hear her whistle "Too-tee-too!"

Long 'fore the pilot swings in sight.

Bill Madden's drivin' her in to-day,

An' he's calling his sweetheart far away—

Gertrude Hurd lives down by the mill;

You might see her blushin'; she knows it's Bill.

"Tudie, tudie! Toot-ee! Tudie, tudie! Tu!"

Six-five, A.M. there's a local comes,

Makes up at Bristol, runnin' east;

An' the way her whistle sings and hums

Is a livin' caution to man and beast.

Every one knows who Jack White calls,—

Little Lou Woodbury, down by the falls;

Summer or Winter, always the same,

She hears her lover callin' her name—

"Lou-ie! Lou-ie! Lou-iee!"

But at one fifty-one, old Sixty-four—

Boston express, runs east, clear through—

Drowns her rattle and rumble and roar

With the softest whistle that ever blew.

An' away on the furthest edge of town

Sweet Sue Winthrop's eyes of brown

Shine like the starlight, bright and clear,

When she hears the whistle of Abel Gear,

"You-oo! Su-u-u-u-u-e!"

Along at midnight a freight comes in,

Leaves Berlin sometime—I don't know when;

But it rumbles along with a fearful din

Till it reaches the Y-switch there and then

The clearest notes of the softest bell

That out of a brazen goblet fell

Wake Nellie Minton out of her dreams;

To her like a wedding-bell it seems—

"Nell, Nell, Nell! Nell, Nell, Nell!"

Tom Willson rides on the right-hand side,

Givin' her steam at every stride;

An' he touches the whistle, low an' clear,

For Lulu Gray on the hill, to hear—

"Lu-Lu! Loo-Loo! Loo-oo!"

So it goes all day an' all night

Till the old folks have voted the thing a bore;

Old maids and bachelors say it ain't right

For folks to do courtin' with such a roar.

But the engineers their kisses will blow

From a whistle valve to the girls they know,

An' stokers the name of their sweethearts tell;

With the "Too-too-too" and the swinging bell.

R.J. Burdette.

Guilty or Not Guilty

She stood at the bar of justice,

A creature wan and wild,

In form too small for a woman,

In features too old for a child;

For a look so worn and pathetic

Was stamped on her pale young face,

It seemed long years of suffering

Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name?" said the judge, as he eyed her

With kindly look yet keen,—

"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir."

And your age?"—"I am turned fifteen."

"Well, Mary," and then from a paper

He slowly and gravely read,

"You are charged here—I'm sorry to say it—

With stealing three loaves of bread.

"You look not like an offender,

And I hope that you can show

The charge to be false. Now, tell me,

Are you guilty of this, or no?"

A passionate burst of weeping

Was at first her sole reply.

But she dried her eyes in a moment,

And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir:

My father and mother are dead,

And my little brothers and sisters

Were hungry and asked me for bread.

At first I earned it for them

By working hard all day,

But somehow, times were bad, sir,

And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment.

The weather was bitter cold,

The young ones cried and shivered—

(Little Johnny's but four years old)—

So what was I to do, sir?

I am guilty, but do not condemn.

I took—oh, was it stealing?—

The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room—

Gray-beard and thoughtless youth—

Knew, as he looked upon her,

That the prisoner spake the truth;

Out from their pockets came kerchiefs,

Out from their eyes sprung tears,

And out from their old faded wallets

Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study,

The strangest you ever saw,

As he cleared his throat and murmured

Something about the law;

For one so learned in such matters,

So wise in dealing with men,

He seemed, on a simple question,

Sorely puzzled, just then.

But no one blamed him or wondered,

When at last these words he heard,

"The sentence of this young prisoner

Is, for the present, deferred."

And no one blamed him or wondered

When he went to her and smiled

And tenderly led from the court-room,

Himself, the "guilty" child.

The Baby

Where did you come from, baby dear?

Out of the everywhere into the here.

Where did you get your eyes so blue?

Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?

Some of the starry spikes left in.

Where did you get that little tear?

I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?

A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?

Something better than anyone knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?

Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get that pearly ear?

God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?

Love made itself into hooks and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?

From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

How did they all just come to be you?

God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear?

God thought of you, and so I am here.

George Macdonald.

Song of the Sea

The sea! the sea! the open sea!

The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide regions round;

It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies,

Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would ever be;

With the blue above and the blue below,

And silence wheresoe'er I go.

If a storm should come and awake the deep

What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh, how I love to ride

On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,

When every mad wave drowns the moon,

Or whistles aloud his tempest tune,

And tells how goeth the world below,

And why the southwest blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,

But I loved the great sea more and more,

And back I flew to her billowy breast,

Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;

And a mother she was, and is, to me,

For I was born on the open sea!

I've lived, since then, in calm and strife,

Full fifty summers a sailor's life,

With wealth to spend and a power to range,

But never have sought nor sighed for change;

And Death, whenever he comes to me,

Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea.

Barry Cornwall.

Diffidence

"I'm after axin', Biddy dear—"

And here he paused a while

To fringe his words the merest mite

With something of a smile—

A smile that found its image

In a face of beauteous mold,

Whose liquid eyes were peeping

From a broidery of gold.

"I've come to ax ye, Biddy dear,

If—" then he stopped again,

As if his heart had bubbled o'er

And overflowed his brain.

His lips were twitching nervously

O'er what they had to tell,

And timed the quavers with the eyes

That gently rose and fell.

"I've come—" and then he took her hands

And held them in his own,

"To ax—" and then he watched the buds

That on her cheeks had blown,—

"Me purty dear—" and then he heard

The throbbing of her heart,

That told how love had entered in

And claimed its every part.

"Och! don't be tazin' me," said she,

With just the faintest sigh,

"I've sinse enough to see you've come,

But what's the reason why?"

"To ax—" and once again the tongue

Forbore its sweets to tell,

"To ax—if Mrs. Mulligan,

Has any pigs to sell."

Curfew Must Not Ring To-night

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away,

Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day,

And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,—

He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny floating hair;

He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,

With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp and cold,

"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die

At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh;

Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white

As she breathed the husky whisper: "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton—every word pierced her young heart

Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart,—

"Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour;

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right;

Now I'm old I will not falter,—curfew, it must ring to-night."

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow.

As within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow.

She had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh:

"At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die."

And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;

In an undertone she murmured, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

With quick step she bounded forward, sprung within the old church door,

Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before;

Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow

Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro,—

As she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light,

Up and up,—her white lips saying: "Curfew must not ring to-night."

She has reached the topmost ladder; o'er her hangs the great, dark bell;

Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.

Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging—'tis the hour of curfew now,

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow.

Shall she let it ring? No, never! flash her eyes with sudden light,

As she springs and grasps it firmly—"Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Out she swung—far out; the city seemed a speck of light below,

There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro;

And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,

Sadly thought, "That twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell."

Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips so white,

Said, to hush her heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

It was o'er; the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more

Firmly on the dark old ladder where, for hundred years before

Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done

Should be told long ages after; as the rays of setting sun

Crimson all the sky with beauty, aged sires with heads of white,

Tell the eager, listening children, "Curfew did not ring that night."

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow,

Lately white with fear and anguish, has no anxious traces now.

At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn;

And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn,

Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light:

"Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell, "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

Wide they flung the massive portal; led the prisoner forth to die,—

All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the darkening English sky

Bessie comes with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet;

Kneeling on the turf beside him, lays his pardon at his feet.

In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,

Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me—curfew will not ring to-night."

Rose Hartwick Thorpe.

Kate Shelly

Have you heard how a girl saved the lightning express—

Of Kate Shelly, whose father was killed on the road?

Were he living to-day, he'd be proud to possess

Such a daughter as Kate. Ah! 'twas grit that she showed

On that terrible evening when Donahue's train

Jumped the bridge and went down, in the darkness and rain.

She was only eighteen, but a woman in size,

With a figure as graceful and lithe as a doe,

With peach-blossom cheeks, and with violet eyes,

And teeth and complexion like new-fallen snow;

With a nature unspoiled and unblemished by art—

With a generous soul, and a warm, noble heart!

'Tis evening—the darkness is dense and profound;

Men linger at home by their bright-blazing fires;

The wind wildly howls with a horrible sound,

And shrieks through the vibrating telegraph wires;

The fierce lightning flashes along the dark sky;

The rain falls in torrents; the river rolls by.

The scream of a whistle; the rush of a train!

The sound of a bell! a mysterious light

That flashes and flares through the fast falling rain!

A rumble! a roar! shrieks of human affright!

The falling of timbers! the space of a breath!

A splash in the river; then darkness and death!

Kate Shelly recoils at the terrible crash;

The sounds of destruction she happens to hear;

She springs to the window—she throws up the sash,

And listens and looks with a feeling of fear.

The tall tree-tops groan, and she hears the faint cry

Of a drowning man down in the river near by.

Her heart feebly flutters, her features grow wan,

And then through her soul in a moment there flies

A forethought that gives her the strength of a man—

She turns to her trembling old mother and cries:

"I must save the express—'twill be here in an hour!"

Then out through the door disappears in the shower.

She flies down the track through the pitiless rain;

She reaches the river—the water below

Whirls and seethes through the timbers. She shudders again;

"The bridge! To Moingona, God help me to go!"

Then closely about her she gathers her gown

And on the wet ties with a shiver sinks down.

Then carefully over the timbers she creeps

On her hands and knees, almost holding her breath.

The loud thunder peals and the wind wildly sweeps,

And struggles to hurry her downward to death;

But the thought of the train to destruction so near

Removes from her soul every feeling of fear.

With the blood dripping down from each torn, bleeding limb,

Slowly over the timbers her dark way she feels;

Her fingers grow numb and her head seems to swim;

Her strength is fast failing—she staggers! she reels!

She falls—Ah! the danger is over at last,

Her feet touch the earth, and the long bridge is passed!

In an instant new life seems to come to her form;

She springs to her feet and forgets her despair.

On, on to Moingona! she faces the storm,

She reaches the station—the keeper is there,

"Save the lightning express! No—hang out the red light!

There's death on the bridge at the river to-night!"

Out flashes the signal-light, rosy and red;

Then sounds the loud roar of the swift-coming train,

The hissing of steam, and there, brightly ahead,

The gleam of a headlight illumines the rain.

"Down brakes!" shrieks the whistle, defiant and shrill;

She heeds the red signal—she slackens, she's still!

Ah! noble Kate Shelly, your mission is done;

Your deed that dark night will not fade from our gaze;

An endless renown you have worthily won;

Let the nation be just, and accord you its praise,

Let your name, let your fame, and your courage declare

What a woman can do, and a woman can dare!

Eugene J. Hall.

There's But One Pair of Stockings to Mend To-Night

An old wife sat by her bright fireside,

Swaying thoughtfully to and fro

In an easy chair, whose creaky craw

Told a tale of long ago;

While down by her side, on the kitchen floor,

Stood a basket of worsted balls—a score.

The good man dozed o'er the latest news

Till the light in his pipe went out;

And, unheeded, the kitten with cunning paws

Rolled and tangled the balls about;

Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,

Swaying to and fro in the fire-light glare.

But anon, a misty teardrop came

In her eyes of faded blue,

Then trickled down in a furrow deep

Like a single drop of dew;

So deep was the channel—so silent the stream—

That the good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.

Yet marveled he much that the cheerful light

Of her eye had heavy grown,

And marveled he more at the tangled balls,

So he said in a gentle tone:

"I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow,

Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."

Then she spoke of the time when the basket there

Was filled to the very brim;

And now, there remained of the goodly pile

But a single pair—for him;

"Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light,

There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

"I cannot but think of the busy feet

Whose wrappings were wont to lay

In the basket, awaiting the needle's time—

Now wandering so far away;

How the sprightly steps to a mother dear,

Unheeded fell on the careless ear.

"For each empty nook in the basket old

By the hearth there's a vacant seat;

And I miss the shadows from off the wall,

And the patter of many feet;

'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight,

At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

"'Twas said that far through the forest wild,

And over the mountains bold,

Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves

Were gemmed with the rarest gold;

Then my first-born turned from the oaken door—

And I knew the shadows were only four.

"Another went forth on the foaming wave,

And diminished the basket's store;

But his feet grew cold—so weary and cold,

They'll never be warm any more.

And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me

To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.

"Two others have gone toward the setting sun,

And made them a home in its light,

And fairy fingers have taken their share,

To mend by the fireside bright;

Some other baskets their garments will fill—

But mine, ah, mine is emptier still.

"Another—the dearest, the fairest, the best—

Was taken by angels away,

And clad in a garment that waxeth not old,

In a land of continual day;

Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light,

When I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."

The Young Man Waited

In the room below the young man sat,

With an anxious face and a white cravat,

A throbbing heart and a silken hat,

And various other things like that

Which he had accumulated.

And the maid of his heart was up above

Surrounded by hat and gown and glove,

And a thousand things which women love,

But no man knoweth the names thereof—

And the young man sat and—waited.

You will scarce believe the things I tell,

But the truth thereof I know full well,

Though how may not be stated;

But I swear to you that the maiden took

A sort of half-breed, thin stove-hook,

And heated it well in the gaslight there.

And thrust it into her head, or hair.

Then she took something off the bed,

And hooked it onto her hair, or head,

And piled it high, and piled it higher,

And drove it home with staples of wire!

And the young man anxiously—waited.

Then she took a thing she called a "puff"

And some very peculiar whitish stuff,

And using about a half a peck,

She spread it over her face and neck,

(Deceit was a thing she hated!)

And she looked as fair as a lilied bower,

Or a pound of lard or a sack of flour;—

And the young man wearily—waited.

Then she took a garment of awful shape

And it wasn't a waist, nor yet a cape,

But it looked like a piece of ancient mail,

Or an instrument from a Russian jail,

And then with a fearful groan and gasp,

She squeezed herself in its deathly clasp—

So fair and yet so fated!

And then with a move like I don't know what,

She tied it on with a double knot;—

And the young man wofully—waited.

Then she put on a dozen different things,

A mixture of buttons and hooks and strings,

Till she strongly resembled a notion store;

Then, taking some seventeen pins or more,

She thrust them into her ruby lips,

Then stuck them around from waist to hips,

And never once hesitated.

And the maiden didn't know, perhaps,

That the man below had had seven naps,

And that now he sleepily—waited.

And then she tried to put on her hat,

Ah me, a trying ordeal was that!

She tipped it high and she tried it low,

But every way that the thing would go

Only made her more agitated.

It wouldn't go straight and it caught her hair,

And she wished she could hire a man to swear,

But alas, the only man lingering there

Was the one who wildly—waited.

And then before she could take her leave,

She had to puff up her monstrous sleeve.

Then a little dab here and a wee pat there.

And a touch or two to her hindmost hair,

Then around the room with the utmost care

She thoughtfully circulated.

Then she seized her gloves and a chamoiskin,

Some breath perfume and a long stickpin,

A bonbon box and a cloak and some

Eau-de-cologne and chewing-gum,

Her opera glass and sealskin muff,

A fan and a heap of other stuff;

Then she hurried down, but ere she spoke,

Something about the maiden broke.

So she scurried back to the winding stair,

And the young man looked in wild despair,

And then he—evaporated.

Edmund Vance Cooke.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate;

I am the captain of my soul.

William E. Henley.

Katie Lee and Willie Grey

Two brown heads with tossing curls,

Red lips shutting over pearls,

Bare feet, white and wet with dew,

Two eyes black, and two eyes blue;

Little girl and boy were they,

Katie Lee and Willie Grey.

They were standing where a brook,

Bending like a shepherd's crook,

Flashed its silver, and thick ranks

Of willow fringed its mossy banks;

Half in thought, and half in play,

Katie Lee and Willie Grey.

They had cheeks like cherries red;

He was taller—'most a head;

She, with arms like wreaths of snow,

Swung a basket to and fro

As she loitered, half in play,

Chattering to Willie Grey.

"Pretty Katie," Willie said—

And there came a dash of red

Through the brownness of his cheek—

"Boys are strong and girls are weak,

And I'll carry, so I will,

Katie's basket up the hill."

Katie answered with a laugh,

"You shall carry only half";

And then, tossing back her curls,

"Boys are weak as well as girls."

Do you think that Katie guessed

Half the wisdom she expressed?

Men are only boys grown tall;

Hearts don't change much, after all;

And when, long years from that day,

Katie Lee and Willie Grey

Stood again beside the brook,

Bending like a shepherd's crook,—

Is it strange that Willie said,

While again a dash of red

Crossed the brownness of his cheek,

"I am strong and you are weak;

Life is but a slippery steep,

Hung with shadows cold and deep.

"Will you trust me, Katie dear,—

Walk beside me without fear?

May I carry, if I will,

All your burdens up the hill?"

And she answered, with a laugh,

"No, but you may carry half."

Close beside the little brook,

Bending like a shepherd's crook,

Washing with its silver hands

Late and early at the sands,

Is a cottage, where to-day

Katie lives with Willie Grey.

In a porch she sits, and lo!

Swings a basket to and fro—

Vastly different from the one

That she swung in years agone,

Thisis long and deep and wide,

And has—rockers at the side.

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem—may his tribe increase!—

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel, writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the Presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,

And, with a look made all of sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel.—Abou spoke more low,

But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again, with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed:

And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Leigh Hunt.

In School-Days

Still sits the school-house by the road,

A ragged beggar sunning;

Around it still the sumachs grow,

And blackberry vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen,

Deep scarred by raps official;

The warping floor, the battered seats,

The jack-knife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;

Its door's worn sill, betraying

The feet that, creeping slow to school,

Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun

Shone over it at setting;

Lit up its western window-panes,

And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,

And brown eyes full of grieving,

Of one who still her steps delayed

When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy

Her childish favor singled:

His cap pulled low upon a face

Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow

To right and left, he lingered;—

As restlessly her tiny hands

The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt

The soft hand's light caressing,

And heard the tremble of her voice,

As if a fault confessing.

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word:

I hate to go above you,

Because,"—the brown eyes lower fell,—

"Because, you see, I love you!"

Still memory to a gray-haired man

That sweet child-face is showing.

Dear girl: the grasses on her grave

Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life's hard school,

How few who pass above him

Lament their triumph and his loss,

Like her,—because they love him.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

Mother's Fool

"Tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife,

"These boys will make their mark in life;

They were never made to handle a hoe,

And at once to a college ought to go;

There's Fred, he's little better than a fool,

But John and Henry must go to school."

"Well, really, wife," quoth Farmer Brown,

As he set his mug of cider down,

"Fred does more work in a day for me

Than both his brothers do in three.

Book larnin' will never plant one's corn,

Nor hoe potatoes, sure's you're born;

Nor mend a rod of broken fence—

For my part, give me common sense."

But his wife was bound the roost to rule,

And John and Henry were sent to school,

While Fred, of course, was left behind,

Because his mother said he had no mind.

Five years at school the students spent;

Then into business each one went.

John learned to play the flute and fiddle,

And parted his hair, of course, in the middle;

While his brother looked rather higher than he,

And hung out a sign, "H. Brown, M.D."

Meanwhile, at home, their brother Fred

Had taken a notion into his head;

But he quietly trimmed his apple trees,

And weeded onions and planted peas,

While somehow or other, by hook or crook,

He managed to read full many a book;

Until at last his father said

He was getting "book larnin'" into his head;

"But for all that," added Farmer Brown,

"He's the smartest boy there is in town."

The war broke out, and Captain Fred

A hundred men to battle led,

And when the rebel flag came down,

Went marching home as General Brown.

But he went to work on the farm again,

And planted corn and sowed his grain;

He shingled the barn and mended the fence,

Till people declared he had common sense.

Now common sense was very rare,

And the State House needed a portion there;

So the "family dunce" moved into town—

The people called him Governor Brown;

And the brothers who went to the city school

Came home to live with "mother's fool."

Kentucky Philosophy

You Wi'yam, cum 'ere, suh, dis instunce.

Wu' dat you got under dat box?

I do' want no foolin'—you hear me?

Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n but rocks?

'Peah ter me you's owdashus p'ticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine.

I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline?

I calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed;

It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road.

You stole it, you rascal—you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot.

En time I gets th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease spot!

I'll fix you. Mirandy! Mirandy! go cut me a hick'ry—make 'ase!

En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place.

I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yam Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner,

Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner!

Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'lf sur? I is, I's 'shamed you's my son!

En de holy accorjan angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done;

En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters—

"One water-million stoled by Wi'yam Josephus Vetters."

En wut you s'posen Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school,

'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule?

Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun?

I's s'prised dat a chile er yo mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million.

En I's now gwinter cut it right open, en you shain't have nary bite,

Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions—en dat in de day's broad light—

Ain't—Lawdy! it's green! Mirandy!

Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch!

Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yeered tell er des sich?

Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green;

But w'en dey go punk, now you mine me, dey's ripe—en dat's des wut I mean.

En nex' time you hook water-millions— you heered me, you ign'ant, you hunk,

Ef you do' want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"!

Harrison Robertson.

Give Us Men

God give us men; a time like this demands

Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands.

Men whom the lust of office cannot kill;

Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy;

Men who possess opinions and a will;

Men who have honor; men who will not lie;

Men who can stand before a demagogue,

And brave his treacherous flatteries without winking;

Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog,

In public duty and in private thinking;

For while the rabble, with its thumb-worn creeds,

Its large professions, and its little deeds,

Mingle in selfish strife—lo! Freedom weeps,

Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps.

J.G. Holland.

Never Trouble Trouble

My good man is a clever man, which no one will gainsay;

He lies awake to plot and plan 'gainst lions in the way,

While I, without a thought of ill, sleep sound enough for three,

For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.

A holiday we never fix but he is sure 'twill rain;

And when the sky is clear at six he knows it won't remain.

He is always prophesying ill to which I won't agree,

For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.

The wheat will never show a top—but soon how green the field!

We will not harvest half a crop—yet have a famous yield!

It will not sell, it never will! but I will wait and see,

For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.

We have a good share of worldly gear, and fortune seems secure,

Yet my good man is full of fear—misfortune's coming sure!

He points me out the almshouse hill, but cannot make me see,

For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.

He has a sort of second sights and when the fit is strong,

He sees beyond the good and right the evil and the wrong.

Heaven's cop of joy he'll surely spill unless I with him be,

For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.

Fannie Windsor.

What is Good

"What is the real good?" I asked in musing mood.

Order, said the law court;

Knowledge, said the school;

Truth, said the wise man;

Pleasure, said the fool;

Love, said the maiden;

Beauty, said the page;

Freedom, said the dreamer;

Home, said the sage;

Fame, said the soldier;

Equity, the seer.

Spake my heart full sadly:

"The answer is not here."

Then within my bosom

Softly this I heard:

"Each heart holds the secret:

Kindness is the word."

John Boyle O'Reilly.

The Penny Ye Mean to Gie

There's a funny tale 'of a stingy man,

Who was none too good but might have been worse,

Who went to his church, on a Sunday night

And carried along his well-filled purse.

When the sexton came with the begging plate,

The church was but dim with the candle's light;

The stingy man fumbled all thro' his purse,

And chose a coin by touch and not by sight.

It's an odd thing now that guineas should be

So like unto pennies in shape and size.

"I'll gie a penny," the stingy man said:

"The poor must not gifts of pennies despise."

The penny fell down with a clatter and ring!

And back in his seat leaned the stingy man.

"The world is full of the poor," he thought,

"I can't help them all—I give what I can."

Ha! ha! how the sexton smiled, to be sure,

To see the gold guinea fall in the plate;

Ha! ha! how the stingy man's heart was wrung,

Perceiving his blunder—but just too late!

"No matter," he said; "in the Lord's account

That guinea of gold is set down to me—

They lend to him who give to the poor;

It will not so bad an investment be."

"Na, na, mon," the chuckling sexton cried out,

"The Lord is na cheated—he kens thee well;

He knew it was only by accident

That out o' thy fingers the guinea fell!

"He keeps an account, na doubt, for the puir;

But in that account He'll set down to thee

Na mair o' that golden guinea, my mon,

Than the one bare penny ye mean to gie!"

There's comfort, too, in the little tale—

A serious side as well as a joke—

A comfort for all the generous poor

In the comical words the sexton spoke;

A comfort to think that the good Lord knows

How generous we really desire to be,

And will give us credit in his account,

For all the pennies we long "to gie."

Leedle Yawcob Strauss

I haf von funny leedle poy

Vot gomes shust to my knee,—

Der queerest schap, der createst rogue

As efer you dit see.

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings

In all barts off der house.

But vot off dot? He vas mine son,

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He gets der measels und der mumbs,

Und eferyding dot's oudt;

He sbills mine glass off lager bier,

Poots schnuff indo mine kraut;

He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese—

Dot vas der roughest chouse;

I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy

But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milkban for a dhrum,

Und cuts mine cane in dwo

To make der schticks to beat it mit—

Mine cracious, dot vas drue!

I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart

He kicks oup sooch a touse;

But nefer mind der poys vas few

Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese:

Who baints mine nose so red?

Who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt

Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp

Vene'er der glim I douse?

How gan I all dese dings eggsblain

To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?

I somedimes dink I schall go vild

Mit sooch a grazy poy,

Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest

Und beaceful dimes enshoy.

But ven he vas asleep in ped,

So quiet as a mouse,

I prays der Lord, "Dake any dings,

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

Charles F. Adams.

To-day

We shall do so much in the years to come,

But what have we done to-day?

We shall give out gold in princely sum,

But what did we give to-day?

We shall lift the heart and dry the tear,

We shall plant a hope in the place of fear,

We shall speak with words of love and cheer,

But what have we done to-day?

We shall be so kind in the after while,

But what have we been to-day?

We shall bring to each lonely life a smile,

But what have we brought to-day?

We shall give to truth a grander birth,

And to steadfast faith a deeper worth,

We shall feed the hungering souls of earth,

But whom have we fed to-day?

Nixon Waterman.

So Was I

My name is Tommy, an' I hates

That feller of my sister Kate's,

He's bigger'n I am an' you see

He's sorter lookin' down on me,

An' I resents it with a vim;

I think I am just as good as him.

He's older, an' he's mighty fly,

But's he's a kid, an' so am I.

One time he came,—down by the gate,

I guess it must have been awful late,—

An' Katie, she was there, an' they

Was feelin' very nice and gay,

An' he was talkin' all the while

About her sweet an' lovin' smile,

An' everythin' was as nice as pie,

An' they was there, an' so was I.

They didn't see me, 'cause I slid

Down underneath a bush, an' hid,

An' he was sayin' that his love

Was greater'n all the stars above

Up in the glorious heavens placed;

An' then His arms got 'round her waist,

An' clouds were floatin' in the sky,

And they was there, an' so was I.

I didn't hear just all they said,

But by an' by my sister's head

Was droopin' on his shoulder, an'

I seen him holdin' Katie's hand,

An' then he hugged her closer, some,

An' then I heerd a kiss—yum, yum;

An' Katie blushed an' drew a sigh,

An' sorter coughed,—an' so did I.

An' then that feller looked around

An' seed me there, down on the ground,

An'—was he mad? well, betcher boots

I gets right out of there an' scoots.

An' he just left my sister Kate

A-standin' right there by the gate;

An' I seen blood was in his eye,

An' he runned fast—an' so did I.

I runned the very best I could,

But he cotched up—I's 'fraid he would—

An' then he said he'd teach me how

To know my manners, he'd allow;

An' then he shaked me awful. Gee!

He jest—he frashed the ground with me.

An' then he stopped it by and by,

'Cause he was tired—an' so was I,

An' then he went back to the gate

An' couldn't find my sister Kate

'Cause she went in to bed, while he

Was runnin' 'round an' thumpin' me.

I got round in a shadder dim,

An' made a face, an' guffed at him;

An' then the moon larfed, in the sky,

'Cause he was there, an' so was I.

Joseph Bert Smiley.

Is It Worth While?

Is it worth while that we jostle a brother.

Bearing his load on the rough road of life?

Is it worth while that we jeer at each other

In blackness of heart that we war to the knife?

God pity us all in our pitiful strife.

God pity as all as we jostle each other;

God pardon us all for the triumph we feel

When a fellow goes down 'neath his load on the heather,

Pierced to the heart: Words are keener than steel,

And mightier far for woe than for weal,

Were it not well, in this brief little journey

On over the isthmus, down into the tide,

We give him a fish instead of a serpent,

Ere folding the hands to be and abide

Forever and aye in dust at his side?

Look at the roses saluting each other;

Look at the herds all at peace on the plain;

Man, and man only, makes war on his brother,

And laughs in his heart at his peril and pain,

Shamed by the beasts that go down on the plain.

Is it worth while that we battle to humble

Some poor fellow down into the dust?

God pity us all! Time too soon will tumble

All of us together, like leaves in a gust,

Humbled, indeed, down into the dust.

Joaquin Miller.

Life's Mirror

There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave,

There are souls that are pure and true;

Then give to the world the best you have,

And the best will come back to you.

Give love, and love to your life will flow,

A strength in your utmost need;

Have faith, and a score of hearts will show

Their faith in your work and deed.

Give truth, and your gift will be paid in kind;

And honor will honor meet,

And the smile which is sweet will surely find

A smile that is just as sweet.

Give pity and sorrow to those who mourn;

You will gather in flowers again

The scattered seeds from your thought outborne,

Though the sowing seemed in vain.

For life is the mirror of king and slave;

'Tis just what we are and do;

Then give to the world the best you have,

And the best will come back to you.

Madeline S. Bridges.

The Little Black-Eyed Rebel

A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down

With food to feed the people of the British-governed town;

And the little black-eyed rebel, so cunning and so sly,

Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.

His face was broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough,

The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough;

But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh,

And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.

He drove up to the market, he waited in the line—

His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine.

But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy,

Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye.

"Now, who will buy my apples?" he shouted, long and loud;

And, "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd.

But from all the people round him came no word of reply,

Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.

For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day

Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away,

Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain, or die;

And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.

But the treasures—how to get them? crept the question through her mind,

Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find;

And she paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh,

Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.

So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red—

"May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said;

And the brown face flushed to scarlet, for the boy was somewhat shy,

And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye.

"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he.

"I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she.

And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by,

With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.

Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small,

And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl!

Carry back again this package, and be sure that you are spry!"

And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.

Loud the motley crowd was laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak;

And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak.

And "Miss, I have good apples," a bolder lad did cry;

But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.

With the news from loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet,

Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street.

"There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try,"

Thought the little black-eyed rebel with a twinkle in her eye.

Will Carleton.

A Day Well Spent

If you sit down at set of sun

And count the deeds that you have done,

And, counting, find

One self-denying act, one word that eased the heart of him that heard;

One glance most kind, which felt like sunshine where it went,

Then you may count that day well spent.

But if through, all the livelong day

You've eased no heart by yea or nay,

If through it all you've nothing done that you can trace

That brought the sunshine to one face,

No act most small that helped some soul and nothing cost,

Then count that day as worse than lost.

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth

Say not the struggle nought availeth,

The labor and the wounds are vain,

The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;

It may be, in yon smoke concealed,

Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,

And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,

Seem here no painful inch to gain,

Far back, through creeks and inlets making,

Comes silent, flooding in, the main,

And not by eastern windows only,

When daylight comes, comes in the light,

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,

But westward, look, the land is bright.

A.H. Clough.

The Miller of the Dee

There dwelt a miller, hale and bold,

Beside the river Dee;

He worked and sang from morn till night—

No lark more blithe than he;

And this the burden of his song

Forever used to be:

"I envy nobody—no, not I—

And nobody envies me!"

"Thou'rt wrong, my friend," said good King Hal,

"As wrong as wrong can be;

For could my heart be light as thine,

I'd gladly change with thee.

And tell me now, what makes thee sing,

With voice so loud and free,

While I am sad, though I'm a king,

Beside the river Dee?"

The miller smiled and doffed his cap,

"I earn my bread," quoth he;

"I love my wife, I love my friend,

I love my children three;

I owe no penny I cannot pay,

I thank the river Dee

That turns the mill that grinds the corn

That feeds my babes and me."

"Good friend," said Hal, and sighed the while,

"Farewell, and happy be;

But say no more, if thou'dst be true

That no one envies thee;

Thy mealy cap is worth my crown,

Thy mill my kingdom's fee;

Such men as thou art England's boast,

O miller of the Dee!"

Charles Mackay.

The Old Red Cradle

Take me back to the days when the old red cradle rocked,

In the sunshine of the years that are gone;

To the good old trusty days, when the door was never locked,

And we slumbered unmolested till the dawn.

I remember of my years I had numbered almost seven,

And the old cradle stood against the wall—

I was youngest of the five, and two were gone to heaven,

But the old red cradle rocked us all.

And if ever came a day when my cheeks were flushed and hot,

When I did not mind my porridge or my play,

I would clamber up its side and the pain would be forgot,

When the old red cradle rocked away.

It has been a hallowed spot where I've turned through all the years,

Which have brought me the evil with the good,

And I turn again to-night, aye, and see it through my tears,

The place where the dear old cradle stood.

By its side my father paused with a little time to spare.

And the care-lines would soften on his brow,

Ah! 't was but a little while that I knew a father's care,

But I fancy in my dreams I see him now.

By my mother it was rocked when the evening meal was laid,

And again I seem to see her as she smiled;

When the rest were all in bed, 'twas there she knelt and prayed,

By the old red cradle and her child.

Aye, it cradled one and all, brothers, sisters in it lay,

And it gave me the sweetest rest I've known;

But to-night the tears will flow, and I let them have their way,

For the passing years are leaving me alone.

And it seems of those to come, I would gladly give them all

For a slumber as free from care as then,

Just to wake to-morrow morn where the rising sun would fall

Round the old red cradle once again.

But the cradle long has gone and the burdens that it bore,

One by one, have been gathered to the fold;

Still the flock is incomplete, for it numbers only four,

With one left out straying in the cold.

Heaven grant again we may in each other's arms be locked,

Where no sad tears of parting ever fall;

God forbid that one be lost that the old red cradle rocked;

And the dear old cradle rocked us all.

Annie J. Granniss.

The Moo Cow Moo

My papa held me up to the Moo Cow Moo

So close I could almost touch,

And I fed him a couple of times or so,

And I wasn't a fraid-cat, much.

But if my papa goes in the house,

And my mamma she goes in too,

I keep still like a little mouse

For the Moo Cow Moo might Moo.

The Moo Cow's tail is a piece of rope

All raveled out where it grows;

And it's just like feeling a piece of soap

All over the Moo Cow's nose.

And the Moo Cow Moo has lots of fun

Just switching his tail about,

But if he opens his mouth, why then I run,

For that's where the Moo comes out.

The Moo Cow Moo has deers on his head,

And his eyes stick out of their place,

And the nose of the Moo Cow Moo is spread

All over the Moo Cow's face.

And his feet are nothing but fingernails,

And his mamma don't keep them cut,

And he gives folks milk in water pails,

When he don't keep his handles shut.

But if you or I pull his handles, why

The Moo Cow Moo says it hurts,

But the hired man sits down close by

And squirts, and squirts, and squirts.

Edmund Vance Cooke.

All Things Bright and Beautiful

All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful,—

The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens,

Each little bird that sings,—

He made their glowing colors,

He made their tiny wings.

The rich man in his castle,

The poor man at his gate,

God made them, high or lowly,

And ordered their estate.

The purple-headed mountain,

The river running by,

The morning, and the sunset

That lighteth up the sky,

The cold wind in the winter,

The pleasant summer sun,

The ripe fruits in the garden,—

He made them, every one.

The tall trees in the greenwood,

The meadows where we play,

The rushes by the water

We gather every day,—

He gave us eyes to see them,

And lips that we might tell

How great is God Almighty,

Who hath made all things well.

Cecil Frances Alexander.

An Order for a Picture

Oh, good painter, tell me true,

Has your hand the cunning to draw

Shapes of things that you never saw?

Aye? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and cornfields, a little brown,—

The picture must not be over-bright,—

Yet all in the golden and gracious light

Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.

Alway and alway, night and morn,

Woods upon woods, with fields of corn

Lying between them, not quite sere,

And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,

When the wind can hardly find breathing-room,

Under their tassels,—cattle near,

Biting shorter the short green grass,

And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,

With bluebirds twittering all around,—

(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)—

These, and the little house where I was born,

Low and little, and black and old,

With children, many as it can hold,

All at the windows, open wide,—

Heads and shoulders clear outside,

And fair young faces all ablush:

Perhaps you have seen, some day,

Roses crowding the self-same way,

Out of a wilding, wayside bush.

Listen closer. When you have done

With woods and cornfields and grazing herds,

A lady, the loveliest ever the sun

Looked down upon you must paint for me:

Oh, if I could only make you see

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,

The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,

The woman's soul, and the angel's face

That are beaming on me all the while,

I need not speak these foolish words:

Yet one word tells you all I would say,—

She is my mother: you will agree

That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee

You must paint, sir: one like me,—

The other with a clearer brow,

And the light of his adventurous eyes

Flashing with boldest enterprise:

At ten years old he went to sea,—

God knoweth if he be living now;

He sailed in the good ship "Commodore,"—

Nobody ever crossed her track

To bring us news, and she never came back.

Ah, it is twenty long years and more

Since that old ship went out of the bay

With my great-hearted brother on her deck:

I watched him till he shrank to a speck,

And his face was toward me all the way.

Bright his hair was, a golden brown,

The time we stood at our mother's knee:

That beauteous head, if it did go down,

Carried sunshine into the sea!

Out in the fields one summer night

We were together, half afraid

Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade

Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,—

Loitering till after the low little light

Of the candle shone through the open door,

And over the hay-stack's pointed top,

All of a tremble and ready to drop,

The first half-hoar, the great yellow star,

That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,

Had often and often watched to see

Propped and held in its place in the skies

By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree,

Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,—

Dead at the top, just one branch full

Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,

From which it tenderly shook the dew

Over our heads, when we came to play

In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day.

Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore

A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,—

The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,

Not so big as a straw of wheat:

The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,

But cried and cried, till we held her bill,

So slim and shining, to keep her still.

At last we stood at our mother's knee.

Do you think, sir, if you try,

You can paint the look of a lie?

If you can, pray have the grace

To put it solely in the face

Of the urchin that is likest me:

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed:

But that's no matter,—paint it so;

The eyes of our mother—(take good heed)—

Looking not on the nestful of eggs,

Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs,

But straight through our faces down to our lies,

And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise!

I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though

A sharp blade struck through it.

You, sir, know

That you on the canvas are to repeat

Things that are fairest, things most sweet,—

Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree,—

The mother,—the lads, with their bird at her knee:

But, oh, that look of reproachful woe!

High as the heavens your name I'll shout,

If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.

Alice Cary.

Who Won the War?

Who won the war?

'T was little Belgium stemmed the tide

Of ruthless hordes who thought to ride

Her borders through and prostrate France

Ere yet she'd time to raise her lance.

'T was plucky Belgium.

Who won the war?

Italia broke the galling chain

Which bound her to the guilty twain;

Then fought 'gainst odds till one of these

Lay prone and shattered at her knees.

'T was gallant Italy.

Who won the war?

Old England's watch dogs of the main

Their vigil kept, and not in vain;

For not a ship their wrath dared brave

Save those which skulked beneath the wave.

'T was mighty England.

Who won the war?

'T was France who wrote in noble rage

The grandest words on history's page,

"They shall not pass"—the devilish Hun;

And he could never pass Verdun.

'T was sturdy France.

Who won the war?

In darkest hour there rose a cry,

"Liberty, sweet Liberty, thou shalt not die!"

Thank God! they came across the sea,

Two million men and victory!

'T was glorious America.

Who won the war?

No one of these; not one, but all

Who answered Freedom's clarion call.

Each humble man who did his bit

In God's own book of fame is writ.

These won the war.

Woodbury Pulsifer.

Mothers of Men

The bravest battle that ever was fought!

Shall I tell you where and when?

On the map of the world you will find it not,

'Twas fought by the mothers of men.

Nay, not with cannon or battle shot,

With sword or nobler pen,

Nay, not with eloquent words or thought

From mouths of wonderful men;

But deep in the walled-up woman's heart—

Of woman that would not yield,

But bravely, silently, bore her part—

Lo, there is the battle field!

No marshaling troup, no bivouac song,

No banner to gleam or wave,

But oh, these battles, they last so long—

From babyhood to the grave.

Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars,

She fights in her walled-up town—

Fights on and on in the endless wars,

Then, silent, unseen, goes down.

Oh, ye with banner and battle shot,

And soldiers to shout and praises

I tell you the kingliest victories fought

Were fought in those silent ways.

Oh, spotless in a world of shame,

With splendid and silent scorn,

Go back to God as white as you came—

The kingliest warrior born!

Joaquin Miller.

Plain Bob and a Job

Bob went lookin' for a job—

Didn't want a situation; didn't ask a lofty station:

Didn't have a special mission for a topnotcher's position;

Didn't have such fine credentials—but he had the real essentials—

Had a head that kept on workin' and two hands that were not shirkin';

Wasn't either shirk or snob;

Wasn't Mister—just plain Bob,

Who was lookin' for a job.

Bob went lookin' for a job;

And he wasn't scared or daunted when he saw a sign—"Men Wanted,"

Walked right in with manner fittin' up to where the Boss was sittin',

And he said: "My name is Bob, and I'm lookin' for a job;

And if you're the Boss that hires 'em, starts 'em working and that fires 'em,

Put my name right down here, Neighbor, as a candidate for labor;

For my name is just plain 'Bob,

And my pulses sort o' throb

For that thing they call a job."

Bob kept askin' for a job,

And the Boss, he says: "What kind?" And Bob answered: "Never mind;

For I am not a bit partic'ler and I never was a stickler

For proprieties in workin'—if you got some labor lurkin'

Anywhere around about kindly go and trot it out.

It's, a job I want, you see—

Any kind that there may be

Will be good enough for me."

Well, sir, Bob he got a job.

But the Boss went 'round all day in a dreamy sort of way;

And he says to me: "By thunder, we have got the world's Eighth Wonder!

Got a feller name of Bob who just asked me for a job—

Never asks when he engages about overtime in wages;

Never asked if he'd get pay by the hour or by the day;

Never asked me if it's airy work and light and sanitary;

Never asked me for my notion of the chances of promotion;

Never asked for the duration of his annual vacation;

Never asked for Saturday half-a-holiday with pay;

Never took me on probation till he tried the situation;

Never asked me if it's sittin' work or standin', or befittin'

Of his birth and inclination—he just filed his application,

Hung his coat up on a knob,

Said his name was just plain Bob—

And went workin' at a job!"

James W. Foley.

Aunt Tabitha

Whatever I do and whatever I say,

Aunt Tabitha tells me it isn't the way

When she was a girl (forty summers ago);

Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.

Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice!

But I like my own way, and I find it so nice!

And besides, I forget half the things I am told;

But they all will come back to me—when I am old.

If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,

He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;

She would never endure an impertinent stare—

It is horrid, she says, and I mustn't sit there.

A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,

But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone;

So I take a lad's arm—just for safety you know—

But Aunt Tabitha tells me they didn't do so.

How wicked we are, and how good they were then!

They kept at arm's length those detestable men;

What an era of virtue she lived in!—But stay—

Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?

If the men were so wicked, I'll ask my papa

How he dared to propose to my darling mamma;

Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows?

And what shall I say, if a wretch should propose?

I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin,

What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been!

And her grand-aunt—it scares me—how shockingly sad

That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!

A martyr will save us, and nothing else can,

Let me perish —to rescue some wretched young man!

Though when to the altar a victim I go,

Aunt Tabitha'll tell me she never did so!

The Flag Goes By

Hats off!

Along the street there comes

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,

A flash of color beneath the sky:

Hats off!

The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines,

Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines.

Hats off!

The colors before us fly;

But more than the flag is passing by.

Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great,

Fought to make and to save the State;

Weary marches and sinking ships;

Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace,

March of a strong land's swift increase:

Equal justice, right and law,

Stately honor and reverent awe;

Sign of a nation, great and strong,

To ward her people from foreign wrong;

Pride and glory and honor, all

Live in the colors to stand or fall.

Hats off!

Along the street there comes

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,

And loyal hearts are beating high:

Hats off!

The flag is passing by!

H.H. Bennett.

The Rivers of France

The rivers of France are ten score and twain,

But five are the names that we know:

The Marne, the Vesle, the Oureq and the Aisne,

And the Somme of the swampy flow.

The rivers of France, from source to sea,

Are nourished by many a rill,

But these five, if ever a drouth there be

The fountains of sorrow would fill.

The rivers of France shine silver white,

But the waters of five are red

With the richest blood, in the fiercest fight

For freedom that ever was shed.

The rivers of France sing soft as they run,

But five have a song of their own,

That hymns the fall of the arrogant one

And the proud cast down from his throne.

The rivers of France all quietly take

To sleep in the house of their birth,

But the carnadined wave of five shall break

On the uttermost strands of earth.

Five rivers of France—see! their names are writ

On a banner of crimson and gold,

And the glory of those who fashioned it

Shall nevermore cease to be told.

H.J.M., in London "Times."

Seven Times One

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,

There's no rain left in heaven;

I've said my "seven times" over and over:

Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old I can write a letter;

My birthday lessons are done;

The lambs play always, they know no better,

They are only one times one.

O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing

And shining so round and low;

You were bright! but your light is failing,

You are nothing now but a bow.

You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven,

That God has hidden your face?

I hope if you have, you'll soon be forgiven,

And shine again in your place.

O velvet Bee, you're a dusty fellow;

You've powdered your legs with gold!

O brave Marshmary buds, rich and yellow,

Give me your money to hold!

O Columbine, open your folded wrapper

Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!

O Cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper

That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest, with the young ones in it,

I will not steal them away;

I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,

I am seven times one to-day.

Jean Ingelow.

Seven Times Two

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,

How many soever they be,

And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges,

Come over, come over to me.

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling

No magical sense conveys,

And bells have forgotten their old art of telling

The fortune of future days.

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily.

While a boy listened alone;

Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily

All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,

And mine, they are yet to be;

No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover:

You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,

Preparing her hoods of snow:

She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:

Oh, children take long to grow.

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster,

Nor long summer bide so late;

And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,

For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,

While dear hands are laid on my head:

"The child is a woman, the book may close over,

For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it,

Not one, as he sits on the tree;

The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it!

Such as I wish it to be.

Jean Ingelow.

Seven Times Three

LOVE

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover,

Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate;

"Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover—

Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait

Till I listen and hear

If a step draweth near,

For my love he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,

The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:

To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?p>

Let the star-clusters grow,

Let the sweet waters flow.

And cross quickly to me.

"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;

You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover

To him that comes darkling along the rough steep.

Ah, my sailor, make haste,

For the time runs to waste,

And my love lieth deep,

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,

I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."

By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover;

Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight;

But I'll love him more, more

Than e'er wife loved before,

Be the days dark or bright.

Jean Ingelow.

Seven Times Four

MATERNITY

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall!

When the wind wakes, how they rock in the grasses,

And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small!

Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses

Eager to gather them all.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups!

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain;

Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow,

That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain;

Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow,"—

Sing once, and sing it again.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,

Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow;

A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters,

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow,

O bonny brown son, and O sweet little daughters,

Maybe he thinks on you now!

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall!

A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall!

Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure,

God that is over us all!

Jean Ingelow.

Autumn Woods

Ere, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,

The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,

Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold,

In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round,

Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,

That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendors glow,

Where the gay company of trees look down

On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,

Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown

Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,

Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,—

The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;

So grateful, when the noon of summer made

The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright;

Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze,

Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,

Shines with the image of its golden screen

And glimmerings of the sun.

But 'neath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,

Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon

Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;

Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,

And leave thee wild and sad?

Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed

Forever in thy colored shades to stray;

Amid the kisses of the soft southwest

To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife

That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,

The passions and the cares that wither life,

And waste its little hour.

William Cullen Bryant.

The Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge

Did you ever hear of the Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge, who lay

With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of that terrible day?

They were firing above him and firing below, and the tempest of shot and shell

Was raging like death, as he moaned in his pain, by the breastworks where he fell.

"Go back with your corps," our colonel had said, but he waited the moment when

He might follow the ranks and shoulder a gun with the best of us bearded men;

And so when the signals from old Fort Wood set an army of veterans wild,

He flung down his drum, which spun down the hill like the ball of a wayward child.

And then he fell in with the foremost ranks of brave old company G,

As we charged by the flank, with our colors ahead, and our columns closed up like a V,

In the long, swinging lines of that splendid advance, when the flags of our corps floated out,

Like the ribbons that dance in the jubilant lines of the march of a gala day rout.

He charged with the ranks, though he carried no gun, for the colonel had said him nay,

And he breasted the blast of the bristling guns, and the shock of the sickening fray;

And when by his side they were falling like hail he sprang to a comrade slain,

And shouldered his musket and bore it as true as the hand that was dead in pain.

'Twas dearly we loved him, our Drummer Boy, with a fire in his bright, black eye,

That flashed forth a spirit too great for his form—he only was just so high,

As tall, perhaps, as your little lad who scarcely reaches your shoulder—

Though his heart was the heart of a veteran then, a trifle, it may be, bolder.

He pressed to the front, our lad so leal, and the works were almost won,

A moment more and our flags had swung o'er the muzzle of murderous gun;

But a raking fire swept the van, and he fell 'mid the wounded and slain,

With his wee wan face turned up to Him who feeleth His children's pain.

Again and again our lines fell back, and again with shivering shocks

They flung themselves on the rebels' works as ships are tossed on rocks;

To be crushed and broken and scattered amain, as the wrecks of the surging storm.

Where none may rue and none may reck of aught that has human form.

So under the ridge we were lying for the order to charge again,

And we counted our comrades missing, and we counted our comrades slain;

And one said, "Johnny, our Drummer Boy, is grievously shot and lies

Just under the enemy's breastwork; if left on the field he dies."

Then all the blood that was in me surged up to my aching brow,

And my heart leaped up like a ball in my throat—I can feel it even now,

And I said I would bring that boy from the field, if God would spare my breath,

If all the guns in Mission Ridge should thunder the threat of death.

I crept and crept up the ghastly ridge, by the wounded and the dead,

With the moans of my comrades right and left, behind me and yet ahead,

Till I came to the form of our Drummer Boy, in his blouse of dusty blue,

With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, where the blast of the battle blew.

And his gaze as he met my own just there would have melted a heart of stone,

As he tried like a wounded bird to rise, and placed his hand in my own;

And he said in a voice half smothered, though its whispering thrills me yet,

"I think in a moment more that I would have stood on that parapet.

"But now I nevermore will climb, and, Sergeant, when you see

The men go up those breastworks there, just stop and waken me;

For though I cannot make the charge and join the cheers that rise,

I may forget my pain to see the old flag kiss the skies."

Well, it was hard to treat him so, his poor limb shattered sore,

But I raised him on my shoulder and to the surgeon bore;

And the boys who saw us coming each gave a shout of joy,

And uttered fervent prayers for him, our valiant Drummer Boy.

When sped the news that "Fighting Joe" had saved the Union right,

With his legions fresh from Lookout; and that Thomas massed his might

And forced the rebel center; and our cheering ran like wild;

And Sherman's heart was happy as the heart of a little child;

When Grant from his lofty outlook saw our flags by the hundred fly

Along the slopes of Mission Ridge, where'er he cast his eye;

And when we heard the thrilling news of the mighty battle done,

The fearful contest ended, and the glorious victory won;

Then his bright black eyes so yearning grew strangely rapt and wide,

And in that hour of conquest our little hero died.

But ever in our hearts he dwells, with a grace that ne'er is old,

For him the heart to duty wed can nevermore grow cold!

And when they tell of heroes, and the laurels they have won,

Of the scars they are doomed to carry, of the deeds that they have done;

Of the horror to be biding among the ghastly dead,

The gory sod beneath them, the bursting shell o'erhead,

My heart goes back to Mission Ridge and the Drummer Boy who lay

With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of that terrible day;

And I say that the land that bears such sons is crowned and dowered with all

The dear God giveth nations to stay them lest they fall.

Oh, glory of Mission Ridge, stream on, like the roseate light of morn,

On the sons that now are living, on the sons that are yet unborn!

And cheers for our comrades living, and tears as they pass away!

And three times three for the Drummer Boy who fought at the front that day!

If—

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about don't deal in lies,

Or being hated don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream and not make dreams your master;

If you can think and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch and toss.

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling.

Second Table

Some boys are mad when comp'ny comes to stay for meals. They hate

To have the other people eat while boys must wait and wait,

But I've about made up my mind I'm different from the rest,

For as for me, I b'lieve I like the second table best.

To eat along with comp'ny is so trying, for it's tough

To sit and watch the victuals when you dassent touch the stuff.

You see your father serving out the dark meat and the light

Until a boy is sure he'll starve before he gets a bite.

And when, he asks you what you'll have,—you've heard it all before,—

You know you'll get just what you get and won't get nothing more;

For, when you want another piece, your mother winks her eye,

And so you say, "I've plenty, thanks!" and tell a whopping lie.

When comp'ny is a-watching you, you've got to be polite,

And eat your victuals with a fork and take a little bite.

You can't have nothing till you're asked and, 'cause a boy is small,

Folks think he isn't hungry, and he's never asked at all.

Since I can first remember I've been told that when the cake

Is passed around, the proper thing is for a boy to take

The piece that's nearest to him, and so all I ever got,

When comp'ny's been to our house, was the smallest in the lot.

It worries boys like everything to have the comp'ny stay

A-setting round the table, like they couldn't get away.

But when they've gone, and left the whole big shooting match to me,

Say! ain't it fun to just wade in and help myself? Oh, gee!

With no one round to notice what you're doing—bet your life!—

Boys don't use forks to eat with when they'd rather use a knife,

Nor take such little bites as when they're eating with the rest

And so, for lots of things, I like the second table best

Nixon Waterman.

The Children

When the lessons and tasks are all ended,

And the school for the day is dismissed,

And the little ones gather around me,

To bid me good night and be kissed;

Oh, the little white arms that encircle

My neck in their tender embrace!

Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,

Shedding sunshine of love on my face!

And when they are gone, I sit dreaming

Of my childhood, too lovely to last;

Of love that my heart will remember

When it wakes to the pulse of the past,

Ere the world and its wickedness made me

A partner of sorrow and sin,—

When the glory of God was about me,

And the glory of gladness within.

All my heart grows weak as a woman's

And the fountains of feeling will flow,

When I think of the paths steep and stony,

Where the feet of the dear ones must go;

Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,

Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild;

Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy

As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households;

They are angels of God in disguise;

His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,

His glory still gleams in their eyes;

Oh, these truants from home and from heaven,—

They have made me more manly and mild;

And I know now how Jesus could liken

The kingdom of God to a child!

I ask not a life for the dear ones

All radiant, as others have done,

But that life may have just enough shadow

To temper the glare of the sun;

I would pray God to guard them from evil,

But my prayer would bound back to myself;

Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner,

But a sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended,

I have banished the rule and the rod;

I have taught them the goodness of knowledge,

They have taught me the goodness of God.

My heart is the dungeon of darkness,

Where I shut them for breaking a rule;

My frown is sufficient correction;

My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn,

To traverse its threshold no more;

Ah! how shall I sigh for the dear ones

That meet me each morn at the door!

I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses,

And the gush of their innocent glee.

The group on its green, and the flowers

That are brought every morning to me.

I shall miss them at morn and at even,

Their song in the school and the street;

I shall miss the low hum of their voices,

And the tread of their delicate feet.

When the lessons of life are all ended,

And death says, "The school is dismissed!"

May the little ones gather around me

To bid me good night and be kissed!

Charles M. Dickinson.

A Visit from St. Nicholas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,—

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a luster of midday to objects below:

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! now Dancer! now, Prancer! now Vixen!

On, Comet, on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!—

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!

Now, dash away, dash sway, dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too,

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes how they twinkled; his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf—

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.

A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spake not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;

But I heard him exclaim, ere they drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Clement C. Moore.

Your Mission

If you cannot on the ocean

Sail among the swiftest fleet,

Rocking on the highest billows,

Laughing at the storms you meet,

You can stand among the sailors,

Anchored yet within the bay,

You can lend a hand to help them,

As they launch their boats away.

If you are too weak to journey

Up the mountain steep and high,

You can stand within the valley,

While the multitudes go by;

You can chant in happy measure,

As they slowly pass along;

Though they may forget the singer,

They will not forget the song.

If you have not gold and silver

Ever ready to command,

If you cannot towards the needy

Reach an ever-open hand,

You can visit the afflicted,

O'er the erring you can weep,

You can be a true disciple,

Sitting at the Savior's feet.

If you cannot in the conflict,

Prove yourself a soldier true,

If where fire and smoke are thickest,

There's no work for you to do,

When the battle-field is silent,

You can go with careful tread,

You can bear away the wounded,

You can cover up the dead.

Do not then stand idly waiting

For some greater work to do,

Fortune is a lazy goddess,

She will never come to you.

Go and toil in any vineyard,

Do not fear to do or dare,

If you want a field of labor,

You can find it anywhere.

Ellen H. Gates.

The House by the Side of the Road

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn

In the peace of their self-content;

There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,

In a fellowless firmament;

There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths

Where highways never ran;

But let me live by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,

Where the race of men go by,

The men who are good and the men who are bad,

As good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner's seat,

Or hurl the cynic's ban;

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,

By the side of the highway of life,

The men who press with the ardor of hope,

The men who are faint with the strife.

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,

Both parts of an infinite plan;

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead

And mountains of wearisome height;

That the road passes on through the long afternoon

And stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,

And weep with the strangers that moan.

Nor live in my house by the side of the road

Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

Where the race of men go by;

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

Wise, foolish—so am I.

Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,

Or hurl the cynic's ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

Sam Walter Foss.

Asleep at the Switch

The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away,

With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as much as to say:

"Come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now depend upon you.

Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you are sending them to.

Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of the father and son,

Think of the lover and the loved one too, think of them doomed every one

To fall (as it were by your very hand) into yon fathomless ditch,

Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now lies asleep at the switch."

I sprang up amazed—scarce knew where I stood, sleep had o'ermastered me so;

I could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep river dashing below,

I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the tempest were fanned,

But what was that noise in the distance? That, I could not understand.

I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some muffled drum,

Then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my very ears hum;

What is this light that surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain?

What whistle's that, yelling so shrill? Ah! I know now; it's the train.

We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to the place;

So I stood—with this demon before me, its heated breath scorching my face;

Its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like the eyes of some witch,—

The train was almost upon me before I remembered the switch.

I sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast down the track;

The switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed holding it back;

On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like a flash;

I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing after the crash.

How long I lay there unconscious 'twas impossible for me to tell;

My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a hell,—

For then I heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of husbands and wives,

And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I must account for their lives;

Mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes glaring madly and wild;

Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like a child;

Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they sped,

And lips, that could form naught but "Mamma," were calling for one perhaps dead.

My mind was made up in a moment, the river should hide me away,

When, under the still burning rafters I suddenly noticed there lay

A little white hand; she who owned it was doubtless an object of love

To one whom her loss would drive frantic, though she guarded him now from above;

I tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one side;

How little she thought of her journey when she left for this dark, fatal ride!

I lifted the last log from off her, and while searching for some spark of life,

Turned her little face up in the starlight, and recognized—Maggie, my wife!

O Lord! my scourge is a hard one, at a blow thou hast shattered my pride;

My life will be one endless nightmare, with Maggie away from my side.

How often I'd sat down and pictured the scenes in our long, happy life;

How I'd strive through all my lifetime, to build up a home for my wife;

How people would envy us always in our cozy and neat little nest;

How I should do all the labor, and Maggie should all the day rest;

How one of God's blessings might cheer us, how some day I perhaps should be rich:—

But all of my dreams had been shattered, while I lay there asleep at the switch!

I fancied I stood on my trial, the jury and judge I could see;

And every eye in the court room was steadily fixed upon me;

And fingers were pointed in scorn, till I felt my face blushing blood-red,

And the next thing I heard were the words, "Hanged by the neck until dead."

Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my hand caught tight hold of a dress,

And I heard, "What's the matter, dear Jim? You've had a bad nightmare, I guess!"

And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a scar from the ditch,

I'd been taking a nap in my bed, and had not been "asleep at the switch."

George Hoey.

Each in His Own Tongue

A fire-mist and a planet,

A crystal and a cell,

A jellyfish and a saurian,

And caves where the cavemen dwell;

Then a sense of law and beauty,

And a face turned from the clod,—

Some call it Evolution,

And others call it God.

A haze in the far horizon,

The infinite, tender sky;

The ripe, rich tints of the cornfields,

And the wild geese sailing high;

And all over upland and lowland

The charm of the goldenrod,—

Some of us call it Nature,

And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,

When the moon is new and thin,

Into our hearts high yearnings

Come welling and surging in,—

Come from the mystic ocean.

Whose rim no foot has trod,—

Some of us call it Longing,

And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty,

A mother starved for her brood,

Socrates drinking the hemlock,

And Jesus on the rood;

The millions who, humble and nameless,

The straight, hard pathway trod,—

Some call it Consecration,

And others call it God.

William Herbert Carruth.

How Cyrus Laid the Cable

Come, listen all unto my song;

It is no silly fable;

'Tis all about the mighty cord

They call the Atlantic Cable.

Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he,

I have a pretty notion

That I can run the telegraph

Across the Atlantic Ocean.

Then all the people laughed, and said

They'd like to see him do it;

He might get half-seas over, but

He never could go through it;

To carry out his foolish plan

He never would be able;

He might as well go hang himself

With his Atlantic Cable.

But Cyrus was a valiant man,

A fellow of decision;

And heeded not their mocking words,

Their laughter and derision.

Twice did his bravest efforts fail,

And yet his mind was stable;

He wa'n't the man to break his heart

Because he broke his cable.

"Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried;

"Three times!—you know the fable,—

(I'll make it thirty," muttered he,

"But I will lay this cable!")

Once more they tried—hurrah! hurrah!

What means this great commotion?

The Lord be praised! the cable's laid

Across the Atlantic Ocean.

Loud ring the bells,—for, flashing through

Six hundred leagues of water,

Old Mother England's benison

Salutes her eldest daughter.

O'er all the land the tidings speed,

And soon, in every nation,

They'll hear about the cable with

Profoundest admiration!

And may we honor evermore

The manly, bold, and stable;

And tell our sons, to make them brave,

How Cyrus laid the cable.

John G. Saxe.

Jane Jones

Jane Jones keeps talkin' to me all the time,

An' says you must make it a rule

To study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd learn,

An' never be absent from school.

Remember the story of Elihu Burritt,

An' how he clum up to the top,

Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had

Down in a blacksmithing shop?

Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!

Mebbe he did—

I dunno!

O' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top,

Is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop.

She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor,

But full of ambition an' brains;

An' studied philosophy all his hull life,

An' see what he got for his pains!

He brought electricity out of the sky,

With a kite an' a bottle an' key,

An' we're owing him more'n any one else

For all the bright lights 'at we see.

Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!

Mebbe he did—

I dunno!

O' course what's allers been hinderin' me

Is not havin' any kite, lightning er key.

Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all,

An' used to split rails when a boy;

An' General Grant was a tanner by trade

An' lived 'way out in Illinois.

So when the great war in the South first broke out

He stood on the side o' the right,

An' when Lincoln called him to take charge o' things,

He won nearly every blamed fight.

Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!

Mebbe he did—

I dunno!

Still I ain't to blame, not by a big sight,

For I ain't never had any battles to fight.

She said 'at Columbus was out at the knees

When he first thought up his big scheme,

An' told all the Spaniards 'nd Italians, too,

An' all of 'em said 'twas a dream.

But Queen Isabella jest listened to him,

'Nd pawned all her jewels o' worth,

'Nd bought him the Santa Maria 'nd said,

"Go hunt up the rest o' the earth!"

Mebbe he did—

I dunno!

O' course that may be, but then you must allow

They ain't no land to discover jest now!

Ben King.

The Leap of Roushan Beg

Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet,

His chestnut steed with four white feet,

Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,

Son of the road and bandit chief,

Seeking refuge and relief,

Up the mountain pathway flew.

Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed,

Never yet could any steed

Reach the dust-cloud in his course.

More than maiden, more than wife,

More than gold and next to life

Roushan the Robber loved his horse.

In the land that lies beyond

Erzeroum and Trebizond,

Garden-girt his fortress stood;

Plundered khan, or caravan

Journeying north from Koordistan,

Gave him wealth and wine and food.

Seven hundred and fourscore

Men at arms his livery wore,

Did his bidding night and day,

Now, through regions all unknown,

He was wandering, lost, alone,

Seeking without guide his way.

Suddenly the pathway ends,

Sheer the precipice descends,

Loud the torrent roars unseen;

Thirty feet from side to side

Yawns the chasm; on air must ride

He who crosses this ravine,

Following close in his pursuit,

At the precipice's foot

Reyhan the Arab of Orfah

Halted with his hundred men,

Shouting upward from the glen,

"La Illah illa Allah!"

Gently Roushan Beg caressed

Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast,

Kissed him upon both his eyes;

Sang to him in his wild way,

As upon the topmost spray

Sings a bird before it flies.

"O my Kyrat, O my steed,

Round and slender as a reed,

Carry me this peril through!

Satin housings shall be thine,

Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,

O thou soul of Kurroglou!

"Soft thy skin as silken skein,

Soft as woman's hair thy mane,

Tender are thine eyes and true;

All thy hoofs like ivory shine,

Polished bright; O life of mine,

Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!"

Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet,

Drew together his four white feet,

Paused a moment on the verge,

Measured with his eye the space,

And into the air's embrace

Leaped, as leaps the ocean surge.

As the ocean surge o'er sand

Bears a swimmer safe to land,

Kyrat safe his rider bore;

Rattling down the deep abyss,

Fragments of the precipice

Rolled like pebbles on a shore.

Roushan's tasseled cap of red

Trembled not upon his head,

Careless sat he and upright;

Neither hand nor bridle shook,

Nor his head he turned to look,

As he galloped out of sight.

Flash of harness in the air,

Seen a moment like the glare

Of a sword drawn from its sheath;

Thus the phantom horseman passed,

And the shadow that he cast

Leaped the cataract underneath.

Reyhan the Arab held his breath

While this vision of life and death

Passed above him. "Allahu!"

Cried he. "In all Koordistan

Lives there not so brave a man

As this Robber Kurroglou!"

Henry W. Longfellow.

Old Ironsides

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar;—

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,

Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,

And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,

Or know the conquered knee;—

The harpies of the shore shall pluck

The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk

Should sink beneath the wave!

Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,

The lightning and the gale!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

A Psalm of Life

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

"Life is but an empty dream!"

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act that each to-morrow

Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act, act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

Henry W. Longfellow.

Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson

I think, of all the things at school

A boy has got to do,

That studyin' hist'ry, as a rule,

Is worst of all, don't you?

Of dates there are an awful sight,

An' though I study day an' night,

There's only one I've got just right—

That's fourteen ninety-two.

Columbus crossed the Delaware

In fourteen ninety-two;

We whipped the British, fair an' square,

In fourteen ninety-two.

At Concord an' at Lexington.

We kept the redcoats on the run,

While the band played Johnny Get Your Gun,

In fourteen ninety-two.

Pat Henry, with his dyin' breath—

In fourteen ninety-two—

Said, "Gimme liberty or death!"

In fourteen ninety-two.

An' Barbara Frietchie, so 'tis said,

Cried, "Shoot if you must this old, gray head,

But I'd rather 'twould be your own instead!"

In fourteen ninety-two.

The Pilgrims came to Plymouth Rock

In fourteen ninety-two,

An' the Indians standin' on the dock

Asked, "What are you goin' to do?"

An' they said, "We seek your harbor drear

That our children's children's children dear

May boast that their forefathers landed here

In fourteen ninety-two."

Miss Pocahontas saved the life—

In fourteen ninety-two—

Of John Smith, an' became his wife

In fourteen ninety-two.

An' the Smith tribe started then an' there,

An' now there are John Smiths ev'rywhere,

But they didn't have any Smiths to spare

In fourteen ninety-two.

Kentucky was settled by Daniel Boone

In fourteen ninety-two,

An' I think the cow jumped over the moon

In fourteen ninety-two.

Ben Franklin flew his kite so high

He drew the lightnin' from the sky,

An' Washington couldn't tell a lie,

In fourteen ninety-two.

Nixon Waterman.

Riding on the Rail

Singing through the forests, rattling over ridges,

Shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges,

Whizzing through the mountains, buzzing o'er the vale,—

Bless me! this is pleasant, riding on the rail!

Men of different stations in the eye of Fame,

Here are very quickly coming to the same;

High and lowly people, birds of every feather,

On a common level, traveling together!

Gentlemen in shorts, blooming very tall;

Gentlemen at large, talking very small;

Gentlemen in tights, with a loosish mien;

Gentlemen in gray, looking very green!

Gentlemen quite old, asking for the news;

Gentlemen in black, with a fit of blues;

Gentlemen in claret, sober as a vicar;

Gentlemen in tweed, dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right looking very sunny,

Obviously reading something very funny.

Now the smiles are thicker—wonder what they mean?

Faith, he's got the Knickerbocker Magazine!

Stranger on the left, closing up his peepers;

Now he snores again, like the Seven Sleepers;

At his feet a volume gives the explanation,

How the man grew stupid from "association"!

Ancient maiden lady anxiously remarks

That there must be peril 'mong so many sparks;

Roguish-looking fellow, turning to the stranger,

Says 'tis his opinion she is out of danger!

Woman with her baby, sitting vis a vis;

Baby keeps a-squalling, woman looks at me;

Asks about the distance—says 'tis tiresome talking,

Noises of the cars are so very shocking!

Market woman, careful of the precious casket,

Knowing eggs are eggs, tightly holds her basket;

Feeling that a smash, if it came, would surely

Send her eggs to pot rather prematurely.

Singing through the forests, rattling over ridges,

Shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges,

Whizzing through the mountains, buzzing o'er the vale,—

Bless me! this is pleasant, riding on the rail!

J.G. Saxe.

The Building of the Ship

EXTRACT

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!

Sail on, O Union, strong and great!

Humanity with all its fears,

With all the hopes of future years,

Is hanging breathless on thy fate!

We know what Master laid thy keel,

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,

What anvils rang, what hammers beat,

In what a forge and what a heat

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!

Fear not each sudden sound and shock,

'Tis of the wave and not the rock;

'Tis but the flapping of the sail,

And not a rent made by the gale!

In spite of rock and tempest's roar,

In spite of false lights on the shore,

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,

Our faith truiumphant o'er our fears,

Are all with thee,—are all with thee!

H.W. Longfellow.

The Dead Pussy Cat

You's as stiff an' as cold as a stone,

Little cat!

Dey's done frowed you out an' left you alone,

Little cat!

I's a-strokin' you's fur,

But you don't never purr

Nor hump up anywhere,

Little cat.

W'y is dat?

Is you's purrin' an' humpin'-up done?

An' w'y fer is you's little foot tied,

Little cat?

Did dey pisen you's tummick inside,

Little cat?

Did dey pound you wif bricks,

Or wif big nasty sticks,

Or abuse you wif kicks,

Little cat?

Tell me dat,

Did dey holler at all when you cwied?

Did it hurt werry bad w'en you died,

Little cat?

Oh, w'y didn't yo wun off and hide,

Little cat?

I is wet in my eyes,

'Cause I most always cwies

W'en a pussy cat dies,

Little cat,

Tink of dat,

An' I's awfully solly besides!

Dest lay still dere in de sof gwown',

Little cat,

W'ile I tucks de gween gwass all awoun',

Little cat.

Dey can't hurt you no more

W'en you's tired an' so sore,

Dest sleep twiet, you pore

Little cat,

Wif a pat,

An' fordet all de kicks of de town.

Marion Short.

The Owl Critic

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop;

The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;

The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading

The Daily, the Herald, the Post, little heeding

The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;

Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"

Cried the youth, with a frown,

"How wrong the whole thing is,

How preposterous each wing is.

How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is—

In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis!

I make no apology; I've learned owleology.

I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,

And cannot be blinded to any deflections

Arising from unskilful fingers that fail

To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.

Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down,

Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've studied owls,

And other night fowls,

And I tell you

What I know to be true:

An owl cannot roost

With his limbs so unloosed;

No owl in this world

Ever had his claws curled,

Ever had his legs slanted,

Ever had his bill canted,

Ever had his neck screwed

Into that attitude.

He can't do it, because

'Tis against all bird laws.

Anatomy teaches,

Ornithology preaches,

An owl has a toe

That can't turn out so!

I've made the white owl my study for years,

And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!

Mister Brown, I'm amazed

You should be so gone crazed

As to put up a bird

In that posture absurd!

To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness;

The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes.

I'm filled with surprise

Taxidermists should pass

Off on you such poor glass;

So unnatural they seem

They'd make Audubon scream,

And John Burroughs laugh

To encounter such chaff.

Do take that bird down;

Have him stuffed again, Brown!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark

I could stuff in the dark

An owl better than that.

I could make an old hat

Look more like an owl

Than that horrid fowl,

Stuck up here so stiff like a side of coarse leather.

In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,

The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,

Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic

(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,

And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:

"Your learning's at fault this time, anyway;

Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

James T. Fields.

At School-Close

The end has come, as come it must

To all things; in these sweet June days

The teacher and the scholar trust

Their parting feet to separate ways.

They part: but in the years to be

Shall pleasant memories cling to each,

As shells bear inland from the sea

The murmur of the rhythmic beach.

One knew the joys the sculptor knows

When, plastic to his lightest touch,

His clay-wrought model slowly grows

To that fine grace desired so much.

So daily grew before her eyes

The living shapes whereon she wrought,

Strong, tender, innocently wise,

The child's heart with the woman's thought.

And one shall never quite forget

The voice that called from dream and play,

The firm but kindly hand that set

Her feet in learning's pleasant way,—

The joy of Undine soul-possessed,

The wakening sense, the strange delight

That swelled the fabled statue's breast

And filled its clouded eyes with sight!

O Youth and Beauty, loved of all!

Ye pass from girlhood's gate of dreams;

In broader ways your footsteps fall,

Ye test the truth of all that seems.

Her little realm the teacher leaves,

She breaks her wand of power apart,

While, for your love and trust, she gives

The warm thanks of a grateful heart.

Hers is the sober summer noon

Contrasted with your morn of spring;

The waning with the waxing moon,

The folded with the outspread wing.

Across the distance of the years

She sends her God-speed back to you;

She has no thought of doubts or fears;

Be but yourselves, be pure, be true,

And prompt in duty; heed the deep,

Low voice of conscience; through the ill

And discord round about you, keep

Your faith in human nature still.

Be gentle: unto griefs and needs

Be pitiful as woman should,

And, spite of all the lies of creeds,

Hold fast the truth that God is good.

Give and receive; go forth and bless

The world that needs the hand and heart

Of Martha's helpful carefulness

No less than Mary's better part.

So shall the stream of time flow by

And leave each year a richer good,

And matron loveliness outvie

The nameless charm of maidenhood.

And, when the world shall link your names

With gracious lives and manners fine,

The teacher shall assert her claims,

And proudly whisper, "These were mine!"

John G. Whittier.

The Wild White Rose

Oh, that I might have my request, and that God would grant me the thing that I long for.—Job 6:8.

It was peeping through the brambles, that little wild white rose,

Where the hawthorn hedge was planted, my garden to enclose.

All beyond was fern and heather, on the breezy, open moor;

All within was sun and shelter, and the wealth of beauty's store.

But I did not heed the fragrance of flow'ret or of tree,

For my eyes were on that rosebud, and it grew too high for me.

In vain I strove to reach it through the tangled mass of green,

It only smiled and nodded behind its thorny screen.

Yet through that summer morning I lingered near the spot:

Oh, why do things seem sweeter if we possess them not?

My garden buds were blooming, but all that I could see

Was that little mocking wild rose, hanging just too high for me.

So in life's wider garden there are buds of promise, too,

Beyond our reach to gather, but not beyond our view;

And like the little charmer that tempted me astray,

They steal out half the brightness of many a summer's day.

Oh, hearts that fail with longing for some forbidden tree,

Look up and learn a lesson from my white rose and me.

'Tis wiser far to number the blessings at my feet,

Than ever to be sighing for just one bud more sweet.

My sunbeams and my shadows fall from a pierced Hand,

I can surely trust His wisdom since His heart I understand;

And maybe in the morning, when His blessed face I see,

He will tell me why my white rose grew just too high for me.

Ellen H. Willis.

L'Envoi

When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an aeon or two,

Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!

And those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair;

They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter and Paul;

They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all.

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;

But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!

Rudyard Kipling.

Whistling in Heaven

You're surprised that I ever should say so?

Just wait till the reason I've given

Why I say I sha'n't care for the music,

Unless there is whistling in heaven.

Then you'll think it no very great wonder,

Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit,

That unless there's a boy there a-whistling,

Its music will not be complete.

It was late in the autumn of '40;

We had come from our far Eastern home

Just in season to build us a cabin,

Ere the cold of the winter should come;

And we lived all the while in our wagon

That husband was clearing the place

Where the house was to stand; and the clearing

And building it took many days.

So that our heads were scarce sheltered

In under its roof when our store

Of provisions was almost exhausted,

And husband must journey for more;

And the nearest place where he could get them

Was yet such a distance away,

That it forced him from home to be absent

At least a whole night and a day.

You see, we'd but two or three neighbors,

And the nearest was more than a mile;

And we hadn't found time yet to know them,

For we had been busy the while.

And the man who had helped at the raising

Just staid till the job was well done;

And as soon as his money was paid him

Had shouldered his axe and had gone.

Well, husband just kissed me and started—

I could scarcely suppress a deep groan

At the thought of remaining with baby

So long in the house alone;

For, my dear, I was childish and timid,

And braver ones might well have feared,

For the wild wolf was often heard howling.

And savages sometimes appeared.

But I smothered my grief and my terror

Till husband was off on his ride,

And then in my arms I took Josey,

And all the day long sat and cried,

As I thought of the long, dreary hours

When the darkness of night should fall,

And I was so utterly helpless,

With no one in reach of my call.

And when the night came with its terrors,

To hide ev'ry ray of light,

I hung up a quilt by the window,

And, almost dead with affright,

I kneeled by the side of the cradle,

Scarce daring to draw a full breath,

Lest the baby should wake, and its crying

Should bring us a horrible death.

There I knelt until late in the evening

And scarcely an inch had I stirred,

When suddenly, far in the distance,

A sound as of whistling I heard.

I started up dreadfully frightened,

For fear 'twas an Indian's call;

And then very soon I remembered

The red man ne'er whistles at all.

And when I was sure 'twas a white man,

I thought, were he coming for ill,

He'd surely approach with more caution—

Would come without warning, and still.

Then the sound, coming nearer and nearer,

Took the form of a tune light and gay,

And I knew I needn't fear evil

From one who could whistle that way.

Very soon I heard footsteps approaching,

Then came a peculiar dull thump,

As if some one was heavily striking

An ax in the top of a stump;

And then, in another brief moment,

There came a light tap on the door,

When quickly I undid the fast'ning,

And in stepped a boy, and before

There was either a question or answer

Or either had time to speak,

I just threw my glad arms around him,

And gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Then I started back, scared at my boldness.

But he only smiled at my fright,

As he said, "I'm your neighbor's boy, Ellick,

Come to tarry with you through the night.

"We saw your husband go eastward,

And made up our minds where he'd gone,

And I said to the rest of our people,

'That woman is there all alone,

And I venture she's awfully lonesome,

And though she may have no great fear,

I think she would feel a bit safer

If only a boy were but near.'

"So, taking my axe on my shoulder,

For fear that a savage might stray

Across my path and need scalping,

I started right down this way;

And coming in sight of the cabin,

And thinking to save you alarm,

I whistled a tune, just to show you

I didn't intend any harm.

"And so here I am, at your service;

But if you don't want me to stay,

Why, all you need do is to say so,

And should'ring my axe, I'll away."

I dropped in a chair and near fainted,

Just at thought of his leaving me then,

And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle

As he said, "I guess I'll remain."

And then I just sat there and told him

How terribly frightened I'd been,

How his face was to me the most welcome

Of any I ever had seen;

And then I lay down with the baby,

And slept all the blessed night through,

For I felt I was safe from all danger

Near so brave a young fellow, and true.

So now, my dear friend, do you wonder,

Since such a good reason I've given,

Why I say I sha'n't care for the music,

Unless there is whistling in heaven?

Yes, often I've said so in earnest,

And now what I've said I repeat,

That unless there's a boy there a-whistling,

Its music will not be complete.

Sleep, Baby, Sleep

Sleep, baby, sleep!

Thy father's watching the sheep,

Thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree,

And down drops a little dream for thee.

Sleep, baby, sleep!

The large stars are the sheep,

The little stars are the lambs, I guess,

The bright moon is the shepherdess.

Sleep, baby, sleep!

Thy Savior loves His sheep;

He is the Lamb of God on high

Who for our sakes came down to die.

Sleep, baby, sleep!

Elizabeth Prentiss.

The Lost Chord

Seated one day at the organ,

I was weary and ill at ease,

And my fingers wandered idly

Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,

Or what I was dreaming then;

But I struck one chord of music,

Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight,

Like the close of an angel's psalm;

And it lay on my fevered spirit

With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,

Like love overcoming strife;

It seemed the harmonious echo

From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexing meanings

Into one perfect peace,

And trembled away into silence

As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,

That one lost chord divine,

That came from the soul of the organ,

And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel

Will speak in that chord again;

It may be that only in Heaven

I shall hear that grand Amen.

Adelaide A. Procter.

The Children's Hour

Between the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day's occupations,

That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me

The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,

And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,

Descending the broad hall stair,

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,

And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:

Yet I know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together

To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,

A sudden raid from the hall!

By three doors left unguarded

They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair;

If I try to escape, they surround me;

They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,

Their arms about me entwine,

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen

In his Mouse-tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,

Because you have scaled the wall,

Such an old mustache as I am

Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,

And will not let you depart,

But put you down into the dungeon

In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,

Yes, forever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,

And moulder in dust away!

Henry W. Longfellow.

Woodman, Spare That Tree!

Woodman, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me,

And I'll protect it now.

'T was my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot;

There, woodman, let it stand.

Thy ax shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown

Are spread o'er land and sea—

And wouldst thou hew it down?

Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;

Oh, spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade;

In all their gushing joy

Here, too, my sisters played.

My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my hand—

Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,

Close as thy bark, old friend!

Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.

Old tree! the storm still brave!

And, woodman, leave the spot;

While I've a hand to save,

Thy ax shall harm it not!

George Pope Morris.

Little Brown Hands

They drive home the cows from the pasture,

Up through the long shady lane,

Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,

That are yellow with ripening grain.

They find, in the thick waving grasses,

Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.

They gather the earliest snowdrops,

And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the new hay in the meadow,

They gather the elder-bloom white,

They find where the dusky grapes purple

In the soft-tinted October light.

They know where the apples hang ripest,

And are sweeter than Italy's wines;

They know where the fruit hangs the thickest

On the long, thorny blackberry vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds,

And build tiny castles of sand;

They pick up the beautiful sea shells—

Fairy barks that have drifted to land.

They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops,

Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings,

And at night time are folded in slumber

By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest;

The humble and poor become great;

And so from these brown-handed children

Shall grow mighty rulers of state.

The pen of the author and statesman,—

The noble and wise of the land,—

The sword, and the chisel, and palette,

Shall be held in the little brown hand.

Mary H. Krout.

Barbara Frietchie

Up from the meadows rich with corn

Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand

Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,

Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall

When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,—

Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,

Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind; the sun

Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,

Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,

To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,

Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right

He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

"Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast.

"Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;

It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff

Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill,

And shook it forth with a royal will.

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,

But spare your country's flag," she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,

Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred

To life at that woman's deed and word:

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head

Dies like a dog; march on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick street

Sounded the tread of marching feet;

All day long that free flag tost

Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light

Shone over it a warm good night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er.

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,

Flag of freedom and Union wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw

Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down

On thy stars below in Frederick town.

John G. Whittier.

I Want to Go to Morrow

I started on a journey just about a week ago,

For the little town of Morrow, in the State of Ohio.

I never was a traveler, and really didn't know

That Morrow had been ridiculed a century or so.

I went down to the depot for my ticket and applied

For the tips regarding Morrow, not expecting to be guyed.

Said I, "My friend, I want to go to Morrow and return

Not later than to-morrow, for I haven't time to burn."

Said he to me, "Now let me see if I have heard you right,

You want to go to Morrow and come back to-morrow night.

You should have gone to Morrow yesterday and back to-day,

For if you started yesterday to Morrow, don't you see,

You could have got to Morrow and returned to-day at three.

The train that started yesterday—now understand me right—

To-day it gets to Morrow, and returns to-morrow night."

Said I, "My boy, it seems to me you're talking through your hat,

Is there a town named Morrow on your line? Now tell me that."

"There is," said he, "and take from me a quiet little tip—

To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour trip.

The train that goes to Morrow leaves to-day eight-thirty-five;

Half after ten to-morrow is the time it should arrive.

Now if from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour jump,

Can you go to-day to Morrow and come back to-day, you chump?"

Said I, "I want to go to Morrow; can I go to-day

And get to Morrow by to-night, if there is no delay?"

"Well, well," said he, "explain to me and I've no more to say;

Can you go anywhere to-morrow and come back from there to-day?"

For if to-day you'd get to Morrow, surely you'll agree

You should have started not to-day, but yesterday, you see.

So if you start to Morrow, leaving here to-day, you're flat,

You won't get to Morrow till the day that follows that.

"Now if you start to-day to Morrow, it's a cinch you'll land

To-morrow into Morrow, not to-day, you understand.

For the train to-day to Morrow, if the schedule is right,

Will get you into Morrow by about to-morrow night."

Said I, "I guess you know it all, but kindly let me say,

How can I go to Morrow, if I leave the town to-day?"

Said he, "You cannot go to Morrow any more to-day,

For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way."

FINALE

I was so disappointed I was mad enough to swear;

The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there.

The man was right in telling me I was a howling jay;

I didn't go to Morrow, so I guess I'll go to-day.

Out in the Fields

The little cares that fretted me,

I lost them yesterday

Among the fields above the seas,

Among the winds at play;

Among the lowing of the herds,

The rustling of the trees,

Among the singing of the birds,

The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what might happen,—

I cast them all away

Among the clover-scented grass,

Among the new-mown hay;

Among the husking of the corn,

Where drowsy poppies nod,

Where ill thoughts die and good are born,

Out in the fields with God.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

The Bluebird's Song

I know the song that the bluebird is singing,

Out in the apple tree where he is swinging.

Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary—

Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.

Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat!

Hark! was there ever so merry a note?

Listen a while, and you'll hear what he's saying,

Up in the apple tree swinging and swaying.

"Dear little blossoms down under the snow,

You must be weary of winter I know.

Listen, I'll sing you a message of cheer!

Summer is coming! and springtime is here!

"Little white snowdrop! I pray you arise;

Bright yellow crocus! please open your eyes;

Sweet little violets, hid from the cold,

Put on your mantles of purple and gold;

Daffodils! Daffodils! say, do you hear?—

Summer is coming, and springtime is here!"

Emily Huntington Miller.

The Main Truck, or a Leap for Life

Old Ironsides at anchor lay,

In the harbor of Mahon;

A dead calm rested on the bay,—

The waves to sleep had gone;

When little Hal, the Captain's son,

A lad both brave and good,

In sport, up shroud and rigging ran,

And on the main truck stood!

A shudder shot through every vein,—

All eyes were turned on high!

There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,

Between the sea and sky;

No hold had he above, below;

Alone he stood in air:

To that far height none dared to go,—

No aid could reach him there.

We gazed, but not a man could speak,—

With horror all aghast,—

In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,—

We watched the quivering mast.

The atmosphere grew thick and hot,

And of a lurid hue;—

As riveted unto the spot,

Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck:—he gasped,

"Oh, God; thy will be done!"

Then suddenly a rifle grasped,

And aimed it at his son.

"Jump, far out, boy, into the wave!

Jump, or I fire," he said;

"That only chance your life can save;

Jump, jump, boy!" He obeyed.

He sunk,—he rose,—he lived,—he moved,—

And for the ship struck out.

On board we hailed the lad beloved,

With many a manly shout.

His father drew, in silent joy,

Those wet arms round his neck,

And folded to his heart his boy,—

Then fainted on the deck.

Morris.

The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong,

That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.

H.W. Longfellow.

The Green Mountain Justice

"The snow is deep," the Justice said;

"There's mighty mischief overhead."

"High talk, indeed!" his wife exclaimed;

"What, sir! shall Providence be blamed?"

The Justice, laughing, said, "Oh no!

I only meant the loads of snow

Upon the roofs. The barn is weak;

I greatly fear the roof will break.

So hand me up the spade, my dear,

I'll mount the barn, the roof to clear."

"No!" said the wife; "the barn is high,

And if you slip, and fall, and die,

How will my living be secured?—

Stephen, your life is not insured.

But tie a rope your waist around,

And it will hold you safe and sound."

"I will," said he. "Now for the roof—

All snugly tied, and danger-proof!

Excelsior! Excel—But no!

The rope is not secured below!"

Said Rachel, "Climb, the end to throw

Across the top, and I will go

And tie that end around my waist."

"Well, every woman to her taste;

You always would be tightly laced.

Rachel, when you became my bride,

I thought the knot securely tied;

But lest the bond should break in twain,

I'll have it fastened once again."

Below the arm-pits tied around,

She takes her station on the ground,

While on the roof, beyond the ridge,

He shovels clear the lower edge.

But, sad mischance! the loosened snow

Comes sliding down, to plunge below.

And as he tumbles with the slide,

Up Rachel goes on t'other side.

Just half-way down the Justice hung;

Just half-way up the woman swung.

"Good land o' Goshen!" shouted she;

"Why, do you see it?" answered he.

The couple, dangling in the breeze,

Like turkeys hung outside to freeze,

At their rope's end and wits' end, too,

Shout back and forth what best to do.

Cried Stephen, "Take it coolly, wife;

All have their ups and downs in life."

Quoth Rachel, "What a pity 'tis

To joke at such a thing as this!

A man whose wife is being hung

Should know enough to hold his tongue."

"Now, Rachel, as I look below,

I see a tempting heap of snow.

Suppose, my dear, I take my knife,

And cut the rope to save my life?"

She shouted, "Don't! 'twould be my death—

I see some pointed stones beneath.

A better way would be to call,

With all our might, for Phebe Hall."

"Agreed!" he roared. First he, then she

Gave tongue; "O Phebe! Phebe! Phe-e-be Hall!"

in tones both fine and coarse.

Enough to make a drover hoarse.

Now Phebe, over at the farm,

Was sitting, sewing, snug and warm;

But hearing, as she thought, her name,

Sprang up, and to the rescue came;

Beheld the scene, and thus she thought:

"If now a kitchen chair were brought,

And I could reach the lady's foot,

I'd draw her downward by the boot,

Then cut the rope, and let him go;

He cannot miss the pile of snow."

He sees her moving toward his wife.

Armed with a chair and carving-knife,

And, ere he is aware, perceives

His head ascending to the eaves;

And, guessing what the two are at,

Screams from beneath the roof, "Stop that!

You make me fall too far, by half!"

But Phebe answers, with a laugh,

"Please tell a body by what right

You've brought your wife to such a plight!"

And then, with well-directed blows,

She cuts the rope and down he goes.

The wife untied, they walk around

When lo! no Stephen can be found.

They call in vain, run to and fro;

They look around, above, below;

No trace or token can they see,

And deeper grows the mystery.

Then Rachel's heart within her sank;

But, glancing at the snowy bank,

She caught a little gleam of hope,—

A gentle movement of the rope.

They scrape away a little snow;

What's this? A hat! Ah! he's below;

Then upward heaves the snowy pile,

And forth he stalks in tragic style,

Unhurt, and with a roguish smile;

And Rachel sees, with glad surprise,

The missing found, the fallen rise.

Rev. Henry Reeves.

Jane Conquest

About the time of Christmas

(Not many months ago),

When the sky was black

With wrath and rack,

And the earth was white with snow,

When loudly rang the tumult

Of winds and waves of strife,

In her home by the sea,

With her babe on her knee,

Sat Harry Conquest's wife.

And he was on the ocean,

Although she knew not where,

For never a lip

Could tell of the ship,

To lighten her heart's despair.

And her babe was fading and dying;

The pulse in the tiny wrist

Was all but still,

And the brow was chill,

And pale as the white sea mist.

Jane Conquest's heart was hopeless;

She could only weep and pray

That the Shepherd mild

Would take her child

Without a pain away.

The night was dark and darker,

And the storm grew stronger still,

And buried in deep

And dreamless sleep

Lay the hamlet under the hill.

The fire was dead on the hearthstone

Within Jane Conquest's room,

And still sat she,

With her babe on her knee,

At prayer amid the gloom.

When, borne above the tempest,

A sound fell on her ear,

Thrilling her through,

For well she knew

'Twas the voice of mortal fear.

And a light leaped in at the lattice,

Sudden and swift and red;

Crimsoning all,

The whited wall,

And the floor, and the roof o'erhead.

For one brief moment, heedless

Of the babe upon her knee,

With the frenzied start

Of a frightened heart,

Upon her feet rose she.

And through the quaint old casement

She looks upon the sea;

Thank God that the sight

She saw that night

So rare a sight should be!

Hemmed in by many a billow

With mad and foaming lip,

A mile from shore,

Or hardly more,

She saw a gallant ship.

And to her horror she beheld it

Aflame from stem to stern;

For there seemed no speck

On all that wreck

Where the fierce fire did not burn;

Till the night was like a sunset,

And the sea like a sea of blood,

And the rocks and shore

Were bathed all o'er

And drenched with the gory flood.

She looked and looked, till the terror

Went creeping through every limb;

And her breath came quick,

And her heart grew sick,

And her sight grew dizzy and dim;

And her lips had lost their utterance,

For she tried but could not speak;

And her feelings found

No channel of sound

In prayer, or sob, or shriek.

Once more that cry of anguish

Thrilled through the tempest's strife,

And it stirred again

In heart and brain

The active thinking life;

And the light of an inspiration

Leaped to her brightened eye,

And on lip and brow

Was written now

A purpose pure and high.

Swiftly she turns, and softly

She crosses the chamber floor,

And faltering not,

In his tiny cot

She laid the babe she bore.

And then with a holy impulse,

She sank to her knees, and made

A lowly prayer,

In the silence there,

And this was the prayer she prayed:

"O Christ, who didst bear the scourging,

And who now dost wear the crown,

I at Thy feet,

O True and Sweet,

Would lay my burden down.

Thou bad'st me love and cherish

The babe Thou gavest me,

And I have kept

Thy word, nor stept

Aside from following Thee.

"And lo! my boy is dying!

And vain is all my care;

And my burden's weight

Is very great,

Yea, greater than I can bear!

O Lord, Thou know'st what peril

Doth threat these poor men's lives,

And I, a woman,

Most weak and human,

Do plead for their waiting wives.

"Thou canst not let them perish;

Up, Lord, in Thy strength, and save

From the scorching breath

Of this terrible death

On this cruel winter wave.

Take Thou my babe and watch it,

No care is like to Thine;

And let Thy power

In this perilous hour

Supply what lack is mine."

And so her prayer she ended,

And rising to her feet,

Gave one long look

At the cradle nook

Where the child's faint pulses beat;

And then with softest footsteps

Retrod the chamber floor,

And noiselessly groped

For the latch, and oped,

And crossed the cottage door.

And through the tempest bravely

Jane Conquest fought her way,

By snowy deep

And slippery steep

To where her duty lay.

And she journeyed onward, breathless,

And weary and sore and faint,

Yet forward pressed

With the strength, and the zest,

And the ardor of a saint.

Solemn, and weird, and lonely

Amid its countless graves,

Stood the old gray church

On its tall rock perch,

Secure from the sea and its waves;

And beneath its sacred shadow

Lay the hamlet safe and still;

For however the sea

And the wind might be,

There was quiet under the hill.

Jane Conquest reached the churchyard,

And stood by the old church door,

But the oak was tough

And had bolts enough,

And her strength was frail and poor;

So she crept through a narrow window,

And climbed the belfry stair,

And grasped the rope,

Sole cord of hope,

For the mariners in despair.

And the wild wind helped her bravely,

And she wrought with an earnest will,

And the clamorous bell

Spoke out right well

To the hamlet under the hill.

And it roused the slumbering fishers,

Nor its warning task gave o'er

Till a hundred fleet

And eager feet

Were hurrying to the shore.

And then it ceased its ringing,

For the woman's work was done,

And many a boat

That was now afloat

Showed man's work had begun.

But the ringer in the belfry

Lay motionless and cold,

With the cord of hope.

The church-bell rope,

Still in her frozen hold.

How long she lay it boots not,

But she woke from her swoon at last

In her own bright room.

To find the gloom,

And the grief, and the peril past,

With the sense of joy within her,

And the Christ's sweet presence near;

And friends around,

And the cooing sound

Of her babe's voice in her ear.

And they told her all the story,

How a brave and gallant few

O'ercame each check,

And reached the wreck,

And saved the hopeless crew.

And how the curious sexton

Had climbed the belfry stair,

And of his fright

When, cold and white,

He found her lying there;

And how, when they had borne her

Back to her home again,

The child she left

With a heart bereft

Of hope, and weary with pain,

Was found within his cradle

In a quiet slumber laid;

With a peaceful smile

On his lips the while,

And the wasting sickness stayed.

And she said "Twas the Christ who watched it,

And brought it safely through";

And she praised His truth

And His tender ruth

Who had saved her darling too.

Nathan Hale

To drum beat and heart beat,

A soldier marches by,

There is color in his cheek,

There is courage in his eye;

Yet to drum beat and heart beat,

In a moment he must die.

By starlight and moonlight,

He seeks the Britons' camp;

He hears the rustling flag,

And the armed sentry's tramp;

And the starlight and moonlight

His silent wanderings lamp.

With a slow tread and still tread,

He scans the tented line,

And he counts the battery guns

By the gaunt and shadowy pine,

And his slow tread and still tread

Gives no warning sign.

The dark wave, the plumed wave,

It meets his eager glance;

And it sparkles 'neath the stars,

Like the glimmer of a lance—

A dark wave, a plumed wave,

On an emerald expanse.

A sharp clang, a steel clang,

And terror in the sound!

For the sentry, falcon-eyed,

In the camp a spy has found;

With a sharp clang, a steel clang,

The patriot is bound.

With calm brow, steady brow,

He listens to his doom.

In his look there is no fear,

Nor a shadow trace of gloom,

But with calm brow, steady brow,

He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night,

He kneels upon the sod;

And the brutal guards withhold

E'en the solemn word of God!

In the long night, the still night,

He walks where Christ hath trod.

'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,

He dies upon the tree;

And he mourns that he can give

But one life for liberty;

And in the blue morn, the sunny morn

His spent wings are free.

But his last words, his message words,

They burn, lest friendly eye

Should read how proud and calm

A patriot could die.

With his last words, his dying words,

A soldier's battle cry.

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,

From monument and urn,

The sad of earth, the glad of Heaven,

His tragic fate shall learn;

And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,

The name of Hale shall burn.

Francis M. Finch.

The Lips That Touch Liquor Must Never Touch Mine

You are coming to woo me, but not as of yore,

When I hastened to welcome your ring at the door;

For I trusted that he who stood waiting me then,

Was the brightest, the truest, the noblest of men.

Your lips on my own when they printed "Farewell,"

Had never been soiled by "the beverage of hell";

But they come to me now with the bacchanal sign,

And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

I think of that night in the garden alone,

When in whispers you told me your heart was my own,

That your love in the future should faithfully be

Unshared by another, kept only for me.

Oh, sweet to my soul is the memory still

Of the lips which met mine, when they murmured "I will";

But now to their pressure no more they incline,

For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine!

O John! how it crushed me, when first in your face

The pen of the "Rum Fiend" had written "disgrace";

And turned me in silence and tears from that breath

All poisoned and foul from the chalice of death.

It scattered the hopes I had treasured to last;

It darkened the future and clouded the past;

It shattered my idol, and ruined the shrine,

For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

I loved you—Oh, dearer than language can tell,

And you saw it, you proved it, you knew it too well!

But the man of my love was far other than he

Who now from the "Tap-room" comes reeling to me;

In manhood and honor so noble and right—

His heart was so true, and his genius so bright—

And his soul was unstained, unpolluted by wine;

But the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.

You promised reform, but I trusted in vain;

Your pledge was but made to be broken again:

And the lover so false to his promises now,

Will not, as a husband, be true to his vow.

The word must be spoken that bids you depart—

Though the effort to speak it should shatter my heart—

Though in silence, with blighted affection, I pine,

Yet the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine!

If one spark in your bosom of virtue remain,

Go fan it with prayer till it kindle again;

Resolved, with "God helping," in future to be

From wine and its follies unshackled and free!

And when you have conquered this foe of your soul,—

In manhood and honor beyond his control—

This heart will again beat responsive to thine,

And the lips free from liquor be welcome to mine.

George W. Young.

A Perfect Day

When you come to the end of a perfect day

And you sit alone with your thought

While the chimes ring out with a carol gay

For the joy that the day has brought,

Do you think what the end of a perfect day

Can mean to a tired heart?

When the sun goes down with a flaming ray

And the dear friends have to part?

Well, this is the end of a perfect day,

Near the end of a journey, too;

But it leaves a thought that is big and strong,

With a wish that is kind and true;

For mem'ry has painted this perfect day

With colors that never fade,

And we find, at the end of a perfect day,

The soul of a friend we've made.

Carrie Jacobs Bond.

Kate Ketchem

Kate Ketchem on a winter's night

Went to a party dressed in white.

Her chignon in a net of gold,

Was about as large as they ever sold.

Gayly she went, because her "pap"

Was supposed to be a rich old chap.

But when by chance her glances fell

On a friend who had lately married well,

Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest

And a nameless longing filled her breast—

A wish she wouldn't have had made known,

To have an establishment of her own.

Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng,

With chestnut hair, worn pretty long.

He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd,

And knowing her slightly, stopped and bowed;

Then asked her to give him a single flower,

Saying he'd think it a priceless dower.

Out from those with which she was decked,

She took the poorest she could select.

And blushed as she gave it, looking down

To call attention to her gown.

"Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought how dear

Flowers must be at that time of year.

Then several charming remarks he made,

Asked if she sang, or danced, or played;

And being exhausted, inquired whether

She thought it was going to be pleasant weather.

And Kate displayed her "jewelry,"

And dropped her lashes becomingly;

And listened, with no attempt to disguise

The admiration in her eyes.

At last, like one who has nothing to say,

He turned around and walked away.

Kate Ketchem smiled, and said, "You bet.

I'll catch that Fudge and his money yet.

He's rich enough to keep me in clothes,

And I think I could manage him as I chose.

He could aid my father as well as not,

And buy my brother a splendid yacht.

My mother for money should never fret,

And all it cried for the baby should get;

And after that, with what he could spare,

I'd make a show at a charity fair."

Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill,

And saw Kate Ketchem standing still.

"A girl more suited to my mind

It isn't an easy thing to find;

And every thing that she has to wear

Proves her as rich as she is fair.

Would she were mine, and I to-day

Had the old man's cash my debts to pay!

No creditors with a long account,

No tradesmen wanting 'that little amount';

But all my scores paid up when due

By a father-in-law as rich as a Jew!"

But he thought of her brother, not worth a straw,

And her mother, that would be his, in law;

So, undecided, he walked along,

And Kate was left alone in the throng.

>But a lawyer smiled, whom he sought by stealth,

To ascertain old Ketchem's wealth;

And as for Kate, she schemed and planned

Till one of the dancers claimed her hand.

He married her for her father's cash;

She married him to cut a dash,

But as to paying his debts, do you know,

The father couldn't see it so;

And at hints for help, Kate's hazel eyes

Looked out in their innocent surprise.

And when Tom thought of the way he had wed

He longed for a single life instead,

And closed his eyes in a sulky mood,

Regretting the days of his bachelorhood;

And said, in a sort of reckless vein,

"I'd like to see her catch me again,

If I were free, as on that night

When I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white!"

She wedded him to be rich and gay;

But husband and children didn't pay,

He wasn't the prize she hoped to draw,

And wouldn't live with his mother-in-law.

And oft when she had to coax and pout

In order to get him to take her out,

She thought how very attentive and bright

He seemed at the party that winter's night;

Of his laugh, as soft as a breeze of the south,

('Twas now on the other side of his mouth);

How he praised her dress and gems in his talk,

As he took a careful account of stock.

Sometimes she hated the very walls—

Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls;

Till her weak affection, to hatred turned,

Like a dying tallow-candle burned.

And for him who sat there, her peace to mar,

Smoking his everlasting cigar—

He wasn't the man she thought she saw,

And grief was duty, and hate was law.

So she took up her burden with a groan,

Saying only, "I might have known!"

Alas for Kate! and alas for Fudge!

Though I do not owe them any grudge;

And alas for any who find to their shame

That two can play at their little game!

For of all hard things to bear and grin,

The hardest is knowing you're taken in.

Ah, well! as a general thing, we fret

About the one we didn't get;

But I think we needn't make a fuss,

If the one we don't want didn't get us.

Phoebe Cary.

Mandalay

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,

There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me;

For the wind is in the palm-trees, an' the temple-bells they say:

"Come you back, you British soldier: come you back to Mandalay!"

Come you back to Mandalay,

Where the old flotilla lay:

Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?

On the road to Mandalay,

Where the flyin'-fishes play,

An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,

An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat—jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,

An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,

An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot;

Bloomin' idol made o' mud—

Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd—

Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!

On the road to Mandalay—

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' low,

She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kul-la-lo-lo!"

With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek

We useter watch the steamers and the hathis pilin' teak.

Elephints a-pilin' teak

In the sludgy, squdgy creek,

Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was arf afraid to speak!

On the road to Mandalay—

But that's all shove be'ind me—long ago an' fur away,

An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay;

An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells:

"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', why, you won't 'eed nothin' else."

No! you won't 'eed nothin' else

But them spicy garlic smells

An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells!

On the road to Mandalay—

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin'-stones,

An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;

Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,

An' they talk a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?

Beefy face an' grubby 'and—

Law! wot do they understand?

I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!

On the road to Mandalay—

Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst,

Where there aren't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst;

For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be—

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea—

On the road to Mandalay,

Where the old Flotilla lay,

With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!

On the road to Mandalay!

Where the flyin'-fishes play,

An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

Rudyard Kipling.

Columbus

Behind him lay the gray Azores,

Behind the Gates of Hercules;

Before him not the ghost of shores,

Before him only shoreless seas.

The good mate said: "Now must we pray,

For lo! the very stars are gone.

Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?"

"Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day;

My men grow ghastly wan and weak."

The stout mate thought of home; a spray

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek,

"What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"

"Why, you shall say at break of day:

'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,

Until at last the blanched mate said:

"Why, now not even God would know

Should I and all my men fall dead.

These very winds forget their way,

For God from these dread seas is gone.

Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say—"

He said: "Sail on! Sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:

"This mad sea shows his teeth tonight.

He curls his lips, he lies in wait

With lifted teeth, as if to bite!

Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word:

What shall we do when hope is gone?

The words leapt like a leaping sword;

"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night

Of all dark nights! And then a speck—

A light! a light! a light! a light!

It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.

He gained a world; he gave that world

Its grandest lesson; "On! sail on!"

Joaquin Miller.

"Sister's Best Feller"

My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three,

And handsome and strong as a feller can be;

And Sis, she's so little, and slender, and small,

You never would think she could boss him at all;

But, my jing!

She don't do a thing

But make him jump 'round, like he worked with a string!

It jest made me 'shamed of him sometimes, you know,

To think that he'll let a girl bully him so.

He goes to walk with her and carries her muff

And coat and umbrella, and that kind of stuff;

She loads him with things that must weigh 'most a ton;

And, honest, he likes it,—as if it was fun!

And, oh, say!

When they go to a play,

He'll sit in the parlor and fidget away,

And she won't come down till it's quarter past eight,

And then she'll scold him 'cause they get there so late.

He spends heaps of money a-buyin' her things,

Like candy, and flowers, and presents, and rings;

And all he's got for 'em's a handkerchief case—

A fussed-up concern, made of ribbons and lace;

But, my land! He thinks it's just grand,

"'Cause she made it," he says, "with her own little hand";

He calls her "an angel"—I heard him—and "saint,"

And "beautif'lest bein' on earth"—but she ain't,

'Fore I go on an errand for her any time,

I just make her coax me, and give me a dime;

But that great big silly—why, honest and true—

He'd run forty miles if she wanted him to.

Oh, gee whiz!

I tell you what 'tis!

I jest think it's awful—those actions of his.

I won't fall in love, when I'm grown—no sir-ee!

My sister's best feller's a warnin' to me!

Joseph C. Lincoln.

Where the West Begins

Out where the handclasp's a little stronger,

Out where a smile dwells a little longer,

That's where the West begins.

Out where the sun's a little brighter,

Where the snow that falls is a trifle whiter,

Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter,

That's where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,

Out where friendship's a little truer,

That's where the West begins.

Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,

Where there is laughter in every streamlet flowing,

Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing,

That's where the West begins.

Out where the world is in the making,

Where fewer hearts with despair are aching;

That's where the West begins.

Where there is more of singing and less of sighing,

Where there is more of giving and less of buying,

And a man makes friends without half trying—

That's where the West begins.

Arthur Chapman.

The Tapestry Weavers

Let us take to our hearts a lesson—no lesson can braver be—

From the ways of the tapestry weavers on the other side of the sea.

Above their heads the pattern hangs, they study it with care,

The while their fingers deftly move, their eyes are fastened there.

They tell this curious thing, besides, of the patient, plodding weaver:

He works on the wrong side evermore, but works for the right side ever.

It is only when the weaving stops, and the web is loosed and turned,

That he sees his real handiwork—that his marvelous skill is learned.

Ah, the sight of its delicate beauty, how it pays him for all his cost!

No rarer, daintier work than his was ever done by the frost.

Then the master bringeth him golden hire, and giveth him praise as well,

And how happy the heart of the weaver is, no tongue but his can tell.

The years of man are the looms of God, let down from the place of the sun,

Wherein we are weaving ever, till the mystic web is done.

Weaving blindly but weaving surely each for himself his fate—

We may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait.

But, looking above for the pattern, no weaver hath to fear;

Only let him look clear into heaven, the Perfect Pattern is there.

If he keeps the face of the Savior forever and always in sight

His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his weaving sure to be right.

And when the work is ended, and the web is turned and shown,

He shall hear the voice of the Master, it shall say unto him, "Well done!"

And the white-winged Angels of Heaven, to bear him shall come down;

And God shall give him gold for his hire—not a coin—but a glowing crown.

When the Teacher Gets Cross

When the teacher gets cross, and her blue eyes gets black,

And the pencil comes down on the desk with a whack,

We chillen all sit up straight in a line,

As if we had rulers instead of a spine,

And it's scary to cough, and it a'n't safe to grin,

When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets cross, the tables get mixed,

The ones and the twos begins to play tricks.

The pluses and minuses is just little smears,

When the cry babies cry their slates full of tears,

And the figgers won't add,—but just act up like sin,

When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets cross, the reading gets bad.

The lines jingle round till the' chillen is sad.

And Billy boy puffs and gets red in the face,

As if he and the lesson were running a race,

Until she hollers out, "Next!" as sharp as a pin,

When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets good, her smile is so bright,

That the tables gets straight, and the reading gets right.

The pluses and minuses comes trooping along,

And the figgers add up and stop being wrong,

And we chillen would like, but we dassent, to shout,

When the teacher gets good, and the dimples comes out.

Recessional

God of our fathers, known of old,

Lord of our far-flung battle line,

Beneath whose awful Hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine—

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;

The captains and the kings depart:

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;

On dune and headland sinks the fire:

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—

Such boasting as the Gentiles use,

Or lesser breeds without the Law—

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust

In reeking tube and iron shard,

All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,

For frantic boast and foolish word,

Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Amen.

Rudyard Kipling.

The Eternal Goodness

O Friends! with whom my feet have trod

The quiet aisles of prayer,

Glad witness to your zeal for God

And love of man I bear.

I trace your lines of argument;

Your logic linked and strong

I weigh as one who dreads dissent,

And fears a doubt as wrong.

But still my human hands are weak

To hold your iron creeds:

Against the words ye bid me speak

My heart within me pleads.

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought?

Who talks of scheme and plan?

The Lord is God! He needeth not

The poor device of man.

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground

Ye tread with boldness shod;

I dare not fix with mete and bound

The love and power of God.

Ye praise His justice; even such

His pitying love I deem;

Ye seek a king; I fain would touch

The robe that hath no seam.

Ye see the curse which overbroods

A world of pain and loss;

I hear our Lord's beatitudes

And prayer upon the cross.

More than your schoolmen teach, within

Myself, alas! I know;

Too dark ye cannot paint the sin,

Too small the merit show.

I bow my forehead to the dust,

I veil mine eyes for shame,

And urge, in trembling self-distrust,

A prayer without a claim.

I see the wrong that round me lies,

I feel the guilt within;

I hear, with groan and travail-cries,

The world confess its sin.

Yet, in the maddening maze of things,

And tossed by storm and flood,

To one fixed stake my spirit clings;

I know that God is good!

Not mine to look where cherubim

And seraphs may not see,

But nothing can be good in Him

Which evil is in me.

The wrong that pains my soul below

I dare not throne above;

I know not of His hate,—I know

His goodness and His love.

I dimly guess from blessings known

Of greater out of sight,

And, with the chastened Psalmist, own

His judgments too are right.

I long for household voices gone,

For vanished smiles I long,

But God hath led my dear ones on,

And he can do no wrong.

I know not what the future hath

Of marvel or surprise,

Assured alone that life and death

His mercy underlies.

And if my heart and flesh are weak

To bear an untried pain,

The bruised reed He will not break,

But strengthen and sustain.

No offering of my own I have,

Nor works my faith to prove;

I can but give the gifts He gave,

And plead His love for love.

And so beside the Silent Sea,

I wait the muffled oar;

No harm from Him can come to me

On ocean or on shore.

I know not where His islands lift

Their fronded palms in air;

I only know I cannot drift

Beyond His love and care.

O brothers! if my faith is vain,

If hopes like these betray,

Pray for me that my feet may gain

The sure and safer way.

And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen

Thy creatures as they be,

Forgive me if too close I lean

My human heart on Thee!

John G. Whittier.

Driving Home the Cows

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass

He turned them into the river-lane;

One after another he let them pass.

Then fastened the meadow-bars again.

Under the willows and over the hill,

He patiently followed their sober pace;

The merry whistle for once was still,

And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said

He never could let his youngest go;

Two already were lying dead

Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,

And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp,

Over his shoulder he slung his gun,

And stealthily followed the footpath damp,—

Across the clover and through the wheat.

With resolute heart and purpose grim,

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,

And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,

And the orchards sweet with apple bloom;

And now, when the cows came back at night,

The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm

That three were lying where two had lain;

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm

Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late;

He went for the cows when the work was done;

But down the lane, as he opened the gate,

He saw them coming, one by one,—

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind,

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass—

But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;

And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,

Looked out a face that the father knew.

For southern prisons will sometimes yawn,

And yield their dead unto life again;

And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn

In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;

For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb,

And under the silent evening skies

Together they followed the cattle home.

Kate P. Osgood.

A Song of Our Flag

Your Flag and my Flag!

And, oh, how much it holds—

Your land and my land—

Secure within its folds!

Your heart and my heart

Beat quicker at the sight;

Sun-kissed and wind-tossed,

Red and blue and white.

The one Flag—the great Flag—the Flag for me and you—

Glorified all else beside—the red and white and blue!

Your Flag and my Flag!

To every star and stripe

The drums beat as hearts beat

And fifers shrilly pipe!

Your Flag and my Flag—

A blessing in the sky;

Your hope and my hope—

It never hid a lie!

Home land and far land and half the world around,

Old Glory hears our glad salute and ripples to the sound!

Wilbur D. Nesbit.

When the Minister Comes to Tea

Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair,

And they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square;

And the what-not's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat,

And the pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat;

Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she's frizzin' up her bangs;

Ma's got on her best alpacky, and she's askin' how it hangs;

Pa has shaved as slick as can be, and I'm rigged way up in G,—

And it's all because we're goin' ter have the minister ter tea.

Oh! the table's fixed up gaudy, with the gilt-edged chiny set,

And we'll use the silver tea-pot and the comp'ny spoons, you bet;

And we're goin' ter have some fruitcake and some thimbleberry jam,

And "riz biscuits," and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham.

Ma, she'll 'polergize like fury and say everything is bad,

And "Sich awful luck with cookin'," she is sure she never had;

But, er course, she's only bluffin,' for it's as prime as it can be,

And she's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister's ter tea.

Everybody'll be a-smilin' and as good as ever was,

Pa won't growl about the vittles, like he generally does.

And he'll ask me would I like another piece er pie; but, sho!

That, er course, is only manners, and I'm s'posed ter answer "No."

Sis'll talk about the church-work and about the Sunday-school,

Ma'll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the Golden Rule,

And if I upset my tumbler they won't say a word ter me:—

Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea!

Say! a minister, you'd reckon, never'd say what wasn't true;

But that isn't so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too;

'Cause when Sis plays on the organ so it makes yer want ter die,

Why, he sets and says it's lovely; and that, seems ter me,'s a lie:

But I like him all the samey, and I only wish he'd stay

At our house fer good and always, and eat with us every day;

Only think of havin' goodies every evenin'! Jimminee!

And I'd never git a scoldin' with the minister ter tea!

Joseph C. Lincoln.

When the Cows Come Home

When klingle, klangle, klingle,

Far down the dusty dingle,

The cows are coming home;

Now sweet and clear, now faint and low,

The airy tinklings come and go,

Like chimings from the far-off tower,

Or patterings of an April shower

That makes the daisies grow;

Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle

Far down the darkening dingle,

The cows come slowly home.

And old-time friends, and twilight plays,

And starry nights and sunny days,

Come trooping up the misty ways

When the cows come home,

With jingle, jangle, jingle,

Soft tones that sweetly mingle—

The cows are coming home;

Malvine, and Pearl, and Florimel,

DeKamp, Red Rose, and Gretchen Schell.

Queen Bess and Sylph, and Spangled Sue,

Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo"

And clang her silver bell;

Go-ling, go-lang, golingledingle,

With faint, far sounds that mingle,

The cows come slowly home.

And mother-songs of long-gone years,

And baby-joys and childish fears,

And youthful hopes and youthful tears,

When the cows come home.

With ringle, rangle, ringle,

By twos and threes and single,

The cows are coming home.

Through violet air we see the town,

And the summer sun a-sliding down,

And the maple in the hazel glade

Throws down the path a longer shade,

And the hills are growing brown;

To-ring, to-rang, toringleringle,

By threes and fours and single,

The cows come slowly home.

The same sweet sound of wordless psalm,

The same sweet June-day rest and calm,

The same sweet smell of buds and balm,

When the cows come home.

With tinkle, tankle, tinkle,

Through fern and periwinkle,

The cows are coming home.

A-loitering in the checkered stream,

Where the sun-rays glance and gleam,

Clarine, Peach-bloom and Phebe Phillis

Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies,

In a drowsy dream;

To-link, to-lank, tolinklelinkle,

O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle,

The cows come slowly home.

And up through memory's deep ravine

Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen,

And the crescent of the silver queen,

When the cows come home.

With klingle, klangle, klingle,

With loo-oo, and moo-oo and jingle,

The cows are coming home.

And over there on Merlin Hill

Sounds the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will,

And the dew-drops lie on the tangled vines,

And over the poplars Venus shines,

And over the silent mill.

Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle,

With ting-a-ling and jingle,

The cows come slowly home.

Let down the bars; let in the train

Of long-gone songs, and flowers, and rain;

For dear old times come back again,

When the cows come home.

Agnes E. Mitchell.

Custer's Last Charge

Dead! Is it possible? He, the bold rider,

Custer, our hero, the first in the fight,

Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider,

Shunning our battle-king's ringlets of light!

Dead! our young chieftain, and dead all forsaken!

No one to tell us the way of his fall!

Slain in the desert, and never to waken,

Never, not even to victory's call!

Comrades, he's gone! but ye need not be grieving;

No, may my death be like his when I die!

No regrets wasted on words I am leaving,

Falling with brave men, and face to the sky.

Death's but a journey, the greatest must take it:

Fame is eternal, and better than all;

Gold though the bowl be, 'tis fate that must break it,

Glory can hallow the fragments that fall.

Proud for his fame that last day that he met them!

All the night long he had been on their track,

Scorning their traps and the men that had set them,

Wild for a charge that should never give back.

There, on the hilltop he halted and saw them—

Lodges all loosened and ready to fly;

Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them,

Told of his coming before he was nigh.

All the wide valley was full of their forces,

Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat,—

Warriors running in haste to their horses,

Thousands of enemies close to his feet!

Down in the valleys the ages had hollowed,

There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for a prey!

Numbers! What recked he? What recked those who followed?

Men who had fought ten to one ere that day?

Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred,

Into the battle-line steady and full;

Then down the hillside exultingly thundered

Into the hordes of the Old Sitting Bull!

Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne,

Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew,

Shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion.

Then closed around the great hell of wild Sioux.

Right to their center he charged, and then, facing—

Hark to those yells and around them, Oh, see!

Over the hilltops the devils come racing,

Coming as fast as the waves of the sea!

Red was the circle of fire about them,

No hope of victory, no ray of light,

Shot through that terrible black cloud about them,

Brooding in death over Custer's last fight.

THEN DID HE BLENCH? Did he die like a craven,

Begging those torturing fiends for his life?

Was there a soldier who carried the Seven

Flinched like a coward or fled from the strife?

No, by the blood of our Custer, no quailing!

There in the midst of the devils they close,

Hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing,

Fighting like tigers, all bayed amid foes!

Thicker and thicker the bullets came singing;

Down go the horses and riders and all;

Swiftly the warriors round them were ringing,

Circling like buzzards awaiting their fall.

See the wild steeds of the mountain and prairie,

Savage eyes gleaming from forests of mane;

Quivering lances with pennons so airy;

War-painted warriors charging amain.

Backward again and again they were driven,

Shrinking to close with the lost little band;

Never a cap that had worn the bright Seven

Bowed till its wearer was dead on the strand.

Closer and closer the death-circle growing,

Even the leader's voice, clarion clear,

Rang out his words of encouragement glowing,

"We can but die once, boys, but SELL YOUR LIVES DEAR!"

Dearly they sold them, like Berserkers raging,

Facing the death that encircled them round;

Death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging,

Marking their tracks by their dead on the ground.

Comrades, our children shall yet tell their story,—

Custer's last charge on the Old Sitting Bull;

And ages shall swear that the cup of his glory

Needed but that death to render it full.

Frederick Whitttaker.

A Boy and His Stomach

What's the matter, stummick? Ain't I always been your friend?

Ain't I always been a pardner to you? All my pennies don't I spend

In getting nice things for you? Don't I give you lots of cake?

Say, stummick, what's the matter, You had to go an' ache?

Why, I loaded you with good things yesterday;

I gave you more corn an' chicken than you'd ever had before;

I gave you fruit an' candy, apple pie an' chocolate cake,

An' last night when I got to bed you had to go an' ache.

Say, what's the matter with you? Ain't you satisfied at all?

I gave you all you wanted; you was hard jes' like a ball,

An' you couldn't hold another bit of puddin'; yet last night

You ached most awful, stummick! That ain't treatin' me jest right.

I've been a friend to you, I have! Why ain't you a friend o' mine?

They gave me castor oil becoz you made me whine.

I'm feelin' fine this mornin'; yes it's true;

But I tell you, stummick, you better appreciate things I do for you.

On the Shores of Tennessee

"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey,

In the sunshine bright and strong,

For this world is fading, Pompey—

Massa won't be with you long;

And I fain would hear the south wind

Bring once more the sound to me,

Of the wavelets softly breaking

On the shores of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur

As they still the story tell,

How no vessels float the banner

That I've loved so long and well,

I shall listen to their music,

Dreaming that again I see

Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop

Sailing up the Tennessee;

"And Pompey, while old Massa's waiting

For Death's last dispatch to come,

If that exiled starry banner

Should come proudly sailing home,

You shall greet it, slave no longer—

Voice and hand shall both be free

That shout and point to Union colors

On the waves of Tennessee."

"Massa's berry kind to Pompey;

But old darkey's happy here,

Where he's tended corn and cotton

For dese many a long-gone year.

Ober yonder, Missis' sleeping—

No one tends her grave like me;

Mebbe she would miss the flowers

She used to love in Tennessee.

"'Pears like, she was watching Massa—

If Pompey should beside him stay,

Mebbe she'd remember better

How for him she used to pray;

Telling him that way up yonder

White as snow his soul would be,

If he served the Lord of Heaven

While he lived in Tennessee."

Silently the tears were rolling

Down the poor old dusky face,

As he stepped behind his master,

In his long-accustomed place.

Then a silence fell around them,

As they gazed on rock and tree

Pictured in the placid waters

Of the rolling Tennessee;—

Master, dreaming of the battle

Where he fought by Marion's side,

Where he bid the haughty Tarleton

Stoop his lordly crest of pride:—

Man, remembering how yon sleeper

Once he held upon his knee.

Ere she loved the gallant soldier,

Ralph Vervair of Tennessee.

Still the south wind fondly lingers

'Mid the veteran's silver hair;

Still the bondman, close beside him

Stands behind the old arm-chair.

With his dark-hued hand uplifted,

Shading eyes, he bends to see

Where the woodland, boldly jutting,

Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows

Glide from tree to mountain-crest,

Softly creeping, aye and ever

To the river's yielding breast.

Ha! above the foliage yonder

Something flutters wild and free!

"Massa! Massa! Hallelujah!

The flag's come back to Tennessee!"

"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder,

Help me stand on foot once more,

That I may salute the colors

As they pass my cabin door.

Here's the paper signed that frees you,

Abou Ben Adhem	Hunt	30
Abraham Lincoln	T. Taylor	16
All Things Bright and Beautiful	Alexander	41
American Flag, The	Drake	133
Answer to "Rock Me to Sleep"		103
Arrow and the Song, The	Longfellow	74
Asleep at the Switch	Hoey	56
At School-Close	Whittier	65
Aunt Tabitha		45
Autumn Woods	Bryant	48

Baby, The	Macdonald	22
Barbara Frietchie	Whittier	71
Barefoot Boy, The	Whittier	176
Bay Billy	Gassaway	104
Be Strong	Babcock	174
Better Than Gold	Smart	143
Bingen on the Rhine	Norton	121
Blue and the Gray, The	Finch	183
Bluebird's Song, The	E.H. Miller	73
Bobby Shaftoe		8
Boy and His Stomach, A		93
Boy's Song, A	Hogg	172
"Breathes There the Man"	Scott	185
Brier-Rose	Boyesen	144
Brook, The	Tennyson	162
Brown Thrush, The	Larcom	181
Bugle Song, The	Tennyson	183
Builders, The	Longfellow	181
Building of the Ship, The	Longfellow	63
Burial of Sir John Moore, The	Wolfe	190

Calf Path, The	Foss	110
Casey at the Bat	Thayer	100
Casey's Revenge	Wilson	101
Chambered Nautilus, The	Holmes	169
Character of the Happy Warrior	Wordsworth	165
Charge of the Light Brigade, The	Tennyson	166
Children's Hour, The	Longfellow	70
Children, The	Dickinson	53
Child's Thought of God, A	E.B. Browning	183
Christ in Flanders		18
Christmas Everywhere	Brooks	158
Cloud, The	Shelley	159
College Oil Cans	McGuire	122
Columbus	Joaquin Miller	83
Concord Hymn, The	Emerson	99
Corn Song, The	Whittier	171
Crossing the Bar	Tennyson	186
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night	Thorpe	24
Custer's Last Charge	Whittaker	91

Daffodils	Wordsworth	179
Darius Green and His Flying Machine	Trowbridge	153
Day Well Spent, A		38
Dead Pussy Cat, The	Short	64
Diffidence		23
Don't Give Up	P. Cary	182
Driving Home the Cows	Osgood	88
Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge		49

Each in His Own Tongue	Carruth	58
Echo	Saxe	20
Engineers Making Love	Burdette	21
Eternal Goodness, The	Whittier	87

Fable, A	Emerson	177
Face Upon the Floor, The	D'Arcy	108
Fairies, The	Allingham	173
Fence or an Ambulance, A	Malins	127
First Settler's Story, The	Carleton	197
First Snow-fall, The	Lowell	99
Flag Goes By, The	Bennett	45
Fountain, The	Lowell	186
Four-leaf Clover, The	Higginson	134
Frost, The	Gould	171

Give Us Men	Holland	33
God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop	Southey	124
Golden Keys		134
Good Night and Good Morning	Houghton	184
Gradatim	Holland	96
Green Mountain Justice, The	Reeves	74
Guilty or Not Guilty		22

Hand That Rules the World, The	Wallace	113
House by the Side of the Road, The	Foss	56
How Cyrus Laid the Cable	Saxe	58
How He Saved St. Michael's	Stansbury	119
Huskers, The	Whittier	152

If—	Kipling	51
I Like Little Pussy	J. Taylor	178
Incident of the French Camp	R. Browning	182
In Flanders Fields	McCrae	195
In Flanders Fields: An Answer	Galbreath	195
In School-Days	Whittier	31
Inventor's Wife, An	Ewing	13
Invictus	Henley	29
Is It Worth While?	Joachim Miller	36
I Want to Go to Morrow		72

Jane Conquest	Milne	76
Jane Jones	King	59
Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson	Waterman	62
June	Lowell	163

Kate Ketchem	P. Cary	81
Kate Shelly	Hall	25
Katie Lee and Willie Grey		30
Kentucky Belle	Woolson	10
Kentucky Philosophy	Robertson	32
Kid Has Gone to the Colors, The	Herschell	9
King Robert of Sicily	Longfellow	147

Lady Moon	Houghton	185
Landing of the Pilgrims, The	Hemans	8
Lasca	Desprez	129
Last Hymn, The	Faringham	126
Leak in the Dike, The	P. Cary	187
Leap for Life, A	Morris	74
Leap of Roushan Beg, The	Longfellow	60
Leedle Yawcob Strauss	Adams	35
Legend of Bregenz, A	Procter	141
Legend of the Organ-Builder, The	Dorr	106
L'Envoi	Kipling	67
Life's Mirror	Bridges	37
Lips That Touch Liquor, The	Young	79
Little Birdie	Tennyson	173
Little Black-Eyed Rebel, The	Carleton	37
Little Boy Blue	Field	195
Little Brown Hands	Krout	71
Little Plant, The	Brown	192
Lost Chord, The	Procter	69
Love of Country ("Breathes There the Man")	Scott	185

Main Truck, The	Morris	74>
Mandalay	Kipling	82
Man With the Hoe, The	Markham	115
Maud Muller	Whittier	205
Miller of the Dee, The	Mackay	39
Moo Cow Moo, The	Cooke	40
Mother's Fool		31
Mothers of Men	Joaquin Miller	43
Mount Vernon's Bells	Slade	95
Mr. Finney's Turnip		96
My Love Ship	Wilcox	114
My Mother		138

Nathan Hale	Finch	78
Never Trouble Trouble	Windsor	33
Nobility	A. Cary	169
"Not Understood"		136
November	A. Cary	173

O Captain! My Captain	Whitman	7
October's Bright Blue Weather	Jackson	144
Old Clock on the Stairs, The	Longfellow	17
Old Ironsides	Holmes	61
Old Red Cradle, The	Grannies	39
O Little Town of Bethlehem	Brooks	168
On His Blindness	Milton	172
On the Shores of Tennessee	Beers	93
Opportunity	Ingalls	175
Opportunity	Malone	175
Order for a Picture, An	A. Cary	41
Our Folks	Beers	107
Out in the Fields	E.B. Browning	73
Over the Hill to the Poorhouse	Carleton	131
Overworked Elocutionist, The		9
Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The	Lear	170
Owl Critic, The	Fields	64

Paul Revere's Ride	Longfellow	193
Penny Ye Mean to Gie, The		34
Perfect Day, A	Bond	80
Pippa's Song	R. Browning	185
Plain Bob and a Job	Foley	44
Planting of the Apple-Tree	Bryant	164
Poet's Prophecy, A	Tennyson	7
Polonius' Advice to Laertes	Shakespeare	177
Poorhouse Nan	Blinn	116
Psalm of Life, A	Longfellow	61

Quality of Mercy, The	Shakespeare	181

Raggedy Man, The	Riley	203
Recessional, The	Kipling	86
Ride of Jennie M'Neal, The	Carleton	111
Riding on the Rail	Saxe	62
Rivers of France, The		46
Robert of Lincoln	Bryant	189
Robert Reese (The Overworked Elocutionist)		9
Rock Me to Sleep	Allen	102

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth	Clough	39
Second Table	Waterman	52
Seein' Things	Field	203
Seven Times One	Ingelow	46
Seven Times Two	Ingelow	47
Seven Times Three	Ingelow	47
Seven Times Four	Ingelow	48
Sheridan's Ride	Read	167
She Walks in Beauty	Byron	180
Sister and I		207
Sister's Best Feller	Lincoln	84
Sleep, Baby, Sleep	Elizabeth Prentiss	69
Smack in School, The	Palmer	128
Somebody's Mother	Brine	136
Song of Our Flag, A	Nesbit	89
Song of the Camp, The	B. Taylor	180
Song of the Sea	Cornwall	23
Song of the Shirt	Hood	157
Song: The Owl	Tennyson	174
So Was I	Smiley	36
Suppose	P. Cary	178
Sweet and Low	Tennyson	175

Tapestry Weavers, The	Chester	85
Teacher's Dream, The	Venable	140
Telling the Bees	Whittier	135
Thanatopsis	Bryant	196
Thanksgiving-Day	Child	178
There's But One Pair of Stockings		27
To a Butterfly	Wordsworth	179
To a Skylark	Shelley	160
To a Waterfowl	Bryant	137
To-day	Carlyle	191
To-day	Waterman	35
To the Fringed Gentian	Bryant	179
Tree, The	Bjornson	186
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star	J. Taylor	185
Two Glasses, The	Wilcox	15

Village Blacksmith, The	Longfellow	97
Visit from St. Nicholas, A	Moore	54

Walrus and the Carpenter, The	Carroll	138
We Are Seven	Wordsworth	19
What I Live For	Banks	114
What is Good	O'Reilly	34
When the Cows Come Home	Mitchell	90
When the Minister Comes to Tea	Lincoln	89
When the Teacher Gets Cross		86
Where the West Begins	Chapman	85
Whistling in Heaven		67
White-Footed Deer, The	Bryant	94
Who Won the War?	Pulsifer	43
Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud!	Knox	118
Wild White Rose, The	Willis	66
Wind and the Moon, The	Macdonald	191
Wind, The	Rossetti	170
Wishing	Allingham	190
Woman's Question, A	Lathrop	129
Wonderful World, The	Rands	174
Woodman, Spare That Tree	Morris	70

You and You	Wharton	97
Young Man Waited, The	Cooke	28
Your Mission	Gates	55

POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR

Selected by READERS OF "NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS"

COMPRISING THE POEMS MOST FREQUENTLY REQUESTED FOR PUBLICATION IN THAT MAGAZINE ON THE PAGE "POEMS OUR READERS HAVE ASKED FOR"

INDEX

PREFACE

POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR

O Captain! My Captain!

(This poem was written in memory of Abraham Lincoln.)

A Poet's Prophecy

The Landing of the Pilgrims

Bobby Shaftoe

The Overworked Elocutionist

(Or "ROBERT REESE")

The Kid Has Gone to the Colors

Kentucky Belle

An Inventor's Wife

The Two Glasses

Abraham Lincoln

(Written after Lincoln's death by Tom Taylor, famous cartoonist of the London "Punch.")

The Old Clock on the Stairs

Christ in Flanders

We Are Seven

Echo

Engineers Making Love

Guilty or Not Guilty

The Baby

Song of the Sea

Diffidence

Curfew Must Not Ring To-night

Kate Shelly

There's But One Pair of Stockings to Mend To-Night

The Young Man Waited

Invictus

Katie Lee and Willie Grey

Abou Ben Adhem

In School-Days

Mother's Fool

Kentucky Philosophy

Give Us Men

Never Trouble Trouble

What is Good

The Penny Ye Mean to Gie

Leedle Yawcob Strauss

To-day

So Was I

Is It Worth While?

Life's Mirror

The Little Black-Eyed Rebel

A Day Well Spent

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth

The Miller of the Dee

The Old Red Cradle

The Moo Cow Moo

All Things Bright and Beautiful

An Order for a Picture

Who Won the War?

Mothers of Men

Plain Bob and a Job

Aunt Tabitha

The Flag Goes By

The Rivers of France

Seven Times One

Seven Times Two

Seven Times Three

LOVE

Seven Times Four

MATERNITY

Autumn Woods

The Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge

If—

Second Table

The Children

A Visit from St. Nicholas

Your Mission

The House by the Side of the Road

Asleep at the Switch

Each in His Own Tongue

How Cyrus Laid the Cable

Jane Jones

The Leap of Roushan Beg