The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two, by Various

In homely phrase, this is a sort of "second helping" of a dish that has pleased the taste of thousands. Our first collection of Poems Teachers Ask For was the response to a demand for such a book, and this present volume is the response to a demand for "more." In Book One it was impracticable to use all of the many poems entitled to inclusion on the basis of their being desired. We are constantly in receipt of requests that certain selections be printed in NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS on the page "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For." More than two hundred of these were chosen for Book One, and more than two hundred others, as much desired as those in the earlier volume, are included in Book Two.

Because of copyright restrictions, we often have been unable to present, in magazine form, verse of large popular appeal. By special arrangement, a number of such poems were included in Book One of Poems Teachers Ask For, and many more are given in the pages that follow. Acknowledgment is made below to publishers and authors for courteous permission to reprint in this volume material which they control:

THE CENTURY COMPANY—The Minuet, from "Poems and Verses," by Mary Mapes Dodge.

W.B. CONKEY COMPANY—Solitude, from "Poems of Passion," and How Salvator Won, from "Kingdom of Love," both by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY—How Did You Die? from "Impertinent Poems," and The Sin of the Coppenter Man, from "I Rule the House," both by Edmund Vance Cooke.

HARPER & BROTHERS—Over the Hill from the Poor-House and The School-Master's Guests, from "Farm Legends," by Will Carleton.

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY—The Sandman, by Margaret Vandegrift; The Sin of Omission and Our Own, by Margaret E. Sangster; The Ballad of the Tempest, by James T. Fields; also the poems by Henry W. Longfellow, John G. Whittier, James Russell Lowell, Alice Cary, Phoebe Cary, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and J.T. Trowbridge, of whose works they are the authorized publishers.

RUDYARD KIPLING and DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY (A.P. WATT & SON, London, England)—Mother o' Mine.

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD COMPANY—Hullo and The Volunteer Organist, both from "Back Country Poems," by Sam Walter Foss, and He Worried About It, from "Whiffs from Wild Meadows," by Sam Walter Foss.

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS—I Have a Rendezvous with Death, by Alan Seeger; Song of the Chattahoochee, by Sidney Lanier; If All the Skies, by Henry van Dyke.

HARR WAGNER PUBLISHING COMPANY—Mothers of Men and The Fortunate Isles, by Joaquin Miller.

POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR

BOOK TWO

Home

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,

A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam

Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye left behind,

An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.

It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be,

How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury;

It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,

Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped 'round everything.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;

Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it:

Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then

Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men;

And gradjerly, as time goes on ye find ye wouldn't part

With anything they ever used—they've grown into yer heart;

The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore

Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks on the door.

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit and sigh

An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;

An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come,

An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb.

Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried,

Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified;

An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories

O' her that was an' is no more—ye can't escape from these.

Ye've got t' sing and dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play,

An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;

Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year

Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear

Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run

The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun;

Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome:

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house f' make it home.

[Pg 7]Edgar A. Guest.

The House with Nobody In It

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track

I go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black;

I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute

And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

I've never seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;

That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.

I know that house isn't haunted and I wish it were, I do,

For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,

And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.

It needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied,

But what it needs most of all is some people living inside.

If I had a bit of money and all my debts were paid,

I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.

I'd buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be,

And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

Now a new home standing empty with staring window and door

Looks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store,

But there's nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and lone

For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life,

That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,

A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and helped up his stumbling feet,

Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track

I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,

Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,

For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

Joyce Kilmer.

Color in the Wheat

Like liquid gold the wheat field lies,

A marvel of yellow and russet and green,

That ripples and runs, that floats and flies,

With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen,

That play in the golden hair of a girl,—

A ripple of amber—a flare

Of light sweeping after—a curl

In the hollows like swirling feet

Of fairy waltzers, the colors run

To the western sun

Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.

Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky,

Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea,

[Pg 8]The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye

Under the fierce sun's alchemy.

The slow hawk stoops

To his prey in the deeps;

The sunflower droops

To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps—

Then swirling in dazzling links and loops,

A riot of shadow and shine,

A glory of olive and amber and wine,

To the westering sun the colors run

Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.

O glorious land! My western land,

Outspread beneath the setting sun!

Once more amid your swells, I stand,

And cross your sod-lands dry and dun.

I hear the jocund calls of men

Who sweep amid the ripened grain

With swift, stern reapers; once again

The evening splendor floods the plain,

The crickets' chime

Makes pauseless rhyme,

And toward the sun,

The colors run

Before the wind's feet

In the wheat!

Hamlin Garland.

The Broken Pinion

I walked through the woodland meadows,

Where sweet the thrushes sing;

And I found on a bed of mosses

A bird with a broken wing.

I healed its wound, and each morning

It sang its old sweet strain,

But the bird with a broken pinion

Never soared as high again.

I found a young life broken

By sin's seductive art;

And touched with a Christlike pity,

I took him to my heart.

He lived with a noble purpose

And struggled not in vain;

But the life that sin had stricken

Never soared as high again.

But the bird with a broken pinion

Kept another from the snare;

And the life that sin had stricken

Raised another from despair.

Each loss has its compensation,

There is healing for every pain;

But the bird with a broken pinion

Never soars as high again.

Hezekiah Butterworth.

Jamie Douglas

It was in the days when Claverhouse

Was scouring moor and glen,

To change, with fire and bloody sword,

The faith of Scottish men.

They had made a covenant with the Lord

Firm in their faith to bide,

Nor break to Him their plighted word,

Whatever might betide.

The sun was well-nigh setting,

When o'er the heather wild,

And up the narrow mountain-path,

Alone there walked a child.

He was a bonny, blithesome lad,

Sturdy and strong of limb—

A father's pride, a mother's love,

Were fast bound up in him.

His bright blue eyes glanced fearless round,

His step was firm and light;

What was it underneath his plaid

His little hands grasped tight?

[Pg 9]

It was bannocks which, that very morn,

His mother made with care.

From out her scanty store of meal;

And now, with many a prayer,

Had sent by Jamie her ane boy,

A trusty lad and brave,

To good old Pastor Tammons Roy,

Now hid in yonder cave,

And for whom the bloody Claverhouse

Had hunted long in vain,

And swore they would not leave that glen

Till old Tam Roy was slain.

So Jamie Douglas went his way

With heart that knew no fear;

He turned the great curve in the rock,

Nor dreamed that death was near.

And there were bloody Claverhouse men,

Who laughed aloud with glee,

When trembling now within their power,

The frightened child they see.

He turns to flee, but all in vain,

They drag him back apace

To where their cruel leader stands,

And set them face to face.

The cakes concealed beneath his plaid

Soon tell the story plain—

"It is old Tam Roy the cakes are for,"

Exclaimed the angry man.

"Now guide me to his hiding place

And I will let you go."

But Jamie shook his yellow curls,

And stoutly answered—"No!"

"I'll drop you down the mountain-side,

And there upon the stones

The old gaunt wolf and carrion crow

Shall battle for your bones."

And in his brawny, strong right hand

He lifted up the child,

And held him where the clefted rocks

Formed a chasm deep and wild

So deep it was, the trees below

Like stunted bushes seemed.

Poor Jamie looked in frightened maze,

It seemed some horrid dream.

He looked up at the blue sky above

Then at the men near by;

Had they no little boys at home,

That they could let him die?

But no one spoke and no one stirred,

Or lifted hand to save

From such a fearful, frightful death,

The little lad so brave.

"It is woeful deep," he shuddering cried,

"But oh! I canna tell,

So drop me down then, if you will—

It is nae so deep as hell!"

A childish scream, a faint, dull sound,

Oh! Jamie Douglas true,

Long, long within that lonely cave

Shall Tam Roy wait for you.

Long for your welcome coming

Waits the mother on the moor,

And watches and calls, "Come, Jamie, lad,"

Through the half-open door.

No more adown the rocky path

You come with fearless tread,

Or, on moor or mountain, take

The good man's daily bread.

But up in heaven the shining ones

A wondrous story tell,

Of a child snatched up from a rocky gulf

That is nae so deep as hell.

[Pg 10]

And there before the great white throne,

Forever blessed and glad,

His mother dear and old Tam Roy

Shall meet their bonny lad.

The Ensign Bearer

Never mind me, Uncle Jared, never mind my bleeding breast!

They are charging in the valley and you're needed with the rest.

All the day long from its dawning till you saw your kinsman fall,

You have answered fresh and fearless to our brave commander's call;

And I would not rob my country of your gallant aid to-night,

Though your presence and your pity stay my spirit in its flight.

All along that quivering column see the death steed trampling down

Men whose deeds this day are worthy of a kingdom and a crown.

Prithee hasten, Uncle Jared, what's the bullet in my breast

To that murderous storm of fire raining tortures on the rest?

See! the bayonets flash and falter—look! the foe begins to win;

See! oh, see our falling comrades! God! the ranks are closing in.

Hark! there's quickening in the distance and a thundering in the air,

Like the roaring of a lion just emerging from his lair.

There's a cloud of something yonder fast unrolling like a scroll—

Quick! oh, quick! if it be succor that can save the cause a soul!

Look! a thousand thirsty bayonets are flashing down the vale,

And a thousand thirsty riders dashing onward like a gale!

Raise me higher, Uncle Jared, place the ensign in my hand!

I am strong enough to float it while you cheer that flying band;

Louder! louder! shout for Freedom with prolonged and vigorous breath—

Shout for Liberty and Union, and the victory over death!—

See! they catch the stirring numbers and they swell them to the breeze—

Cap and plume and starry banner waving proudly through the trees.

Mark our fainting comrades rally, see that drooping column rise!

I can almost see the fire newly kindled in their eyes.

Fresh for conflict, nerved to conquer, see them charging on the foe—

Face to face with deadly meaning—shot and shell and trusty blow.

See the thinned ranks wildly breaking—see them scatter to the sun—

I can die, Uncle Jared, for the glorious day is won!

But there's something, something pressing with a numbness on my heart,

And my lips with mortal dumbness fail the burden to impart.

Oh I tell you, Uncle Jared, there is something back of all

That a soldier cannot part with when he heeds his country's call!

Ask the mother what, in dying, sends her yearning spirit back

Over life's rough, broken marches, where she's pointed out the track.

Ask the dear ones gathered nightly round the shining household hearth,

[Pg 11]What to them is dearer, better, than the brightest things of earth,

Ask that dearer one whose loving, like a ceaseless vestal flame,

Sets my very soul a-glowing at the mention of her name;

Ask her why the loved in dying feels her spirit linked with his

In a union death but strengthens, she will tell you what it is.

And there's something, Uncle Jared, you may tell her if you will—

That the precious flag she gave me, I have kept unsullied still.

And—this touch of pride forgive me—where death sought our gallant host—

Where our stricken lines were weakest, there it ever waved the most.

Bear it back and tell her fondly, brighter, purer, steadier far,

'Mid the crimson tide of battle, shone my life's fast setting star.

But forbear, dear Uncle Jared, when there's something more to tell,

When her lips with rapid blanching bid you answer how I fell;

Teach your tongue the trick of slighting, though 'tis faithful to the rest,

Lest it say her brother's bullet is the bullet in my breast;

But if it must be that she learn it despite your tenderest care,

'Twill soothe her bleeding heart to know my bayonet pricked the air.

Life is ebbing, Uncle Jared, my enlistment endeth here;

Death, the Conqueror, has drafted—I can no more volunteer,—

But I hear the roll call yonder and I go with willing feet—

Through the shadows of the valley where victorious armies meet,

Raise the ensign, Uncle Jared, let its dear folds o'er me fall—

Strength and Union for my country—and God's banner over all.

The Real Riches

Every coin of earthly treasure

We have lavished upon earth

For our simple worldly pleasure

May be reckoned something worth;

For the spending was not losing,

Tho' the purchase were but small;

It has perished with the using.

We have had it,—that is all!

All the gold we leave behind us,

When we turn to dust again,

Tho' our avarice may blind us,

We have gathered quite in vain;

Since we neither can direct it,

By the winds of fortune tost,

Nor in other worlds expect it;

What we hoarded we have lost.

But each merciful oblation—

Seed of pity wisely sown,

What we gave in self-negation,

We may safely call our own;

For the treasure freely given

Is the treasure that we hoard,

Since the angels keep in heaven,

What is lent unto the Lord.

John G. Saxe.

The Polish Boy

Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill,

That cut, like blades of steel, the air,

Causing the creeping blood to chill

With the sharp cadence of despair?

Again they come, as if a heart

Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,

And every string had voice apart

To utter its peculiar woe.

[Pg 12]

Whence came they? From yon temple, where

An altar, raised for private prayer,

Now forms the warrior's marble bed

Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.

The dim funereal tapers throw

A holy luster o'er his brow,

And burnish with their rays of light

The mass of curls that gather bright

Above the haughty brow and eye

Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

What hand is that, whose icy press

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,

But meets no answering caress?

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp.

It is the hand of her whose cry

Rang wildly, late, upon the air,

When the dead warrior met her eye

Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony brow

She murmurs forth her anguish now.

But hark! the tramp of heavy feet

Is heard along the bloody street;

Nearer and nearer yet they come,

With clanking arms and noiseless drum.

Now whispered curses, low and deep,

Around the holy temple creep;

The gate is burst; a ruffian band

Rush in, and savagely demand,

With brutal voice and oath profane,

The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild,

And to her bosom clasped her child;

Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye,

Shouted with fearful energy,

"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread

Too near the body of my dead;

Nor touch the living boy; I stand

Between him and your lawless band.

Take me, and bind these arms—these hands,—

With Russia's heaviest iron bands,

And drag me to Siberia's wild

To perish, if 'twill save my child!"

"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,

Tearing the pale boy from her side,

And in his ruffian grasp he bore

His victim to the temple door.

"One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one!

Will land or gold redeem my son?

Take heritage, take name, take all,

But leave him free from Russian thrall!

Take these!" and her white arms and hands

She stripped of rings and diamond bands,

And tore from braids of long black hair

The gems that gleamed like starlight there;

Her cross of blazing rubies, last,

Down at the Russian's feet she cast.

He stooped to seize the glittering store;—

Up springing from the marble floor,

The mother, with a cry of joy,

Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.

But no! the Russian's iron grasp

Again undid the mother's clasp.

Forward she fell, with one long cry

Of more than mortal agony.

But the brave child is roused at length,

And, breaking from the Russian's hold,

He stands, a giant in the strength

Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.

Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,

So blue, and yet so bright,

Seems kindled from the eternal sky,

So brilliant is its light.

His curling lips and crimson cheeks

Foretell the thought before he speaks;

With a full voice of proud command

He turned upon the wondering band.

[Pg 13]

"Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can;

This hour has made the boy a man.

I knelt before my slaughtered sire,

Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.

I wept upon his marble brow,

Yes, wept! I was a child; but now

My noble mother, on her knee,

Hath done the work of years for me!"

He drew aside his broidered vest,

And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,

The jeweled haft of poniard bright

Glittered a moment on the sight.

"Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave!

Think ye my noble father's glaive

Would drink the life-blood of a slave?

The pearls that on the handle flame

Would blush to rubies in their shame;

The blade would quiver in thy breast

Ashamed of such ignoble rest.

No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain,

And fling him back a boy's disdain!"

A moment, and the funeral light

Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright;

Another, and his young heart's blood

Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood.

Quick to his mother's side he sprang,

And on the air his clear voice rang:

"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!

The choice was death or slavery.

Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!

His freedom is forever won;

And now he waits one holy kiss

To bear his father home in bliss;

One last embrace, one blessing,—one!

To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son.

What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel

My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal?

Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!

What! silent still? Then art thou dead:

—Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I

Rejoice with thee,—and thus—to die."

One long, deep breath, and his pale head

Lay on his mother's bosom,—dead.

Ann S. Stephens.

The Height of the Ridiculous

I wrote some lines once on a time

In wondrous merry mood,

And thought, as usual, men would say

They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,

I laughed as I would die;

Albeit, in the general way,

A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;

How kind it was of him

To mind a slender man like me,

He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed,

And, in my humorous way,

I added (as a trifling jest),

"There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,

And saw him peep within;

At the first line he read, his face

Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad,

And shot from ear to ear;

He read the third; a chuckling noise

I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;

The fifth; his waistband split;

The sixth; he burst five buttons off,

And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,

I watched that wretched man,

And since, I never dare to write

As funny as I can.

[Pg 14]Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Excelsior

The shades of night were falling fast,

As through an Alpine village passed

A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,

A banner with the strange device,

Excelsior!

His brow was sad his eye beneath

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,

And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,

Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light

Of household fires gleam warm and bright;

Above, the spectral glaciers shone,

And from his lips escaped a groan,

Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said;

"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,

The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"

And loud the clarion voice replied,

Excelsior!

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest

Thy weary head upon this breast!"

A tear stood in his bright blue eye,

But still he answered, with a sigh,

Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!

Beware the awful avalanche!"

This was the peasant's last Good-night,

A voice replied, far up the height,

Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward

The pious monks of Saint Bernard

Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried through the startled air,

Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,

Half-buried in the snow was found,

Still grasping in his hand of ice

That banner with the strange device,

Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

And from the sky, serene and far,

A voice fell, like a falling star,

Excelsior!

Henry W. Longfellow.

The Bivouac of the Dead

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat

The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on life's parade shall meet

That brave and fallen few.

On fame's eternal camping ground

Their silent tents are spread,

And Glory guards with solemn round

The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance

Now swells upon the wind;

No troubled thought at midnight haunts

Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife

The warrior's dream alarms;

No braying horn or screaming fife

At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust;

Their plumèd heads are bowed;

Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,

Is now their martial shroud;

And plenteous funeral tears have washed

The red stains from each brow;

And the proud forms, by battle gashed,

Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,

The bugle's stirring blast,

[Pg 15]The charge, the dreadful cannonade,

The din and shout are passed.

Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,

Shall thrill with fierce delight

Those breasts that nevermore shall feel

The rapture of the fight.

Like a fierce northern hurricane

That sweeps his great plateau,

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,

Came down the serried foe,

Who heard the thunder of the fray

Break o'er the field beneath,

Knew well the watchword of that day

Was "Victory or Death!"

Full many a mother's breath hath swept

O'er Angostura's plain,

And long the pitying sky hath wept

Above its moulder'd slain.

The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,

Or shepherd's pensive lay,

Alone now wake each solemn height

That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the "dark and bloody ground,"

Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongues resound

Along the heedless air!

Your own proud land's heroic soil

Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war its richest spoil,—

The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,

Far from the gory field,

Borne to a Spartan mother's breast

On many a bloody shield.

The sunshine of their native sky

Smiles sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by

The heroes' sepulcher.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!

Dear as the blood ye gave;

No impious footsteps here shall tread

The herbage of your grave;

Nor shall your glory be forgot

While fame her record keeps,

Or honor points the hallowed spot

Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone

In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished year hath flown,

The story how ye fell.

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,

Nor time's remorseless doom,

Can dim one ray of holy light

That gilds your glorious tomb.

Theodore O'Hara.

Children

Come to me, O ye children!

For I hear you at your play,

And the questions that perplexed me

Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,

That look towards the sun,

Where thoughts are singing swallows

And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,

In your thoughts the brooklet's flow

But in mine is the wind of Autumn

And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us

If the children were no more?

We should dread the desert behind us

Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,

With light and air for food,

Ere their sweet and tender juices

Have been hardened into wood,—

That to the world are children;

Through them it feels the glow

[Pg 16]Of a brighter and sunnier climate

Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to me, O ye children!

And whisper in my ear

What the birds and the winds are singing

In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,

And the wisdom of our books,

When compared with your caresses,

And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads

That ever were sung or said;

For ye are living poems,

And all the rest are dead.

Henry W. Longfellow.

The Eve of Waterloo

(The battle of Waterloo occurred June 18, 1815)

There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gathered then

Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell.

Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet—

But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is—it is the cannon's opening roar.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;

And there were sudden partings, such as press

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;

And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

[Pg 17]Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come! they come!"

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,

The morn the marshaling in arms,—the day

Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent

The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,

Rider and horse—friend, foe—in one red burial blent.

Lord Byron.

The Land Where Hate Should Die

This is the land where hate should die—

No feuds of faith, no spleen of race,

No darkly brooding fear should try

Beneath our flag to find a place.

Lo! every people here has sent

Its sons to answer freedom's call,

Their lifeblood is the strong cement

That builds and binds the nation's wall.

This is the land where hate should die—

Though dear to me my faith and shrine,

I serve my country when I

Respect the creeds that are not mine.

He little loves his land who'd cast

Upon his neighbor's word a doubt,

Or cite the wrongs of ages past

From present rights to bar him out.

This is the land where hate should die—

This is the land where strife should cease,

Where foul, suspicious fear should fly

Before the light of love and peace.

Then let us purge from poisoned thought

That service to the state we give,

And so be worthy as we ought

Of this great land in which we live.

Denis A. McCarthy.

Trouble In the "Amen Corner"

'Twas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown,

And its organ was the finest and the biggest in the town,

And the chorus—all the papers favorably commented on it,

For 'twas said each female member had a forty-dollar bonnet.

Now in the "amen corner" of the church sat Brother Eyer,

Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir;

He was poor but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white,

And his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might.

His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords,

And nearly every Sunday he would mispronounce the words

Of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was old and nearly blind,

And the choir rattling onward always left him far behind.

The chorus stormed and blustered, Brother Eyer sang too slow,

And then he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago;

[Pg 18]At last the storm-cloud burst, and the church was told, in fine,

That the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign.

Then the pastor called together in the vestry-room one day

Seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay,

And having asked God's guidance in a printed pray'r or two,

They put their heads together to determine what to do.

They debated, thought, suggested, till at last "dear Brother York,"

Who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork,

Rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer,

And proceed to rake him lively "for disturbin' of the choir."

Said he: "In that 'ere organ I've invested quite a pile,

And we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style;

Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hardest thing

Fer to make God understand him when the brother tries to sing.

"We've got the biggest organ, the best-dressed choir in town,

We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor, Brother Brown;

But if we must humor ignorance because it's blind and old—

If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek another fold."

Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four,

With the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer's door;

And the sleek, well-dress'd committee, Brothers Sharkey, York and Lamb,

As they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jamb.

They found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm chair,

And the Summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair;

He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a cracked voice and low

But the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know.

Said York: "We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbation

To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation";

"And the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge,

"And the choir, too!" he echoed with the graveness of a judge.

"It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus

That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us;

If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother,

It will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another.

"We don't want any singing except that what we've bought!

The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones stand for naught;

And so we have decided—are you list'ning, Brother Eyer?—

That you'll have to stop your singin' for it flurrytates the choir."

The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear,

And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear;

His feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow,

As he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low:

[Pg 19]

"I've sung the psalms of David nearly eighty years," said he;

"They've been my staff and comfort all along life's dreary way;

I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong;

But when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep back a song.

"I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet,

In the far-off heav'nly temple, where the Master I shall greet—

Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs of God up high'r,

If the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven's choir."

A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head;

The carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead!

Yes, dead! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us,

And the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus.

The choir missed him for a while, but he was soon forgot,

A few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not.

Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sang his heart's desires,

Where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs!

T.C. Harbaugh.

Duty

The sweetest lives are those to duty wed,

Whose deeds, both great and small,

Are close knit strands of an unbroken thread,

Whose love ennobles all.

The world may sound no trumpet, ring no bells;

The book of life, the shining record tells.

Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes,

After its own life-working. A child's kiss

Set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad;

A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich;

A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong;

Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense

Of service thou renderest.

Robert Browning.

The Last Leaf

I saw him once before,

As he passed by the door,

And again

The pavement stones resound,

As he totters o'er the ground

With his cane.

They say that in his prime,

Ere the pruning-knife of Time

Cut him down,

Not a better man was found

By the Crier on his round

Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,

And he looks at all he meets

Sad and wan,

And he shakes his feeble head,

That it seems as if he said

"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has prest

In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

[Pg 20]

My grandmamma has said,—

Poor old lady, she is dead

Long ago,—

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin.

Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back,

And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here;

But the old three-cornered hat,

And the breeches, and all that,

Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Old Flag Forever

She's up there—Old Glory—where lightnings are sped;

She dazzles the nations with ripples of red;

And she'll wave for us living, or droop o'er us dead,—

The flag of our country forever!

She's up there—Old Glory—how bright the stars stream!

And the stripes like red signals of liberty gleam!

And we dare for her, living, or dream the last dream,

'Neath the flag of our country forever!

She's up there—Old Glory—no tyrant-dealt scars,

No blur on her brightness, no stain on her stars!

The brave blood of heroes hath crimsoned her bars.

She's the flag of our country forever!

Frank L. Stanton.

The Death of the Flowers

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.

The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

[Pg 21]And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,

The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side,

In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

W.C. Bryant.

The Heritage

The rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,

Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn,

A breath may burst his bubble shares,

And soft white hands could hardly earn

A living that would serve his turn;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare;

With sated heart, he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,

And wearies in his easy-chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part

In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,

A rank, adjudged by toil-won merit,

Content that from employment springs,

A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

A patience learned of being poor,

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,

A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil

That with all others level stands;

Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands,—

This is the best crop from thy lands;

A heritage it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

[Pg 22]

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;

There is worse weariness than thine,

In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine

And makes rest fragrant and benign;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last;

Both, children of the same dear God,

Prove title to your heirship vast

By record of a well-filled past;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Well worth a life to hold in fee.

James Russell Lowell.

The Ballad of East and West

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side,

And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride:

He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,

And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.

Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides:

"Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?"

Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar,

"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.

At dust he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair,

But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,

So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,

By the favor of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai,

But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,

For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men.

There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,

And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen."

The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,

With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell, and the head of the gallows-tree.

The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat—

Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.

He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,

Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,

Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back,

And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.

He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.

"Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride."

It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go,

The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.

The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,

[Pg 23]But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.

There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,

And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen.

They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,

The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.

The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woful heap fell he,

And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.

He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive,

"'Twas only by favor of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive:

There was not a rock of twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,

But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.

If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,

The little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting all in a row:

If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,

The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly."

Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast,

But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.

If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,

Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay.

They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain,

The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.

But if thou thinkest the price be fair,—thy brethren wait to sup.

The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, howl, dog, and call them up!

And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,

Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!"

Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.

"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and gray wolf meet.

May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;

What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?"

Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan:

Take up the mare of my father's gift—by God, she has carried a man!"

The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast,

"We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best.

So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein,

My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain."

The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,

"Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he; "will ye take the mate from a friend?"

"A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb.

Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!"

With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest—

He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.

"Now here is thy master," Kamal said,[Pg 24] "who leads a troop of the Guides,

And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.

Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,

Thy life is his—thy fate is to guard him with thy head.

So thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine,

And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line,

And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power—

Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur."

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,

They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:

They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,

On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the wondrous Names of God.

The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun,

And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.

And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear—

There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.

"Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son. "Put up the steel at your sides!

Last night ye had struck at a Border thief—to-night 'tis a man of the Guides!"

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth.

Rudyard Kipling.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child, and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me;

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

[Pg 25]

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

And so all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe.

April Showers

There fell an April shower, one night:

Next morning, in the garden-bed,

The crocuses stood straight and gold:

"And they have come," the children said.

There fell an April shower, one night:

Next morning, thro' the woodland spread

The Mayflowers, pink and sweet as youth:

"And they are come," the children said.

There fell an April shower, one night:

Next morning, sweetly, overhead,

The blue-birds sung, the blue-birds sung:

"And they have come," the children said.

Mary E. Wilkins.

The Voice of Spring

I come, I come! ye have called me long;

I come o'er the mountains, with light and song;

Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth

By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,

By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,

By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers

By thousands have burst from the forest bowers,

And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes

Are veiled with wreaths as Italian plains;

But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,

To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North,

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;

The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,

And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,

And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,

From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,

In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,

To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,

[Pg 26]When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;

They are sweeping on to the silvery main,

They are flashing down from the mountain brows,

They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,

They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,

And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Felicia D. Hemans.

The Boys

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?

If there has take him out, without making a noise.

Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite!

Old Time is a liar! We're twenty tonight!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?

He's tipsy—young jackanapes!—show him the door!

"Gray temples at twenty?"—Yes! white if we please;

Where the snowflakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!

Look close—you will see not a sign of a flake!

We want some new garlands for those we have shed,

And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told.

Of talking (in public) as if we were old;

That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge";

It's a neat little fiction—of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker"—the one on the right;

"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?

That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;

There's the "Reverend" What's-his-name?—don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look

Made believe he had written a wonderful book,

And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true!

So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,

That could harness a team with a logical chain;

When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,

We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith:

Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;

But he shouted a song for the brave and the free—

Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun;

But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done.

[Pg 27]The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,

And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

Yes, we're boys—always playing with tongue or with pen;

And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men?

Shall we always be youthful and laughing and gay,

Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!

The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!

And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,

Dear Father, take care of Thy children, THE BOYS!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

The Rainy Day

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

H.W. Longfellow.

Let Me Walk With the Men in the Road

'Tis only a half truth the poet has sung

Of the "house by the side of the way";

Our Master had neither a house nor a home,

But He walked with the crowd day by day.

And I think, when I read of the poet's desire,

That a house by the road would be good;

But service is found in its tenderest form

When we walk with the crowd in the road.

So I say, let me walk with the men in the road,

Let me seek out the burdens that crush,

Let me speak a kind word of good cheer to the weak

Who are falling behind in the rush.

There are wounds to be healed, there are breaks we must mend,

There's a cup of cold water to give;

And the man in the road by the side of his friend

Is the man who has learned to live.

Then tell me no more of the house by the road.

There is only one place I can live—

It's there with the men who are toiling along,

Who are needing the cheer I can give.

It is pleasant to live in the house by the way

And be a friend, as the poet has said;

But the Master is bidding us, "Bear ye their load,

For your rest waiteth yonder ahead."

[Pg 28]

I could not remain in the house by the road

And watch as the toilers go on,

Their faces beclouded with pain and with sin,

So burdened, their strength nearly gone.

I'll go to their side, I'll speak in good cheer,

I'll help them to carry their load;

And I'll smile at the man in the house by the way,

As I walk with the crowd in the road.

Out there in the road that goes by the house,

Where the poet is singing his song,

I'll walk and I'll work midst the heat of the day,

And I'll help falling brothers along—

Too busy to live in the house by the way,

Too happy for such an abode.

And my heart sings its praise to the Master of all,

Who is helping me serve in the road.

Walter J. Gresham.

If We Understood

Could we but draw back the curtains

That surround each other's lives,

See the naked heart and spirit,

Know what spur the action gives,

Often we should find it better,

Purer than we judged we should,

We should love each other better,

If we only understood.

Could we judge all deeds by motives,

See the good and bad within,

Often we should love the sinner

All the while we loathe the sin;

Could we know the powers working

To o'erthrow integrity,

We should judge each other's errors

With more patient charity.

If we knew the cares and trials,

Knew the effort all in vain,

And the bitter disappointment,

Understood the loss and gain—

Would the grim, eternal roughness

Seem—I wonder—just the same?

Should we help where now we hinder,

Should we pity where we blame?

Ah! we judge each other harshly,

Knowing not life's hidden force;

Knowing not the fount of action

Is less turbid at its source;

Seeing not amid the evil

All the golden grains of good;

Oh! we'd love each other better,

If we only understood.

A Laugh in Church

She sat on the sliding cushion,

The dear, wee woman of four;

Her feet, in their shiny slippers,

Hung dangling over the floor.

She meant to be good; she had promised,

And so, with her big, brown eyes,

She stared at the meeting-house windows

And counted the crawling flies.

She looked far up at the preacher,

But she thought of the honey bees

Droning away at the blossoms

That whitened the cherry trees.

She thought of a broken basket,

Where, curled in a dusky heap,

Three sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears

Lay snuggled and fast asleep.

Such soft warm bodies to cuddle,

Such queer little hearts to beat,

Such swift, round tongues to kiss,

Such sprawling, cushiony feet;

She could feel in her clasping fingers

The touch of a satiny skin

[Pg 29]And a cold wet nose exploring

The dimples under her chin.

Then a sudden ripple of laughter

Ran over the parted lips

So quick that she could not catch it

With her rosy finger-tips.

The people whispered, "Bless the child,"

As each one waked from a nap,

But the dear, wee woman hid her face

For shame in her mother's lap.

"One, Two, Three!"

It was an old, old, old, old lady,

And a boy that was half past three;

And the way that they played together

Was beautiful to see.

She couldn't go running and jumping,

And the boy, no more could he;

For he was a thin little fellow,

With a thin little twisted knee,

They sat in the yellow sunlight,

Out under the maple-tree;

And the game that they played I'll tell you,

Just as it was told to me.

It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing,

Though you'd never have known it to be—

With an old, old, old, old lady,

And a boy with a twisted knee.

The boy would bend his face down

On his one little sound right knee,

And he'd guess where she was hiding,

In guesses One, Two, Three!

"You are in the china-closet!"

He would cry, and laugh with glee—

It wasn't the china-closet;

But he still had Two and Three.

"You are up in Papa's big bedroom,

In the chest with the queer old key!"

And she said: "You are warm and warmer;

But you're not quite right," said she.

"It can't be the little cupboard

Where Mamma's things used to be—

So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma!"

And he found her with his Three.

Then she covered her face with her fingers,

That were wrinkled and white and wee,

And she guessed where the boy was hiding,

With a One and a Two and a Three.

And they never had stirred from their places,

Right under the maple-tree—

This old, old, old, old lady,

And the boy with the lame little knee—

This dear, dear, dear old lady,

And the boy who was half past three.

Henry Cuyler Bunner.

Unawares

They said, "The Master is coming

To honor the town to-day,

And none can tell at what house or home

The Master will choose to stay."

And I thought while my heart beat wildly,

What if He should come to mine,

How would I strive to entertain

And honor the Guest Divine!

And straight I turned to toiling

To make my house more neat;

I swept, and polished, and garnished.

[Pg 30]And decked it with blossoms sweet.

I was troubled for fear the Master

Might come ere my work was done,

And I hasted and worked the faster,

And watched the hurrying sun.

But right in the midst of my duties

A woman came to my door;

She had come to tell me her sorrows

And my comfort and aid to implore,

And I said, "I cannot listen

Nor help you any, to-day;

I have greater things to attend to."

And the pleader turned away.

But soon there came another—

A cripple, thin, pale and gray—

And said, "Oh, let me stop and rest

A while in your house, I pray!

I have traveled far since morning,

I am hungry, and faint, and weak;

My heart is full of misery,

And comfort and help I seek."

And I cried, "I am grieved and sorry,

But I cannot help you to-day.

I look for a great and noble Guest,"

And the cripple went away;

And the day wore onward swiftly—

And my task was nearly done,

And a prayer was ever in my heart

That the Master to me might come.

And I thought I would spring to meet Him,

And serve him with utmost care,

When a little child stood by me

With a face so sweet and fair—

Sweet, but with marks of teardrops—

And his clothes were tattered and old;

A finger was bruised and bleeding,

And his little bare feet were cold.

And I said, "I'm sorry for you—

You are sorely in need of care;

But I cannot stop to give it,

You must hasten otherwhere."

And at the words, a shadow

Swept o'er his blue-veined brow,—

"Someone will feed and clothe you, dear,

But I am too busy now."

At last the day was ended,

And my toil was over and done;

My house was swept and garnished—

And I watched in the dark—alone.

Watched—but no footfall sounded,

No one paused at my gate;

No one entered my cottage door;

I could only pray—and wait.

I waited till night had deepened,

And the Master had not come.

"He has entered some other door," I said,

"And gladdened some other home!"

My labor had been for nothing,

And I bowed my head and I wept,

My heart was sore with longing—

Yet—in spite of it all—I slept.

Then the Master stood before me,

And his face was grave and fair;

"Three times to-day I came to your door,

And craved your pity and care;

Three times you sent me onward,

Unhelped and uncomforted;

And the blessing you might have had was lost,

And your chance to serve has fled."

"O Lord, dear Lord, forgive me!

How could I know it was Thee?"

My very soul was shamed and bowed

In the depths of humility.

And He said, "The sin is pardoned,

But the blessing is lost to thee;

For comforting not the least of Mine

You have failed to comfort Me."

Emma A. Lent.

The Land of Beginning Again

I wish there were some wonderful place

Called the Land of Beginning Again,

Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches,

And all our poor, selfish griefs

Could be dropped, like a shabby old coat, at the door,

And never put on again.

I wish we could come on it all unaware,

Like the hunter who finds a lost trail;

And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done

The greatest injustice of all

Could be at the gate like the old friend that waits

For the comrade he's gladdest to hail.

We would find the things we intended to do,

But forgot and remembered too late—

Little praises unspoken, little promises broken,

And all of the thousand and one

Little duties neglected that might have perfected

The days of one less fortunate.

It wouldn't be possible not to be kind.

In the Land of Beginning Again;

And the ones we misjudged and the ones whom we grudged

Their moments of victory here,

Would find the grasp of our loving handclasp

More than penitent lips could explain.

For what had been hardest we'd know had been best,

And what had seemed loss would be gain,

For there isn't a sting that will not take wing

When we've faced it and laughed it away;

And I think that the laughter is most what we're after,

In the Land of Beginning Again.

So I wish that there were some wonderful place

Called the Land of Beginning Again,

Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches,

And all our poor, selfish griefs

Could be dropped, like a ragged old coat, at the door,

And never put on again.

Louisa Fletcher Tarkington.

Poor Little Joe

Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey,

Fur I've brought you sumpin' great.

Apples? No, a derned sight better!

Don't you take no int'rest? Wait!

Flowers, Joe—I know'd you'd like 'em—

Ain't them scrumptious? Ain't them high?

Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey?

There—poor little Joe—don't cry!

I was skippin' past a winder

W'ere a bang-up lady sot,

All amongst a lot of bushes—

Each one climbin' from a pot;

Every bush had flowers on it—

Pretty? Mebbe not! Oh, no!

Wish you could 'a seen 'em growin',

It was such a stunnin' show.

Well, I thought of you, poor feller,

Lyin' here so sick and weak,

Never knowin' any comfort,

And I puts on lots o' cheek.

"Missus," says I, "if you please, mum,

Could I ax you for a rose?

For my little brother, missus—

Never seed one, I suppose."

[Pg 32]

Then I told her all about you—

How I bringed you up—poor Joe!

(Lackin' women folks to do it)

Sich a imp you was, you know—

Till you got that awful tumble,

Jist as I had broke yer in

(Hard work, too), to earn your livin'

Blackin' boots for honest tin.

How that tumble crippled of you,

So's you couldn't hyper much—

Joe, it hurted when I seen you

Fur the first time with yer crutch.

"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,

'Pears to weaken every day";

Joe, she up and went to cuttin'—

That's the how of this bokay.

Say! it seems to me, ole feller,

You is quite yourself to-night—

Kind o' chirk—it's been a fortnit

Sense yer eyes has been so bright.

Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it!

Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe.

Smellin' of 'em's made you happy?

Well, I thought it would, you know.

Never see the country, did you?

Flowers growin' everywhere!

Some time when you're better, Joey,

Mebbe I kin take you there.

Flowers in heaven? 'M—I s'pose so;

Dunno much about it, though;

Ain't as fly as wot I might be

On them topics, little Joe.

But I've heerd it hinted somewheres

That in heaven's golden gates

Things is everlastin' cheerful—

B'lieve that's what the Bible states.

Likewise, there folks don't git hungry:

So good people, w'en they dies,

Finds themselves well fixed forever—

Joe my boy, wot ails yer eyes?

Thought they looked a little sing'ler.

Oh, no! Don't you have no fear;

Heaven was made fur such as you is—

Joe, wot makes you look so queer?

Here—wake up! Oh, don't look that way!

Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head!

Here's yer flowers—you dropped em, Joey.

Oh, my God, can Joe be dead?

David L. Proudfit (Peleg Arkwright).

The Ladder of St. Augustine

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,

That of our vices we can frame

A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

All common things, each day's events,

That with the hour begin and end,

Our pleasures and our discontents,

Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design,

That makes another's virtues less;

The revel of the ruddy wine,

And all occasions of excess;

The longing for ignoble things;

The strife for triumph more than truth;

The hardening of the heart, that brings

Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,

That have their root in thoughts of ill;

Whatever hinders or impedes

The action of the nobler will;—

All these must first be trampled down

Beneath our feet, if we would gain

In the bright fields of fair renown

The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar;

But we have feet to scale and climb

By slow degrees, by more and more,

The cloudy summits of our time.

[Pg 33]

The mighty pyramids of stone

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,

When nearer seen, and better known,

Are but gigantic flights of stairs,

The distant mountains, that uprear

Their solid bastions to the skies,

Are crossed by pathways, that appear

As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept

Were not attained by sudden flight.

But they, while their companions slept,

Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore

With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,

We may discern—unseen before—

A path to higher destinies.

Nor deem the irrevocable Past

As wholly wasted, wholly vain,

If, rising on its wrecks, at last

To something nobler we attain.

H.W. Longfellow.

Loss and Gain

When I compare

What I have lost with what I have gained,

What I have missed with what attained,

Little room do I find for pride.

I am aware

How many days have been idly spent;

How like an arrow the good intent

Has fallen short or been turned aside.

But who shall dare

To measure loss and gain in this wise?

Defeat may be victory in disguise;

The lowest ebb in the turn of the tide.

H.W. Longfellow.

John Thompson's Daughter

(A Parody on "Lord Ullin's Daughter")

A fellow near Kentucky's clime

Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry,

And I'll give thee a silver dime

To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now, who would cross the Ohio,

This dark and stormy water?"

"Oh, I am this young lady's beau,

And she John Thompson's daughter.

"We've fled before her father's spite

With great precipitation,

And should he find us here to-night,

I'd lose my reputation.

"They've missed the girl and purse beside,

His horsemen hard have pressed me.

And who will cheer my bonny bride,

If yet they shall arrest me?"

Out spoke the boatman then in time,

"You shall not fail, don't fear it;

I'll go not for your silver dime,

But—for your manly spirit.

"And by my word, the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;

For though a storm is coming on,

I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the wind more fiercely rose,

The boat was at the landing,

And with the drenching rain their clothes

Grew wet where they were standing.

But still, as wilder rose the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Just back a piece came the police,

Their tramping sounded nearer.

"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,

"It's anything but funny;

I'll leave the light of loving eyes,

But not my father's money!"

[Pg 34]

And still they hurried in the race

Of wind and rain unsparing;

John Thompson reached the landing-place,

His wrath was turned to swearing.

For by the lightning's angry flash,

His child he did discover;

One lovely hand held all the cash,

And one was round her lover!

"Come back, come back," he cried in woe,

Across the stormy water;

"But leave the purse, and you may go,

My daughter, oh, my daughter!"

'Twas vain; they reached the other shore,

(Such dooms the Fates assign us),

The gold he piled went with his child,

And he was left there, minus.

Phoebe Cary.

Grandfather's Clock

My grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf,

So it stood ninety years on the floor;

It was taller by half than the old man himself,

Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.

It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,

And was always his treasure and pride,

But it stopped short ne'er to go again

When the old man died.

In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,

Many hours had he spent while a boy;

And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know

And to share both his grief and his joy,

For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,

With a blooming and beautiful bride,

But it stopped short never to go again

When the old man died.

My grandfather said that of those he could hire,

Not a servant so faithful he found,

For it wasted no time and had but one desire,

At the close of each week to be wound.

And it kept in its place, not a frown upon its face,

And its hands never hung by its side.

But it stopped short never to go again

When the old man died.

Henry C. Work.

A Cradle Hymn

Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber,

Holy angels guard thy bed!

Heavenly blessings without number

Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,

House and home, thy friends provide;

All without thy care or payment:

All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou'rt attended

Than the Son of God could be,

When from heaven He descended

And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle:

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,

When His birthplace was a stable

And His softest bed was hay.

Blessed babe! what glorious features—

Spotless fair, divinely bright!

Must He dwell with brutal creatures?

How could angels bear the sight?

Was there nothing but a manger

Cursed sinners could afford

To receive the heavenly stranger?

Did they thus affront their Lord?

[Pg 35]

Soft, my child: I did not chide thee,

Though my song might sound too hard;

'Tis thy mother sits beside thee,

And her arm shall be thy guard.

See the kinder shepherds round Him,

Telling wonders from the sky!

Where they sought Him, there they found Him,

With His Virgin mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing;

Lovely infant, how He smiled!

When He wept, His mother's blessing

Soothed and hush'd the holy Child,

Lo, He slumbers in a manger,

Where the hornèd oxen fed:—

Peace, my darling, here's no danger;

There's no ox anear thy bed.

May'st thou live to know and fear Him,

Trust and love Him all thy days;

Then go dwell forever near Him,

See His face, and sing His praise!

Isaac Watts.

If All the Skies

If all the skies were sunshine,

Our faces would be fain

To feel once more upon them

The cooling splash of rain.

If all the world were music,

Our hearts would often long

For one sweet strain of silence,

To break the endless song.

If life were always merry,

Our souls would seek relief,

And rest from weary laughter

In the quiet arms of grief.

Henry van Dyke.

The Petrified Fern

In a valley, centuries ago,

Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender,

Veining delicate and fibers tender,

Waving when the wind crept down so low;

Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it;

Playful sunbeams darted in and found it;

Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it;

But no foot of man e'er came that way;

Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main;

Stately forests waved their giant branches;

Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches;

Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain,

Nature reveled in grand mysteries.

But the little fern was not like these,

Did not number with the hills and trees,

Only grew and waved its sweet, wild way;

No one came to note it day by day.

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,

Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion

Of the strong, dread currents of the ocean;

Moved the hills and shook the haughty wood;

Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay,

Covered it, and hid it safe away.

Oh, the long, long centuries since that day;

Oh, the changes! Oh, life's bitter cost,

Since the little useless fern was lost!

[Pg 36]

Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man

Searching Nature's secrets far and deep;

From a fissure in a rocky steep

He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran

Fairy pencilings, a quaint design,

Leafage, veining, fibers, clear and fine,

And the fern's life lay in every line.

So, I think, God hides some souls away,

Sweetly to surprise us the Last Day.

Mary L. Bolles Branch.

Cleon and I

Cleon hath ten thousand acres,

Ne'er a one have I;

Cleon dwelleth in a palace,

In a cottage, I;

Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,

Not a penny, I,

Yet the poorer of the twain is

Cleon, and not I.

Cleon, true, possesseth acres,

But the landscape, I;

Half the charms to me it yieldeth

Money cannot buy;

Cleon harbors sloth and dullness,

Freshening vigor, I;

He in velvet, I in fustian—

Richer man am I.

Cleon is a slave to grandeur,

Free as thought am I;

Cleon fees a score of doctors,

Need of none have I;

Wealth-surrounded, care-environed,

Cleon fears to die;

Death may come—he'll find me ready,

Happier man am I.

Cleon sees no charms in nature,

In a daisy, I;

Cleon hears no anthems ringing

'Twixt the sea and sky;

Nature sings to me forever,

Earnest listener, I;

State for state, with all attendants—

Who would change?—Not I.

Charles Mackay.

Washington

Great were the hearts and strong the minds

Of those who framed in high debate

The immortal league of love that binds

Our fair, broad empire, State with State.

And deep the gladness of the hour

When, as the auspicious task was done,

In solemn trust the sword of power

Was given to Glory's Unspoiled Son.

That noble race is gone—the suns

Of fifty years have risen and set;—

But the bright links, those chosen ones,

So strongly forged, are brighter yet.

Wide—as our own free race increase—

Wide shall extend the elastic chain,

And bind in everlasting peace

State after State, a mighty train.

W.C. Bryant.

Towser Shall Be Tied To-Night

A Parody on "Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight."

Slow the Kansas sun was setting,

O'er the wheat fields far away,

Streaking all the air with cobwebs

At the close of one hot day;

And the last rays kissed the forehead

Of a man and maiden fair,

He with whiskers short and frowsy,

She with red and glistening hair,

He with shut jaws stern and silent;

She, with lips all cold and white,

Struggled to keep back the murmur,

"Towser shall be tied to-night."

[Pg 37]

"Papa," slowly spoke the daughter,

"I am almost seventeen,

And I have a real lover,

Though he's rather young and green;

But he has a horse and buggy

And a cow and thirty hens,—

Boys that start out poor, dear Papa,

Make the best of honest men,

But if Towser sees and bites him,

Fills his eyes with misty light,

He will never come again, Pa;

Towser must be tied to-night."

"Daughter," firmly spoke the farmer,

(Every word pierced her young heart

Like a carving knife through chicken

As it hunts the tender part)—

"I've a patch of early melons,

Two of them are ripe to-day;

Towser must be loose to watch them

Or they'll all be stole away.

I have hoed them late and early

In dim morn and evening light;

Now they're grown I must not lose them;

Towser'll not be tied to-night."

Then the old man ambled forward,

Opened wide the kennel-door,

Towser bounded forth to meet him

As he oft had done before.

And the farmer stooped and loosed him

From the dog-chain short and stout;

To himself he softly chuckled,

"Bessie's feller must look out."

But the maiden at the window

Saw the cruel teeth show white;

In an undertone she murmured,—

"Towser must be tied to-night."

Then the maiden's brow grew thoughtful

And her breath came short and quick,

Till she spied the family clothesline,

And she whispered, "That's the trick."

From the kitchen door she glided

With a plate of meat and bread;

Towser wagged his tail in greeting,

Knowing well he would be fed.

In his well-worn leather collar,

Tied she then the clothesline tight,

All the time her white lips saying:

"Towser shall be tied to-night,"

"There, old doggie," spoke the maiden,

"You can watch the melon patch,

But the front gate's free and open,

When John Henry lifts the latch.

For the clothesline tight is fastened

To the harvest apple tree,

You can run and watch the melons,

But the front gate you can't see."

Then her glad ears hear a buggy,

And her eyes grow big and bright,

While her young heart says in gladness,

"Towser dog is tied to-night."

Up the path the young man saunters

With his eye and cheek aglow;

For he loves the red-haired maiden

And he aims to tell her so.

Bessie's roguish little brother,

In a fit of boyish glee,

Had untied the slender clothesline,

From the harvest apple tree.

Then old Towser heard the footsteps,

Raised his bristles, fixed for fight,—

"Bark away," the maiden whispers;

"Towser, you are tied to-night."

Then old Towser bounded forward,

Passed the open kitchen door;

Bessie screamed and quickly followed,

But John Henry's gone before.

Down the path he speeds most quickly,

For old Towser sets the pace;

And the maiden close behind them

Shows them she is in the race.

[Pg 38]Then the clothesline, can she get it?

And her eyes grow big and bright;

And she springs and grasps it firmly:

"Towser shall be tied to-night."

Oftentimes a little minute

Forms the destiny of men.

You can change the fate of nations

By the stroke of one small pen.

Towser made one last long effort,

Caught John Henry by the pants,

But John Henry kept on running

For he thought that his last chance.

But the maiden held on firmly,

And the rope was drawn up tight.

But old Towser kept the garments,

For he was not tied that night.

Then the father hears the racket;

With long strides he soon is there,

When John Henry and the maiden,

Crouching, for the worst prepare.

At his feet John tells his story,

Shows his clothing soiled and torn;

And his face so sad and pleading,

Yet so white and scared and worn,

Touched the old man's heart with pity,

Filled his eyes with misty light.

"Take her, boy, and make her happy,—

Towser shall be tied to-night."

Law and Liberty

O Liberty, thou child of Law,

God's seal is on thy brow!

O Law, her Mother first and last,

God's very self art thou!

Two flowers alike, yet not alike,

On the same stem that grow,

Two friends who cannot live apart,

Yet seem each other's foe.

One, the smooth river's mirrored flow

Which decks the world with green;

And one, the bank of sturdy rock

Which hems the river in.

O Daughter of the timeless Past,

O Hope the Prophets saw,

God give us Law in Liberty

And Liberty in Law!

E.J. Cutler.

His Mother's Song

Beneath the hot midsummer sun

The men had marched all day,

And now beside a rippling stream

Upon the grass they lay.

Tiring of games and idle jest

As swept the hours along,

They cried to one who mused apart,

"Come, friend, give us a song."

"I fear I can not please," he said;

"The only songs I know

Are those my mother used to sing

For me long years ago."

"Sing one of those," a rough voice cried.

"There's none but true men here;

To every mother's son of us

A mother's songs are dear."

Then sweetly rose the singer's voice

Amid unwonted calm:

"Am I a soldier of the Cross,

A follower of the Lamb?

And shall I fear to own His cause?"

The very stream was stilled,

And hearts that never throbbed with fear,

With tender thoughts were filled.

Ended the song, the singer said,

As to his feet he rose,

"Thanks to you all, my friends; goodnight.

God grant us sweet repose."

"Sing us one more," the captain begged.

The soldier bent his head,

Then, glancing round, with smiling lips,

"You'll join with me?" he said.

[Pg 39]

"We'll sing that old familiar air

Sweet as the bugle call,

'All hail the power of Jesus' name!

Let angels prostrate fall.'"

Ah, wondrous was the old tune's spell.

As on the soldiers sang;

Man after man fell into line,

And loud the voices rang.

The songs are done, the camp is still,

Naught but the stream is heard;

But, ah! the depths of every soul

By those old hymns are stirred,

And up from many a bearded lip,

In whispers soft and low,

Rises the prayer that mother taught

Her boy long years ago.

When Father Carves the Duck

We all look on with anxious eyes

When Father carves the duck,

And Mother almost always sighs

When Father carves the duck;

Then all of us prepare to rise

And hold our bibs before our eyes,

And be prepared for some surprise

When Father carves the duck.

He braces up and grabs the fork,

Whene'er he carves the duck,

And won't allow a soul to talk

Until he carves the duck.

The fork is jabbed into the sides,

Across the breast the knife he slides,

While every careful person hides

From flying chips of duck.

The platter's always sure to slip

When Father carves the duck,

And how it makes the dishes skip—

Potatoes fly amuck.

The squash and cabbage leap in space,

We get some gravy in our face,

And Father mutters Hindoo grace

Whene'er he carves a duck.

We then have learned to walk around

The dining room and pluck

From off the window-sills and walls

Our share of Father's duck.

While Father growls and blows and jaws,

And swears the knife was full of flaws,

And Mother laughs at him because

He couldn't carve a duck.

E.V. Wright.

Papa's Letter

I was sitting in my study,

Writing letters when I heard,

"Please, dear mamma, Mary told me

Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed.

"But I'se tired of the kitty,

Want some ozzer fing to do.

Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma?

Tan't I wite a letter too?"

"Not now, darling, mamma's busy;

Run and play with kitty, now."

"No, no, mamma, me wite letter;

Tan if 'ou will show me how."

I would paint my darling's portrait

As his sweet eyes searched my face—

Hair of gold and eyes of azure,

Form of childish, witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded,

As I slowly shook my head,

Till I said, "I'll make a letter

Of you, darling boy, instead."

So I parted back the tresses

From his forehead high and white,

And a stamp in sport I pasted

'Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said, "Now, little letter,

Go away and bear good news."

And I smiled as down the staircase

Clattered loud the little shoes.

[Pg 40]

Leaving me, the darling hurried

Down to Mary in his glee,

"Mamma's witing lots of letters;

I'se a letter, Mary—see!"

No one heard the little prattler,

As once more he climbed the stair,

Reached his little cap and tippet,

Standing on the entry stair.

No one heard the front door open,

No one saw the golden hair,

As it floated o'er his shoulders

In the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastened

Till he reached the office door.

"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman;

Is there room for any more?

"'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa,

Papa lives with God, 'ou know,

Mamma sent me for a letter,

Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?"

But the clerk in wonder answered,

"Not to-day, my little man."

"Den I'll find anozzer office,

'Cause I must go if I tan."

Fain the clerk would have detained him,

But the pleading face was gone,

And the little feet were hastening—

By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted,

People fled to left and right,

As a pair of maddened horses

At the moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure—

No one saw the golden hair,

Till a voice of frightened sweetness

Rang out on the autumn air.

'Twas too late—a moment only

Stood the beauteous vision there,

Then the little face lay lifeless,

Covered o'er with golden hair.

Reverently they raised my darling,

Brushed away the curls of gold,

Saw the stamp upon the forehead,

Growing now so icy cold.

Not a mark the face disfigured,

Showing where a hoof had trod;

But the little life was ended—

"Papa's letter" was with God.

Who Stole the Bird's Nest?

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!

Such a thing I'd never do;

I gave you a wisp of hay,

But didn't take your nest away.

Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!

Such a thing I'd never do."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!

I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow!

I gave the hairs the nest to make,

But the nest I did not take.

Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!

I'm not so mean, anyhow."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the sheep, "oh, no!

I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.

I gave the wool the nest to line,

But the nest was none of mine.

[Pg 41]Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no!

I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."

"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow;

"I should like to know

What thief took away

A bird's nest to-day?"

"I would not rob a bird,"

Said little Mary Green;

"I think I never heard

Of anything so mean."

"It is very cruel, too,"

Said little Alice Neal;

"I wonder if he knew

How sad the bird would feel?"

A little boy hung down his head,

And went and hid behind the bed,

For he stole that pretty nest

From poor little yellow-breast;

And he felt so full of shame,

He didn't like to tell his name.

Lydia Maria Child.

Over the Hill from the Poor-House

I, who was always counted, they say,

Rather a bad stick anyway,

Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,

Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six";

I, the truant, saucy and bold,

The one black sheep in my father's fold,

"Once on a time," as the stories say,

Went over the hill on a winter's day—

Over the hill to the poor-house.

Tom could save what twenty could earn;

But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn;

Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak—

Committed a hundred verses a week;

Never forgot, an' never slipped;

But "Honor thy father and mother," he skipped;

So over the hill to the poor-house!

As for Susan, her heart was kind

An' good—what there was of it, mind;

Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,

Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice

For one she loved; an' that 'ere one

Was herself, when all was said an' done;

An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt,

But anyone could pull 'em about;

An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see,

Save one poor fellow, an' that was me;

An' when, one dark an' rainy night,

A neighbor's horse went out o' sight,

They hitched on me, as the guilty chap

That carried one end o' the halter-strap.

An' I think, myself, that view of the case

Wasn't altogether out o' place;

My mother denied it, as mothers do,

But I am inclined to believe 'twas true.

Though for me one thing might be said—

That I, as well as the horse, was led;

And the worst of whisky spurred me on,

Or else the deed would have never been done.

But the keenest grief I ever felt

Was when my mother beside me knelt,

An' cried, an' prayed, till I melted down,

As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.

I kissed her fondly, then an' there,

An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.

[Pg 42]

I served my sentence—a bitter pill

Some fellows should take who never will;

And then I decided to go "out West,"

Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;

Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,

But Fortune seemed to like me well;

An' somehow every vein I struck

Was always bubbling over with luck.

An', better than that, I was steady an' true,

An' put my good resolutions through.

But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said,

"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,

An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,

Than if I had lived the same as before."

But when this neighbor he wrote to me,

"Your mother's in the poor-house," says he,

I had a resurrection straightway,

An' started for her that very day.

And when I arrived where I was grown,

I took good care that I shouldn't be known;

But I bought the old cottage, through and through,

Of someone Charley had sold it to;

And held back neither work nor gold

To fix it up as it was of old.

The same big fire-place, wide and high,

Flung up its cinders toward the sky;

The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf—

I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself;

An' if everything wasn't just the same,

Neither I nor money was to blame;

Then—over the hill to the poor-house!

One blowin', blusterin' winter's day,

With a team an' cutter I started away;

My fiery nags was as black as coal;

(They some'at resembled the horse I stole;)

I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door—

A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;

She rose to her feet in great surprise,

And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;

I saw the whole of her trouble's trace

In the lines that marred her dear old face;

"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done!

You're adopted along o' your horse thief son,

Come over the hill from the poor-house!"

She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,

An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried.

An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay,

An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;

An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright,

An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,

To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,

An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me;

An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,

In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers,

Who often said, as I have heard,

That they wouldn't own a prison-bird;

(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,

For all of 'em owe me more or less;)

But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man

In always a-doin' the best he can;

[Pg 43]That whether on the big book, a blot

Gets over a fellow's name or not,

Whenever he does a deed that's white,

It's credited to him fair and right.

An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,

An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats,

However they may settle my case,

Wherever they may fix my place,

My good old Christian mother, you'll see,

Will be sure to stand right up for me,

With over the hill from the poor-house!

Will Carleton.

"'Specially Jim"

I was mighty good-lookin' when I was young,

Peart an' black-eyed an' slim,

With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights,

'Specially Jim.

The likeliest one of 'em all was he,

Chipper an' han'som' an' trim,

But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowds

'Specially Jim!

I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men,

An' I wouldn't take stock in him!

But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk,

'Specially Jim!

I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun'

('Specially Jim!)

I made up my mind I'd settle down

An' take up with him.

So we was married one Sunday in church,

'Twas crowded full to the brim;

'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all,

'Specially Jim.

O'Grady's Goat

O'Grady lived in Shanty row,

The neighbors often said

They wished that Tim would move away

Or that his goat was dead.

He kept the neighborhood in fear,

And the children always vexed;

They couldn't tell jist whin or where

The goat would pop up next.

Ould Missis Casey stood wan day

The dirty clothes to rub

Upon the washboard, when she dived

Headforemosht o'er the tub;

She lit upon her back an' yelled,

As she was lying flat:

"Go git your goon an' kill the bashte."

O'Grady's goat doon that.

Pat Doolan's woife hung out the wash

Upon the line to dry.

She wint to take it in at night,

But stopped to have a cry.

The sleeves av two red flannel shirts,

That once were worn by Pat,

Were chewed off almost to the neck.

O'Grady's goat doon that.

They had a party at McCune's,

An' they wor having foon,

Whin suddinly there was a crash

An' ivrybody roon.

The iseter soup fell on the floor

An' nearly drowned the cat;

The stove was knocked to smithereens.

O'Grady's goat doon that.

Moike Dyle was coortin' Biddy Shea,

Both standin' at the gate,

An' they wor just about to kiss

Aich oother sly and shwate.

They coom togither loike two rams.

An' mashed their noses flat.

They niver shpake whin they goes by.

O'Grady's goat doon that.

[Pg 44]

O'Hoolerhan brought home a keg

Av dannymite wan day

To blow a cistern in his yard

An' hid the stuff away.

But suddinly an airthquake coom,

O'Hoolerhan, house an' hat,

An' ivrything in sight wint up.

O'Grady's goat doon that.

An' there was Dooley's Savhin's Bank,

That held the byes' sphare cash.

One day the news came doon the sthreet

The bank had gone to smash.

An' ivrybody 'round was dum

Wid anger and wid fear,

Fer on the dhoor they red the whords,

"O'Grady's goat sthruck here."

The folks in Grady's naborhood

All live in fear and fright;

They think it's certain death to go

Around there after night.

An' in their shlape they see a ghost

Upon the air afloat,

An' wake thimselves by shoutin' out:

"Luck out for Grady's goat."

Will S. Hays.

The Burial of Moses

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Bethpeor;
but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,

In a vale in the land of Moab

There lies a lonely grave,

And no man knows that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturn'd the sod

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever pass'd on earth;

But no man heard the trampling,

Or saw the train go forth—

Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun.

Noiselessly as the springtime

Her crown of verdure weaves,

And all the trees on all the hills

Open their thousand leaves;

So without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,

Silently down from the mountain's crown

The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle

On gray Beth-peor's height,

Out of his lonely eyrie

Look'd on the wondrous sight;

Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns that hallow'd spot,

For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drum,

Follow his funeral car;

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

We lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honor'd place,

With costly marble drest,

In the great minster transept

Where lights like glories fall,

And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings

Along the emblazon'd wall.

This was the truest warrior

That ever buckled sword,

This was the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;

And never earth's philosopher

Traced with his golden pen,

[Pg 45]On the deathless page, truths half so sage

As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor,—

The hillside for a pall,

To lie in state while angels wait

With stars for tapers tall,

And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave?

In that strange grave without a name,

Whence his uncoffin'd clay

Shall break again, O wondrous thought!

Before the judgment day,

And stand with glory wrapt around

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life

With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave in Moab's land

O dark Beth-peor's hill,

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,

And teach them to be still.

God hath His mysteries of grace,

Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep like the hidden sleep

Of him He loved so well.

Cecil F. Alexander.

Nobody's Child

Alone in the dreary, pitiless street,

With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet,

All day have I wandered to and fro,

Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go;

The night's coming on in darkness and dread,

And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head.

Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild?

Is it because I am nobody's child?

Just over the way there's a flood of light,

And warmth, and beauty, and all things bright;

Beautiful children, in robes so fair,

Are caroling songs in their rapture there.

I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,

Would pity a poor little beggar like me,

Wandering alone in the merciless street,

Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat?

Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down

In its terrible blackness all over the town?

Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky,

On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die,

When the beautiful children their prayers have said,

And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed?

For no dear mother on me ever smiled.

Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child?

No father, no mother, no sister, not one

In all the world loves me—e'en the little dogs run

When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see

How everything shrinks from a beggar like me!

Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie

[Pg 46]Gazing far up in the dark blue sky,

Watching for hours some large bright star,

I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar,

And a host of white-robed, nameless things

Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings;

A hand that is strangely soft and fair

Caresses gently my tangled hair,

And a voice like the carol of some wild bird—

The sweetest voice that was ever heard—

Calls me many a dear, pet name,

Till my heart and spirit are all aflame.

They tell me of such unbounded love,

And bid me come to their home above;

And then with such pitiful, sad surprise

They look at me with their sweet, tender eyes,

And it seems to me, out of the dreary night

I am going up to that world of light,

And away from the hunger and storm so wild;

I am sure I shall then be somebody's child.

Phila H. Case.

A Christmas Long Ago

Like a dream, it all comes o'er me as I hear the Christmas bells;

Like a dream it floats before me, while the Christmas anthem swells;

Like a dream it bears me onward in the silent, mystic flow,

To a dear old sunny Christmas in the happy long ago.

And my thoughts go backward, backward, and the years that intervene

Are but as the mists and shadows when the sunlight comes between;

And all earthly wealth and splendor seem but as a fleeting show,

As there comes to me the picture of a Christmas long ago.

I can see the great, wide hearthstone and the holly hung about;

I can see the smiling faces, I can hear the children shout;

I can feel the joy and gladness that the old room seem to fill,

E'en the shadows on the ceiling—I can see them dancing still.

I can see the little stockings hung about the chimney yet;

I can feel my young heart thrilling lest the old man should forget.

Ah! that fancy! Were the world mine, I would give it, if I might,

To believe in old St. Nicholas, and be a child to-night.

Just to hang my little stocking where it used to hang, and feel

For one moment all the old thoughts and the old hopes o'er me steal.

But, oh! loved and loving faces, in the firelight's dancing glow,

There will never come another like that Christmas long ago!

For the old home is deserted, and the ashes long have lain

In the great, old-fashioned fireplace that will never shine again.

Friendly hands that then clasped ours now are folded 'neath the snow;

Gone the dear ones who were with us on that Christmas long ago.

Let the children have their Christmas—let them have it while they may;[Pg 47]

Life is short and childhood's fleeting, and there'll surely come a day

When St. Nicholas will sadly pass on by the close-shut door,

Missing all the merry faces that had greeted him of yore;

When no childish step shall echo through the quiet, silent room;

When no childish smile shall brighten, and no laughter lift the gloom;

When the shadows that fall 'round us in the fire-light's fitful glow

Shall be ghosts of those who sat there in the Christmas long ago.

Nearer Home

One sweetly solemn thought

Comes to me o'er and o'er,—

I am nearer home to-day

Than I've ever been before;—

Nearer my Father's house

Where the many mansions be,

Nearer the great white throne,

Nearer the jasper sea;—

Nearer the bound of life

Where we lay our burdens down;

Nearer leaving the cross,

Nearer gaining the crown.

But lying darkly between,

Winding down through the night,

Is the dim and unknown stream

That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps

Come to the dark abysm;

Closer death to my lips

Presses the awful chrism.

Father, perfect my trust;

Strengthen the might of my faith;

Let me feel as I would when I stand

On the rock of the shore of death,—

Feel as I would when my feet

Are slipping o'er the brink;

For it may be I am nearer home,

Nearer now than I think.

Phoebe Cary.

The Minuet

Grandma told me all about it,

Told me so I could not doubt it,

How she danced, my grandma danced, long ago!

How she held her pretty head,

How her dainty skirts she spread,

How she turned her little toes,

Smiling little human rose!

Grandma's hair was bright and shining,

Dimpled cheeks, too! ah! how funny!

Bless me, now she wears a cap,

My grandma does, and takes a nap every single day;

Yet she danced the minuet long ago;

Now she sits there rocking, rocking,

Always knitting grandpa's stocking—

Every girl was taught to knit long ago—

But her figure is so neat,

And her ways so staid and sweet,

I can almost see her now,

Bending to her partner's bow, long ago.

Grandma says our modern jumping,

Rushing, whirling, dashing, bumping,

Would have shocked the gentle people long ago.

No, they moved with stately grace,

Everything in proper place,

Gliding slowly forward, then

Slowly courtesying back again.

Modern ways are quite alarming, grandma says,

But boys were charming—

[Pg 48]Girls and boys I mean, of course—long ago,

Sweetly modest, bravely shy!

What if all of us should try just to feel

Like those who met in the stately minuet, long ago.

With the minuet in fashion,

Who could fly into a passion?

All would wear the calm they wore long ago,

And if in years to come, perchance,

I tell my grandchild of our dance,

I should really like to say,

We did it in some such way, long ago.

Mary Mapes Dodge.

The Vagabonds

We are two travellers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog—Come here, you scamp!

Jump for the gentleman—mind your eye!

Over the table—look out for the lamp!—

The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

And slept outdoors when nights were cold,

And ate, and drank—and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you:

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow,

The paw he holds up there has been frozen),

Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,

(This outdoor business is bad for strings),

Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,

And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank you, Sir, I never drink.

Roger and I are exceedingly moral.

Aren't we, Roger? see him wink.

Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel.

He's thirsty, too—see him nod his head?

What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk;

He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water and chalk.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.

But he sticks by through thick and thin;

And this old coat with its empty pockets

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,

So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable, thankless master.

No, Sir! see him wag his tail and grin—

By George! it makes my old eyes water—

That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow, but no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing.

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!)

Shall march a little.—Start, you villain!

Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer!

[Pg 49]'Bout face! attention! take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms, you see.) Now hold

Your cap while the gentleman gives a trifle

To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the Rebel shakes,

When he stands up to hear his sentence;

Now tell me how many drams it takes

To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps—that's five; he's mighty knowing;

The night's before us, fill the glasses;—

Quick, Sir! I'm ill, my brain is going!—

Some brandy,—thank you;—there,—it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment,

Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,

That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,

I'd sell out heaven for something warm

To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends,

A dear girl's love,—but I took to drink;—

The same old story; you know how it ends.

If you could have seen these classic features,—

You needn't laugh, Sir; I was not then

Such a burning libel on God's creatures;

I was one of your handsome men—

If you had seen her, so fair, so young,

Whose head was happy on this breast;

If you could have heard the songs I sung

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd

That ever I, Sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog.

She's married since,—a parson's wife,

'Twas better for her that we should part;

Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.

I have seen her—once; I was weak and spent

On the dusty road; a carriage stopped,

But little she dreamed as on she went,

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped.

You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry;

It makes me wild to think of the change!

What do you care for a beggar's story?

Is it amusing? you find it strange?

I had a mother so proud of me!

'Twas well she died before—Do you know

If the happy spirits in heaven can see

The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain; then Roger and I will start.

[Pg 50]I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,

Aching thing, in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,

No doubt, remembering things that were,—

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming—

You rascal! limber your lazy feet!

We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.—

Not a very gay life to lead, you think.

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,

And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;—

The sooner, the better for Roger and me.

J.T. Trowbridge.

The Isle of Long Ago

Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time,

As it runs through the realm of tears,

With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,

And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,

As it blends with the ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,

And the summers, like buds between;

And the year in the sheaf—so they come and they go,

On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,

As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river of Time,

Where the softest of airs are playing;

There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,

And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of that isle is the Long Ago,

And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow—

There are heaps of dust—but we love them so!—

There are trinkets and tresses of hair;

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,

And a part of an infant's prayer,

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings;

There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore

By the mirage is lifted in air;

And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar,

Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,

When the wind down the river is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle,

All the day of our life till night—

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile.

[Pg 51]And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,

May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

Benjamin Franklin Taylor.

NOTE:	The last line of this poem needs explanation. "Greenwood" is the name of a cemetery in
	Brooklyn, N.Y. "Greenwood of Soul" means the soul's resting place, or heaven.

The Dying Newsboy

In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim the newsboy dying lay

On a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day;

Scant the furniture about him but bright flowers were in the room,

Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume.

On a table by the bedside open at a well-worn page,

Where the mother had been reading lay a Bible stained by age,

Now he could not hear the verses; he was flighty, and she wept

With her arms around her youngest, who close to her side had crept.

Blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day,

Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was eating life away,

And this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle cost,

"'Ere's the morning Sun and 'Erald—latest news of steamship lost.

Papers, mister? Morning papers?" Then the cry fell to a moan,

Which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone:

"Black yer boots, sir? Just a nickel! Shine 'em like an evening star.

It grows late, Jack! Night is coming. Evening papers, here they are!"

Soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble bed;

Then poor Jim's mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on his head,

"Teacher," cried he, "I remember what you said the other day,

Ma's been reading of the Saviour, and through Him I see my way.

He is with me! Jack, I charge you of our mother take good care

When Jim's gone! Hark! boots or papers, which will I be over there?

Black yer boots, sir? Shine 'em right up! Papers! Read God's book instead,

Better'n papers that to die on! Jack—" one gasp, and Jim was dead!

Floating from that attic chamber came the teacher's voice in prayer,

And it soothed the bitter sorrow of the mourners kneeling there,

He commended them to Heaven, while the tears rolled down his face,

Thanking God that Jim had listened to sweet words of peace and grace,

Ever 'mid the want and squalor of the wretched and the poor,

Kind hearts find a ready welcome, and an always open door;

For the sick are in strange places, mourning hearts are everywhere,

And such need the voice of kindness, need sweet sympathy and prayer.

Emily Thornton.

Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy

That he shouts with his sister at play!

[Pg 52]O well for the sailor lad

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

Alfred Tennyson.

Don't Kill the Birds

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds,

That sing about your door,

Soon as the joyous spring has come,

And chilling storms are o'er.

The little birds, how sweet they sing!

Oh! let them joyous live;

And never seek to take the life

That you can never give.

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds,

That play among the trees;

'Twould make the earth a cheerless place,

Should we dispense with these.

The little birds, how fond they play!

Do not disturb their sport;

But let them warble forth their songs,

Till winter cuts them short.

Don't kill the birds, the happy birds,

That bless the fields and grove;

So innocent to look upon,

They claim our warmest love.

The happy birds, the tuneful birds,

How pleasant 'tis to see!

No spot can be a cheerless place

Where'er their presence be.

D.C. Colesworthy.

Bill's in the Legislature

I've got a letter, parson, from my son away out West,

An' my old heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast,

To think the boy whose future I had once so nicely planned

Should wander from the right and come to such a bitter end.

I told him when he left us, only three short years ago,

He'd find himself a-plowing in a mighty crooked row;

He'd miss his father's counsel and his mother's prayers, too,

But he said the farm was hateful, an' he guessed he'd have to go.

I know there's big temptations for a youngster in the West,

But I believed our Billy had the courage to resist;

An' when he left I warned him of the ever waitin' snares

That lie like hidden serpents in life's pathway everywheres.

But Bill, he promised faithful to be careful, an' allowed

That he'd build a reputation that'd make us mighty proud.

But it seems as how my counsel sort o' faded from his mind,

And now he's got in trouble of the very worstest kind!

His letters came so seldom that I somehow sort o' knowed

That Billy was a-trampin' of a mighty rocky road;

But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame,

And in the dust would woller his old daddy's honored name.

[Pg 53]

He writes from out in Denver, an' the story's mighty short—

I jess can't tell his mother!—It'll crush her poor old heart!

An' so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her—

Bill's in the Legislature but he doesn't say what fur!

The Bridge Builder

An old man going a lone highway,

Came, at the evening cold and gray,

To a chasm vast and deep and wide,

The old man crossed in the twilight dim,

The sullen stream had no fear for him;

But he turned when safe on the other side

And built a bridge to span the tide.

"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near,

"You are wasting your strength with building here;

Your journey will end with the ending day,

Yon never again will pass this way;

You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide,

Why build this bridge at evening tide?"

The builder lifted his old gray head;

"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,

"There followed after me to-day

A youth whose feet must pass this way.

This chasm that has been as naught to me

To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be;

He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;

Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!"

Anonymous.

Song of Marion's Men

Our band is few, but true and tried,

Our leader frank and bold;

The British soldier trembles

When Marion's name is told.

Our fortress is the good green wood,

Our tent the cypress tree;

We know the forest round us

As seamen know the sea;

We know its walls of thorny vines,

Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery

That little dread us near!

On them shall light at midnight

A strange and sudden fear:

When, waking to their tents on fire,

They grasp their arms in vain,

And they who stand to face us

Are beat to earth again;

And they who fly in terror deem

A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil;

We talk the battle over

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout

As if a hunt were up,

And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly

On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon

The band that Marion leads—

The glitter of their rifles,

[Pg 54]The scampering of their steeds.

'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide

Across the moonlight plains;

'Tis life to feel the night wind

That lifts their tossing manes.

A moment in the British camp—

A moment—and away—

Back to the pathless forest

Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,

Grave men with hoary hairs;

Their hearts are all with Marion,

For Marion are their prayers.

And lovely ladies greet our band

With kindliest welcoming,

With smiles like those of summer,

And tears like those of spring.

For them we wear these trusty arms,

And lay them down no more

Till we have driven the Briton

Forever from our shore.

William Cullen Bryant.

The Minstrel-Boy

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him;

His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.—

"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,

"Though all the world betrays thee,

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;

The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder;

And said, "No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

They shall never sound in slavery!"

Thomas Moore.

Our Homestead

Our old brown homestead reared its walls,

From the wayside dust aloof,

Where the apple-boughs could almost cast

Their fruitage on its roof:

And the cherry-tree so near it grew,

That when awake I've lain,

In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs,

As they creaked against the pane:

And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees!

I've seen my little brothers rocked

In their tops by the summer breeze.

The sweet-brier under the window-sill,

Which the early birds made glad,

And the damask rose by the garden fence

Were all the flowers we had.

I've looked at many a flower since then,

Exotics rich and rare,

That to other eyes were lovelier,

But not to me so fair;

O those roses bright, O those roses bright!

I have twined them with my sister's locks,

That are hid in the dust from sight!

We had a well, a deep old well,

Where the spring was never dry,

And the cool drops down from the mossy stones

Were falling constantly:

And there never was water half so sweet

As that in my little cup,

Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep,

Which my father's hand set up;

And that deep old well, O that deep old well!

[Pg 55]I remember yet the splashing sound

Of the bucket as it fell.

Our homestead had an ample hearth,

Where at night we loved to meet;

There my mother's voice was always kind,

And her smile was always sweet;

And there I've sat on my father's knee,

And watched his thoughtful brow,

With my childish hand in his raven hair,—

That hair is silver now!

But that broad hearth's light, O that broad hearth's light!

And my father's look, and my mother's smile,—

They are in my heart to-night.

Phoebe Gary.

The Ballad of the Tempest

We were crowded in the cabin,

Not a soul would dare to sleep,—

It was midnight on the waters,

And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter

To be shattered by the blast,

And to hear the rattling trumpet

Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,—

For the stoutest held his breath,

While the hungry sea was roaring

And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy with his prayers,

"We are lost!" the captain shouted,

As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,

As she took his icy hand,

"Isn't God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,

And we spoke in better cheer,

And we anchored safe in harbor,

When the morn was shining clear.

James T. Fields.

Santa Filomena

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,

Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,

Our hearts, in glad surprise,

To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls

Into our inmost being rolls

And lifts us unawares

Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deeds

Thus help us in our daily needs,

And by their overflow,

Raise us from what is low!

Thus thought I, as by night I read

Of the great army of the dead,

The trenches cold and damp,

The starved and frozen camp,—

The wounded from the battle-plain,

In dreary hospitals of pain,

The cheerless corridors,

The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery

A lady with a lamp I see

Pass through the glimmering gloom,

And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss,

The speechless sufferer turns to kiss

Her shadow, as it falls

Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be

Opened and then closed suddenly,

The vision came and went,

The light shone and was spent.

[Pg 56]

On England's annals, through the long

Hereafter of her speech and song,

That light its rays shall cast

From portals of the past.

A lady with a lamp shall stand

In the great history of the land

A noble type of good,

Heroic Womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here

The palm, the lily, and the spear,

The symbols that of yore

Saint Filomena bore.

Henry W. Longfellow.

The Knight's Toast

The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine

In lordly cup is seen to shine

Before each eager guest;

And silence fills the crowded hall,

As deep as when the herald's call

Thrills in the loyal breast.

Then up arose the noble host,

And, smiling, cried: "A toast! a toast!

To all our ladies fair!

Here before all, I pledge the name

Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame,

The Ladye Gundamere!"

Then to his feet each gallant sprung,

And joyous was the shout that rung,

As Stanley gave the word;

And every cup was raised on high,

Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry

Till Stanley's voice was heard.

"Enough, enough," he, smiling, said,

And lowly bent his haughty head;

"That all may have their due,

Now each in turn must play his part,

And pledge the lady of his heart,

Like gallant knight and true!"

Then one by one each guest sprang up,

And drained in turn the brimming cup,

And named the loved one's name;

And each, as hand on high he raised,

His lady's grace or beauty praised,

Her constancy and fame.

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise;

On him are fixed those countless eyes;—

A gallant knight is he;

Envied by some, admired by all,

Far famed in lady's bower and hall,—

The flower of chivalry.

St. Leon raised his kindling eye,

And lifts the sparkling cup on high:

"I drink to one," he said,

"Whose image never may depart,

Deep graven on this grateful heart,

Till memory be dead.

"To one, whose love for me shall last

When lighter passions long have past,—

So holy 'tis and true;

To one, whose love hath longer dwelt,

More deeply fixed, more keenly felt,

Than any pledged by you."

Each guest upstarted at the word,

And laid a hand upon his sword,

With fury flashing eye;

And Stanley said: "We crave the name,

Proud knight, of this most peerless dame,

Whose love you count so high."

St. Leon paused, as if he would

Not breathe her name in careless mood,

Thus lightly to another;

Then bent his noble head, as though

To give that word the reverence due,

And gently said: "My Mother!"

[Pg 57]Sir Walter Scott.

The Old Man Dreams

O for one hour of youthful joy!

Give back my twentieth spring!

I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy

Than reign a gray-beard king;

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age!

Away with learning's crown!

Tear out life's wisdom-written page,

And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream

From boyhood's fount of flame!

Give me one giddy, reeling dream

Of life all love and fame!

My listening angel heard the prayer,

And, calmly smiling, said,

"If I but touch thy silvered hair,

Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track

To bid thee fondly stay,

While the swift seasons hurry back

To find the wished-for day?"

Ah! truest soul of womankind!

Without thee what were life?

One bliss I cannot leave behind:

I'll take—my—precious—wife!

The angel took a sapphire pen

And wrote in rainbow dew,

"The man would be a boy again,

And be a husband, too!"

"And is there nothing yet unsaid

Before the change appears?

Remember, all their gifts have fled

With those dissolving years!"

"Why, yes; for memory would recall

My fond paternal joys;

I could not bear to leave them all:

I'll take—my—girl—and—boys!"

The smiling angel dropped his pen—

"Why, this will never do;

The man would be a boy again,

And be a father too!"

And so I laughed—my laughter woke

The household with its noise—

And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Washington's Birthday

The bells of Mount Vernon are ringing to-day,

And what say their melodious numbers

To the flag blooming air? List, what do they say?

"The fame of the hero ne'er slumbers!"

The world's monument stands the Potomac beside,

And what says the shaft to the river?

"When the hero has lived for his country, and died,

Death crowns him a hero forever."

The bards crown the heroes and children rehearse

The songs that give heroes to story,

And what say the bards to the children? "No verse

Can yet measure Washington's glory.

"For Freedom outlives the old crowns of the earth,

And Freedom shall triumph forever,

And Time must long wait the true song of his birth

Who sleeps by the beautiful river."

[Pg 58]Hezekiah Butterworth.

April! April! Are You Here?

April! April! are you here?

Oh, how fresh the wind is blowing!

See! the sky is bright and clear,

Oh, how green the grass is growing!

April! April! are you here?

April! April! is it you?

See how fair the flowers are springing!

Sun is warm and brooks are clear,

Oh, how glad the birds are singing!

April! April! is it you?

April! April! you are here!

Though your smiling turn to weeping,

Though your skies grow cold and drear,

Though your gentle winds are sleeping,

April! April! you are here!

Dora Read Goodale.

A Laughing Chorus

Oh, such a commotion under the ground

When March called, "Ho, there! ho!"

Such spreading of rootlets far and wide,

Such whispering to and fro;

And, "Are you ready?" the Snowdrop asked,

"'Tis time to start, you know."

"Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied;

"I'll follow as soon as you go."

Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came

Of laughter soft and low,

From the millions of flowers under the ground,

Yes—millions—beginning to grow.

O, the pretty brave things! through the coldest days,

Imprisoned in walls of brown,

They never lost heart though the blast shrieked loud,

And the sleet and the hail came down,

But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress,

Or fashioned her beautiful crown;

And now they are coming to brighten the world,

Still shadowed by Winter's frown;

And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!"

In a chorus soft and low,

The millions of flowers hid under the ground

Yes—millions—beginning to grow.

The Courtin'

God makes sech nights, all white an' still

Fur 'z you can look or listen,

Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,

All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown

An' peeked in thru the winder.

An' there sot Huldy all alone,

'ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side

With half a cord o' wood in—

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)

To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out

Towards the pootiest, bless her,

An' leetle flames danced all about

The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,

An' in amongst 'em rusted

The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young

Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in,

Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',

[Pg 59]An' she looked full ez rosy agin

Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look

On sech a blessed cretur,

A dogrose blushin' to a brook

Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1,

Clear grit an' human natur';

None couldn't quicker pitch a ton

Nor dror a furrer straighter,

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,

Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells—

All is, he couldn't love 'em,

But long o' her his veins 'ould run

All crinkly like curled maple,

The side she breshed felt full o' sun

Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing

Ez hisn in the choir;

My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,

She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlet, right in prayer,

When her new meetin'-bunnit

Felt somehow thru its crown a pair

O' blue eyes sot upun it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some!

She seemed to 've gut a new soul,

For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,

Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,

A-raspin' on the scraper,—

All ways to once her feelin's flew

Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,

Some doubtfle o' the sekle,

His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,

But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk

Ez though she wished him furder,

An' on her apples kep' to work,

Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?"

"Wal—no—I come dasignin'"—

"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es

Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals acts so or so,

Or don't, 'ould be presumin';

Mebby to mean yes an' say no

Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust,

Then stood a spell on t'other,

An' on which one he felt the wust

He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin";

Says she, "Think likely, Mister";

Thet last work pricked him like a pin,

An'—Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,

Huldy sot pale ez ashes,

All kin' o' smily roun' the lips

An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind

Whose naturs never vary,

Like streams that keep a summer mind

Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued

Too tight for all expressin',

Tell mother see how metters stood,

An' gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide

Down to the Bay o' Fundy.

An' all I know is they was cried

In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

[Pg 60]James Russell Lowell.

An Old Man's Dreams

It was the twilight hour;

Behind the western hill the sun had sunk,

Leaving the evening sky aglow with crimson light.

The air is filled with fragrance and with sound;

High in the tops of shadowy vine-wreathed trees,

Grave parent-birds were twittering good-night songs,

To still their restless brood.

Across the way

A noisy little brook made pleasant

Music on the summer air,

And farther on, the sweet, faint sound

Of Whippoorwill Falls rose on the air, and fell

Like some sweet chant at vespers.

The air is heavy

With the scent of mignonette and rose,

And from the beds of flowers the tall

White lilies point like angel fingers upward,

Casting on the air an incense sweet,

That brings to mind the old, old story

Of the alabaster box that loving Mary

Broke upon the Master's feet.

Upon his vine-wreathed porch

An old white-headed man sits dreaming

Happy, happy dreams of days that are no more;

And listening to the quaint old song

With which his daughter lulled her child to rest:

"Abide with me," she says;

"Fast falls the eventide;

The darkness deepens,—

Lord, with me abide."

And as he listens to the sounds that fill the

Summer air, sweet, dreamy thoughts

Of his "lost youth" come crowding thickly up;

And, for a while, he seems a boy again.

With feet all bare

He wades the rippling brook, and with a boyish shout

Gathers the violets blue, and nodding ferns,

That wave a welcome from the other side.

With those he wreathes

The sunny head of little Nell, a neighbor's child,

Companion of his sorrows and his joys.

Sweet, dainty Nell, whose baby life

Seemed early linked with his,

And whom he loved with all a boy's devotion.

Long years have flown.

No longer boy and girl, but man and woman grown,

They stand again beside the brook, that murmurs

Ever in its course, nor stays for time nor man,

And tell the old, old story,

And promise to be true till life for them shall end.

Again the years roll on,

And they are old. The frost of age

Has touched the once-brown hair,

And left it white as are the chaliced lilies.

Children, whose rosy lips once claimed

A father's blessing and a mother's love,

Have grown to man's estate, save two

Whom God called early home to wait

For them in heaven.

And then the old man thinks

How on a night like this, when faint

And sweet as half-remembered dreams

Old Whippoorwill Falls did murmur soft

[Pg 61]Its evening psalms, when fragrant lilies

Pointed up the way her Christ had gone,

God called the wife and mother home,

And bade him wait.

Oh! why is it so hard for

Man to wait? to sit with folded hands,

Apart, amid the busy throng,

And hear the buzz and hum of toil around;

To see men reap and bind the golden sheaves

Of earthly fruits, while he looks idly on,

And knows he may not join,

But only wait till God has said, "Enough!"

And calls him home!

And thus the old man dreams,

And then awakes; awakes to hear

The sweet old song just dying

On the pulsing evening air:

"When other helpers fail,

And comforts flee,

Lord of the helpless,

Oh, abide with me!"

Eliza M. Sherman.

God's Message to Men

God said: I am tired of kings;

I suffer them no more;

Up to my ear the morning brings

The outrage of the poor.

Think ye I have made this ball

A field of havoc and war,

Where tyrants great and tyrants small

Might harry the weak and poor?

My angel—his name is Freedom—

Choose him to be your king.

He shall cut pathways east and west

And fend you with his wing.

I will never have a noble;

No lineage counted great,

Fishers and choppers and plowmen

Shall constitute a state,

And ye shall succor man,

'Tis nobleness to serve;

Help them who cannot help again;

Beware from right to swerve.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

The Sandman

The rosy clouds float overhead,

The sun is going down,

And now the Sandman's gentle tread

Comes stealing through the town.

"White sand, white sand," he softly cries,

And, as he shakes his hand,

Straightway there lies on babies' eyes

His gift of shining sand.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,

As shuts the rose, they softly close,

when he goes through the town.

From sunny beaches far away,

Yes, in another land,

He gathers up, at break of day,

His store of shining sand.

No tempests beat that shore remote,

No ships may sail that way;

His little boat alone may float

Within that lovely bay.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,

As shuts the rose, they softly close,

when he goes through the town.

He smiles to see the eyelids close

Above the happy eyes,

And every child right well he knows—

Oh, he is very wise!

But if, as he goes through the land,

A naughty baby cries,

[Pg 62]His other hand takes dull gray sand

To close the wakeful eyes.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,

As shuts the rose, they softly close,

when he goes through the town.

So when you hear the Sandman's song

Sound through the twilight sweet,

Be sure you do not keep him long

A-waiting in the street.

Lie softly down, dear little head,

Rest quiet, busy hands,

Till by your bed when good-night's said,

He strews the shining sands.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,

As shuts the rose, they softly close,

when he goes through the town.

Margaret Vandegrift.

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light:

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more;

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

The Wishing Bridge

Among the legends sung or said

Along our rocky shore,

The Wishing Bridge of Marblehead

May well be sung once more.

An hundred years ago (so ran

The old-time story) all

Good wishes said above its span

Would, soon or late, befall.

If pure and earnest, never failed

The prayers of man or maid

For him who on the deep sea sailed,

For her at home who stayed.

Once thither came two girls from school

And wished in childish glee:

And one would be a queen and rule,

And one the world would see.

Time passed; with change of hopes and fears

And in the selfsame place,

Two women, gray with middle years,

Stood wondering, face to face.

With wakened memories, as they met,

They queried what had been:

"A poor man's wife am I, and yet,"

Said one, "I am a queen.

"My realm a little homestead is,

Where, lacking crown and throne,

[Pg 63]I rule by loving services

And patient toil alone."

The other said: "The great world lies

Beyond me as it laid;

O'er love's and duty's boundaries

My feet have never strayed.

"I see but common sights at home,

Its common sounds I hear,

My widowed mother's sick-bed room

Sufficeth for my sphere.

"I read to her some pleasant page

Of travel far and wide,

And in a dreamy pilgrimage

We wander side by side.

"And when, at last, she falls asleep,

My book becomes to me

A magic glass: my watch I keep,

But all the world I see.

"A farm-wife queen your place you fill,

While fancy's privilege

Is mine to walk the earth at will,

Thanks to the Wishing Bridge."

"Nay, leave the legend for the truth,"

The other cried, "and say

God gives the wishes of our youth

But in His own best way!"

John Greenleaf Whittier.

The Things Divine

These are the things I hold divine:

A trusting child's hand laid in mine,

Rich brown earth and wind-tossed trees,

The taste of grapes and the drone of bees,

A rhythmic gallop, long June days,

A rose-hedged lane and lovers' lays,

The welcome smile on neighbors' faces,

Cool, wide hills and open places,

Breeze-blown fields of silver rye,

The wild, sweet note of the plover's cry,

Fresh spring showers and scent of box,

The soft, pale tint of the garden phlox,

Lilacs blooming, a drowsy noon,

A flight of geese and an autumn moon,

Rolling meadows and storm-washed heights,

A fountain murmur on summer nights,

A dappled fawn in the forest hush,

Simple words and the song of a thrush,

Rose-red dawns and a mate to share

With comrade soul my gypsy fare,

A waiting fire when the twilight ends,

A gallant heart and the voice of friends.

Jean Brooks Burt.

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 that 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.

[Pg 64]

Oh, ye with banner and battle shot,

And soldiers to shout and praise,

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.

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 forgo 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.

Life, I Know Not What Thou Art

Life! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met

I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear—

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away; give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime

Bid me Good Morning.

Anna L. Barbauld.

Autumn Leaves

In the hush and the lonely silence

Of the chill October night,

Some wizard has worked his magic

With fairy fingers light.

The leaves of the sturdy oak trees

Are splendid with crimson and red.

And the golden flags of the maple

Are fluttering overhead.

[Pg 65]

Through the tangle of faded grasses

There are trailing vines ablaze,

And the glory of warmth and color

Gleams through the autumn haze.

Like banners of marching armies

That farther and farther go;

Down the winding roads and valleys

The boughs of the sumacs glow.

So open your eyes, little children,

And open your hearts as well,

Till the charm of the bright October

Shall fold you in its spell.

Angelina Wray.

A Message for the Year

Not who you are, but what you are,

That's what the world demands to know;

Just what you are, what you can do

To help mankind to live and grow.

Your lineage matters not at all,

Nor counts one whit your gold or gear,

What can you do to show the world

The reason for your being here?

For just what space you occupy

The world requires you pay the rent;

It does not shower its gifts galore,

Its benefits are only lent;

And it has need of workers true,

Willing of hand, alert of brain;

Go forth and prove what you can do,

Nor wait to count o'er loss or gain.

Give of your best to help and cheer,

The more you give the more you grow;

This message evermore rings true,

In time you reap whate'er you sow.

No failure you have need to fear,

Except to fail to do your best—

What have you done, what can you do?

That is the question, that the test.

Elizabeth Clarke Hardy.

Song of the Chattahoochee

Out of the hills of Habersham,

Down the valleys of Hall,

I hurry amain to reach the plain,

Run the rapid and leap the fall,

Split at the rock and together again,

Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,

And flee from folly on every side

With a lover's pain to attain the plain

Far from the hills of Habersham,

Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham,

All through the valleys of Hall,

The rushes cried "Abide, abide,"

The wilful waterweeds held me thrall,

The laving laurel turned my tide,

The ferns and the fondling grass said "Stay,"

The dewberry dipped for to work delay,

And the little reeds sighed "Abide, abide

Here in the hills of Habersham,

Here in the valleys of Hall."

High o'er the hills of Habersham,

Veiling the valleys of Hall,

The hickory told me manifold

Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall

Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,

The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,

O'erleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,

Said, "Pass not, so cold, these manifold

Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,

These glades in the valleys of Hall."

And oft in the hills of Habersham,

And oft in the valleys of Hall,

The white quartz shone, and the smooth brookstone

[Pg 66]Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,

And many a luminous jewel lone

—Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,

Ruby, garnet, and amethyst—

Made lures with the lights of streaming stone,

In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,

In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,

And oh, not the valleys of Hall

Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.

Downward the voices of Duty call—

Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main.

The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,

And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,

And the lordly main from beyond the plain

Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,

Calls through the valleys of Hall.

Sidney Lanier.

Used by special permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons.

Courting in Kentucky

When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay

I was glad, fer I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way,

I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high,

Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter dew ter fly;

But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell

She come in her reg-lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell.

My Jake an' her has been cronies ever since they could walk,

An' it tuk me aback ter hear her kerrectin' him in his talk.

Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work;

But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!"

Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way,

He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay.

I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns,

An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones.

Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long,

Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong.

One day I was pickin' currants down by the old quince tree,

When I heerd Jake's voice a-sayin', "Be ye willin' ter marry me?"

An' Mary Ann kerrectin', "Air ye willin', yeou sh'd say."

Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum decided way.

"No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me,

Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.'

Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say;

But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay;

I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' to marry me?'"

An' Mary Ann sez, tremblin', yet anxious-like, "I be."

God's Will is Best

Whichever way the wind doth blow,

Some heart is glad to have it so;

Then blow it east, or blow it west,

The wind that blows, that wind is best.

My little craft sails not alone,—

A thousand fleets, from every zone,

Are out upon a thousand seas,

And what for me were favoring breeze

[Pg 67]Might dash another with the shock

Of doom upon some hidden rock.

I leave it to a higher Will

To stay or speed me, trusting still

That all is well, and sure that He

Who launched my bark will sail with me

Through storm and calm, and will not fail,

Whatever breezes may prevail,

To land me, every peril past,

Within His Haven at the last.

Then blow it east, or blow it west,

The wind that blows, that wind is best.

Caroline H. Mason.

The School-Master's Guests

The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk,

Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque.

As whisper the half-leafless branches, when autumn's brisk breezes have come,

His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum.

There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth.

And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth;

There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could bloom,

And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room,

With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin,

Queer-bent on a deeply-laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin.

There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into their brain,

Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its train;

There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate,

And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate;

And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short twist,

As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with the fist!"

There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some beauty possessed,

In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes best;

A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains,

How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins;

And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood,

Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all he could.

Around were the walls, gray and dingy, which every old school-sanctum hath,

With many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood-grating of lath.

A patch of thick plaster, just over the school-master's rickety chair,

Seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like Damocles' sword, by a hair.

There were tracks on the desks where the knife-blades had wandered in search of their prey;

Their tops were as duskily spattered as if they drank ink every day.

The square stove it puffed and it crackled, and broke out in red flaming sores,

Till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to rush out-o'-doors.

White snowflakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed its lips to the cracks;

And the children's hot faces were streaming, the while they were freezing their backs.

III

Now Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his suff'rings were o'er,

And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard at the door;

And five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row,

And stood themselves up by the fire, and shook off their white cloaks of snow.

And the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with countenance solemnly sad,

Spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the ears that they had:

"We've come here, school-master, in-tendin' to cast an inquirin' eye 'round,

Concernin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has lately been found;

To pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've been about,

An' see if it's paying to keep you, or whether we'd best turn ye out.

"The first thing I'm bid for to mention is, when the class gets up to read

You give 'em too tight of a reinin', an' touch 'em up more than they need;

You're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in one han',

An' you turn a stray g in their doin's, an' tack an odd d on their an';

There ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so polite, as I see,

Providin' you know what the facts is, an' tell 'em off jest as they be.

An' then there's that readin' in corncert, is censured from first unto last;

It kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is a-travelin' past.

Whatever is done as to readin', providin' things go to my say,

Shan't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the old-fashioned way."

And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,

And nodded obliquely, and muttered: "Them 'ere is my sentiments tew."

"Then as to your spellin': I've heern tell, by the mas has looked into this,

That you turn the u out o' your labour, an' make the word shorter than 'tis;

An' clip the k off yer musick, which makes my son Ephraim perplexed,

An' when he spells out as he ought'r, you pass the word on to the next.

They say there's some new-grafted books here that don't take them letters along;

But if it is so, just depend on 't, them new-grafted books is made wrong.

You might just as well say that Jackson didn't know all there was about war,

As to say that old Spellin'-book Webster didn't know what them letters was for."

And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,

And scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew."

"Then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me,

Is that you have left Tare an' Tret out, an' also the old Rule o' Three;

An' likewise brought in a new study, some high-steppin' scholars to please,

With saw-bucks an' crosses and pothooks, an' w's, x's, y's an' z's.

We ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great good to be reached

By tiptoein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was teached."

And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,

And cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew."

"Another thing, I must here mention, comes into the question to-day,

Concernin' some things in the grammar you're teachin' our gals for to say.

My gals is as steady as clockwork, and never give cause for much fear,

But they come home from school t'other evenin' a-talking such stuff as this here:

'I love,' an' 'Thou lovest,' an' 'He loves,' an' 'We love,' an' 'You love,' an' 'They—'

An' they answered my questions: 'It's grammar'—'twas all I could get 'em to say.

Now if, 'stead of doin' your duty, you're carryin' matters on so

As to make the gals say that they love you, it's just all that I want to know."

Now Jim, the young heaven-built mechanic, in the dusk of the evening before,

Had well-nigh unjointed the stovepipe, to make it come down on the floor;

And the squire bringing smartly his foot down, as a clincher to what he had said,

A joint of the pipe fell upon him, and larruped him square on the head.

The soot flew in clouds all about him, and blotted with black all the place

And the squire and the other four fathers were peppered with black in the face.

The school, ever sharp for amusement, laid down all their cumbersome books

And, spite of the teacher's endeavors, laughed loud at their visitors' looks.

And the squire, as he stalked to the doorway, swore oaths of a violet hue;

And the four district fathers, who followed, seemed to say: "Them's my sentiments tew."

Will Carleton.

Mother o' Mine

If I were hanged on the highest hill,

Mother o' mine!

Oh, mother o' mine!

I know whose love would follow me still;

Mother o' mine!

Oh, mother o' mine!

[Pg 70]

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,

Mother o' mine!

Oh, mother o' mine!

I know whose tears would flow down to me,

Mother o' mine!

Oh, mother o' mine!

If I were damned o' body and soul,

Mother o' mine!

Oh, mother o' mine!

I know whose prayers would make me whole,

Mother o' mine!

Oh, mother o' mine!

Rudyard Kipling.

Encouragement

Who dat knockin' at de do'?

Why, Ike Johnson—yes, fu' sho'!

Come in, Ike. I's mighty glad

You come down. I t'ought you's mad

At me 'bout de othah night,

An' was stayin' 'way fu' spite.

Say, now, was you mad fu' true

W'en I kin' o' laughed at you?

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

'Tain't no use a-lookin' sad,

An' a-mekin' out you's mad;

Ef you's gwine to be so glum,

Wondah why you evah come.

I don't lak nobidy 'roun'

Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown—

Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce!

Cain't you talk? I tol' you once,

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night?

Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right.

I's done all dat I kin do—

Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you;

Reckon I'd a' bettah wo'

My ol' ragged calico.

Aftah all de pains I's took,

Cain't you tell me how I look?

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Bless my soul! I 'mos' fu'got

Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott.

Don't you know, come Thu'sday night,

She gwine ma'y Lucius White?

Miss Lize say I allus wuh

Heap sight laklier 'n huh;

An' she'll git me somep'n new,

Ef I wants to ma'y too.

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

I could ma'y in a week,

If de man I wants 'ud speak.

Tildy's presents 'll be fine,

But dey wouldn't ekal mine.

Him whut gits me fu' a wife

'll be proud, you bet yo' life.

I's had offers, some ain't quit;

But I hasn't ma'ied yit!

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Ike, I loves you—yes, I does;

You's my choice, and allus was.

Laffin' at you ain't no harm—

Go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm?

Hug me closer—dah, da's right!

Wasn't you a awful sight,

Havin' me to baig you so?

Now ax whut you want to know—

Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.

Paul Laurence Dunbar.

The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls

The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more.

[Pg 71]

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells:

The chord alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives.

Thomas Moore.

Aux Italiens

At Paris it was, at the opera there;—

And she looked like a queen in a book that night,

With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,

And the brooch on her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;

And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,

The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,

As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,

Non ti scordar di me?*

The emperor there, in his box of state,

Looked grave, as if he had just then seen

The red flag wave from the city gate,

Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye,

You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,

For one moment, under the old blue sky,

To the old glad life in Spain.

Well, there in our front-row box we sat

Together, my bride betrothed and I;

My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,

And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad.

Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,

With that regal, indolent air she had;

So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then

Of her former lord, good soul that he was!

Who died the richest and roundest of men.

The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,

Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;

I wish him well, for the jointure given

To my Lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love,

As I had not been thinking of aught for years,

Till over my eyes there began to move

Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time,

When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together,

In that lost land, in that soft clime,

In the crimson evening weather:

[Pg 72]Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);

And her warm white neck in its golden chain;

And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,

And falling loose again;

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast;

(Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!)

And the one bird singing alone to his nest;

And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,

And the letter that brought me back my ring;

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,

Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill,

Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over;

And I thought, "Were she only living still,

How I could forgive her and love her!"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour,

And of how, after all, old things are best,

That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower

Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,

It made me creep, and it made me cold;

Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet

Where a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned and looked: she was sitting there,

In a dim box over the stage, and drest

In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair,

And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there;

And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:—

From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair,

And her sumptuous, scornful mien,

To my early love, with her eyes downcast,

And over her primrose face the shade,

(In short, from the future back to the past,)

There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,

I traversed the passage; and down at her side

I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her or the music's strain,

Or something which never will be exprest,

Had brought her back from the grave again,

With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then!

And the very first word that her sweet lips said,

My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still;

[Pg 73]And but for her—well, we'll let that pass;

She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,

With her primrose face, for old things are best;

And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above

The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,

And love must cling where it can, I say:

For beauty is easy enough to win;

But one isn't loved every day,

And I think in the lives of most women and men,

There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,

If only the dead could find out when

To come back, and be forgiven.

But oh the smell of that jasmine flower!

And oh, that music! and oh, the way

That voice rang out from the donjon tower,

Non ti scordar di me,

Non ti scordar di me!

Robert Bulwer Lytton.

* A line in the opera "II Trovatore" meaning "Do not forget me."

My Prairies

I love my prairies, they are mine

From zenith to horizon line,

Clipping a world of sky and sod

Like the bended arm and wrist of God.

I love their grasses. The skies

Are larger, and my restless eyes

Fasten on more of earth and air

Than seashore furnishes anywhere.

I love the hazel thickets; and the breeze,

The never resting prairie winds. The trees

That stand like spear points high

Against the dark blue sky

Are wonderful to me. I love the gold

Of newly shaven stubble, rolled

A royal carpet toward the sun, fit to be

The pathway of a deity.

I love the life of pasture lands; the songs of birds

Are not more thrilling to me than the herd's

Mad bellowing or the shadow stride

Of mounted herdsmen at my side.

I love my prairies, they are mine

From high sun to horizon line.

The mountains and the cold gray sea

Are not for me, are not for me.

Hamlin Garland.

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead

(From "The Princess")

Home they brought her warrior dead:

She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry:

All her maidens, watching, said,

"She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low,

Call'd him worthy to be loved,

Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,

Lightly to the warrior stept,

Took the face-cloth from the face;

Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee—

Like summer tempest came her tears—

"Sweet my child, I live for thee."

[Pg 74]Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

September

Sweet is the voice that calls

From babbling waterfalls

In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;

And soft the breezes blow,

And eddying come and go

In faded gardens where the rose is dying.

Among the stubbled corn

The blithe quail pipes at morn,

The merry partridge drums in hidden places,

And glittering insects gleam

Above the reedy stream,

Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.

At eve, cool shadows fall

Across the garden wall,

And on the clustered grapes to purple turning;

And pearly vapors lie

Along the eastern sky,

Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.

Ah, soon on field and hill

The wind shall whistle chill,

And patriarch swallows call their flocks together,

To fly from frost and snow,

And seek for lands where blow

The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.

The cricket chirps all day,

"O fairest summer, stay!"

The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning;

The wild fowl fly afar

Above the foamy bar,

And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.

Now comes a fragrant breeze

Through the dark cedar-trees

And round about my temples fondly lingers,

In gentle playfulness,

Like to the soft caress

Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers.

Yet, though a sense of grief

Comes with the falling leaf,

And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant,

In all my autumn dreams

A future summer gleams,

Passing the fairest glories of the present!

George Arnold.

The Old Kitchen Floor

Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast

To the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed.

I loved all its rooms from the pantry to hall,

But the blessed old kitchen was dearer than all.

Its chairs and its tables no brighter could be

And all its surroundings were sacred to me,

From the nail in the ceiling to the latch on the door,

And I loved every crack in that old kitchen floor.

I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide

And the old-fashioned oven that stood by its side

Out of which each Thanksgiving came puddings and pies

And they fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes.

And then old St. Nicholas slyly and still

Came down every Christmas our stockings to fill.

[Pg 75]But the dearest of memories laid up in store

Is my mother a-sweeping that old kitchen floor.

To-night those old musings come back at their will

But the wheel and its music forever are still.

The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away,

And the fingers that turned it are mold'ring in clay.

The hearthstone so sacred is just as 'twas then

And the voices of children ring out there again.

The sun at the window looks in as of yore,

But it sees other feet on that old kitchen floor.

Rustic Courtship

The night was dark when Sam set out

To court old Jones's daughter;

He kinder felt as if he must,

And kinder hadn't oughter.

His heart against his waistcoat throbbed,

His feelings had a tussle,

Which nearly conquered him despite

Six feet of bone and muscle.

The candle in the window shone

With a most doleful glimmer,

And Sam he felt his courage ooze,

And through his fingers simmer.

Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a fool,

Take courage, shaking doubter,

Go on, and pop the question right,

For you can't live without her."

But still, as he drew near the house,

His knees got in a tremble,

The beating of his heart ne'er beat

His efforts to dissemble.

Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a goose,

And let the female wimmin

Knock all your thoughts a-skelter so,

And set your heart a-swimmin'."

So Sam, he kinder raised the latch,

His courage also raising,

And in a moment he sat inside,

Cid Jones's crops a-praising.

He tried awhile to talk the farm

In words half dull, half witty,

Not knowing that old Jones well knew

His only thought was—Kitty.

At last the old folks went to bed—

The Joneses were but human;

Old Jones was something of a man,

And Mrs. Jones—a woman.

And Kitty she the pitcher took,

And started for the cellar;

It wasn't often that she had

So promising a feller.

And somehow when she came upstairs,

And Sam had drank his cider,

There seemed a difference in the chairs,

And Sam was close beside her;

His stalwart arm dropped round her waist,

Her head dropped on his shoulder,

And Sam—well, he had changed his tune

And grown a trifle bolder.

But this, if you live long enough,

You surely will discover,

There's nothing in this world of ours

Except the loved and lover.

The morning sky was growing gray

As Sam the farm was leaving,

His face was surely not the face

Of one half grieved, or grieving.

And Kitty she walked smiling back,

With blushing face, and slowly;

[Pg 76]There's something in the humblest love

That makes it pure and holy.

And did he marry her, you ask?

She stands there with the ladle

A-skimming of the morning's milk—

That's Sam who rocks the cradle.

The Red Jacket

'Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar

The north winds beat and clamor at the door;

The drifted snow lies heaped along the street,

Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet;

The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend

But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend;

Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown,

Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.

In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease,

Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas;

In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet

The weary traveler with their smiles to greet;

In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm

Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,

Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light—

"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"

But hark! above the beating of the storm

Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm.

Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light,

And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright;

From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call,

The ready friend no danger can appall;

Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave,

He hurries forth to battle and to save.

From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out,

Devouring all they coil themselves about,

The flaming furies, mounting high and higher,

Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire.

Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe

In vain attempts their power to overthrow;

With mocking glee they revel with their prey,

Defying human skill to check their way.

And see! far up above the flame's hot breath,

Something that's human waits a horrid death;

A little child, with waving golden hair,

Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,—

Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed,

While sobs of terror shake her tender breast.

And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild,

A mother screams, "O God! my child! my child!"

Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng

[Pg 77]A hardy fireman swiftly moves along;

Mounts sure and fast along the slender way,

Fearing no danger, dreading but delay.

The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path,

Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath;

But up, still up he goes! the goal is won!

His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone!

Gone to his death. The wily flames surround

And burn and beat his ladder to the ground,

In flaming columns move with quickened beat

To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat.

Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure,

Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore;

Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live,

Crowned with all honors nobleness can give.

Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears;

Behold! he quickly on the roof appears,

Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm

Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm,

Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance!

Behold, how fast the roaring flames advance!

Quick! quick! brave spirits, to his rescue fly;

Up! up! by heavens, this hero must not die!

Silence! he comes along the burning road,

Bearing, with tender care, his living load;

Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save

The good, true heart that can so nobly brave!

He's up again! and now he's coming fast—

One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed—

And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain.

A happy mother clasps her child again.

George M. Baker.

John Maynard

'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse

One bright midsummer day,

The gallant steamer Ocean Queen

Swept proudly on her way.

Bright faces clustered on the deck,

Or, leaning o'er the side,

Watched carelessly the feathery foam

That flecked the rippling tide.

Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,

That smiling bends serene,

Could dream that danger, awful, vast,

Impended o'er the scene;

Could dream that ere an hour had sped

That frame of sturdy oak

Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,

Blackened with fire and smoke?

A seaman sought the captain's side,

A moment whispered low;

The captain's swarthy face grew pale;

He hurried down below.

Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp,

And clear his orders came,

No human efforts could avail

To quench th' insidious flame.[Pg 78]

The bad news quickly reached the deck,

It sped from lip to lip,

And ghastly faces everywhere

Looked from the doomed ship.

"Is there no hope, no chance of life?"

A hundred lips implore;

"But one," the captain made reply,

"To run the ship on shore."

A sailor, whose heroic soul

That hour should yet reveal,

By name John Maynard, eastern-born,

Stood calmly at the wheel.

"Head her southeast!" the captain shouts,

Above the smothered roar,

"Head her southeast without delay!

Make for the nearest shore!"

No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,

Or clouds his dauntless eye,

As, in a sailor's measured tone,

His voice responds, "Ay! ay!"

Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight,

Crowd forward wild with fear,

While at the stern the dreaded flames

Above the deck appear.

John Maynard watched the nearing flames,

But still with steady hand

He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly

He steered the ship to land.

"John Maynard, can you still hold out?"

He heard the captain cry;

A voice from out the stifling smoke

Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"

But half a mile! a hundred hands

Stretch eagerly to shore.

But half a mile! That distance sped

Peril shall all be o'er.

But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames

No longer slowly creep,

But gather round that helmsman bold,

With fierce, impetuous sweep.

"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice

The captain cries once more,

"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,

And we shall reach the shore."

Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart

Responded firmly still,

Unawed, though face to face with death,

"With God's good help I will!"

The flames approach with giant strides,

They scorch his hand and brow;

One arm, disabled, seeks his side,

Ah! he is conquered now.

But no, his teeth are firmly set,

He crushes down his pain,

His knee upon the stanchion pressed,

He guides the ship again.

One moment yet! one moment yet!

Brave heart, thy task is o'er,

The pebbles grate beneath the keel,

The steamer touches shore.

Three hundred grateful voices rise

In praise to God that He

Hath saved them from the fearful fire,

And from the engulfing sea.

But where is he, that helmsman bold?

The captain saw him reel,

His nerveless hands released their task,

He sank beside the wheel.

The wave received his lifeless corse,

Blackened with smoke and fire.

God rest him! Never hero had

A nobler funeral pyre!

[Pg 79]Horatio Alger, Jr.

Piller Fights

Piller fights is fun, I tell you;

There isn't anything I'd rather do

Than get a big piller and hold it tight,

Stand up in bed and then just fight.

Us boys allers have our piller fights

And the best night of all is Pa's lodge night.

Soon as ever he goes, we say "Good night,"

Then go right upstairs for a piller fight.

Sometimes maybe Ma comes to the stairs

And hollers up, "Boys, have you said your prayers?"

And then George will holler "Yes, Mamma," for he always has;

Good deal of preacher about George, Pa says.

Ma says "Pleasant dreams," and shuts the door;

If she's a-listenin' both of us snore,

But as soon as ever she goes we light a light

And pitch right into our piller fight.

We play that the bed is Bunker Hill

And George is Americans, so he stands still.

But I am the British, so I must hit

As hard as ever I can to make him git.

We played Buena Vista one night—

Tell you, that was an awful hard fight!

Held up our pillers like they was a flag,

An' hollered, "Little more grape-juice, Captain Bragg!"

That was the night that George hit the nail—

You just ought to have seen those feathers sail!

I was covered as white as flour,

Me and him picked them up for 'most an hour;

Next day when our ma saw that there mess

She was pretty mad, you better guess;

And she told our pa, and he just said,

"Come right on out to this here shed."

Tell you, he whipped us till we were sore

And made us both promise to do it no more.

That was a long time ago, and now lodge nights

Or when Pa's away we have piller fights,

But in Buena Vista George is bound

To see there aren't any nails anywhere 'round.

Piller fights is fun, I tell you;

There isn't anything I'd rather do

Than get a big piller and hold it tight,

Stand up in bed, and then just fight.

D.A. Ellsworth.

Little Bateese

You bad leetle boy, not moche you care

How busy you're kipin' your poor gran'pere

Tryin' to stop you ev'ry day

Chasin' de hen aroun' de hay.

W'y don't you geev' dem a chance to lay!

Leetle Bateese!

Off on de fiel' you foller de plough,

Den we'en you're tire, you scare de cow,

Sickin' de dog till dey jamp de wall

So de milk ain't good for not'ing at all,

An' you're only five an' a half this fall—

[Pg 80]Leetle Bateese!

Too sleepy for sayin' de prayer tonight?

Never min', I s'pose it'll be all right;

Say dem to-morrow—ah! dere he go!

Fas' asleep in a minute or so—

An' he'll stay lak dat till the rooster crow—

Leetle Bateese.

Den wake up right away, toute suite,

Lookin' for somethin' more to eat,

Makin' me t'ink of dem long-lag crane,

Soon as they swaller, dey start again;

I wonder your stomach don't get no pain,

Leetle Bateese.

But see heem now lyin' dere in bed,

Look at de arm onderneat' hees head;

If he grow lak dat till he's twenty year,

I bet he'll be stronger than Louis Cyr

And beat de voyageurs leevin' here—

Leetle Bateese.

Jus' feel de muscle along hees back,—

Won't geev' heem moche bodder for carry pack

On de long portage, any size canoe;

Dere's not many t'ings dat boy won't do,

For he's got double-joint on hees body too—

Leetle Bateese.

But leetle Bateese! please don't forget

We rader you're stayin' de small boy yet.

So chase de chicken and mak' dem scare,

An' do w'at you lak wit' your ole gran'pere,

For w'en you're beeg feller he won't be dere—

Leetle Bateese!

W.H. Drummond.

Conscience and Future Judgment

I sat alone with my conscience,

In a place where time had ceased,

And we talked of my former living

In the land where the years increased;

And I felt I should have to answer

The question it might put to me,

And to face the question and answer

Throughout an eternity.

The ghosts of forgotten actions

Came floating before my sight,

And things that I thought had perished

Were alive with a terrible might;

And the vision of life's dark record

Was an awful thing to face—

Alone with my conscience sitting

In that solemnly silent place.

And I thought of a far-away warning,

Of a sorrow that was to be mine,

In a land that then was the future,

But now is the present time;

And I thought of my former thinking

Of the judgment day to be;

But sitting alone with my conscience

Seemed judgment enough for me.

And I wondered if there was a future

To this land beyond the grave;

But no one gave me an answer

And no one came to save.

Then I felt that the future was present,

And the present would never go by,

For it was but the thought of a future

Become an eternity.

Then I woke from my timely dreaming,

And the vision passed away;

And I knew the far-away warning

Was a warning of yesterday.

And I pray that I may not forget it

[Pg 81]In this land before the grave,

That I may not cry out in the future,

And no one come to save.

I have learned a solemn lesson

Which I ought to have known before,

And which, though I learned it dreaming,

I hope to forget no more.

So I sit alone with my conscience

In the place where the years increase,

And I try to fathom the future,

In the land where time shall cease.

And I know of the future judgment,

How dreadful soe'er it be,

That to sit alone with my conscience

Will be judgment enough for me.

Dandelion

There's a dandy little fellow,

Who dresses all in yellow,

In yellow with an overcoat of green;

With his hair all crisp and curly,

In the springtime bright and early

A-tripping o'er the meadow he is seen.

Through all the bright June weather,

Like a jolly little tramp,

He wanders o'er the hillside, down the road;

Around his yellow feather,

Thy gypsy fireflies camp;

His companions are the wood lark and the toad.

But at last this little fellow

Doffs his dainty coat of yellow,

And very feebly totters o'er the green;

For he very old is growing

And with hair all white and flowing,

A-nodding in the sunlight he is seen.

Oh, poor dandy, once so spandy,

Golden dancer on the lea!

Older growing, white hair flowing,

Poor little baldhead dandy now is he!

Nellie M. Garabrant.

The Inventor's Wife

It's easy to talk of the patience of Job, Humph! Job hed nothin' to try him!

Ef he'd been married to 'Bijah Brown, folks wouldn't have dared come nigh him.

Trials, indeed! Now I'll tell you what—ef you want to be sick of your life,

Jest come and change places with me a spell—for I'm an inventor's wife.

And such inventions! I'm never sure, when I take up my coffee-pot,

That 'Bijah hain't been "improvin'" it and it mayn't go off like a shot.

Why, didn't he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin';

And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin'?

And there was his "Patent Peeler," too—a wonderful thing, I'll say;

But it hed one fault-it never stopped till the apple was peeled away.

As for locks and clocks, and mowin' machines and reapers, and all such trash,

Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of 'em but they don't bring in no cash.

Law! that don't worry him—not at all; he's the most aggravatin'est man—

He'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle, and think, and plan,

Inventin' a jew's-harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn,

While the children's goin' barefoot to school and the weeds is chokin' our corn.

When 'Bijah and me kep' company, he warn't like this, you know;

Our folks all thought he was dreadful smart—but that was years ago.

He was handsome as any pictur then, and he had such a glib, bright way—

[Pg 82]I never thought that a time would come when I'd rue my weddin' day;

But when I've been forced to chop wood, and tend to the farm beside,

And look at Bijah a-settin' there, I've jest dropped down and cried.

We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gun

But I counted it one of my marcies when it bu'st before 'twas done.

So he turned it into a "burglar alarm." It ought to give thieves a fright—

'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night.

Sometimes I wonder if 'Bijah's crazy, he does sech cur'ous things.

Hev I told you about his bedstead yit?—'Twas full of wheels and springs;

It hed a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head;

All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said,

That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor,

And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more.

Wa'al, 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five,

But he hadn't mor'n got into it when—dear me! sakes alive!

Them wheels began to whiz and whir! I heered a fearful snap!

And there was that bedstead, with 'Bijah inside, shet up jest like a trap!

I screamed, of course, but 'twan't no use, then I worked that hull long night

A-trying to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright;

I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin';

So I took a crow-bar and smashed it in.—There was 'Bijah peacefully lyin',

Inventin' a way to git out agin. That was all very well to say,

But I don't b'lieve he'd have found it out if I'd left him in all day.

Now, sence I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm tired of life?

Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's wife?

Mrs. E.T. Corbett.

Out in the Snow

The snow and the silence came down together,

Through the night so white and so still;

And young folks housed from the bitter weather,

Housed from the storm and the chill—

Heard in their dreams the sleigh-bells jingle,

Coasted the hill-sides under the moon,

Felt their cheeks with the keen air tingle,

Skimmed the ice with their steel-clad shoon.

They saw the snow when they rose in the morning,

Glittering ghosts of the vanished night,

Though the sun shone clear in the winter dawning,

And the day with a frosty pomp was bright.

Out in the clear, cold, winter weather—

Out in the winter air, like wine—

Kate with her dancing scarlet feather,

Bess with her peacock plumage fine,

[Pg 83]

Joe and Jack with their pealing laughter,

Frank and Tom with their gay hallo,

And half a score of roisterers after,

Out in the witching, wonderful snow,

Shivering graybeards shuffle and stumble,

Righting themselves with a frozen frown,

Grumbling at every snowy tumble;

But young folks know why the snow came down.

Louise Chandler Moulton.

Give Them the Flowers Now

Closed eyes can't see the white roses,

Cold hands can't hold them, you know;

Breath that is stilled cannot gather

The odors that sweet from them blow.

Death, with a peace beyond dreaming,

Its children of earth doth endow;

Life is the time we can help them,

So give them the flowers now!

Here are the struggles and striving,

Here are the cares and the tears;

Now is the time to be smoothing

The frowns and the furrows and fears.

What to closed eyes are kind sayings?

What to hushed heart is deep vow?

Naught can avail after parting,

So give them the flowers now!

Just a kind word or a greeting;

Just a warm grasp or a smile—

These are the flowers that will lighten

The burdens for many a mile.

After the journey is over

What is the use of them; how

Can they carry them who must be carried?

Oh, give them the flowers now!

Blooms from the happy heart's garden,

Plucked in the spirit of love;

Blooms that are earthly reflections

Of flowers that blossom above.

Words cannot tell what a measure

Of blessing such gifts will allow

To dwell in the lives of many,

So give them the flowers now!

Leigh M. Hodges.

The Lost Occasion

(Written in memory of Daniel Webster.)

Some die too late and some too soon,

At early morning, heat of noon,

Or the chill evening twilight. Thou,

Whom the rich heavens did so endow

With eyes of power and Jove's own brow,

With all the massive strength that fills

Thy home-horizon's granite hills,

With rarest gifts of heart and head

From manliest stock inherited—

New England's stateliest type of man,

In port and speech Olympian;

Whom no one met, at first, but took

A second awed and wondering look

(As turned, perchance, the eyes of Greece

On Phidias' unveiled masterpiece);

Whose words, in simplest home-spun clad,

The Saxon strength of Caedmon's had,

With power reserved at need to reach

The Roman forum's loftiest speech,

Sweet with persuasion, eloquent

In passion, cool in argument,

Or, ponderous, falling on thy foes

As fell the Norse god's hammer blows.

Crushing as if with Talus' flail

Through Error's logic-woven mail,

And failing only when they tried

The adamant of the righteous side,—

Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved

Of old friends, by the new deceived,

Too soon for us, too soon for thee,

[Pg 84]Beside thy lonely Northern sea,

Where long and low the marsh-lands spread,

Laid wearily down thy august head.

Thou shouldst have lived to feel below

Thy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow,—

The late-sprung mine that underlaid

Thy sad concessions vainly made.

Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wall

The star-flag of the Union fall,

And armed Rebellion pressing on

The broken lines of Washington!

No stronger voice than thine had then

Called out the utmost might of men,

To make the Union's charter free

And strengthen law by liberty.

How had that stern arbitrament

To thy gray age youth's vigor lent,

Shaming ambition's paltry prize

Before thy disillusioned eyes;

Breaking the spell about thee wound

Like the green withes that Samson bound;

Redeeming, in one effort grand,

Thyself and thy imperiled land!

Ah cruel fate, that closed to thee,

O sleeper by the Northern sea,

The gates of opportunity!

God fills the gaps of human need,

Each crisis brings its word and deed.

Wise men and strong we did not lack;

But still, with memory turning back,

In the dark hours we thought of thee,

And thy lone grave beside the sea.

Above that grave the east winds blow,

And from the marsh-lands drifting slow

The sea-fog comes, with evermore

The wave-wash of a lonely shore,

And sea-bird's melancholy cry,

As Nature fain would typify

The sadness of a closing scene,

The loss of that which should have been.

But, where thy native mountains bare

Their foreheads to diviner air,

Fit emblem of enduring fame,

One lofty summit keeps thy name.

For thee the cosmic forces did

The rearing of that pyramid,

The prescient ages shaping with

Fire, flood, and frost thy monolith.

Sunrise and sunset lay thereon

With hands of light their benison,

The stars of midnight pause to set

Their jewels in its coronet.

And evermore that mountain mass

Seems climbing from the shadowy pass

To light, as if to manifest

Thy nobler self, they life at best!

John G. Whittier.

The Flower of Liberty

What flower is this that greets the morn,

Its hues from Heaven so freshly born?

With burning star and flaming band

It kindles all the sunset land:

O tell us what its name may be,—

Is this the Flower of Liberty?

It is the banner of the free,

The starry Flower of Liberty!

In savage Nature's far abode

Its tender seed our fathers sowed;

The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud,

Its opening leaves were streaked with blood,

Till lo! earth's tyrants shook to see

The full-blown Flower of Liberty!

Then hail the banner of the free,

The starry Flower of Liberty!

Behold its streaming rays unite,

One mingling flood of braided light—

The red that fires the Southern rose,

With spotless white from Northern snows,

And, spangled o'er its azure, see

The sister Stars of Liberty!

[Pg 85]Then hail the banner of the free,

The starry Flower of Liberty!

The blades of heroes fence it round,

Where'er it springs is holy ground;

From tower and dome its glories spread;

It waves where lonely sentries tread;

It makes the land as ocean free,

And plants an empire on the sea!

Then hail the banner of the free,

The starry Flower of Liberty!

Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower,

Shall ever float on dome and tower,

To all their heavenly colors true,

In blackening frost or crimson dew,—

And God love us as we love thee,

Thrice holy Flower of Liberty!

Then hail the banner of the free,

The starry Flower of Liberty!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

The Lamb

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee,

Gave thee life, and made thee feed

By the stream and o'er the mead?

Gave thee clothing of delight,—

Softest clothing, woolly, bright?

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice?

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;

He is called by thy name,

For he calls himself a lamb.

He is meek and He is mild;

He became a little child:

I a child, and thou a lamb,

We are called by His name.

Little lamb, God bless thee!

William Blake.

The Roll Call

"Corporal Green!" the orderly cried;

"Here!" was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of the soldier standing near,

And "Here" was the answer the next replied.

"Cyrus Drew!"—then a silence fell—

This time no answer followed the call,

Only the rear man had seen him fall,

Killed or wounded he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave dark looks,

As plain to be read as open books,

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hillside was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn, where the poppies grew

Were redder stains than the poppies knew

And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

"Herbert Kline!" At the call there came

Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them Herbert Kline,

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

"Ezra Kerr!"—and a voice said "Here!"

"Hiram Kerr!"—but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed,

[Pg 86]And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

"Ephraim Deane!" then a soldier spoke;

"Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said;

"Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead,

Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

"Close by the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him a drink,

He murmured his mother's name I think,

And Death came with it and closed his eyes."

'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—

For that company's roll when called that night,

Of a hundred men who went into the fight,

Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!"

N.G. Shepherd.

A Prayer for a Little Home

God send us a little home

To come back to when we roam—

Low walls and fluted tiles,

Wide windows, a view for miles;

Red firelight and deep chairs;

Small white beds upstairs;

Great talk in little nooks;

Dim colors, rows of books;

One picture on each wall;

Not many things at all.

God send us a little ground—

Tall trees standing round,

Homely flowers in brown sod,

Overhead, Thy stars, O God!

God bless, when winds blow,

Our home and all we know.

London "Spectator."

I Have Drank My Last Glass

No, comrades, I thank you—not any for me;

My last chain is riven—henceforward I'm free!

I will go to my home and my children to-night

With no fumes of liquor their spirits to blight;

And, with tears in my eyes, I will beg my poor wife

To forgive me the wreck I have made of her life.

I have never refused you before? Let that pass,

For I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

Just look at me now, boys, in rags and disgrace,

With my bleared, haggard eyes, and my red, bloated face;

Mark my faltering step and my weak, palsied hand,

And the mark on my brow that is worse than Cain's brand;

See my crownless old hat, and my elbows and knees,

Alike, warmed by the sun, or chilled by the breeze.

Why, even the children will hoot as I pass;—

But I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

You would hardly believe, boys, to look at me now

That a mother's soft hand was pressed on my brow—

When she kissed me, and blessed me, her darling, her pride,

Ere she lay down to rest by my dead father's side;

But with love in her eyes, she looked up to the sky

Bidding me meet her there and whispered "Good-bye."

[Pg 87]And I'll do it, God helping! Your smile I let pass,

For I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

Ah! I reeled home last night, it was not very late,

For I'd spent my last sixpence, and landlords won't wait

On a fellow who's left every cent in their till,

And has pawned his last bed, their coffers to fill.

Oh, the torments I felt, and the pangs I endured!

And I begged for one glass—just one would have cured,—

But they kicked me out doors! I let that, too, pass,

For I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

At home, my pet Susie, with her rich golden hair,

I saw through the window, just kneeling in prayer;

From her pale, bony hands, her torn sleeves hung down,

And her feet, cold and bare, shrank beneath her scant gown,

And she prayed—prayed for bread, just a poor crust of bread,

For one crust, on her knees my pet darling plead!

And I heard, with no penny to buy one, alas!

For I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

For Susie, my darling, my wee six-year-old,

Though fainting with hunger and shivering with cold,

There, on the bare floor, asked God to bless me!

And she said, "Don't cry, mamma! He will; for you see,

I believe what I ask for!" Then sobered, I crept

Away from the house; and that night, when I slept,

Next my heart lay the PLEDGE! You smile! let it pass,

For I've drank my last glass, boys

I have drank my last glass.

My darling child saved me! Her faith and her love

Are akin to my dear sainted mother's above!

I will make my words true, or I'll die in the race,

And sober I'll go to my last resting place;

And she shall kneel there, and, weeping, thank God

No drunkard lies under the daisy-strewn sod!

Not a drop more of poison my lips shall e'er pass,

For I've drank my last glass, boys,

I have drank my last glass.

Highland Mary

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

As, underneath their fragrant shade,

I clasp'd her to my bosom!

The golden hours, on angel wings,

Flew o'er me and my dearie;

For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary!

[Pg 88]

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,

Our parting was fu' tender;

And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But, oh, fell death's untimely frost,

That nipp'd my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft ha'e kiss'd, sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwalt on me sae kindly!

And mouldering now in silent dust,

That heart that lo'ed me dearly;

But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary!

Robert Burns.

A Night with a Wolf

Little one, come to my knee!

Hark, how the rain is pouring

Over the roof, in the pitch-black night,

And the wind in the woods a-roaring!

Hush, my darling, and listen,

Then pay for the story with kisses;

Father was lost in the pitch-black night,

In just such a storm as this is!

High up on the lonely mountains,

Where the wild men watched and waited

Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush,

And I on my path belated.

The rain and the night together

Came down, and the wind came after,

Bending the props of the pine-tree roof,

And snapping many a rafter.

I crept along in the darkness,

Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,—

Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs,

And a sheltering rock behind it.

There, from the blowing and raining

Crouching, I sought to hide me:

Something rustled, two green eyes shone,

And a wolf lay down beside me.

Little one, be not frightened;

I and the wolf together,

Side by side, through the long, long night

Hid from the awful weather.

His wet fur pressed against me;

Each of us warmed the other;

Each of us felt, in the stormy dark,

That beast and man was brother.

And when the falling forest

No longer crashed in warning,

Each of us went from our hiding-place

Forth in the wild, wet morning.

Darling, kiss me in payment!

Hark, how the wind is roaring;

Father's house is a better place

When the stormy rain is pouring!

Bayard Taylor.

She Was a Phantom of Delight

She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;

A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

[Pg 89]

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A Creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A Being breathing thoughtful breath,

A Traveler between life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

A perfect Woman, nobly planned,

To warn, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of angelic light.

William Wordsworth.

The Rhodora

(On Being Asked Whence Is The Flower)

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,

To please the desert and the sluggish brook.

The purple petals, fallen in the pool,

Made the black water with their beauty gay;

Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,

And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,

Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask, I never knew:

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

There Was a Boy

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs

And islands of Winander!—many a time,

At evening, when the earliest stars began

To move along the edges of the hills,

Rising or setting, would he stand alone,

Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;

And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands

Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth

Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,

That they might answer him,—And they would shout

Across the watery vale, and shout again,

Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud

Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild

Of jocund din! and, when there came a pause

Of silence such as baffled his best skill,

Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung

[Pg 90]Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise

Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene

Would enter unawares into his mind

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received

Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This boy was taken from his mates, and died

In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.

Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale

Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs

Upon a slope above the village-school;

And through that church-yard when my way has led

On Summer-evenings, I believe, that there

A long half-hour together I have stood

Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies!

William Wordsworth.

African Chief, The	Bryant	145
Annabel Lee	Poe	25
Annie and Willie's Prayer	Snow	196
April! April! Are You Here?	Goodale	59
April Showers	Wilkins	26
Armageddon	E. Arnold	157
Autumn	Hood	186
Autumn Leaves	Wray	65
Aux Italiens	Lytton	72
Awakening	Sangster	93

Babie, The	Miller	131
Ballad of East and West, The	Kipling	23
Ballad of the Tempest, The	Fields	56
Battle of Bunker's Hill, The	Cozzens	102
Bells of Ostend, The	Bowles	140
Bernardo Del Carpio	Hemans	160
Betty and the Bear		130
Bible My Mother Gave Me, The		117
Bill's in the Legislature		53
Billy's Rose	Sims	104
Bivouac of the Dead, The	O'Hara	15
Boy and Girl of Plymouth	Smith	154
Boys, The	O.W. Holmes	27
Boy Who Didn't Pass, The		108
Boy with the Hoe, The	Weaver	202
Break, Break, Break	Tennyson	52
"Brides of Enderby, The." See "High Tide, The"		150
Bridge Builder, The		54
Broken Pinion, The	Butterworth	9
Burial of Moses, The	Alexander	45

Casabianca	Hemans	164
Charge of Pickett's Brigade, The		122
Children	Longfellow	16
Children, The	Dickinson	133
Children We Keep, The	Wilson	146
Christmas Day in the Workhouse	Sims	193
Christmas Long Ago, A		47
Chums	Foley	206
Circling Year, The	Graham	208
Cleon and I	Mackay	37
Color in the Wheat	Garland	8
Columbus	Smith	137
Conscience and Future Judgment		81
Courting in Kentucky		67
Courtin', The	Lowell	59
Cradle Hymn	Watts	35

Dandelion	Garabrant	82
David's Lament for Absalom	Willis	191
Death of the Flowers, The	Bryant	21
Don't Kill the Birds	Colesworthy	53
Duty	Browning	20
Dying Newsboy, The	Thornton	52

Echo	Saxe	65
Encouragement	Dunbar	71
Engineer's Story, The	Hall	96
Ensign Bearer, The		11
Eve of Waterloo, The	Byron	17
Excelsior	Longfellow	15

Finding of the Lyre, The	Lowell	150
Fireman's Story, The		125
Flower of Liberty, The	O.W. Holmes	85
Flying Jim's Last Leap	Banks	128
Fortunate Isles, The	Miller	168

Give Them the Flowers Now	Hodges	84
God	Derzhavin	162
God's Message to Men	Emerson	62
God's Will Is Best	Mason	67
Good Shepherd, The	Howe	166
Grandfather's Clock	Work	35
Grandmother's Quilt		186
Graves of a Household, The	Hemans	130
Gray Swan, The	A. Cary	207
Gunga Din	Kipling	98

Hark, Hark! the Lark	Shakespeare	111
Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls, The	Moore	71
Health and Wealth		103
Heartening, The	Webb	103
Height of the Ridiculous, The	O.W. Holmes	14
Heritage, The	Lowell	22
He Who Has Vision	McKenzie	146
He Worried About It	Foss	203
Highland Mary	Burns	88
High Tide, The	Ingelow	150
His Mother's Song		39
Home	Guest	7
Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead	Tennyson	74
House with Nobody in It, The	Kilmer	8
How Did You Die?	Cooke	132
How Salvator Won	Wilcox	120
Hullo	Foss	123

If All the Skies	Van Dyke	36
"If" for Girls, An	Otis	153
If We Understood		29
I Got to Go to School	Waterman	121
I Have a Rendezvous with Death	Seeger	142
I Have Drank My Last Glass		87
Inasmuch	Ford	178
Indian Names	Sigourney	135
Inventor's Wife, The	Corbett	82
Isle of Long Ago, The	B.F. Taylor	51

Jamie Douglas		9
Jim Brady's Big Brother	Foley	206
John Maynard	Alger	78
John Thompson's Daughter	P. Cary	34

King and the Child, The	Hall	134
King's Ring, The	Tilton	159
Knight's Toast, The	W. Scott	57

Ladder of St. Augustine, The	Longfellow	33
Lamb, The	Blake	86
Land of Beginning Again, The	Tarkington	32
Land Where Hate Should Die, The	McCarthy	18
Last Leaf, The	O.W. Holmes	20
Laugh in Church, A		29
Laughing Chorus, A		59
Law and Liberty	Cutler	39
Leaving the Homestead		159
Legend Beautiful, The	Longfellow	174
Legend of the Northland, A	P. Cary	131
Let Me Walk with the Men in the Road	Gresham	28
Let Us Be Kind	Childress	143
Life, I Know Not What Thou Art	Barbauld	65
Lincoln, the Man of the People	Markham	118
Little Bateese	Drummond	80
Little Fir-Trees, The	Stein	203
Little Willie's Hearing		127
Loss and Gain	Longfellow	34
Lost Occasion, The	Whittier	84
Lullaby	Foley	205

Mad River	Longfellow	100
Message for the Year, A	Hardy	66
Minstrel-Boy, The	Moore	55
Minuet, The	Dodge	48
Mizpah		162
Monterey	Hoffman	165
More Cruel Than War	Hawkins	136
Mortgage on the Farm, The		173
Mother o' Mine	Kipling	70
Mothers of Men	Miller	64
My Prairies	Garland	74
Mystic Weaver, The		171

Nearer Home	P. Cary	48
New Leaf, A	Rice	202
Newsboy, The	Corbett	94
New Year, The	Craik	153
Night with a Wolf, A	Bayard Taylor	89
Nobody's Child	Case	46
No Sects in Heaven	Cleaveland	180

O'Grady's Goat	Hays	44
Old Actor's Story, The	Sims	106
Old Flag Forever	Stanton	21
Old Kitchen Floor, The		75
Old Man Dreams, The	O.W. Holmes	58
Old Man in the Model Church, The	Yates	148
Old Man's Dreams, An	Sherman	61
"One, Two, Three!"	Bunner	30
Our Flag	Sangster	202
Our Homestead	P. Cary	55
Our Own	Sangster	119
Our Presidents	Gilman	195
Out in the Snow	Moulton	83
Over the Hill from the Poor-House	Carleton	42

Papa's Letter		40
Parting of Marmion and Douglas	W. Scott	95
Parts of Speech, The		201
Petrified Fern, The	Branch	36
Picciola	Newell	158
Piller Fights	Ellsworth	80
Polish Boy, The	Stephens	12
Poor Little Joe	Proudfit	32
Prayer and Potatoes	Pettee	200
Prayer for a Little Home, A		87
President, The	Johnston	204
Pride of Battery B	Gassaway	176

Quangle Wangle's Hat, The	Lear	91

Railroad Crossing, The	Strong	182
Rain on the Roof	Kinney	97
Rainy Day, The	Longfellow	28
Real Riches, The	Saxe	12
Red Jacket, The	Baker	77
Reply to "A Woman's Question"	Pelham	155
Rhodora, The	Emerson	90
Ring Out, Wild Bells	Tennyson	63
Roll Call, The	Shepherd	86
Romance of Nick Van Stann	Saxe	156
Rustic Courtship		76

Sandman, The	Vandegrift	62
Santa Filomena	Longfellow	56
School-Master's Guest, The	Carleton	68
September	G. Arnold	75
September Days	Smith	153
September Gale, The	O.W. Holmes	137
Sermon in Rhyme, A		167
Service Flag, The	Herschell	127
She Was a Phantom of Delight	Wordsworth	89
Singing Leaves, The	Lowell	92
Sin of Omission, The	Sangster	116
Sin of the Coppenter Man	Cooke	139
Small Beginnings	Mackay	97
Solitude	Wilcox	139
Somebody's Darling	La Coste	175
Song of Marion's Men	Bryant	54
Song of the Chattahoochee	Lanier	66
"'Specially Jim"		44
Station-Master's Story, The	Sims	109
Stranger on the Sill, The	Read	147
Sunset City, The	Gilman	183

Teacher's "If", The	Gale	165
There Was a Boy	Wordsworth	90
Things Divine, The	Burt	64
Tin Gee Gee, The	Cape	169
"Tommy"	Kipling	170
Tommy's Prayer	Nicholls	112
Towser Shall Be Tied To-night		37
Trailing Arbutus	Whittier	199
Trouble in the Amen Corner	Harbaugh	18
Try, Try Again		135
Two Angels, The	Longfellow	187
Two Kinds of People, The	Wilcox	116
Two Little Stockings, The	Hunt	141
Two Pictures, The		114

Unawares	Lent	30

Vagabonds, The	Trowbridge	49
Voice of Spring, The	Hemans	26
Volunteer Organist, The	Foss	149

Warren's Address to the American Soldiers	Pierpont	99
Washington	Bryant	37
Washington's' Birthday	Butterworth	58
Water Mill, The	Doudney	143
What the Choir Sang About the New Bonnet	Morrison	168
When Father Carves the Duck	Wright	40
When My Ship Comes In	Burdette	138
When Papa Was a Boy	Brininstool	100
When the Light Goes Out	Chester	199
Which Shall It Be?	Beers	101
Who Stole the Bird's Nest?	Child	41
Why the Dog's Nose Is Always Cold		144
Wishing Bridge, The	Whittier	63
Witch's Daughter, The	Whittier	188
With Little Boy Blue	Kennedy	122
Wolsey's Farewell to His Greatness	Shakespeare	94
Women of Mumbles Head, The	C. Scott	123
Wood-Box, The	Lincoln	177
Work: A Song of Triumph	Morgan	154
Work Thou for Pleasure	Cox	169

You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave	C.E.L. Holmes	140

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two, by Various

E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/)

POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR

BOOK TWO

Selected by READERS OF "NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS"

CONTAINING MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED POEMS REQUESTED FOR PUBLICATION IN THAT MAGAZINE ON THE PAGE "POEMS OUR READERS HAVE ASKED FOR"

INDEX OF TITLES

(An Index of First Lines is given on pages 209-213)

PREFACE

POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR

BOOK TWO

Home

The House with Nobody In It

Color in the Wheat

The Broken Pinion

Jamie Douglas

The Ensign Bearer

The Real Riches

The Polish Boy

The Height of the Ridiculous

Excelsior

The Bivouac of the Dead

Children

The Eve of Waterloo

(The battle of Waterloo occurred June 18, 1815)

The Land Where Hate Should Die

Trouble In the "Amen Corner"

Duty

The Last Leaf

Old Flag Forever

The Death of the Flowers

The Heritage

The Ballad of East and West

Annabel Lee

April Showers

The Voice of Spring

The Boys

The Rainy Day

Let Me Walk With the Men in the Road

If We Understood

A Laugh in Church

"One, Two, Three!"

Unawares

The Land of Beginning Again

Poor Little Joe

The Ladder of St. Augustine

Loss and Gain

John Thompson's Daughter

(A Parody on "Lord Ullin's Daughter")

Grandfather's Clock

A Cradle Hymn

If All the Skies

The Petrified Fern

Cleon and I

Washington

Towser Shall Be Tied To-Night

A Parody on "Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight."

Law and Liberty

His Mother's Song

When Father Carves the Duck

Papa's Letter

Who Stole the Bird's Nest?

Over the Hill from the Poor-House

"'Specially Jim"

O'Grady's Goat

The Burial of Moses

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Bethpeor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."

Nobody's Child

A Christmas Long Ago

Nearer Home

The Minuet

The Vagabonds

The Isle of Long Ago

The Dying Newsboy

Break, Break, Break

Don't Kill the Birds

Bill's in the Legislature

The Bridge Builder

Song of Marion's Men

The Minstrel-Boy

E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net/)

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Bethpeor;
but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."