[Frontispiece: “Hush thy babble, O fountain! Let me listen, let me
listen!”]




THE SPEAKER’S

Ideal Entertainments;

FOR

HOME, CHURCH AND SCHOOL.

CONSISTING OF

Recitals, Dialogues and Dramas.

WRITTEN AND EDITED BY

GEORGE M. VICKERS.

With Annotations, Hints upon Gesture and Dramatic Poses, by

FRANCES E. PEIRCE,

_PRINCIPAL OF MT. VERNON INSTITUTE OF ELOCUTION AND LANGUAGES,
PHILADELPHIA_.


S. I. BELL & CO.

PHILADELPHIA AND CHICAGO.




COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY S. I. BELL.




INTRODUCTION.


In preparing this work for the public it has been our aim to choose
the very best, and every selection has been made with a special view
to elocutionary merits. The “Speakers’ Ideal” is composed of carefully
selected pieces from the writings of well known authors, and as a
source of supply to the giver of dramatic entertainments, from which
they may obtain at once a suitable subject for declamation, recital,
dialogue and drama, this volume is without a peer.

The work contains many new pieces not found in any other book, and we
have been able to secure a number of selections in the original
manuscript, which are here published for the first time. Most of the
recitations are accompanied by Annotations for Gesture, by which the
amateur, as well as the elocutionist, may be guided in the necessary
action, and by a method so extremely simple that the novice who has
never had the privilege of instructions in the art of elocution will
be enabled to give that indispensable accompaniment, without which,
there can be neither natural, oratorical, nor dramatical delivery.
This important feature has been carefully prepared by one who stands
at the head of the profession as an instructor of elocution, and is
found in no other “Speaker.”

Another of the chief characteristics of this work is the large number
of full-page and exquisitely engraved half-toned plates, which have
been taken from life and produced at large expense expressly for this
book. The “Speakers’ Ideal” contains every characteristic of a
complete book of elocution, and is, strictly speaking, the only
“Speaker” ever published.

The unprecedented success that has attended the sale of the first
editions, is proof that our hope to supply a long-felt want has been
fully realized, and it is with entire confidence in its merits that we
present this work to the public.

                                                 THE PUBLISHERS.




_NOTATION OF GESTURE._


As a tree without leaves, so is recitation without gesture; but the
most beautiful pieces are sometimes marred and burlesqued by awkward
or inappropriate action. Our object, therefore, in presenting our
system of notation is not to teach gesture――for that can only be
acquired from a teacher――but to guide the reciter in a general way.

GESTURES are divided, 1st, into front, oblique, lateral and backward;
and 2d, into descending, horizontal and ascending; for instance, if
the hand is thrown to the _front_, it must take a position on a level
with the shoulder, or above, or below, which three divisions
constitute the positions last named. The same applies to the
_oblique_, which lies anywhere between the front and the lateral; to
the _lateral_, which, as its name indicates, lies to the side; and to
the _backward_. These positions are designated by the following
letters: D. F., descending front; D. O., descending oblique; D. L.,
descending lateral; D. B., descending backward; H. F., horizontal
front; H. O., horizontal oblique; H. L., horizontal lateral; H. B.,
horizontal backward; A. F., ascending front; A. O., ascending oblique;
A. L., ascending lateral; A. B., ascending backward. _b_ placed before
the above combinations indicates that both hands are used. When not
mentioned to the contrary, the _supine_ hand, palm upwards, is used.
P. represents _prone_ hand, or palm downward; V. _vertical_, or palm
outward; Ind., _index finger_ as in pointing. This must be carefully
distinguished from _P. Ind._, which means _Prone Index_ or the back of
the hand upward, and finger pointing. Cl., expresses _clinched_ hand
or _fist_. Par. expresses both arms parallel towards right or left. If
a gesture is illustrative and cannot be expressed by any of the above
letters, it will be called _special_ and designated by _Sp._ All
GESTURES of a bold, descriptive, or emphatic character should be made
from the shoulder, whilst unimportant or conversational gestures
proceed from the elbow. Good taste dictates that a few gestures,
properly made, are preferable to a large number crudely constructed.

Let your gestures be so modulated, and so accord with the sentiment,
that they may seem a part of a perfect whole.

                                              FRANCES L. PEIRCE.




The Gallant Fifty-First.


Then came the memorable order from Burnside, which must have thrilled
every member of the regiment: “Tell Sturgis to send the Fifty-first
Pennsylvania to take the bridge.”

  Along the valley’s narrow gorge
    The morning mist outspread,
  While rifle-pit and breast-work strong
    Frowned grimly overhead.
  The sluggish stream that only served
    To slake the thirst of kine,
  Was soon to see a drearier sight
    With men drawn up in line.

  Along the crest a flash of fire
    Breaks red against the sky,
  Along the hillside’s narrow slope
    Comes back the quick reply.
  Ferraro dashes up in haste,
    His countenance aflame,
  “The Fifty-first must storm the bridge,”
    ’Twas thus the order came.

  “Fix bayonets!” over Hartranft’s face
    A strange smile sent its beam;
  The red blood flushed, his dusky cheek――
    His dark eyes all agleam.
  Sturgis and Cook in vain essayed,
    And others yet may try,
  But now the gallant Fifty-first
    Must storm the bridge or die.

  Bright flashed the sword their leader drew――
    “Charge!” Like a simoon’s blast,
  The Fifty-first, mid shot and shell,
    Dashed on――the bridge is passed;
  The beaten foe in wild retreat
    Is flying o’er the bridge,
  Huzza! huzza! The Fifty-first
    Has stormed Antietam’s bridge!

  Oh, men of Pennsylvania,
    Along your bloody route
  Lies many a comrade, dull of ear,
    Who may not have heard you shout;
  But o’er your country’s wide domain
    A pæan grand shall burst;
  A nation’s accolade be thine――
    O gallant Fifty-first!




  The Dead Letter.


  There, now! I’ve read your letter through
    Three times; I’ll read it once again
  If you say so; it rests with you.[2]
    What? loan you paper, ink and pen?
  Why, man you’re weaker than a child.
    To-morrow I will gladly write
  Whate’er you wish. Be reconciled,[3]
    Compose yourself and rest to-night.

  You think we nuns are good to tend
    The sick, to count our beads, and pray,
  But that we do not comprehend
    How worldly people dread delay
  In getting word from those they love:
    Why, sir, you know not what you say――
  Ah! this dark robe too well doth prove
    The sorrow of that by-gone[4] day――

  No, no; I fully understand
    What you would say. There’s no offence;
  Naught to forgive. There take[5] my hand.
    We now are friends. In confidence
  The story of a broken life,
    Before the doctor comes, I’ll tell:
  Of how I shunned[6] the cold world’s strife
    And sought a quiet convent cell.

  Far back[7] in life I loved a man,
    A gen’rous, noble heart and true:
  And he loved me as only can,
    As only gallant natures do.
  Our days passed by so quietly,
    Love’s dream so rosy-hued had grown
  That seasons glided by[8] ere we
    Would note that e’en a month had flown.

  Thus ran my girlhood and his youth,
    Till came the naming of the happy day――
  Our wedding day――that would in truth
    Have made us man and wife for aye,
  When, like a blow from one we love,
    There came an unexpected woe;
  In vain ’gainst[9] fate we madly strove;
    Each cherished hope lay scattered[10] low.

  A crime had been committed in
    The village where lived he and I;
  And ’mid the first wild, senseless din
    That marked the people’s hue and cry,
  Suspicion on him[11] fell, and so,
    To ’scape the frenzied, ‘vengeful mob,
  He, innocent, resolved to go
    Away[12]――and I to stay and sob.

  Then, bending low, said he, “This thing
    Will only for a season last,
  A moment full relief may bring;
    At most our grief will soon be past;
  But, darling, should it not be so,
    Write” (he whispered a fictitious name),
  “And I will by your letter know
    That in your eyes I bear no shame.”

  The rain fell from a dark’ning sky,[13]
    The apple blossoms scattered[14] lay,
  The chill wind moaned, and night drew nigh,
    As with a sigh he turned away[15]――
  I watched[16] his form till lost in gloom,
    And, save the dripping of the rain,[17]
  There fell a stillness[18] of the tomb――
    A lull that seemed to daze my brain.[19]

  The morning after that sad night
    The guilty one was found; and I,
  With woman’s haste, sat down to write,
    And wrote in joyous ecstasy;
  The letter mailed, each moment seemed
    An age; but days and weeks passed by――
  With visions dread my fancy teemed――
    But came he not, nor made reply.

  One day, when hope had almost fled,
    The post-man thrust it in my hand:
  “This is from Washington,”[20] he said,
    “Dead-letter office, understand?”
  With throbbing heart I broke the seal,
    My face grew whiter than a sheet,
  The dreadful blunder made me reel
    And drop[21] the letter at my feet.

  Instead of the fictitious name
    He gave, it bore his _own_,
  Which knowing not, he could not claim――
    To him my lines were never known――
  In loneliness he died: and here
    I nurse the sick; but I have done――
  And, sir[22] no longer have a fear
    To trust me, though I’m but a nun.

  You’ve heard a portion of my tale
    Before? From whom? Oh, tell[23] me quick!
  From my lost love? You both set sail
    In the same ship? My heart[24] grows sick――
  What? Still alive?[25] Oh, God be praised!
    Oh, joy![26] Oh, joy! And I will write?
  Now that my dead to life is raised――
    Will I? Yes, now――this very night.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._


  GESTURES.
  [1] Locate person spoken to, slightly to left of front
  [2] Left H. O.
  [3] P. H. F.
  [4] H. B.
  [5] H. F.
  [6] V. H. O.
  [7] H. B.
  [8] H. Sweep.
  [9] B. Par. V. H. O.
  [10] B. D. O.
  [11] P. H. F.
  [12] H. L.
  [13] B. A. O.
  [14] B. D. O.
  [15] H. O.
  [16] Hands over eyes.
  [17] H. O.
  [18] B. P. H. O.
  [19] Hand to head.
  [20] H. F.
  [21] D. F.
  [22] Left H. F.
  [23] B. H. F.
  [24] Hand to heart
  [25] Clasp hands.
  [26] B. A. O.


[Illustration: “Nathan said unto David, ‘Thou art the man.’”]




PA.


I’ve got one of the best Pa’s in this world. Pa is very fond of me,
too; in fact, no one ever comes to our house when Pa’s home that he
don’t commence to praise me before he even asks the guest to be
seated. Pa’s not rich, so we often have to make both ends meet by
resorting to novel expedients; and even then, the ends don’t stay
together worth speaking of. Pa’s memory is none of the best; poor,
dear man, I’ve known him to eat two soft-boiled eggs while trying to
determine whether or not he had seasoned them. The other day Pa
brought young Judson, the lawyer, home to dinner; we had codfish and
potatoes with warmed-up coffee from breakfast. Ma almost fainted.
Judson said he doted on cod-fish――but then he is a lawyer――Ma trod on
my foot――said she in a whisper, “Tell your father not to ask him to
have more coffee.” Pa caught the word coffee. “Why, yes,” yelled out
Pa, “Judson, my boy, pass over your cup!” I never felt so mortified in
my life; there wasn’t a single drop in the pot!

“You must pardon us,” stammered Ma. “Never mind excuses,” interrupted
Pa, “Pour out the nectar, Matilda――why――why――”

“Yes, why,”――mother’s face was scarlet――“it is why――why have you not
had the hole in the bottom of this pot mended? the coffee’s all leaked
out.” Poor ma! how I pitied her.

Last night the Higgins girls called to know if we liked the style of
their new silk dresses――such stuck-up mortals I never saw――their
father used to mend Pa’s boots――owes his fortune to a judicious use of
chalk and an old pump――and styles himself a retired milk dealer. Pa
happened to be in the parlor when the Higgins girls floated in.
“Hannah,” said Pa, “go upstairs and get the silk dress you’ve just
finished.” “Why Pa, how you do talk,” said I, my heart almost ceasing
to beat. “Don’t be so modest, Hannah,” he continued, “show the young
ladies how handy you are.” “Oh, Pa!” I cried, trying to get his mind
off the dress, “did you ever see such beautiful bonnets?” The fates
were against me. “Ladies,” said Pa, “that girl is worth her weight in
gold; she’s just finished trimming over a last season’s hat, and has
just made the handsomest dress out of her Ma’s old silk frock that
ever a human eye rested on!” The Higgins girls giggled, and I――I could
have sunk through the floor.

One day Pa said he would take us to a matinee. It was on a Monday, but
Ma said she’d put off the washing, although the washerwoman declared
she’d never put up with such tomfoolery again. Pa came home later than
usual, and almost hurried us to death. At last we arrived at the
theatre, streaming with perspiration. A grand opera was to be given,
and the entrance was crowded. Pa began searching for his tickets. He
first dove into one pocket, then into another; meantime we were
elbowed and jostled by the throng. “Strange,” groaned Pa, “I put them
in my vest pocket.” Just at that moment Judson and his two sisters
alighted from a hack. Pa turned white as chalk, then red as a canned
lobster. “Come, quick,” he gasped, “this way.” We followed him to the
corner. “What’s the matter, dearie?” asked Ma. “Why,” groaned Pa,
“Judson’s got my tickets. I gave them to him last night, but forgot
all about it until he just now jumped out of the hack.” So we lost
that opera and a good washerwoman, too. Still, Pa’s awful nice.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




  Dying to Win.


  Fierce blows the gale and cold,
    Loudly the windows[27] rattle;
  Why, the stars seemed never half so bright.
  Hark![28] ’Twas a bell that tolled――
    There, again! must I battle
  Through another dreadful winter night?

  Better by far to die.
    Who[29] in this mighty city
  Wastes a thought on such a wretched life?
  Who heeds my weary sigh?
    Who sheds a tear in pity?
  All alone I wage[30] the bitter strife.

  Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31]
    Gay sound the reckless voices;
  And how tempting warm the red grate glows!
  No![32] rather perish here――
    Ah, no――my soul rejoices,[33]
  For I triumph spite of all my woes.

  Now, that I’ve made my vow,
    Who[34] comes to help me keep it?
  Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?
  Ripe is the harvest now,
    Yet comes there none to reap it.
  Not a cent![35] no home; no crust of bread.

  Fie,[36] upon hearts so cold!
    Not one will deign to aid me;
  And my own sex turn[37] me off with scorn;
  Sneer at me; call me bold;
    Taunt me, and then upbraid me――
  O, my God,[38] how can I wait till morn?

  Mother, is that you[39] there?
    Surely,[40] I must be dreaming――
  Do not leave me, mother;[41] take me home!
  Oh, how keen[42] bites the air!
    Yonder[43] the dawn is gleaming.
  It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44] come!

  Sleepy, indeed, am I――
    Wait till I kneel[45] down, mother――
  Now[46] I lay me down to sleep――keep off――[47]
  Help! help! help! I shall die――
    Give me some air――I smother!
  I am saved![48] Now let the cold world scoff.

             *     *     *     *     *

  Fierce blows the gale and cold,
    Loudly the windows[49] rattle,
  And the stars are paling[50] out with fright:
  Oh, ’tis a tale oft told:
    Done is the hard-fought battle――
  And a weary soul has said good-night.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._


  GESTURES.
  [27] H. O.
  [28] Hand raised to listen.
  [29] H. O.
  [30] Clasp hands.
  [31] H. F.
  [32] B. V. H. F.
  [33] A. O.
  [34] H. O.
  [35] D. L.
  [36] P. Ind. H. O.
  [37] Ver. H. L.
  [38] Look up.
  [39] B. H. F.
  [40] Hand to brow.
  [41] B. H. F.
  [42] Shiver.
  [43] Ind. H. O.
  [44] B. H. F.
  [45] Kneel.
  [46] Clasp hands.
  [47] B. Par. H. O.
  [48] B. A. O.
  [49] H. O.
  [50] V. A. Sweep.




LITTLE BROWN EYES.


Many years ago there lived in a tiny cottage, a widow and her two
children, Frank and Edith. The cottage stood by the roadside, not far
from a village, and was almost hidden from view by the pretty roses
and vines that clung to its sides.

One warm summer afternoon, when Frank was away to the village with his
donkey and cart, and the widow was busy sewing in the back part of the
cottage, little Edith, who had been weaving a wreath of flowers, lay
fast asleep on the front porch, shaded from the rays of the sun by the
arbor that covered the door. She lay there with her long golden hair
partly hiding her pretty face, with the unfinished wreath still held
in her hands, and her little straw hat filled with buds and sprays,
upset at her side.

Now, the road that passed the cottage was much used by travelers, as
it led in both directions to large cities; but on this particular
afternoon not a human being, nor an animal, nor a vehicle of any sort
could be seen on its white, gleaming surface; and save the drone of a
passing bee, or an occasional chirp from a cricket under the porch,
not a sound broke the deep stillness. Even the birds seemed to be
dozing, so nap-inspiring was that sultry summer afternoon.

An hour later and Edith was still sleeping, when the distant rumble of
wheels could be heard. They were yet a long way down the road,
although from their peculiar rattle it was evident they belonged to a
light wagon――perhaps some farmer returning from market. Presently a
cloud of white dust rose above the trees and indicated the point
reached by the wagon, but the latter could not yet be seen from the
cottage on account of the intervening foliage that skirted the
roadside. A few moments later an odd-looking, top-heavy vehicle, drawn
by two lank horses, emerged into view. Behind the wagon, mounted on a
mule, rode a dark-visaged man.

When the wagon arrived in front of the house it stopped, and the man
on the mule advanced to the garden fence, dismounted, and threw his
reins over the gate post. He then opened the gate, and was about to
pass to the rear of the cottage when he spied little Edith. The
slanting sunbeams had crept so close to her face that it was only a
question of a few moments when the bright glare would end her sleep.

The man paused and glanced cautiously about him; then, taking another
look at Edith, he stealthily moved on until he reached the back part
of the house. The widow sat in a large arm-chair near the kitchen
door, which was open. In her lap lay an old garment that she had been
mending; the cool breeze that came through the door from the front of
the house blew the pendant honey-suckle against her cheek, but she
heeded it not, for she, too, like little Edith, had succumbed to the
influence of the sleepy afternoon.

The dark-visaged man no sooner took in the situation than he quickly,
but quietly, returned to the wagon and said some strange words to a
big, stupid-looking fellow who was perched on the front seat of the
odd-shaped vehicle, and from whose hands dangled the lines of the lank
horses. The fellow stood up, and shading his eyes with his huge,
brawny hand, peered toward the house: then fastening his lines to a
hook in the wagon bow, he jumped lightly to the ground and followed
his companion to where little Edith lay sleeping.

In the back portion of the wagon sat two persons; one was an old woman
with a swarthy, wrinkled face, and the other was a beautiful little
girl about ten years of age. Her hair was not black as was that of the
old woman, it was of a rich chestnut hue, and her complexion, although
darkened by the sun, was extremely fair; but her eyes! oh, they were
the rarest of brown eyes! and as she turned them inquiringly towards
the old crone, they seemed like pansies wet with dew; so velvety, so
liquid. Without saying a word, she let her long silken lashes drop
until her lovely eyes were fixed upon the blankets that lay at her
feet. The old woman was restless and looked through the curtain
windows towards the cottage.

Mean while the men had reached the porch. Their movements were
noiseless and cat-like. The dark-visaged man drew a handkerchief from
his breast pocket, and the stupid looking fellow held a stout cord in
his right hand. In an instant they gagged and bound little Edith and
rapidly bore her to the rear of the wagon, when, opening the leather
door, they handed her struggling form to the old crone, who stood
ready to receive her. Quickly shutting the wagon door, the
stupid-looking fellow mounted his seat, the dark-visaged man leaped
upon the back of his mule, and in a twinkling the gypsies had
disappeared behind a bend in the road.

As soon as the little girl with brown eyes saw the men bring Edith to
the wagon she trembled and began to weep. The old crone shook her
finger at her and bade her to have a care what she did. Then turning
to Edith she said, “I will remove the gag from your mouth if you
promise not to make any noise.” Edith, who was almost frightened to
death, nodded her head whereupon the old crone untied the handkerchief
not from kindness, but fear that the child would suffocate. Poor Edith
sobbed as though her heart would break, and more than once looked
appealingly at the brown-eyed girl. The latter, whenever the crone
turned her head, glanced at Edith and tried in every possible way to
mutely assure her of her sympathy and friendship.

The gypsies drove very fast for several miles, when they suddenly left
the main road and turned into a narrow lane that led through a dense
forest. The horses were then allowed to slacken their speed. After an
hour’s drive the party came upon a gypsy encampment in an open space.
The forest trees formed a semi-circle about the sides and rear of the
camp while the front was somewhat protected from view by the wagons,
which were ranged on a line with the lane.

The lank horses neighed as they entered the clearing, and in a moment
the wagon was surrounded by a swarm of tawny-skinned people, men,
women and children. Without speaking a word to any one, save the
crone, the dark-visaged man led Edith and the brown-eyed little girl
to a tent which they entered. “Now,” said he, for the first time
speaking to Edith, “if you are a good girl, you will be treated well,
but if you are a cross and troublesome, look out! And you, Little
Brown Eyes,” he: continued, “see that your mate eats her supper when
it comes. That’s all.” He then left them.

Edith advanced to the little girl and was about to speak, when the
latter raised her finger, shook her head, and pointed to the door.
Edith looked in the direction indicated, and saw the old crone seated
without, just in the act of lighting her pipe. “You can talk, but
speak low; old Myra will try to hear what we say,” and the little
brown-eyed girl kissed Edith on the forehead.

“Oh, I am so dreadfully frightened,” whispered Edith, “will they never
take me home again?” “I cannot tell,” replied the child. “I, too, was
taken from my home, a long, long time ago; but Myra and Ike――that was
Ike who came with us to the tent――say they will take me home some day.
My name is Mary, yet they call me Little Brown Eyes; maybe they’ll
call you Little Blue Eyes.”

This conversation was cut short by the entrance of a gypsy boy, who
brought two tin plates of chicken stew, some bread and a big bowl of
milk. He said nothing, merely placing their supper on the ground, when
he walked out again without so much as looking at them. Little Brown
Eyes sat on one end of an empty sack and motioned Edith to sit on the
other end; which she did.

The little girls, in spite of their low spirits, could not resist the
savory smell of the stew, for they were very hungry, and in a short
time nothing remained of what the gypsy boy brought them except the
empty bowls and the two tin plates. All at once there was a great
noise in the camp. The tramping of horses’ feet could be heard, and
the voices of men shouting; what could it mean? The little girls
looked at one another in utter wonderment. “Let us peep out,” said
Little Brown Eyes, and raising one corner of the canvas they looked
out. Everything was in confusion. A body of horsemen were pulling down
the tents, some of the gypsies were fleeing to the woods, while others
were opposing the horsemen with all their might. Just then the
dark-visaged man and Myra entered the tent. “Come, quick,” yelled the
man, “this way,” and taking hold of each little girl, he pulled them
to the door. Edith uttered a scream. Immediately the horsemen galloped
toward them. “My papa! my papa!” cried Little Brown Eyes. A fine
looking gentleman leaped from his horse, and in a moment his daughter
was clasped in his arms. “Take these people prisoners,” said he, “they
shall pay dearly for kidnapping my daughter. Who is this?” he
continued, looking at Edith. “This, papa, is a little girl Ike stole
to-day, as she lay asleep on her front porch.” “Poor child, we must
return her to her parents,” spoke Little Brown Eyes’ papa; “come, we
will go away from here at once.” So the little girls were led away to
the lane where stood waiting a splendid carriage. “Oh, see! there
comes brother Frank in his donkey-cart,” and clapping her hands with
joy, Edith pointed down the lane, where, sure enough, her brother came
jogging along as complacently as if nothing had happened.

The rest of the horsemen rode up to the carriage, and were about to
start, when one of their number said, “Look! we have fixed the
gypsies.” All looked toward the camp. It was in a blaze; both tents
and wagons were being devoured by the red-tongued flames. “Why,
Edith,” shouted Frank, who had just reached the carriage, “what on
earth are you doing here?” The heat from the burning camp became so
intense that Edith’s face was almost scorched, “Edith,” shouted Frank,
louder than before. Edith looked at her brother, rubbed her eyes, and
then looked again. “Where are the gypsies?” she asked――“Ha! ha! ha!”
laughed Frank, “you have been dreaming; you are almost baked by the
sun.”

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._


[Illustration: “When, lo! from out the lake arose a horrid monster
form.”]




  The Last Salute.


  Yes, the ranks are growing smaller
    With the coming of each May,
  And the beards and locks once raven
    Now are mingled thick with gray;
  Soon the hands that strew the flowers
    Will be folded still and cold,
  And our story of devotion
    Will forever have been told.

  Years and years have passed by, comrades,
    Though it seems but yesterday
  Since the Blue-garbed Northern legions
    Marched to meet the Southern Gray――
  But a day since Massachusetts
    Bade her soldier boys good-bye――
  But a day since Alabama
    Heard her brave sons’ farewell cry.

  Those are days we all remember,
    In our hearts we hold them yet;
  And the kiss we got at parting,
    Who can ever that forget?
  And it may have been a mother,
    A fond father, or a wife,
  Or a maid whose love was dearer
    To the soldier’s heart than life.

  Then the silent midnight marches,
    And the fierce-fought battle’s roar,
  And the sailor’s lonely watches,
    Gone, please God, forevermore:
  Though these ne’er can be forgotten
    While the dew our graves shall wet,
  Yet the color of our jackets
    Let each gallant heart forget;

  For the ranks are growing smaller,
    And though decked in blue or gray,
  Soon both armies will be sleeping
    In their shelter-tents of clay.
  But the loud reverberation
    Of the last salute shall be
  Oft re-echoed through the ages
    As the tocsin of the free!

  For we both but did our duty,
    In the Great Jehovah’s plan,
  And the world has learned a lesson
    That all men may read who can;
  And when gathered for the muster
    On the last and dreadful day,
  May that God extend His mercy
    Sweet, alike to Blue and Gray.

                                  ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




Studying For The Contest.


Oh dear! If ever I try to learn another piece I hope to be swallowed
by a whale ten times the size of the one that lunched on Jonah. Here
I’ve been three weeks trying to get “The Flight of the Hottentots” by
heart, and to-morrow night I am to recite at the contest; but I’m
bound that that squint-eyed Caddy Screech shall not out-do me this
time. Well, here it goes again: [_Reads from the book without
gesture._]

           The swarthy forms steal one by one
             Like shadows past the guard;
           Now soft they creep, now leap, now run,
             From tyrants base and hard;

           But hark! what sound is that which comes
             Across the sandy plain?
           The sentry’s cry, the roll of drums!
             Alas! their flight is vain.

           Behold! a thousand torches flash
             Like meteors into view!
           While swift the Pagans onward dash
             The bold dragoons pursue!

           See! now the captives reach a stream,
             A rushing torrent wild;
           They cannot pass――[_Throws book on floor._]

Oh, grief! now for the gestures: [_With hesitation as though
forgetting lines._]

           The swarthy forms steal[51] one by one
             Like shadows past the guard――

Confound[52] the gestures! they bother me worse than anything else.
Why didn’t the fool that wrote the piece say which way they stole,
up[53] a hill, down[54] a hill, or across[55] the road? Well, I’ll try
the next two lines.

           Now soft they creep,[56] now leap,[57] now run[58]
             From tyrants base and hard――

They must have been acrobats to get over the ground in that shape; I’m
desperate, I am!

           But hark![59] what sound is that which comes
             Across the sandy plain?

No; I mustn’t put my finger up like that.[60] Why should a person when
alone be required to do it? Am I to warn myself to listen when I have
ears? or if at all necessary, why not do it effectually and hold up
both fingers, thus?[61] I’ll skip that part.

           The sentry’s cry, the roll of drums,
             Alas! their flight is vain[62]――

Now this is a puzzler.

           The sentry’s cry――

Was it a whoop, a yell, a shriek, a halloo――but fiddle! Who ever heard
a sentry cry? Why soldiers are brave men, and never weep. That is
unquestionably a poetical _li_-cence.

                               ――the roll of drums.

What on earth were the drums rolled for? It looks to me as though the
Hottentots were drummed out of camp.

           Alas! their flight is vain――

I don’t believe there was a flight of the Hottentots. What
authority[63] is there for the flight? What made them fly anyhow?
Well, I must move on:

           Behold![64] a thousand torches flash
             Like meteors into view!
           While swift the Pagans onward[65] dash
             The bold dragoons[66] pursue!

That’s better. The Principal could not beat that, particularly the
_Be_hold, and the s-w-i-f-t. Next comes the climax――a long
respiration, and――and――

           See![67] the captives pass a stream,
             A rushing torrent[68] wild,
           They cannot pass――

Now I object to this vague style of literature. The poet is silent as
to how they reached it. With their hands, thus![69] or with their
feet, thus![70] or on horseback, with a whoa![71] whoa! Dobbin? How am
I to gesticulate correctly, not knowing the facts? I’ll do the poem to
suit myself, and if I fail to win the prize, it will be through the
stupidity of the judges, so there!

                                              _Geo. M. Vickers._


  GESTURES.
  [51] Uncertain motions of hand.
  [52] D. F.
  [53] A. O.
  [54] D. O.
  [55] H. F.
  [56] P. D. F.
  [57] B. to imitate leaping.
  [58] H. O.
  [59] Index finger raised to listen.
  [60] Turn finger round and look at it.
  [61] Raise index finger of both hands.
  [62] D. L.
  [63] H. F.
  [64] Left H. O.
  [65] H. O.
  [66] Left H. O.
  [67] H. O.
  [68] B. V. Par. H. O.
  [69] Special.
  [70] Run.
  [71] H. F. B. draw back.




  Crazy Nell.


  “Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and, looked
    Out on the road that passed my window wide,
  And saw a woman and a fair-haired child
    That knelt and picked the daisies at the side.

  The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,
    And, laughing, held it high above its head;
  A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes,
    And in that light a mother’s love I read.

  She took the little hand, and both passed on;
    The prattle of the child I still could hear,
  Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,
    That came in loving words upon my ear.

  “Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,
    But yet had left the recollection of that scene――
  The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt
    And picked the daisies on the roadside green.

  I looked. The old familiar road was there――
    A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;
  And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare
    That fixed itself back where the daisies grew.

  “Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired child
    Run from the daisies with its gathered prize;
  “Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laugh
    To light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.

  “Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the road
    The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;
  Caressing tones――not mixed with prattle now,
    But full of loving words――I still could hear.

  I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;
    He told the story――all there was to tell:
  A little mound the village churchyard bore;
    And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.

                                             ――_Joseph Whitton._


[Illustration: “Fly, fly, beloved mistress, the devils of the
mountains are upon us!”]




  Sir Rupert’s Wife.


  You see where the cliffs frown yonder in a line of dingy red?――
  That wild, fierce crag, the highest, is known as Sir Rupert’s Head:
  It’s five hundred feet and over from the brow to the sea below,
  And it won its name in the winter, a hundred years ago.
  There wasn’t a squire in Devon so famous as Rupert Leigh;
  He was lord of the broad, rich acres, good-looking and fancy free.
  He came of a race of giants, stood six feet two in his socks,
  And once, for a drunken wager, with his fist he had felled an ox.

  Dare-devil Leigh was his nick-name; he was last of a lawless line
  Who had gone to the deuce full gallop, through women and cards and
    wine.
  He wasn’t so bad as they were――he was more of a hunting squire,
  And he freed the name a little from some of the ancient mire.
  His wasn’t an easy country, but he’d take it every inch,
  And ride as straight as an arrow where the boldest well might flinch.
  When a lad he had climbed yon headland, climbed it from base to crest,
  For a short-frocked hussy who wanted the eggs from a seagull’s nest.

  One winter he went to London――he then was about forty-three;
  His steward had told the parson he’d lawyers in town to see.
  ’Twas dull in the place without him, for his mansion was Liberty Hall;
  There was always a warm, wet welcome for neighbors who chose to call.
  He was gone for a twelvemonth nearly, writing to no old friends,
  But a Devonshire man in London news to the parson sends.
  Sir Rupert had married a madam, a play-acting, mincing wench,
  Who painted and patched and powdered, and was finiking, fine and
    French.

  She was no more French than I am, but this was about the time,
  That French was the title given to nigh every kind of crime.
  She sang in a minor play-house――in opera, so they say――
  And he saw her as Polly Peachum in that famous work by Gay.
  He was always an easy target for a wench’s rolling eye,
  So it got to bouquets and presents, and to letters by-and-by,
  He was wax in the hussy’s fingers, and she moulded with practiced
    skill,
  Till he took the form of a husband, the slave of her slightest will.

  They traveled about a little, saw Paris, the Hague and Rome――
  Then the news went abroad Sir Rupert was bringing his lady home.
  The people about here liked him, and no warmth did their welcome lack,
  But they looked askance at my lady, and she gave them their glances
    back.
  They hated her then directly, they chafed at her cold disdain,
  And they gossiped her story over in language a bit too plain.
  They called her a “stuck-up stroller,” and somehow the scandal grew,
  Till my lady as “Polly Peachum” the whole of the country knew.

  Sir Rupert was broken-hearted when he heard of the mocking tone,
  And he quarreled with all his comrades until he was left alone――
  Alone at the Hall with “Polly,” for the gentry had cut her dead,
  But his heart was as true as ever to the woman he had stooped to wed.
  To him she was just an angel who had come from the holy skies
  That his heart might bask forever in the light of her lustrous eyes.
  No wine, no cards, and no hunting: he kept at my lady’s side――
  ’Twas a great big boy with a sweetheart, not a man with a year-won
    bride.

  She pined in the lonely mansion: she wanted society-life――
  She wanted to play my lady as well as Sir Rupert’s wife.
  Sir Rupert must ask a party――not of bumpkins, but folks from the town;
  He had plenty of friends in London; would he not ask them down?
  They came, and the sound of laughter rang through the Hall once more,
  And my lady was proud and happy, but her husband’s heart was sore;
  He had learned from an idle whisper――a whisper not meant for him――
  A secret that sapped his life-blood and the strength of each stalwart
    limb.

  He reeled when he heard the whisper and guessed at the ghastly truth:
  ’Twas the tale of a play-woman and a curled and scented youth,
  A dandy of six-and-twenty, the son of an old, old chum――
  He was one of the guests invited, and one of the first to come.
  Sir Rupert had been in London a guest of his father’s, too,
  And this young fop, he remembered, had led him his wife to woo;
  He had raved of this Polly Peachum, and dragged him to hear her sing;
  He said at the time he knew her――’twas a planned and plotted thing!

  And now she was always with him, they chatted and laughed away;
  She was cold and dull with Sir Rupert,――with him she was kind and gay.
  She was weary of playing my lady, and of being Sir Rupert’s wife――
  She pined for the tinsel glories of the old Bohemian life.
  She hated the dull decorum, she hated the legal tie――
  Her cage was a cage, though gilded. Then the tempter whispered “Fly!”
  One night their chairs were empty, and slowly the news leaked out:
  Two horses were gone from the stable――’twas a settled thing, no doubt.

  Sir Rupert was white with horror, but he turned to the gaping crew
  And cried, “It’s a lie, I tell you!――who dares to say its true?”
  Then seizing his holster pistols, he mounted his fleetest mare
  And made straight for the Red Cliff roadway――he guessed they had
    gone by there,
  For that was the way to London, from Exmouth the pair would post,
  And the road they were bound to travel was the road by the rugged
    coast.
  If you look you will see it passes right over the headland’s brow――
  Only a century distant it wasn’t as good as now.

  He dug his spurs in the hunter, and it flew up the fearful steep,
  ’Twas a wild, fierce night in winter, and the snow lay thick and
    deep;
  But the moon through the clouds had broken, and right on the Head
    he spied
  A horse that had slipped and fallen, and the rider by its side;
  And over them bent a figure, but whose he could scarcely see,
  Then he uttered a cry to Heaven that his wife unharmed might be;
  And lashing his steed to fury it flew through the slippery snow,
  While the wild waves roared a warning five hundred feet below.

  A slip, and both horse and rider would roll to a hideous fate,
  But Sir Rupert, with set white features, rode to the headland
    straight.
  They heard him now, and the woman rose from her knees and moaned,
  And the man gave a sudden shudder and opened his eyes and groaned.
  Sir Rupert reined up so fiercely that the mare on the precipice
    reared,
  And the woman sprang back with horror, in the jaws of the death she
    feared.
  For a moment she seemed to totter, and then with a piercing cry
  Went over that awful headland that seems to touch the sky.

  For a second no sound was uttered, only the billows roared,
  While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and shrieking, soared;
  Then, shouting for help, Sir Rupert clutched at the snow-clad turf,
  And glanced with a look of horror down at the boiling surf.
  And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest edge,
  Something his eyes detected――a heap on a narrow ledge;
  It was thirty feet between them, but he knew ’twas his wretched
    wife,
  And he vowed, though his own paid forfeit, he would save her guilty
   life.

  He could see there were tiny juttings where his foot might find a
    hold,
  And the man he had quite forgotten was worth his weight in gold.
  The booby was bruised and shaken, and fancied that he should die,
  But Sir Rupert bade him help him, or he’d shoot him by-and-by
  Then the white-faced coward whimpered and lifted his jeweled hands,
  And Sir Rupert set him tearing his mantle in narrow bands.
  Then the strips were twined together and tied to a rough stone seat,
  And over went brave Sir Rupert, clinging with hands and feet.

  The waves in their winter fury shrieked for a human life,
  But down and down crept Rupert till he swung by his senseless wife,
  Stooping, he clasped her firmly, one hand on the doubtful rope,
  Pressed his lips on her marble forehead, and whispered her,
    “Darling――hope!”
  Then breathing a prayer to Heaven to save them both that night,
  He toiled with his heavy burden up the face of the frowning height.
  A fall of the soft red sandstone, a slip of his bleeding hand,
  And their bodies had lain together, crushed on the cruel strand.

  Safe! safe at last on the summit! safe on the firm hard road!
  There where the moonbeams glittered, he glanced at his senseless
    load.
  Her face was bruised and battered, and the warm blood welled and
    gushed;
  And he saw that his wife was injured, and her tender bones were
    crushed.
  No trace of the lady’s gallant; he’d limped to a horse and flown:
  Sir Rupert and “Polly Peachum” were there on the heights alone.
  He leaped on the gallant hunter; took his wife in his brawny arms,
  And galloped across the country to one of his tenants’ farms.

  For six long months my lady hovered ’twixt death and life――
  ’Twas a surgeon who came from London that saved Sir Rupert’s wife――
  And when she was out of danger it was known she was marked and maimed,
  A battered, misshapen cripple, distorted and scarred and lamed.
  But Sir Rupert clung closer to her; they traveled from place to place,
  And he never winced or shuddered at the sight of her injured face.
  It was he who carried the cripple, who nursed her with tenderest care:
  And never in knightly story such gallant had lady fair.

  For many a year she lingered――’twas up at the Hall she died,
  And here in the village churchyard they’re sleeping side by side.
  She died in his arms confessing the worth of his noble love,
  And in less than a year he sought her in the mansions of God above.
  There stands the great bluff headland――there swells the sea below――
  And the story I’ve told you happened nigh a hundred years ago,
  Yet there isn’t a soul that visits those towering crags of red
  But thinks of the love and daring that hallowed “Sir Rupert’s Head.”

                                               _George R. Sims._


[Illustration: “And one sly maiden spake aside,
               ‘The little witch is evil-eyed.’”]




Civilization.

AS DISCOVERED BY PROFESSOR PEEKWELL, SAMUEL SEARCHER AND PHILIP
DEADLIGHT.


PROFESSOR.――Civilization is the science of discontent.

SEARCHER.――How do you make that out?

PROFESSOR.――Gentlemen, allow me to explain. In the first place, all
that man requires on this terrestrial ball can be expressed in three
words, namely: food, shelter and raiment.

SEARCHER.――How about a wife?

DEADLIGHT.――And segars?

PROFESSOR.――I use the term man as including the human race.

SEARCHER.――Well, go on.

DEADLIGHT.――I’m ashamed of you, Professor; would you have us go back
to savage life?

PROFESSOR.――Yes, but only in fancy, for the purpose of illustration.
Let us drop down on a remote island in the Indian Ocean. It is
night-fall. The last rosy tints of sunset are fading from the western
sky. The murmur of the distant surf mingles with the soft lullaby of
the Indian mother who soothes her babe to sleep.

SEARCHER.――Why didn’t the goose use soothing syrup?

DEADLIGHT.――Or a cradle?

PROFESSOR.――Beneath a tall palm, circled about the embers of a dying
fire, sit the tawny natives. They are listening to the words that fall
from the lips of an aged chief. With rapture they hang upon the
oft-told legend of the isle. In their hearts they wonder at the old
man’s wisdom. As he dilates upon their by-gone deeds, and their
present might, their eyes involuntarily wander toward the rich foliage
that gently sways on yonder high hill top; now they glance at the
bright stars that peep forth from the upper blue, and now at the dim
ocean that stretches away on either hand like a desert waste.
Contentment almost perfect sits on every brow. Each savage has his
spear, his hut of twigs: thus the Great Creator hath set them to
fulfill their mission; and yet the spear and hut are the initial steps
in the march of civilization; only luxury lies beyond them;
comparative luxury is the acme of civilization.

SEARCHER.――You’re a crank!

DEADLIGHT.――No, he’s a philosopher. Think of the blessings of savage
life! No creditors to ring your door bell, and make you leap out of
your chair with consternation.

SEARCHER.――That is a point.

DEADLIGHT.――Then there’s no fashion to ruin a man every time the
seasons change. Look at that bonnet yonder! I’ll wager it cost thirty
dollars.

SEARCHER.――And that dude’s coat, to say nothing of his monstrous
collar.

PROFESSOR.――Hold on――――

DEADLIGHT.――And there’s no bank cashier to skip away with your limited
balance.

PROFESSOR.――Hold on, I say. Civilization is good; it elevates mankind;
but the higher our civilization the greater our wants; therefore
civilization is the science of discontent.

SEARCHER.――Humph!

DEADLIGHT.――Ahem!

PROFESSOR.――We will now adjourn.

                                              _Geo. M. Vickers._




Getting Ready.


  CHARACTERS.

  NICHOLAS NEVERSLIP, _a modern husband_. PATRICK DOLAN, _an Irish
  lad_. MATILDA, _Neverslip’s wife_. MISS SPYALL, _a gossip_. BIDDY
  CROGAN, _a domestic_.

SCENE:――_A drawing room. Time, evening. Table and two chairs, C.
Nicholas discovered standing near L. E. with cane and gloves in his
hands: he calls to his wife, who is supposed to be up stairs dressing
for the opera._

NICHOLAS.――My dear, it is half-past seven; do hurry; I am sure we will
be late.

MATILDA.――I am coming――be with you in one minute. Has Biddy fastened
the back gate?

NICHOLAS (_aside_).――I know we’ll be late (_calls_), Biddy! (_crosses
to R. E._)

BIDDY.――I’m here, sur. [_Enter Biddy R. E._] What do you want wid me,
sur?

NICHOLAS.――Biddy, is the back gate fastened?

BIDDY.――I’ll see, sur, (_turns to go_).

NICHOLAS.――Biddy!

BIDDY.――Sur!

NICHOLAS.――Biddy, I am going to the opera; that is, we are, Mrs.
Neverslip and myself.

MATILDA (_calls_).――Nicholas!

NICHOLAS.――Well, what’s the matter?

MATILDA.――Where did you lay my fan?

NICHOLAS.――I never touched your fan. (_looks at his watch._) It is
twenty minutes to eight; I declare we will be late.

BIDDY (_aside_).――I wonder if he manes to keep me shtandin’ here all
night?

NICHOLAS (_to Matilda_).――I am going!

MATILDA.――Here I come.

NICHOLAS.――It is time you were coming.

MATILDA.――Oh, dear!

NICHOLAS.――What’s the matter?

MATILDA.――Oh, you’ve hurried me so that I’ve gone and dressed without
my fichu; I can never go without it.

NICHOLAS (_aside_).――Confound her fish-hook. (_aloud_) Snails and
turtles! are you never coming?

BIDDY (_aside_).――I’m nather a gate post nur a clothes prop. (_aloud_)
Mr. Neverslip, I’ll be goin’ to the kitchen; I lift the banes on the
sthove; I think they’re burnin’. [_Exit Biddy R. E._]

NICHOLAS.――For mercy sake do come.

MATILDA (_singing_).――I am coming, darling, coming――――

NICHOLAS.――How provokingly cool you are.

                                         [_Enter Matilda L. E._]

MATILDA.――Now, my dear, we’ll be off. [_Both start toward L. E._] Why,
where’s your hat?

NICHOLAS (_feels his head_).――Good gracious! It is up stairs――Matilda,
dear, will you get it for me?

MATILDA.――You cruel man――――(_knock heard from without._)

BOTH.――Horrors! Some one at the door!

NICHOLAS.――Biddy!

BIDDY.――Ay, sur!                           [_Enter Biddy R. E._]

NICHOLAS.――Biddy, we’re out.

BIDDY.――Yer what?

NICHOLAS.――We’re out; that is, we soon will be. We do not wish to see
anyone――you comprehend?

BIDDY (_angrily_).――Don’t want to see anyone I comprehend! Sur, I’m an
honest Irish girl, and I niver comprehended anybody. (_arms akimbo_)
Niver!

                                [_Prolonged knock at the door._]

NICHOLAS.――Go to the door and say we’re out!

BIDDY (_aside_).――The man is surely out of his head.

                                            [_Exit Biddy L. E._]

MATILDA.――Oh my! we’ll never get off.

NICHOLAS.――My dear it’s all your own fault.

MATILDA (_puts handkerchief to eyes_).――Dear, dear! Nicholas. Hark!

MISS SPYALL (_from without_).――Take this card to――――

BIDDY (_from without_).――They’re out, mum.

MISS SPYALL.――Then I’ll just step in a moment and write a line or two.

BIDDY.――But they’re out!

MATILDA.――Oh grief! It is that awful Spyall; good-bye opera to-night.

NICHOLAS.――We might as well give up now.

[_Enter Biddy L. E. walking backward followed by Miss Spyall._]

MISS SPYALL (_aside_).――Out of the street; ah! I understand! (_Extends
hands to Nicholas and Matilda_)――(_aloud_) How delighted I am to see
you! What! going out?

BIDDY.――Yis, out; they’re out――outward bound, I forgot part of the
wurruds.

NICHOLAS.――Silence, Bridget!

MATILDA.――We need you no longer, Biddy.

BIDDY.――Indade, ye’ll give me two wakes’ notice. I’ll not lave now.

MATILDA.――I mean we do not need you here. You may go to the kitchen.
Oh, bother! My hair is coming down. Biddy get me a hair-pin, quick!

                                            [_Exit Biddy R. E._]

MISS SPYALL.――What a beautiful dress; is it all silk?

NICHOLAS.――Part muslin, Miss.

MATILDA.――Nicholas, you shock me.

NICHOLAS (_Pulls out watch and starts to go_).――Oh, oh, oh!

MISS SPYALL.――Going to church?

NICHOLAS.――No, not to church.

MISS SPYALL.――Oh, I see; the museum.

NICHOLAS.――We have an engagement.

MISS SPYALL.――A wedding? That’s it! I know. Who is it? Do tell me if
it is Nancy Beadle? I thought she and John――――

MATILDA.――My husband and I are about going down town on important
business, it is time we were there now.

MISS SPYALL.――Anything important? You know I can be trusted.

NICHOLAS.――Gone! gone! gone!

MISS SPYALL.――Hey?

MATILDA.――Miss Spyall, you will please excuse me this evening, we must
go at once.

          [_Enter Biddy R. E. with, clothes-pins in each hand._]

NICHOLAS (_pointing to watch_).――We’ve lost our seats. (_Matilda and
Miss Spyall take seats._)

BIDDY (_to Nicholas_).――Niver moind me; still, I’ll bring two chairs
from the dining-room if ye insist. (_To Matilda_) Here’s the puns,
mum.

MATILDA.――Stupid girl, these are clothes-pins.

MISS SPYALL.――What a silly creature.

BIDDY (_aside_).――The spalpeen!

NICHOLAS.――Excuse me. I must get my hat.          [_Exit L. E._]

MATILDA.――Oh, he’s a darling man!

MISS SPYALL.――Spe-len-did!                    (_A crash heard._)

MATILDA.――What have you done?

NICHOLAS (_groans_).――Broken my shins, smashed my hat and upset your
toilet stand!

MATILDA.――You wretch-edly unfortunate man.

       _Enter Nicholas L. E. limping with smashed hat in hand._]

MISS SPYALL.――I must be going.

MATILDA.――We are going to the opera.

NICHOLAS.――To hear the final chorus.

MISS SPYALL.――How delightful!

MATILDA.――Biddy, keep a sharp look out.

                                 [_Exit all except Biddy L. E._]

BIDDY.――Yis, I’ll kape a sharp look out. I’ll first take a look at the
back gate. Poor Pat’s been waitin’ at that same gate for a whole hour;
faith he’s stharved wid the cold (_starts and listens_) Arrah, what’s
that? Sure some one’s in the kitchen. I hear a brogan on the
stairs――the saints protect me. [_Enter Pat R. E., looking around
cautiously._] Oh, Pat Dolan! How dare ye frighten me loike that? How
did ye enter the house?――What if the folks had been in?

PAT.――Whist, me darlin’; I saw them lave by the front door, and in the
wink of an eye, its meself that lepped over the fince; I thried the
back door, it was unlatched, and here I am, Biddy dear!

BIDDY.――Niver do the loikes of that again. You might be shot for a
burglar or a dynamiter.

PAT. (_sitting at table_).――Niver fear, Biddy dear; go ye and bring a
crust of bread and sup of――of something stronger than tay, if yer have
it; sure I’ve room here for a loaf, and I’m thrimblin’ wid
wakeness――――

BIDDY.――I’ll see what’s lift in the pantry. Be aisy till I come back.
(_Starts to go._)

PAT.――Biddy!

BIDDY.――What, darlint? (_Pauses._)

PAT.――Do ye hear anything?

BIDDY.――Its the Niverslips! Run for your life!

PAT.――Be aisy; it’s me poor heart beatin’; and nothin’ more. It always
bates whin I see that face.

BIDDY (_Looks over her shoulder_).――What face? I see no face!

PAT.――Don’t be a greenhorn. I mane your own lovely countenance.

BIDDY.――Oh, ye blarney!                           [_Exit R. E._]

PAT. (_Rises from chair and walks up and down the stage_).――Humph!
this is a very foine house. It lacks the comforts of a home, howiver,
for there’s not the sign of a pipe or a ’bacca bowl about the room.
They’re evidently mane people.

  [_Enter Biddy R. E. carrying tray, on which are loaf of bread, a
  knife, a black bottle and two glasses._]

Look at that now! If that isn’t the tip of hospitality my name’s not
Patrick Dolan.

BIDDY (_places tray on table_).――Now, Pat, ye must not thrifle over
the sup, (_fills glass from bottle_) but drink it at once. It would
niver do to have the folks foind ye here.

PAT (_takes glass_).――Here’s to our wedding day, (_drinks_) Oh! ah!
(_jumps to his feet and runs about stage holding his throat_) I’m
pizened, I’m kilt.

BIDDY (_following him about_).――Shpeak, shpeak, me darlint Pat.

PAT (_gasping and pointing to bottle_).――Look――look――look at that!
What’s in the bottle?

BIDDY.――Sure I can’t read. (_Hands bottle to Pat._)

PAT.――Saint Patrick defind me! (_reads_) “Pure Jamaica Ginger,” Oh!
its atin me up! (_Noise heard without._)

BIDDY.――Hark! (_Both listen._)

NICHOLAS (_from without_).――We should have taken an umbrella; hurry in
or we shall be drowned with the rain.

PAT (_agitated_).――Put me away! hide me! cover me up!

BIDDY.――Run! No――shtop――they’re here! get under the table.

PAT (_crawls under table_).――Bad luck to the rain!

BIDDY.――Arrah! What shall I do? He’s opening the door wid the noight
key. Kape shtill, Pat.

NICHOLAS.――Walk in Miss Spyall; it is only a shower.

              [_Enter Neverslip, Matilda and Miss Spyall L. E._]

MISS SPYALL (_aside_).――Refreshments, as I live! (_Aloud_) I feel real
chilly! If I were home I’d have a bowl of hot tea, or something warm.

BIDDY.――I was thinkin’ mum, that ye might be cold.

MATILDA.――What’s that, Biddy?

BIDDY.――I thought ye’d need a warrum drink and a bite, so I’ve the
bottle and bread handy for yez. (_Points to bottle._)

NICHOLAS (_takes bottle_).――Jamaica Ginger.

MATILDA.――The idea! Bread and ginger. Why, Biddy, you are certainly
becoming insane.

MISS SPYALL (_aside_).――I thought they were too mean to have cake and
wine, I thought it was a pound cake. How disappointed and hungry I
feel. (_Aloud_) I wonder if it still rains?

NICHOLAS.――Be seated, ladies. Biddy, go to the door, and see if it has
stopped raining.――(_Matilda and Miss Spyall take seats at table_).

I will see if I can find an umbrella for Miss Spyall. [_Exit L. E._]

PAT.――(_Pat’s head rises slowly from behind table_).

MISS SPYALL.――Does Mr. Neverslip smoke much?

MATILDA.――Never at all. Why do you ask?

MISS SPYALL.――I thought I detected a strong odor of an old pipe.

PAT.――(_aside_) Ye spalpeen! (_Pulls her ear and stoops behind
table_).

MISS SPYALL.――Oh! (_indignantly_).――Don’t do that again. I dislike
such familiarity.

MATILDA (_astonished_).――Why, what’s the matter with you?

MISS SPYALL.――I guess if I were to pull your ear you would know how it
feels. There! (_They turn their backs to each other angrily_).

(_Pat peeps from under table and pulls Matilda’s ear_).

MATILDA (_springing to her feet_).――You impudent gossip! How dare you?
(_rubs her ear_) If you want exercise, try pedestrianism; I will
excuse your presence. (_Points to door_).

MISS SPYALL (_rising and backing off_).――I am shocked beyond
expression. (_aside_) If I only get out――the woman’s surely mad.

                         [_Enter Nicholas L. E. with umbrella._]

MATILDA.――My dear, give Miss Spyall the umbrella; she is surely ill
and should get home with all possible speed.

MISS SPYALL.――Not at all, not at all, sir; it is your insolent wife
who needs your attention.

NICHOLAS.――What is the meaning of such singular language? (_picks up
bottle_) You have not been tampering with this?

              [_Enters Biddy R. E. holding shawl in her hands._]

BIDDY.――Look at me shplendid shawl! An illigant present that oi’ve
just received. (_unfolds shawl and advances towards rear of table_.)

NICHOLAS.――Some other time, Biddy; we are engaged at present.

MISS SPYALL (_aside_).――The whole family are certainly crazy.

MATILDA.――I’m in no humor to look at shawls; I prefer taking a
dissolving view of somebody’s back. (_looks at Miss Spyall_.)

BIDDY (_holds up shawl with both hands_).――Pat, get behind the shawl.

PAT.――(_crawls behind the shawl, screens himself from view, and moves
off with Biddy_).

BIDDY. (_backing towards the door_)――It shows better at a distance,
mum.

NICHOLAS. (_advancing to Biddy_).――This must cease.

BIDDY.――Don’t come too close; ye’ll shpoil the effect.

MATILDA.――Take the shawl from her.

NICHOLAS.――Let me have it. (_pulls shawl from Biddy, exposing Pat to
view_).

PAT (_bowing_).――Yez’ll pardon me, but I was always bashful.

NICHOLAS.――Explain yourself, at once!

MATILDA.――Look after the teaspoons!

MISS SPYALL (_aside_).――Here’s a nut to crack! Here’s a scandal.

BIDDY (_crying and holding apron to eyes_).――I’ll tell yez the truth.
Patsy and meself are engaged to be married, and seein’ as I was to be
lift alone in this big barn of a house, an’ bein’ timid, the poor man
jist happened in to kape me company for a few minutes.

PAT.――What she says is intirely true, your honors; it’s meself that
can bring a reference the lingth of me arrum.

NICHOLAS.――Enough. Biddy is too good a girl to be guilty of even a
wrong thought. Our spoons are safe, and I (_all advancing to front_)
have but one suggestion to make, that in future you entertain him in
the kitchen, where you will not be likely to be disturbed by unwelcome
visitors.

MATILDA.――If I thought I would be free from unwelcome visitors
(_looking at Miss Spyall_) I’d go to the kitchen too.

PAT.――The nixt kitchen we mate in will be the kitchen of Mr. and Mrs.
Patrick Dolan; how do ye loike that?

MISS SPYALL (_aside_).――Well I’m supplied with a lot of fresh news
anyhow. (_All take positions._)

NICHOLAS.――And as there appears to be a wedding near at hand, we must
prepare for it; so we’ll say good night――and dream of getting ready.

[CURTAIN.]

                                              _Geo. M. Vickers._


[Illustration: “I hate him, for he is a Christian.”]




The Humors of Elocution


Sitting in our Library some few weeks ago we were startled by a
resounding knock upon the door, and in answer to our summons, “Come
in,” a large woman entered, followed by a bouncing girl of seventeen
or thereabouts. The costumes of both bespoke them to be just from the
rural districts. After a courtesy from the woman, followed by a
fac-simile from the girl, the former said: “We’ve heard that you was a
good hand at learnin’ people fur to speak pieces, and Samanthy here
hez to spout at the next meetin’ of our Lyceum, and she wants you fur
to larn her somethin’ funny. You see, all the young folks down our way
has gone just cracked over speakin’ pieces, and the school ma’am has
been coachin’ ’em, but Samanthy wants to do better nor the rest, and
wants to hev it to say that she has took lessons from a reg’lar
purfessor, so I thought if you would find her a piece and coach her on
it, I wouldn’t begrudge a quarter of a dollar, even if I has to save
it out of my egg-money, then if she’ll hold on to what she larns she
can go ahead of the hull caboodle of ’em.” Seeing in the credulous
face of the old woman a rich chance for some fun at her expense we
said: “Is it howld on ye say? An’ didn’t I howld on till the heart of
me was clane broke intoirely, an’ me wastin’ that thin you could
clutch me wid yer two hands.” “Oh, law!” exclaimed the old woman, “is
elocution so bad on you as that, but you don’t seem to look the wuss
for it now.” “Seems! madam, nay, it is! I know not seems! Oh that this
too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.”
“Oh, I catch your meanin’ now. You mean you was thin and then you got
fleshy. That’s just like my husband’s sister’s son’s wife. You see she
was always kind o’ sickly, but she was such a shrew.”――“Oh, yes, ’tis
about twenty years since Abel-Law, a short, round-favored, merry old
soldier of the Revolutionary war was wedded to a most abominable
shrew.” “No marm, you’re mistaken, her husband’s name was Timothy
Titcomb, and he never was a soldier, but he was jest like a rollin’
stone, he never made nothin’――” “Off a rollin’ shtone vas der root of
all efil, und a settin’ hens vould catch der early vorm by chance der
usual vay, alzo der early bird vould not got fat on moss ofer he don’t
had vorms, ain’t it?” The girl who had been standing at one side with
her mouth wide open, here pulled her mother’s sleeve and whimpered,
“Mom, let’s go. I’m afeared! I think that woman’s mad.” We turned upon
her with――

  “I’m mad, I’m mad, I _know_ I’m mad,
   Enough to drive one mad,
   Stark, raving, howling, crazy mad,
   It is to lose one’s child.”

Samantha subsided and flew behind her mother like a chicken behind an
old hen. The old woman laid her hand tenderly on our shoulder, and
said sympathizingly: “Poor creetur she’s lost a child; I think I’d go
crazy, too, if I lost Samanthy. Poor lamb!”

  “Mary haf got a leetle lambs already,
   Dose wool vas vite like shnow,
   Und efery times dot Mary did vend oud,
   Dot lambs vent oud vid Mary.”

“Massy sakes!” cried the woman, “what do you call yourself, Dutch,
Irish or American?” “My father and mother are Irish, and I am Irish
too.” “Mon dieu, madame, vat you please.”

  “Is this a dagger which I see before me, its handle toward my hand?
  Come, let me clutch thee, I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
  What light is this which surrounds me and seems to set fire to my
    brain?
  What whistle that, yelling so shrilly? Ah! I know now, ’tis the
    train.”

The woman then said, “Samanthy, I think it is time _we_ was takin’ the
train. I don’t think I could trust you to come here alone. Good day,
marm, we must be goin’. I would like to send you some of my yarb tea.
Its powerful soothin’ to the nerves.”

  “Be that word our sign of parting,
   Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s Plutonian shore;
   Leave no black plume as a token of that he thy soul has spoken,
   Leave my loneliness unbroken.”

By this time she had the door shut, but she went to some of the
neighbors and asked if our place was not a private lunatic asylum.

                                             _F. Lizzie Peirce._




The Reason Why.


Can anybody tell why, when Eve was manufactured from one of Adam’s
ribs, a hired girl wasn’t made at the same time to wait on her?

We can, easily. Because Adam never came whining to Eve with a ragged
stocking to be darned, a collar button to be sewed on, or a glove to
be mended “right away quick now.” Because he never read the newspaper
until the sun got down behind the palm trees, and then stretched
himself, yawning out, “Ain’t supper most ready, my dear.” Not he. He
made the fire and hung over it the tea-kettle himself we’ll venture,
and pulled the radishes and peeled the bananas, and did everything
else that he ought to. He milked the cows and fed the chickens and
looked after the pigs himself. He never brought home half a dozen
friends to dinner when Eve hadn’t any fresh pomegranates and the mango
season was over. He never stayed out until 11 o’clock to a ward
meeting, hurrahing for the out-and-out candidate, and then scolded
because poor Eve was sitting up and crying inside the gates. To be
sure he acted rather cowardly about the apple-gathering time, but that
don’t depreciate his general helpfulness about the garden! He never
played billiards, nor drove fast horses, nor choked Eve with
cigar-smoke. He never loafed around corner groceries while solitary
Eve was rocking little Cain’s cradle at home. In short, he did not
think she was specially created for the purpose of waiting on him, and
wasn’t under the impression that it disgraced a man to lighten his
wife’s cares a little. That is the reason that Eve did not need a
hired girl, and we wish it was the reason that none of her descendants
did.

                                                       ――_Anon._


[Illustration: “Ha, ha! take that! and that! and that!”]




  Nothing to Wear.


  Toby Simpson, a dealer most worthy and just,
  Slowly wended his way through the rattle and dust
  Of the city. He mused on the cholera scare,
  On his relative chance as a wheat or a tare
  In the prophesied raid. Then he mumbled a prayer,
  And each mud hole he eyed seemed a villainous snare,
  While his conscience said, solemnly, “Simpson, beware!”

  On the strength of a limited balance in cash
  He had planned for himself and his family a dash
  To the mountains, the seaside, it mattered not where;
  To delay any longer was more than he dare;
  Some relief must be had from the terrible flare
  Of the midsummer sun, which would surely impair
  The good health of Dame Simpson, now cross as a bear.

  ’Twas quite late in July and old Sol was aglow,
  All the people had gone who had money to go
  From the city to seek a few sniffs of fresh air,
  And forgot for a season their burdens of care;
  Then no wonder Dame Simpson was heard to declare
  That the Joneses looked up with an insolent stare,
  As she stood at her window exposed to the glare.

  But her husband that ev’ning when rising from tea,
  With his hands full of tickets and heart full of glee,
  Quite as proud as a lion could be in its lair,
  Shouted out: “To the Capes, yes, to-morrow, prepare,
  I’ve engaged jolly quarters and paid all the fare!”
  To which mother and daughters, with mock debonair,
  Chorused forth: “Why, dear papa, we’ve nothing to wear!”

  With a look most bewildered he clutched at a tray,
  For his mercantile courage was oozing away,
  And his features were grim ’neath his carroty hair;
  Twenty bills he had paid for goods costly and rare
  For those females! and now could not possibly spare
  An additional stamp. Unaccustomed to swear,
  It was startling to hear him say: “Darned if it’s fair!”

  In an eight by ten office, half sweltered with heat,
  Sat T. Simpson, the jobber. He gazed at his feet
  Which reposed on a desk, just in front of his chair,
  While his face was dejected and full of despair;
  And he owed not a cent; his accounts were all square――
  No, not that, but the problem of Nothing to Wear
  Was just why the poor fellow sat pondering there.

                                            _George M. Vickers._




  Echo and the Ferry.


  Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven;
  He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood
  They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven!
  A small guest at the farm); but he said, “Oh! a girl was no good!”
  So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood.
  It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl――only seven!
  At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out.
  The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue-birds flashed about,
  And they, too, were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven?
  I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven――eleven!

  So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet,
  And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered;
  And under and over the branches those little birds twittered,
  While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven.
  A pity――a very great pity. One should be eleven.
  But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet,
  And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old.
  Then I knew, for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold.
  Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter;
  And then some one else――oh! how softly!――came after, came after
            With laughter――with laughter came after.

  And no one was near us to utter that sweet, mocking call,
  That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall.
  But this was the country――perhaps it was close under heaven;
  Oh! nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even.
  I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this
  Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings, not at all.
  Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver:
  She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small,
  Then flashed down her hole like a dart――like a dart from the quiver.
  And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss.

  ――So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver
  And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall
  White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall――
  A little low wall――and looked over, and there was the river,
  The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river,
  Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow;
  But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow,
  And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft――very low.
  “The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the river,
  “To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river――the river.
  I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky,
  The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under.
  But at last――in a day or two namely――Eleven and I
  Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder.
  He said that was Echo. “Was Echo a wise kind of bee
  That had learned how to laugh; could it laugh in one’s ear and then
    fly,
  And laugh again yonder?” “No; Echo”――he whispered it low――
  “Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see.
  And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he;
  But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder.
  Yet I that had money――a shilling, a whole silver shilling――
  We might cross if I thought I could spend it.” “Oh! yes, I was
    willing”――
  And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry,
  And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry
  When they called for the ferry; but, oh! she was very――was very
  Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried,
  “Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry――the ferry!”
  By the still water’s side she was heard far and wide――she replied,
  And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, “You man of the ferry,
          You man of――you man of the ferry!”

  “Hie over!” he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling;
  Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast.
  Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpassed
  All measure her doubling――so close, then so far away falling,
  Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware,
  And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was
    there),
  Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair.
  We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead;
  In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead;
  By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deep-nested, in brown;
  Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown.

  So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call.
  The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over wall.
  Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy mound
  And looked in at the window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round
  Might have come in to hide there. But, no; every oak-carven seat
  Was empty. We saw the great Bible――old, old, very old.
  And the parson’s great prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat
  Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold
  Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and play
  On the low chancel step and the railing; and Oliver said,
  “Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed
  She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown;
  And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small
    Seven:
  “Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?”
  All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven;
  “You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never
  Last on till you’re tall.” And in whispers――because it was old
  And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,
  Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk.
  Neither heard nor beheld, but about us――in whispers we spoke.
  Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand,
  While bleating of flocks and birds’ piping made sweeter the land.
  And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry,
  “O Katie!” O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on then!” “For see,
  The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”――“by the tree.”
  “By the tree.” Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and
    merry;
  “Hie over!” “Hie over!” “You man of the ferry”――“the ferry.”
          “You man of the ferry――”
          “You man of――you man of――the ferry.”

  Ay, here――it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old;
  All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told.
  Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white
  To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon?
  Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over――passed on?
  Will the grave parson bless us? Hark! hark! in the dim failing light
  I hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry,
  Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!”
  “And, Katie.” “And, Katie.” “Art out with the glow-worms to-night,
  My Katie?” “My Katie!” For gladness I break into laughter
  And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years;
  Again, some one else――oh, how softly!――with laughter comes after,
          Comes after――with laughter comes after.

                                               ――_Jean Ingelow._




  Roderick Lee.


  This is a wild, lone valley, and the road that threads it through
  Is the loneliest road I know of, and I’ve traveled not a few;
  Those hills on the left[72] so barren, and yon[73] towering, rocky
    ridge,
  Look down on a sluggish river that is spanned by a moss-grown bridge――
  And nigh to the bridge like a sentry, a tall, gray chimney stands,
  ’Mid the wreck that time has buried ’neath the tangled weeds and
    sands.

  In this valley three ruins moulder that were once three happy homes,
  And where once fond voices mingled, now the sly fox fearless roams;
  Then these locks[74] were thick and glossy, that are now so sparse
    and gray;
  Then I’d clamber these rocks as willing by night as I would by day――
  But, if a royal scepter, if the world[75] were promised mine
  To cross again this valley, I would shudder and decline.

  Roderick Lee was a miller, and as grist was hard to find
  Down in his old New Hampshire,[76] he had little or naught to grind;
  So, with his young wife blooming and his brown-eyed daughter Nell,
  Together with two young farmers, he came to this[77] place to dwell:
  And many’s the mile of prairie, and many’s the forest drear,
  That lay ’twixt the far-off Merrimack[78] and the stream[79] that
    ripples here.

  Yet with a heart as buoyant and as brave as it was true,
  Young Lee, ’mid the cheers at parting, bade his native town adieu;
  Then came the weeks of toiling, aye, months, ere the scorching plain
  Was crossed, and his eyes were greeted by the distant mountain chain;
  But the white-topped, dusty wagons at last made their final stand,
  And he knelt to breathe thanksgiving with his little pilgrim band.

  Stay! even now in fancy, I can see their forms once more,
  I can see their peaceful faces and the look of hope they wore――
  Poor Kate and Nell and Edith, young Harry, Mag and Joe――
  ’Neath that oak[80] I see them kneeling, tho’ ’tis thirty years ago!
  And long ere the hazy autumn had mellowed another year,
  Our huts were built in the clearing, and our corn hung ripe in the
    ear.

  Joe was a model husband, as fair Edith, his wife, well knew,
  And Mag and her raw-boned Harry, lived as loving couples do;
  But, as their homes were childless, very natural-like it fell
  That these kind and worthy people thought the world of little Nell.
  Many a time they kept her whole days ’gainst her mother’s will,
  First in the hut by the river[81], then in the hut by the hill[82].

  Once in the chill November, when the slender moon[83] hung low,
  And the barren hill tops yonder[84] were clad in a gauze of snow;
  Kate with a gleam of mischief in her bright and twinkling eye,
  Started across the river[85] to the hut of Joe, hard by;
  And Roderick sat by the window, watching her out of sight,
  Dreamily watching the shadows of that chill November night.

  Ere it had seemed a moment she again stood by his chair;
  She had called at their neighbor’s cabin, but Nellie had not been
    there.
  Roderick slowly rising took his rifle from the rack,
  For the road was wild and lonely and led through a forest tract;
  Over the ruts and boulders, chatting, they strode[86] along
  Till the voice of raw-boned Harry was heard in a merry song.

  “Singing for Nell’s amusement,” said the wife, as she hurried on;
  “Pity,” she added, musing, “that they have no child of their own.”
  Soon with a hearty greeting they were met at the cabin door,
  “And where is your little daughter?” asked Mag, as she scanned them
    o’er.
  “Question your good man, Harry[87], for I’ll venture that he can
    tell,”
  Said Kate, then smiling added, “we must stop lending little Nell.”

  Mag, with a playful gesture drew the bed-room screen[88] aside,
  “See!” she exclaimed, “she’s not here; now I hope you are satisfied.”
  “Come, Maggie, come, don’t trifle, for the hour is growing late;
  I know that the child is hiding; would you have us longer wait?”
  Thus queried Kate, half pleading, when a look akin to fear
  Stole over the face of Harry as he said, “she is not here!”[89]

  “Not here! O God[90] protect her!” with a gasp young Roderick cried,
  And his pale wife like a statue, mute with fright, stood at his side.
  ’Twas but a single moment, yet it seemed like an age to wait
  Ere Mag and Kate with their husbands filed out[91] through the open
    gate;
  Dark[92] was the night as a dungeon, for the moon had sunk away[93],
  And the far-off cries of a panther[94] filled each breast with dread
    dismay.
  On[95] through the gloomy forest like a band of ghosts they sped,
  Silently, save when the mother sobbed, or a twig snapped ’neath their
    tread;
  “Hark[96]!” whispered tall, gaunt Harry, and they stood with heads[97]
    bent low,
  While faint on the air of midnight came shrieks[98] of pain and woe.
  “Hello! hello[99]!” cried Harry; but they heard no voice reply――
  “Heavens! what means that crimson, that glow[100] on the fleecy sky?

  See how it spreads[101] and deepens! Look! our cabins are ablaze!”
  Then Roderick paused in terror at the sight that met his gaze.
  Light grew the wood about[102] them; their shadows fell before,
  For behind[103] them on the hillside leaped the flames from Harry’s
    door:
  “On[104] for your lives!” screamed Harry, “on for little Nell!”
  Then, like an answering challenge, rose the distant Indians’ yell.

  Bang! bang! “That’s Joe replying; he’ll fight ’em game and well,”
  Were the words that Harry uttered; “God[105] spare my darling Nell!”
  This from the pallid mother; and the settlers fairly flew
  O’er the matted brush and boulders till the clearing came in view.
  Oh, such a sight[106] of ruin! oh, such a ghastly scene!
  Stark, dead,[107] lay Joe and Edith on the charred and trampled green.

  Crouching down ’mid the bushes they watched the painted fiends,
  Watched with the strange, grim calmness that despair so often lends;
  “My child! my child!” then springing from the group like astartled
    deer,
  Kate rushed[108] o’er the red-lit clearing ere one could interfere――
  The hideous, screeching cut-throats had captured little Nell;
  But, when they saw her mother, they stood bound, as by a spell.

  “Spare![109] oh, spare my darling! Here, pierce me,[110] strike me
    dead![111]
  Give back my child, my Nellie!” the frantic woman said;
  Then on her panting bosom her daughter’s head she laid,
  Then both sank[112] down in silence, looked up and mutely prayed;
  That was the fatal signal, for on, like a sweeping hell[113]
  They came with knife and hatchet, with rifle-shot and yell.

  Bravely they fought, yet vainly, that fated settler band,
  Clubbing their empty rifles, meeting them hand to hand;
  Roderick reeled and staggered, then fell[114] ’neath a crushing blow,
  And a whoop of fiendish malice told the triumph of the foe;
  Then like a flash they vanished[115] and Roderick bleeding lay,
  Hearing their yells grow fainter, till at last they died away.

  Gray dawned the wintry morning on that awful scene of death,
  And five cold brows of marble were kissed[116] by its chilling
    breath――
  God in his wisdom took them――save Nellie, who ne’er was found;
  And all of them sleep in this valley, each ’neath a grassy mound.
  Poor little Nell may be living, but if living she’s dead to me;
  Yes, the tale is indeed a true one――and my name?――is Roderick Lee.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._


  GESTURES.
  [72] Left A. O.
  [73] Left ind. A. O.
  [74] Point to head.
  [75] H. sweep.
  [76] H. L.
  [77] H. F.
  [78] H. L.
  [79] H. F.
  [80] Ind. H. F.
  [81] H. O.
  [82] Left H. O.
  [83] A. O.
  [84] Left A. O.
  [85] H. O.
  [86] H. F.
  [87] H. O.
  [88] Left H. O.
  [89] Shake head.
  [90] Glance up.
  [91] H. F.
  [92] Ver. H. sweep.
  [93] Let hand fall.
  [94] H. O.
  [95] H. F.
  [96] Raise hand to listen.
  [97] Bow head.
  [98] H. F.
  [99] Hand to mouth.
  [100] A. F.
  [101] A. sweep.
  [102] b. H. O.
  [103] A. B.
  [104] H. F.
  [105] Clasp hands.
  [106] b. hands raised V. and head turned away.
  [107] H. F.
  [108] H. F.
  [109] Clasp hands.
  [110] b. H. F.
  [111] b. D. F.
  [112] b. D. F.
  [113] P. ind. D. F.
  [114] D. F.
  [115] H. O.
  [116] P. D. F.


[Illustration: “Cursed, thrice cursed may you be evermore, and as my
people on Mount Ebal spoke, so speak I thrice, Amen! Amen! Amen!”]




Holding a Baby.


Yesterday, while waiting on the corner for a street-car, a woman,
laden with an umbrella, a bandbox and a baby, accosted me with “Say,
mister, can I git to Market street on these yer cars?” “You can,” I
replied. “How long must I wait?” “Madam,” said I, noticing the string
slipping from her bandbox, “may I hold your umbrella and bandbox until
the car arrives? See, here it comes!” “I’d rather you’d hold Berthy,
if you will, mister, ’cause this darned string’s a slippin’
off――quick!――ketch it! Land o’ misery! There be all my things
scattered over the bricks! Do hold Berthy while I pick ’em up.” Here
was a dilemma. The car was not forty yards off, while the sidewalk was
strewn with every conceivable article, from a broken hair brush to a
pair of old worsted slippers. “Hurry up, then, madam,” cried I, as I
reached for the child, “I have an appointment and must take this car.”
Just as I took her from the woman’s arms, Berthy set up a yell that
would have paralyzed a huckster. Before the woman had gathered up half
the articles the car was upon us. Leaving her bandbox, she ran to the
crossing, and with a “Hold on there, you!” signaled the driver to
stop. The latter, taking in the situation, kept on, but a fat man
standing on the platform pulled the bell and the car stopped, about
half a dozen yards beyond the flag-stones. The conductor, who was
inside, collecting fares, ran out, and, grasping the bell-strap with
one hand and beckoning with the other, screeched: “If you want to ride
down, come on; I ain’t a-goin’ to anchor here all day!” As soon as the
woman took up her bandbox and umbrella, I started for the car. “Tell
your wife to come,” yelled the conductor. I looked back and there
stood the woman on the corner. “Do you think I’m a-goin’ to wade
through that mud?” screamed the woman, “for if you do, you’re
mistaken. Just back that ve-he-cle to me, right quick, too!” I had
reached the platform with Berthy in my arms, but the woman, looking
cyclones, still refused to move an inch. I shrieked out, “Walk along
the pavement and get on here!” A cross old maid looking through the
window at my elbow remarked aloud: “Hear him abuse his poor wife!” The
fat man suggested that I should manage the freight and let my wife
take the baby. The woman slowly picked her way through the mire and
stepped on the car. The conductor gave the bell a wicked snap, and
with a jerk that almost threw us over the dasher, the car started down
the street like a ten-penny nail from a slap-jack. “Here, madam,” said
I, in desperation, “take the child, I have forgotten my pocket book.”
She dropped into a seat and took her baby. Just as I was rushing from
the car the word “scoundrel!” was hissed into my ear. Turning quickly,
my horrified eyes beheld the stony gaze of my wife. “Go!” she
muttered. Well, I did go! Friends do you see this bald spot on my
head? Well, that reminds me never to fool with other people’s babies.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




  The Spanish Mother.

  [Supposed to be related by a veteran French officer.]


  Yes! I have served that[117] noble chief throughout his proud career,
  And heard the bullets whistle past in lands both far and near――
  Amidst Italian flowers,[118] below the dark pines of the north,[119]
  Where’er the Emperor willed[120] to pour his clouds of battle forth.

  ’Twas _then_ a splendid sight to see, though terrible, I ween,
  How his vast spirit filled[121] and moved the wheels of the machine;
  Wide sounding leagues[122] of sentient steel, and fires that lived
    to kill,[123]
  Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his will.

  But _now_ my heart is darkened with the shadows[124] that rise and
    fall
  Between the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appall:
  The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then,
  But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men.

  The German and the Englishman were each an open foe,
  And open hatred hurled[125] us back from Russia’s blinding snow;
  Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remain
  The dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of Spain.

  I saw a village[126] in the hills, as silent[127] as a dream,
  Naught stirring but the summer sound[128] of a merry mountain stream;
  The evening star[129] just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver
    eye,
  And the chestnut woods[130] were still and calm beneath the deepening
    sky.

  But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found,
  Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground;
  Each roofless hut[131] was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing
    vine,
  Each path was foul[132] with mangled meat and floods of wasted wine.

  We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way,
  And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day,
  The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more,
  But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore.

  We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay;
  His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore[133] and wrenched
    away;
  They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim,
  “Food, woman――food and wine, or else we tear[134] thee limb from
    limb.”

  The woman shaking off _his_ blood, rose,[135] raven-haired and tall,
  And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all.
  “Both food and wine,”[136] she said, “I have; I meant them for the
    dead,[137]
  But ye are living still, and so let them be yours instead.”

  The food was brought, the wine was brought out of a secret place,[138]
  But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbor’s face;
  Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill indifferent mien,
  Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene.

  She glided here,[139] she glided there,[140] before our wondering
    eyes,
  Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor surprise;
  At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horror ran,
  And made us pale and silent as that[141] silent murdered man.

  She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet;
  Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled[142] red around our
    feet.
  On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine,
  And we like marble statues glared――a chill, unmoving line.

  All white, all cold; and moments thus flew by without a breath,
  A company of living things where all was still――but death;[143]
  My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stood
  And watched[144] the only thing that stirred――the rippling of the
    blood.

  That woman’s voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell,
  And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell――
  “Ho![145] slayers of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers of the weak!
  What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats[146] and life-bought wine ye
    seek?

  Feed, and begone![147] I wish to weep――I bring you out my store[148]――
  Devour[149] it――waste[150] it all――and then――pass[151] and be seen
    no more.
  Poison! Is that your craven fear?” She snatched the goblet[152] up
  And raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup.

  But our fierce leader grasped her wrist――“No, woman! No!” he said,
  “A mother’s heart of love is deep――give it your child[153] instead.”
  She only smiled a bitter smile――“Frenchmen, I do not shrink――
  As pledge of my fidelity, behold[154] the infant drink!”

  He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost soul;
  But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl.
  And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing idle care,
  Sat down[155] to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare.

  The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light;
  But _I_ was fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night;
  I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain[156]
  Stung, sharper than a serpent’s tooth, an infant’s cry of pain.

  Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer,
  To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear.
  “Aye,” shrieked the woman, darting up, “I pray you trust again
  A widow’s hospitality in our unyielding[157] Spain.

  Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God[158] Himself I swore
  To treat you[159] as you treated _him_[160]――that[161] body on the
    floor.
  Yon secret place[162] I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare,
  The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there.

  A mother’s love is deep, no doubt; ye did not phrase it ill,
  But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper still.
  The Spanish woman speaks for Spain;[163] for her butchered love,[164]
    the wife,
  To tell you that an hour is all _my_ vintage leaves of life.

  I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on,
  Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath[165] a single stone;
  I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by,
  I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die.

  But though upon her wrenched limbs they leaped like beasts of prey,
  And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore[166] the quivering life
    away――
  Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain,
  Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain.

  And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild,
  Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds,[167] around the mother and her
    child――
  While she,[168] distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while,
  And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging smile.

                                 ――_Sir Francis Hastings Doyle._


  GESTURES.
  [117] H. O.
  [118] H. O.
  [119] Left H. O.
  [120] D. F.
  [121] b. H. O.
  [122] H. O. sweep.
  [123] D. O.
  [124] V. H. O.
  [125] b. V. par. H. O.
  [126] H. O.
  [127] P. H. O.
  [128] H. L.
  [129] Left ind. A. O.
  [130] H. O.
  [131] H. O.
  [132] V. D. O.
  [133] Sp.
  [134] b. Cl. H. O. as though tearing apart.
  [135] Raise hand P.
  [136] Look to left.
  [137] D. O.
  [138] Left H. L.
  [139] H. F.
  [140] H. O.
  [141] Ind. D. O.
  [142] P. D. sweep.
  [143] D. O.
  [144] Look to D. O.
  [145] Look to left.
  [146] H. F.
  [147] H. L.
  [148] b. H. O.
  [149] -
  [150] Impulses.
  [151] H. sweep.
  [152] Sp.
  [153] Left D. O.
  [154] Inclination of head to D. O.
  [155] B. H. O.
  [156] Hand to head.
  [157] D. F.
  [158] Point up.
  [159] H. F.
  [160] D. O.
  [161] Ind. D. O.
  [162] Left H. L.
  [163] H. sweep.
  [164] D. O.
  [165] P. D. O.
  [166] Sp.
  [167] H. Sw.
  [168] H. F.


[Illustration: “Come, let us within.”]




An Engineer’s Ride on a Piano.


Bill Jones is my fireman; we have run together on old “thirty-six” for
more than twenty years. One night when we were off duty, said Bill,
“Jim, let’s take in a show.” “Where?” I replied, at the same time
scanning the bill-board at the end of the depot. “See!” cried Bill,
“Mons. De Froglimb, the great French piano virtuoso――” “That’s enough,
Bill,” said I, “we’ll go”――and we did. He _was_ a Frenchman; looked
like an animated switch-signal. I am an old engineer, and have often
whistled through the wind, but that virtuoso!――Well, as soon as he sat
down on the stool I knew by the way he handled himself that he
understood the machine he was running. He tapped the keys away up one
end, just as if they were gauges and he wanted to see if he had water
enough. Then he looked up as if he wanted to know how much steam he
was carrying, and the next moment he pulled open the throttle and
sailed out on the main line as if he was a half an hour late.

“You could hear her thunder over culverts and bridges, and getting
faster and faster, until the fellow rocked about in his seat like a
cradle. Somehow I thought it was old ‘thirty-six’ pulling a passenger
train and getting out of the way of a ‘special.’ The fellow worked his
keys on the middle division like lightning, and then he flew along the
north end of the line until the drivers went around like a buzz-saw,
and I got excited. About the time I was fixing to tell him to cut her
off a little, he kicked the dampers under the machine wide open,
pulled the throttle away back in the tender, and, Jerusalem jumpers!
how he did run! I couldn’t stand it any longer, and yelled to him that
she was ‘pounding’ on the left side, and if he wasn’t careful he’d
drop his ashpan.

“But he didn’t hear me. No one heard me. Everything was flying and
whizzing. Telegraph poles on the side of the track looked like a row
of cornstalks, the trees appeared to be a mud bank, and all the time
the exhaust of the old machine sounded like the hum of a bumblebee. I
tried to yell out, but my tongue wouldn’t move. He went around the
curves like a bullet, slipped an eccentric, blew out his soft plug,
went down grades fifty feet to the mile, and not a confounded brake
set. She went by the meeting point at a mile and a half a minute and
calling for more steam. My hair stood up like a cat’s tail, because I
knew the game was up.

“Sure enough, dead ahead of us was the head-light of the ‘special.’ In
a daze I heard the crash as they struck, and I saw cars shivered into
atoms, people mashed and mangled, and bleeding, and gasping for water.
I heard another crash as the French professor struck the deep keys
away down on the lower end of the southern division, and then I came
to my senses. There he was, at a dead standstill, with the door of the
fire-box of the machine open, wiping the perspiration off his face,
and bowing at the people before him. If I live to be a thousand years
old I’ll never forget the ride that Frenchman gave me on a piano.”




  The World’s Hero.

  [Recited by F. Lizzie Peirce at the Annual Re-union of the
  Independent Literary Society, August 8th, 1885.]


  Go search the annals of the human race,
  Go hear the legends that the heathen tell,
  And learn that hist’ry, sacred or profane,
  Records no hero like the mighty Grant.
  Columbia proudly claims him as her own
  And rears her monuments with love and pride;
  But millions scattered o’er the face of earth,
  And millions yet unborn, will share that claim:
  Who serves mankind is deemed the friend of man,
  And nations nationalize him in their hearts.
  Since that first famous Battle of the Kings,
  Of which we read in holy writ, no sword
  E’er leaped from scabbard in a juster war
  Than that which made our country free indeed,
  Which, until then, was only free in name.
  The bond of unity that Washington
  To us bequeathed, Grant’s loyal arm maintained;
  Emancipation of the dusky race
  By Lincoln’s heaven-inspired pen, by Grant’s
  Unsullied sword was made complete!
                                     How well
  He proved the potency of equal rights,
  And how he dignified Democracy
  The monarchs of the world have told, thrice told,
  In homage, hospitality and love.
  No land is free where dwells a slave: to-day
  In all our land there dwells no slave, and we
  Are free, forever free!
                          “_Let us have peace._”
  Clasp hands across the ashes of the dead.
  No, no; Grant is not dead, he cannot die;
  The body is the worn-out coat of mail,
  That with his sword and shield the warrior casts
  Aside when life’s campaign is o’er, and home,
  Eternal home, is reached.
                            He is not dead
  Whose power still exists; and Grant will live
  A life of immortality while yet
  Our starry banner floats for liberty,
  Which, thanks to God, will be forevermore.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




  The Coquette.


  Two girls sat in a gay saloon, nor mingled with the crowd;
  The younger’s face was pale, and sad, the elder’s stern and proud.

  “O Gertrude,” said the younger girl, “thou art a sad coquette;
  Ah, many hearts have felt thy power, and thou art flirting yet.

  There’s one who fills a foreign grave, who loved thee all too well,
  Who breathed thy name forgivingly, as in the fray he fell;

  And yet his fate was better far than that of poor Martelle,
  Who lonely clanks his heavy chains――a madman――in his cell.”

  “O Gertrude,” in a softer tone, “give up thy selfish arts,
  Or hopeless love will be thy doom for blighting loving hearts.”

  Thus far had Maud unchecked reproved when Gertrude coldly said:
  “I care not for the living dupes, why blame me for the dead?

  Thy lover, sure, is naught to me, so quell thy jealous fears;
  When seeking game I ever strive to strike among my peers.”

  “Tis not my lover,” Maud replied, while blushes bathed her brow,
  “But brother Paul I fain would save――for him I’m pleading now.

  Of kin, he’s all I have on earth――so noble, brave and pure――
  Too good, alas, to sacrifice――defeat he’d ne’er endure.”

  But Gertrude rose and took the hand that claimed her for the dance,
  While Maud stole to the balcony――did Paul stand there by chance?

  It seemed not so――anon there came a lass surpassing fair; Some
  hurried words, a merry laugh――they seek the gaslight’s glare.

  Soon Paul claims Gertrude for the waltz; she yields and softly
    sighs,
  Then off they whirl while glances dart from scores of jealous eyes.

                      *     *     *     *     *

  The full round moon now rides on high; the fragrant air is cool,
  The fountain’s spray, like flashing gems, darts in the limpid pool.

  A rustic seat girts round an oak, and Paul leads Gertrude there,
  She by his side, he takes her hand, so small, so soft and fair.

  In accents low he thus began: “O Gertrude, till to-night
  True happiness I never knew, and may it ne’er take flight.

  Say, may I tell my tale, and hope to gain a smile from thee?
  Approving words to ease a heart that is no longer free?

  I’m lonely now, for sister Maud is soon to be a bride;
  Then wonder not because I seek a refuge at thy side.”

  She murmured half inaudibly: “Dear Paul, I long to hear;
  Thou’lt get a smile for ev’ry smile, a tear for ev’ry tear.”

  “Enough, kind Gertrude, listen then: for years I’ve roamed afar;
  I’ve sailed beneath the Southern Cross, I’ve lost the Northern Star;

  But now I once more breathe the air of home, I’ll never stray;
  I only need a loving wife――why tremble, Gertrude, say?

  But soon I’ll tell thee all I may; say, wilt thou share my joy?
  God willing, this night, two weeks hence, I marry Kate LeRoy.”

  Poor Gertrude heard no more that eve, nor saw she Paul again;
  The rose-tints faded from her cheeks; at last she loved――in vain.

                      *     *     *     *     *

  Her wasted form the church-yard holds; Ah! never this forget:
  A woman’s love is woman’s life, e’en tho’ a gay coquette.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers_.




Experience with a Refractory Cow.

[This piece is very effective given in costume.]


We used to keep a cow when we lived in the country, and sich a cow!
Law sakes! Why, she used to come to be milked as reg’lar as
clock-work. She’d knock at the gate with her horns, jest as sensible
as any other human critter.

Her name was Rose. I never knowed how she got that name, for she was
black as a kittle.

Well, one day Rose got sick, and wouldn’t eat nothing, poor thing! and
a day or so arter she died. I raly do believe I cried when that poor
critter was gone. Well, we went for a little spell without a cow, but
I told Mr. Scruggins it wouldn’t do, no way nor no how; and he gin in.
Whenever I said _must_ Mr. Scruggins knowed I meant it. Well, a few
days arter, he come home with the finest cow and young calf you ever
seed. He gin thirty dollars for her and the calf, and two levies to a
man to help bring her home. Well, they drove her into the back yard,
and Mr. Scruggins told me to come out and see her, and I did; and I
went up to her jest as I used to did to Rose, and when I said “Poor
Sukey,” would you believe it? the nasty brute kicked me right in the
fore part of my back; her foot catched into my dress――bran-new dress,
too――cost two levies a yard, and she took a levy’s-worth right out as
clean as the back of my hand.

I screeched right out and Mr. Scruggins kotched me jest as I was
dropping, and he carried me to the door, and I went in and sot down. I
felt kind o’ faintish, I was so abominable skeered.

Mr. Scruggins said he would larn her better manners, so he picked up
the poker and went out, but I had hardly began to get a leetle
strengthened up afore in rushed my dear husband a-flourishing the
poker, and that vicious cow arter him like all mad. Mr. Scruggins
jumped into the room, and, afore he had time to turn round and shut
the door, that desperate brute was in, too.

Mr. Scruggins got up on the dining-room table, and I run into the
parlor. I thought I’d be safe there, but I was skeered so bad that I
forgot to shut the door, and, sakes alive! after hooking over the
dining-room table and rolling Mr. Scruggins off, in she walked into
the parlor, shaking her head as much as to say: “I’ll give you a touch
now.” I jumped on a chair, but thinking that warn’t high enough, I got
one foot on the brass knob of the Franklin stove, and put the other on
the mantel-piece. You ought to ha’ seen that cow in our parlor; she
looked all round as if she was ’mazed; at last she looked in the
looking-glass, and thought she seed another cow exhibiting anger like
herself; she shuck her head and pawed the carpet, and so did her
reflection, and――would you believe it?――that awful brute went right
into my looking-glass.

Then I boo-hoo’d right out. All this while I was getting agonized; the
brass knob on the stove got so hot that I had to sit on the narrer
mantel-piece and hold on to nothing. I dussent move for fear I’d slip
off.

Mr. Scruggins came round to the front door, but it was locked, and
then he come to the window and opened it. I jumped down and run for
the window, and hadn’t more’n got my head out afore I heard that
critter a-coming after me. Gracious! but I was in a hurry; more haste,
less speed, always; for the more I tried to climb quick the longer it
took, and just as I got ready to jump down, that brute of a cow
kotched me in the back and turned me over and over out of the window.

Well, when I got right side up, I looked at the window and there stood
that cow, with her head between the white and red curtains, and
another piece of my dress dangling on her horns.

Well, my husband and me was jest starting for the little alley that
runs alongside of the house, when the cow give a bawl, and out of the
window she come, whisking her tail, which had kotched fire on the
Franklin stove, and it served her right.

Mr. Scruggins and me run into the alley in such haste we got wedged
fast. Husband tried to get ahead, but I’d been in the rear long
enough, and I wouldn’t let him. That dreadful cow no sooner seen us in
the alley, than she made a dash, but thank goodness! she stuck fast,
too.

Husband tried the gate, but that was fast, and there wasn’t nobody
inside the house to open it. Mr. Scruggins wanted to climb over and
unbolt it, but I wouldn’t let him. I wasn’t going to be left alone
again with that desperate cow, even if she was fast; so I made him
help me over the gate. Oh, dear, climbing a high gate when you’re
skeered by a cow is a dreadful thing, and I know it!

Well, I got over, let husband in, and then it took him and me and four
other neighbors to get that dreadful critter out of the alley. She
bellered and kicked, and her calf bellered to her, and she bawled back
again; but we got her out at last, and such a time! I’d had enough of
her; husband sold her for twenty dollars next day. It cost him
seventy-five cents to get her to market, and when he tried to pass off
one of the five dollar bills he got, it turned out to be a
counterfeit.

Mr. Scruggins said to his dying day that he believed the brother of
the man that sold him the cow bought it back again. I believe it
helped to worry my poor husband into his grave. Ah, my friends, you
better believe I know what a cow is.


[Illustration: “Hark! ’tis the train; the mother’s ear leans to the
sound.”]




  Mary, Queen of Scots.

  [First Honor at Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of
  Elocution and Languages, 1885.]


  I looked far back[169] into other years, and lo! in bright array,
  I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away.
  It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls,
  And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep[170]
    falls;
  And o’er the antique dial stone[171] the creeping shadow passed,
  And all around,[172] the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast.
  No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister[173] dim,
  The tinkling[174] of the silver bell, or the sisters’ holy hymn.
  And there[175] five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees,
  In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please;
  And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers,
  That Scotland knew no prouder[176] names, held none more dear than
    theirs:
  And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine,
  Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line!
  Calmly her happy days flew on,[177] uncounted in their flight,
  And as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light.

  The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon,
  And ’neath a thousand[178] silver lamps a thousand courtiers[179]
    throng;
  And proudly kindles Henry’s[180] eye――well pleased, I ween, to see
  The land assemble all[181] its wealth of grace and chivalry;
  But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune’s tide,
  Effulgent in the light of youth, is she,[182] the new-made bride!
  The homage of a thousand hearts――the fond deep love of one――
  The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun――
  They lighten up her chestnut eye,[183] they mantle o’er her cheek,
  They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak;
  Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant
    hours,
  She thought of that quiet convent’s calm, its sunshine and its
    flowers?

  The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way,
  And o’er its lee[184] the coast of France in the light of evening
    lay;
  And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes
  Upon the fast-receding hills,[185] that dim and distant rise.
  No marvel that the lady wept――there was no land on earth[186]
  She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth;
  It was her mother’s land, the land of childhood and of friends――
  It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends――
  The land where her dead husband slept――the land where she had known
  The tranquil convent’s hushed repose,[187] and the splendors of a
    throne[188];
  No marvel that the lady wept――it was the land of France――
  The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of romance!
  The past was bright, like those fair hills[189] so far beyond her
    bark;
  The future[190], like the gathering night, was ominous and dark[191]!
  One gaze again――one long, last gaze――“Adieu, fair France, to
    thee!”[192]
  The breeze comes forth――she is alone on the unconscious sea!

  The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood,
  And in a turret chamber high[193] of ancient Holyrood
  Sat Mary, listening[194] to the rain, and sighing with the winds,
  That seemed to suit the stormy state of men’s uncertain minds.
  The touch of care had blanched her cheek,――her smile was sadder now,
  The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow;
  And traitors to her councils[195] came, and rebels to the field;[196]
  The Stuart SCEPTER well she swayed, but the SWORD she could not wield.
  She thought of all her blighted hopes――the dreams of youth’s brief
    day,
  And summoned Rizzio[197] with his lute, and bade the minstrel play
  The songs she loved in early years――the songs of gay Nevarre,
  The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar;
  They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed[198] her into
    smiles,
  They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils;
  But hark![199] the tramp of armèd men! the Douglas’ battle cry!
  They come, they come![200]――and lo! the scowl of Ruthven’s hollow eye!
  And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words are
    vain[201]――
  The ruffian steel is in his heart[202]――the faithful Rizzio’s slain!
  Then Mary dashed[203] aside the tears that trickling fell;
  “Now for my father’s arm!”[204] she said, “my woman’s heart,
    farewell!”[205]

  The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small lonely isle,
  And there[206] within the prison-walls of its baronial pile,
  Stern men stood menacing their Queen, till she should stoop to sign
  The traitorous scroll that snatched the crown from her ancestral line.
  “My lords, my lords!” the captive said, “were I but once more free,
  With ten good knights on yonder shore[207], to aid my cause and me,
  That parchment would I scatter[208] wide to every breeze that blows,
  And once more reign a Stuart Queen o’er my remorseless foes!”
  A red spot burned upon her cheek――streamed her rich tresses down,
  She wrote the words――she stood erect――a _QUEEN WITHOUT A CROWN_!

  The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner[209] bore,
  And the faithful of the land stood round[210] their smiling Queen
    once more;
  She stayed her steed upon a hill――she saw them marching by[211]――
  She heard their shouts――she read success in every flashing eye.
  The tumult of the strife begins――it roars――it dies away;[212]
  And Mary’s troops and banners now, and courtiers――where are
    they?[213]
  Scattered and strown and flying[214] far, defenseless and
    undone[215]――
  Alas! to think what she has lost, and all that guilt has won!
  ――Away! away![216] thy gallant steed must act no laggard’s part;
  Yet vain his speed――for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart!

  The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman[217]stood,
  And gleamed the broad-axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood.
  With slow and steady step there came a lady[218] through the hall,
  And breathless silence[219] chained the lips and touched the hearts
    of all.
  I knew that queenly form[220] again, though blighted was its bloom――
  I saw that grief had decked it out――an offering for the tomb!
  I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone:
  I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every tone.
  I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold;
  I knew that bounding grace of step――that symmetry of mould!
  Even now I see[221] her far away, in that calm convent aisle,
  I hear[222] her chant her vesper hymn, I mark her holy smile――
  Even now I see[223] her bursting forth, upon the bridal morn,
  A new star[224] in the firmament, to light and glory[225] born!
  Alas! the change!――she placed her foot upon a triple throne,
  And on the scaffold[226] now she stands――beside the block――ALONE!
  The little dog that licks her hand――the last of all the crowd
  That sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps
    bowed!

  ――Her neck is bared――the blow is struck――the soul has passed[227]
    away!
  The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay![228]
  The dog is moaning piteously; and, as it gurgles o’er,
  Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor![229]
  The blood of beauty, wealth and power――the heart blood[230] of a
    Queen――
  The noblest of the Stuart race――the fairest earth has seen――
  Lapped by a dog! Go, think of it, in silence and alone;
  Then weigh against a grain[231] of sand the glories[232] of a throne!

                                                   _H. G. Bell._


  GESTURES.
  [169] H. F.
  [170] P. D. O.
  [171] H. O.
  [172] b. H. O.
  [173] Left H. O.
  [174] Hand raised to listen.
  [175] H. O.
  [176] A. O.
  [177] H. sweep.
  [178] b. A. O.
  [179] b. H. O.
  [180] H. O.
  [181] b. H. O.
  [182] H. O.
  [183] H. O. sustained with slight impulses from the wrist upon each
        clause.
  [184] H. L.
  [185] H. B.
  [186] D. F.
  [187] P. F.
  [188] A. O.
  [189] H. B.
  [190] H. F.
  [191] b. V. H. O.
  [192] Sweep from face to H. B. (must be graceful or leave out).
  [193] A. F.
  [194] Incline head to listen.
  [195] H. F.
  [196] H. O.
  [197] Left H. L.
  [198] P. H. sweep.
  [199] Raise hand to listen.
  [200] H. F.
  [201] D. L.
  [202] P. ind. D. F.
  [203] Special.
  [204] Cli. raised.
  [205] H. L.
  [206] Left H. O.
  [207] H. O.
  [208] b. H. O.
  [209] A. F.
  [210] b. H. O.
  [211] H. sweep.
  [212] H. L.
  [213] b. H. O.
  [214] H. L.
  [215] D. L.
  [216] Left H. L.
  [217] H. F.
  [218] Left H. O.
  [219] b. P. H. O.
  [220] Left H. O.
  [221] H. O.
  [222] Listen.
  [223] H. O.
  [224] Ind. A. O.
  [225] A. sweep.
  [226] H. F.
  [227] A. F.
  [228] H. F.
  [229] D. F.
  [230] Ind. H. F.
  [231] D. O.
  [232] A. O.


[Illustration: “Alas! poor soul, what woe is thine!”]




The Yankee Still Ahead.


A Yankee, visiting London, and passing along one of the principal
thoroughfares of trade and travel, stopped to look at some beautiful
specimens of writing paper exposed for sale in a shop window; he gazed
long and earnestly at the gorgeous display, when presently he turned
and encountered the proprietor of the establishment standing at the
door. The Yankee politely said:

“Will ye tell me what ye du with them nice bits of paper?”

“Yes, we keep them to tie up gape-seed in,” was the snappish response.

“Oh, ye du, du ye?” said Jonathan, with a sly twinkle in his eye, as
he walked on. Passing down the street a short distance our indignant
Yankee accosted another merchant, to whom he said: “Mister, can ye
tell me what that feller duz for a livin’ what keeps them nice bits o’
paper in his winder?”

“Yes, sir; he writes letters for persons who desire his assistance.”

“Du ye think he’d write a letter for me if I’d pay him fur it?”

“Certainly he would, and be glad of the chance.”

Our bright-eyed hero thanked him, and turned abruptly away, walking
briskly in the direction from which he came. The shop was soon
reached, and, fortunately, the same individual stood on the door-step.
The Yankee lost no time in addressing the cockney, and thus at once
began:

“I say, mister, I heerd that ye write letters fur folks what can’t
write; what’ll ye tax me to write a letter to my uncle Peter?”

“I will charge you five shillings,” he said, in such a changed tone of
voice that the Yankee had to look again to see that he had not
mistaken the person.

“Will ye write jest what I tell ye tu, and spell all the words right?”

“To be sure I will.”

“And if ye don’t, I won’t pay ye; will ye agree to that?”

“As I understand my business _thoroughly_, of course I will agree to
that.”

“Wall, then, ye may commence.”

The scribe arranged his paper, ink and pen, and pronounced himself
ready.

“My dear uncle Peter:――ready fur more?”

“Yes.”

“‘Rived here in London last week,――have ye got that deown?”

“Yes, go on.”

“Thought I’d take a stroll through the woods,――got that deown and
spelt right?”

“Yes, yes; go on, and do not bother me so.”

“I pay ye five shillings by-and-bye, don’t I?”

“Yes, but you have no need to detain me so if you do.”

“Wall, I walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and――”

“What’s the use of saying it over so many times?”

“None o’ your business,――I _pay_ ye five shillings,――and walked and
walked and walked――”

“See here, this page is full of the words ‘and walked.’”

“Turn over then,――and walked and walked, and I couldn’t find any
woods. Have ye got all that deown and spelt right?”

“Yes, but why don’t you go on.”

“Jest then I stopped to think what I should du, or where to go,――got
that all deown?”

(Snappishly) “Yes.”

“Wall, then I seen a sign, and on it wuz: ‘Teams to hire,’ so I went
up and told the man to give me a fust-rate team with a hoss I could
easy manage myself. My! but you write fast. Is all that deown?”
(Surprised).

“It is, and I would like to have the rest of your letter, sir.”

“Wall, that hoss started off all right, but in less than two minutes
she got stubborner than any mule; and I hed to get eout, and lick her
and kick her and prick her and lick her and kick her and prick her,
(continue to repeat these words very rapidly), and she wouldn’t go. Is
that all deown, and spelt right?”

“You are only losing time, sir, in repeating that last phrase.”

“That’s my business,――When I see’d she wouldn’t go fur lickin’, I
tried to coax her, and coaxed and coaxed and coaxed and coaxed and
coaxed, but she wouldn’t go; then I got crosslike and went――” (here
the Yankee makes a chirruping sound which bids defiance to
orthography).

“I can’t spell that,” said the Englishman.

“Oh, ye can’t spell that, can’t ye? Then ye needn’t write any more for
me.”

“Need not write any more!”

“No more,” was the composed reply of the Yankee, as he laid his hand
over his fat pocket and said:

“I ’spose ye remember our agreement?”

“Yes, I do, but what’s to be done with all this paper?”

“Keep it to tie up gape-seed in. Good bye, sir!” and the Yankee made a
speedy exit.

                                 _Arranged by S. Anna Gesemyer._




  Tommy’s Deathbed.


  But hush! the voice from the little bed,
  And the watchful mother bent her head.
  “Mammy, I know that I’m soon to die
  And I want to wish them all good-bye.

  I shouldn’t like any here to say,
  ‘He didn’t shake hands when he went away;
  He was glad to be off to his harp and wings
  And couldn’t remember his poor old things.’

  In Heaven I never should feel content
  If I hadn’t been kind before I went;
  So let me take leave of them, great and small,
  Animals, people and toys and all.”

  So the word went forth, and in no great while
  The servants entered in solemn file――
  The stout old cook, and the housemaid, Rose,
  And the aproned boy, with his smutted nose.

  So each of the women, with streaming cheek,
  Bent over and kissed him and could not speak;
  But he said that they must not grieve and cry,
  For they’d meet again in the happy sky.

  ’Twas longer and harder to deal with Jim――
  The child grew grave as he looked at him,
  For he thought to himself, “He bets and swears,
  And I hardly believe that he says his prayers.

  Oh, Jim, dear Jim, if you do such things
  You’ll never be dressed in a harp and wings.”
  He talked to the boy as a father should,
  And begged him hard to be grave and good.

  The lad lounged out with a brazen air
  And whistled derisively down the stair.
  But they found him hid in the hole for coal,
  Sobbing and praying in grief of soul.

  Old “Rover” came next, sedate and good,
  And gazed at his master and understood;
  Then up we carried, in order due,
  “Maria,” the cat, and her kittens two.

  Proud purred the mother, and arched her back,
  And vaunted her kittens, one white, one black;
  And the sweet white kitten was good and still,
  But the black one played with his nightgown’s frill.

  He stroked them all with his poor weak hand.
  But he felt they could not understand.
  He smiled, however, and was not vext,
  And bade us bring him the rabbit next.

  He welcomed “Punch” with a loving smile,
  And hugged him close in his arms awhile;
  And we knew (for the dear child’s eyes grew dim)
  How grievous it was to part with him.

  His mother he bade, with tearful cheek,
  Give “Punch” his carrot three days a week,
  With lettuce-leaves on a cautious plan,
  And only just moisten his daily bran.

  Then next we brought to him, one by one,
  His drum and his trumpet, his sword and gun;
  And we lifted up for his fondling hand
  His good gray steed on the rocking-stand.

  Then close to his feet we placed a tray,
  And we set his armies in array;
  And his eyes were bright with fire and dew
  As we propped him up for his last review.

  His ark came next, and pair by pair,
  Passed beasts of the earth and fowls of the air;
  He kissed good Japheth, and Ham, and Shem,
  And waved his hands to the rest of them.

  But we saw that his eyes had lost their fire,
  And his dear little voice began to tire;
  He lay quite still for a little while,
  With eyes half-closed and a peaceful smile.

  Then “Mammy,” he said, and never stirred,
  And his mother bent for the whispered word;
  “Give him his carrot each second day,”
  Our Tommy murmured, and passed away.




Going to Market.


Oh, dear! these are dull times. What is a body to do? Bills cannot be
collected, the season for business is over, and prospects for relief
look decidedly blue. How can a woman buy a Saturday’s marketing for
eight persons with only five dollars? The idea is preposterous! I
could cry my eyes out with perplexity, but what’s the use?

Moses Flint is a good husband; he dotes on me, I know; yet he has no
more idea of the cost of a shoulder of mutton than a Kickapoo Indian
has of a sewing machine. Well, there’s no use of standing here talking
about it; it must be done, but how? Oh, my poor head!

One pound of butter, fifty cents; observe――sixteen ounces of butter
for eight persons, just two ounces apiece, to last until Monday
morning. Why, Moses himself eats two ounces at a meal! The thought
distracts me. Butter, fifty; potatoes, twenty-five; onions, fifteen;
he _will_ have onions on Sunday; won’t eat ’em through the week; says
they interfere with his business; but it makes no difference the day
he spends with me. I wonder if my nostrils are better adapted to smell
onions than those of his customers? Men are strange mortals, anyhow;
my Moses will get shaved and polish his boots to go to the lodge, but
let me ask him to go with me to the dressmakers, or to the Muggins’,
and he won’t even put on a clean collar. The lodge must be a very
_particular_ place.

Cabbage for slaw, ten; there is a dollar gone already. A pair of
chickens, one dollar and fifty cents; rabbits would be cheaper, but he
insists on chickens. It provokes me so. Last Sunday every blessed one
wanted a drum-stick; of course two fowls have but four drum-sticks,
therefore, as intimated before, only four got the four, which left the
other four to envy the lucky four who got the four drum-sticks, and to
content themselves with breasts and wings. For my part, I got only a
neck and a gizzard. Well, I’ll do the best I can, but I’ll manage to
squeeze out enough for two yards of that cherry-colored ribbon at
Jones’, dinner or no dinner, or my name isn’t Sarah Flint.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




The Merry Sunflower.


With a little ingenuity and with six musical voices this piece may be
made a very pleasing and attractive feature in an evening’s
entertainment. Procure a piece of sheeting at least six feet in length
by five in width. Fasten the lower lengthwise edge to the floor of the
stage, and the upper edge, by means of cords or other fastenings, to
the ceiling. Cut three holes about the height of a person’s face in
standing and of the shape and size of the face, and three others at
kneeling height; then around these holes paint or paste on paper to
represent the petals of immense sunflowers, with stalks attached. The
singer’s faces occupy the holes, and the words are sung to the air of
“The Little Brown Jug.”

  1ST VOICE.

  Oh, I’m a namesake of the Sun,
  Prized and loved by every one.

  2D VOICE.

  Quite tall and stately here am I,
  Oscar Wilde for me would sigh.

                           _Chorus._

  Oh, proud the rose and pink may be,
  Still they’re naught compared with me;
  We look down on all the rest,
  Thus of flowers we are the best.

  3D VOICE.

  Yes, you’re a beauty, so am I,
  Sitting on my throne so high!

  4TH VOICE.

  Rich black and yellow, gold and brown,
  Who’s not heard of my renown?

                          _Chorus._

  5TH VOICE.

  Mister Sol he flirts with me,
  Tries his best my face to see!

  6TH VOICE.

  Here list’ning to the warbler’s song
  Rock I all the summer long.

                          _Chorus._




Hints on Expression.


Expression consists in so modulating the voice by means of the
different degrees of pitch, force, rate, and rhetorical pause, as to
perfectly convey every shade of meaning contained in the sentiment; in
other words, it is _painting with sound_. As perfect a picture can be
conveyed to the ear by means of voice as to the eye through color; and
in order to utilize this life-coloring of modulation in reading, you
must first acquire a thorough conception of the meaning of the author;
try to place yourself in sympathy with the sentiments you are to
utter, adopt them and put them into your own words, notice how you
express them, what degrees of force come natural to them, what pitch
and slides, degrees of rate, what pauses between words and _upon_
words best bring out their meaning, and then take up again the
author’s words, and try to give them as nearly as possible like your
own; you will find the battle is half won. One of the greatest
obstacles in the way of giving true expression is the presence of the
printed page before the eye. The words are repeated one after the
other mechanically, while the thoughts are perhaps upon another
subject. An artist cannot paint a picture without first drawing it in
his mind; so we cannot paint a word picture unless its impression is
made upon the brain; hence the key to expression consists in
_understanding what you read_.

A future number will contain directions for the remedy of unmanageable
voices.

                                           ――_F. Lizzie Peirce._


[Illustration: “Look at the fly on that man’s head! Look! another
fly.”]




The Crowning of the Sunday-School Angel.

MUSICAL DIALOGUE WITH TABLEAU.


  CHARACTERS.

  THE GUARD,                          _Gentleman_.

  THE ANGEL OF ORDER,              }
  THE ANGEL OF LITERATURE,         }
  THE ANGEL OF MUSIC,              }  _Ladies_.
  THE ANGEL OF LOVE,               }
  THE ANGEL OF THE WORD OF GOD.    }

  TWO RAGGED CHILDREN,             }  _A small boy_.
                                   }  _A little girl_.

  A CHORUS OF SUNDAY-SCHOOL SCHOLARS.


PREPARATIONS.――_A large Gothic chair raised one step or more from the
floor of the pulpit for a throne. A crown (made of pasteboard and
covered with gold paper will answer), placed on_ _the top of the
chair. A scepter is needed. The ladies taking the parts should be
dressed in white; they may each wear a long flowing veil of illusion
or other light material, with star on the forehead. The veil should
not cover the face, but fall back over the shoulders._

THE GUARD _should wear a Knight Templar or other suitable uniform, and
should take charge of and guard the throne before_ ORDER _presents
herself._


THE ANGEL OF ORDER _(comes up the aisle, with a bell or some emblem of
order in her hand, and ascending the pulpit advances towards the
throne and addresses the Guard as follows)_:

I am the Angel of Order; “Order is heaven’s first law,”――a glorious
law, seen in those beauteous isles of light that come and go, as
circling months fulfil their high behest. Nor less on earth discerned
mid rocks snow-clad or wastes of herbless sand.

Throughout all climes, beneath all varying skies, fixing for e’en the
smallest flower that blooms, its place of growth.

I am the child of beauty and wisdom. My attendants are comfort,
neatness, and activity. I come to be the angel of the Sunday-school.
Let me occupy this throne and issue my decrees, and confusion will be
unknown; officers, teachers and scholars shall be under my control.

All the regulations essential to a proper conducting of the school
shall be enforced. Punctuality in attendance, propriety in behavior,
attention to instruction, and obedience to rules shall be insisted
upon. I will have a place for everything, and everything shall be in
its place.

GUARD (_replies_).――Angel of Order, I welcome thee; what thou hast
said is true; what would this universe be without thy mighty presence?
Were thy power abolished but for a moment, “the war of elements, the
wreck of matter and the crush of worlds” would be the immediate and
inevitable result. Thou art needed everywhere, and we must have thee
in our school, but thou canst not be the Supreme Angel of the school.
Stand here upon the right of the throne (_conducts her to the right of
the throne_).


THE ANGEL OF LITERATURE (_comes up the aisle with books, papers and
tracts in her hand, ascending the pulpit, advances toward the throne,
and addresses the Guard as follows_):

I am the Angel of Literature. The written thoughts and emotions of men
constitute my domain. The pen and the press are the instruments of my
progress, and are mightier than the sword. I, too, am an applicant for
this throne. Give me authority and I will supply the school with books
and papers, with leaves and tracts,――of these there shall be no lack.
The library shall be replenished from time to time with entertaining,
instructive and religious volumes,――well bound and beautiful. And all
will be glad for my presence and rejoice in my power (_advances toward
the throne_).

GUARD (_replies_).――Angel of Literature, I greet thee also with
pleasure. Thy sphere is a noble one, and thy mission worthy. The mind
must be stored with knowledge and stimulated with truth. It is thine
to impart information and administer culture,――to aid in the education
of our race. We give thee a place in our school, but cannot crown thee
as its Ruling Angel. Stand here upon the left (_leads her to the left
of the throne_).


THE ANGEL OF MUSIC (_comes up the aisle starting from the vestibule of
the church, having in her hand a harp, or other instrument, and a roll
of music, singing_):


[Illustration: [Music]

  _Solo, by Angel of Music._

  There are little children singing round the throne,
  In that heav’nly land, In that heav’nly land,
  They are singing round the bright eternal throne,
  The great white throne of God.

  _Chorus by the School._

  We shall meet them in their bright eternal home,
  We will sing with them around the great white throne,
  We will sing of Him who died,
  Of our Saviour crucified,
  Round the great white throne of God.]

  From the New Silver Song, by permission of W. W. WHITNEY.


THE ANGEL OF MUSIC (_advances toward the Guard, and addresses him as
follows_):

I am the Angel of Music. Melody and Harmony are my children. I open my
mouth in song and my voice trembles with sweet sounds. I touch the
keys of the instrument and the air is full of delightful strains. I
give strength to the weak; encourage the wavering; cheer the sick, and
assist in the triumph of the dying. I make heaven jubilant with
anthems of praise. My voice is heard on earth in the lullabys of the
nursery, in the songs of childhood, in the hymns of the sanctuary and
in the ballads of the nation. My power is felt by the refined and the
savage.

Let me be the ruling angel of the Sunday-school. I will furnish each
department with an organ. I will teach all to sing. The tunes and the
time shall be perfect, and no discord shall be heard amid the blended
notes. Books of music shall be in abundance and all hearts shall
thrill with gladness.


[Illustration: [Music]

  _Chorus by the School._

  We love to sing together, we love to sing together,
  Our hearts and voices one;
  To praise our heav’nly Father,
  To praise our heav’nly Father,
  And His eternal Son;
  We love, we love, we love, we love,
  We love to sing together,
  We love, we love, we love, we love,
  We love to sing together.

  Copyrighted, 1859, in Oriola, by W. B. BRADBURY; used by permission
  of BIGLOW & MAIN.]


GUARD (_replies_).――Angel of Music, I have listened to thy song, and
its sweetness has captivated my soul. Surely thy work is sublime and
thy influence great.

  “Music the fierest grief can charm,
   And fate’s severest rage disarm;
   Music can soften pain to ease,
   And make despair and madness please;
   Our joys below it can improve,
   And antedate the bliss above.”

We cheerfully assign thee a place in our midst, but thou canst not be
the Supreme Angel of the school (_leads her to the right of the
throne_).


THE ANGEL OF LOVE (_comes up the aisle leading a little boy and girl,
each wearing a loose, ragged garment that can be easily thrown off.
She advances toward the Guard and addresses him as follows_):

I am the Angel of Love. I dwell in the bosom of God and in the hearts
of men. Heaven is the scene of my highest manifestation, but I breathe
benedictions on the earth. I relieve the needy and cheer the
disconsolate with words and deeds of sympathy. The light of my smile
kindles a radiance in many dark places of sorrow. My scepter subdues
the hardest heart, and my speech often wins the prodigal back to his
father’s house. I make home happy and bless the church with
prosperity. I am a candidate for this throne. Give me place, and I
will cause with magic power springs of happiness to rise, and flowers
of social delight to bloom in the pathway of all; the aged and the
young shall alike rejoice, and the entire school shall witness how
good and pleasant it is to dwell together in unity. Besides this, I
will go out into the highways and hedges, into the lanes and alleys;
visit the abodes of the poor and the haunts of ignorance, and will
gather the children in that they may be enriched with the treasures of
grace, and made wise unto salvation.


[Illustration: [music]

  QUARTETTE.
  Gather them in, gather them in,
  Gather the children in.

  v.1. {Gather them in from the broad highway, gather them in,
  v.2. {Gather them in from the prairies vast, gather them in,

  v.1. gather them in; Gather them in, in this gospel day,
  v.2. gather them in; Gather them in of every cast,

  v.1 gather, gather them in.}
  v.2.gather, gather them in.}

  [After v.1., repeat for v.2, above]

  FULL CHORUS.
  Gather them in, let the house be full,
  Gather them into the Sunday School,
  Gather them in, gather them in,
  Gather the children in.

  Copyrighted, 1861, in Golden Chain, by W. B. BRADBURY; used by
  permission of BIGLOW & MAIN.]


GUARD.――Angel of Love, fairest daughter of the skies, thy smile is
radiant with blessing, and thy coming is ever a benediction. Without
thee, this world would be a wilderness, drear and cold, where naught
but cruelty and sorrow would abound. Truly thou art welcome. Let thy
voice be heard and thy power be felt among us. Bind our hearts
together with a threefold cord which cannot be broken, and may the
glory of thy presence surround us ever as with a halo; but to thee, as
to all who have preceded thee, I am compelled to say, thy place is not
upon the throne, as the ruling angel of the Sunday-school. GUARD
(_leads her to the left, beside the Angel of Literature; the boy and
girl during the singing having thrown off their ragged garments, take
their places one on each side of her_).


THE ANGEL OF THE WORD OF GOD (_comes up the aisle, carrying a Bible in
her arms, and advancing toward the Guard, addresses him as follows_):

I am the Angel of the Word of God; Order is indispensible, Literature
is needed, Music is to be desired, Love must ever abide. Each has her
place and her work, but higher than all, and the inspirer of all, is
the Bible. I come as the lamp of truth to a benighted world; the
bearer of intelligence from the throne of God――a revelation to men of
duty and destiny. I come as the chart and compass to guide men safely
over the sea of life to the desired haven. My mission is to instruct
both adults and children in the way of holiness that leads to heaven.
I teach the sublime truths of faith and salvation――of God and
immortality.

Wherever I go, the wilderness and solitary places are glad for me, and
the deserts rejoice and blossom as the rose.

If all would heed my words and partake of my spirit, the whole world
would soon recover the charms of Eden.

Instead of sin and misery, there would be everywhere purity and bliss.
I come to train these children and youth in the ways of piety, and
develop in them the elements of true manhood and womanhood; to qualify
them for usefulness here, and blessedness hereafter. I wish to be
crowned the angel of the Sunday-school.

GUARD.――Angel of the Word of God, All Hail! A thousand welcomes. For
thee we have waited long and rejoice in thy coming. Thou hast said
well――Order is indispensible. Literature is needed. Music is to be
desired. Love must ever abide. These are thy handmaids and shall
remain with us, but thou shalt be supreme. Ascend the throne (_she
takes her place on the throne_). On thy head I put this crown. In thy
hand I place this scepter. Rule thou over us. Fill our minds with thy
wisdom, our hearts with thy spirit, that our lives may show forth the
praise of Him who created us, and redeemed us by the blood of His Son.
Order, Literature, Music, Love, these shall assist thee, and our
School shall be a Bible School. Thou art the Angel of the
Sunday-school!


TABLEAU.

THE GUARD.――(_Standing immediately in front of the throne, will sheath
his sword, take off his hat, and say_):

Order, Literature, Music, Love, let us bow in token of our submission
to the Word of God. (_They all kneel and the Angel of the Word of God
holds the Bible out on her hand while the school rises and sings_):


[Illustration: [music]

  FULL CHORUS.

  1. The Bible! the Bible! more precious than gold,
  The hopes and the glories its pages unfold,
  It speaks of a Saviour, and tells of his love,
  It shows us the way to the mansions above.

  CHORUS.
  Hallelujah, Amen! Hallelujah, Amen!
  Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Amen!

  2. The Bible! the Bible! the valleys shall ring,
  And hillstops re-echo the notes that we sing,
  Our banners, inscribed with its precepts and rules,
  Shall long wave in triumph the joy of our school.

  CHORUS.
  Hallelujah, Amen! Hallelujah, Amen!
  Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Amen!

  From the Sabbath Bell, No. 1, by permission of BIGLOW & MAIN owners
  of Copyright.]

                              CURTAIN.

                                              Rev. D. W. GORDON.


[Illustration: “Hence! horrible shadow, Unreal mockery, hence!”]




  [233]The Calls of the Bells.

  [Represent bell tones with the voice upon the italicized words.]


  “_In union and in freedom dwell!_”
  Peals forth a brave, time-honored bell.
  “_To all proclaim sweet liberty
  Throughout the land――the land is free!_”
  In the tower let it cheerily swing,
  And make the whole world hear it ring
  “_The tyrants knell, the knell, the knell_,”
  It is the Independence Bell.

  At dawn of day, to break the spell
  Of sleep, the watchman rings a bell.
  The rough bell in the dusky tower,
  With rude tongue calls the signal hour.
  Oh, how it _rings, and swings and clangs_,
  Shaking the old roof where it hangs!
  The sound _foretells, foretells, foretells_
  The toils that follow morning bells.

  In ringing notes that rise and swell,
  In startling sharpness sounds a bell.
  To boys and girls, it seems to speak
  Of German, Latin, French and Greek;
  The lads and lassies know it well,
  It is the famed Academy bell.
  _Read well, think well, learn well, do well_,
  In haste exclaims the scholars’ bell.

  In stout hands, jangling as it fell,
  Near a white apron rang a bell.
  Its tones are sounds that all may know,
  It gives the languid pulse a glow,
  It _tinkles_, _jingles_, _rings_ and _sings_,
  And talks of sweet and savory things,
  _The roast, the broil and on the shell_,
  It is the dinner bell, “sweet-bell.”

  A great white sheet in silence fell,
  Followed by the tinkling of a bell.
  How wide and white the snow-lit scene!
  Wrapped in warm furs two lovers lean,
  Bringing their beating hearts so near,
  Responsive throbbings they might hear,
  And the fond story that love tells,
  But for the _bells, sleigh bells, sleigh bells_.

  Sweet music comes from hill and dell,
  A charm of sound from a sweet bell;
  In softest harmony the tones
  Ring in the sweetest honey-moons.
  May no harsh speech come from the lips
  To shade the fair moon with eclipse.
  Its melody in love-tones tells
  Of bride and groom and wedding bells.

  From far and near, where virtue dwells,
  There comes the sound of sacred bells,
  Soft choral chimes, one day in seven:
  Voices of love from the vast heaven.
  Their varied tones in sweetness blend,
  And like a psalm of praise ascend,
  _And each glad heart in rapture swells_,
  Responsive to the Sabbath Bells.

  Flaming like lurid light of hell,
  Startled at midnight by the bell,
  Oh, merciless, disastrous fire,
  That spreads and rises, higher, higher, higher!
  Crackling in speech like flames in fir,
  That needs not the interpreter.
  The thrilling warning _peals and swells_,
  It is the fire alarm of bells.

  There comes at last a saddening knell,
  Startling our sluggish souls. The bell
  Reminds us of the close of time,
  And warns us with its solemn chime.
  E’en the sad bell seems short of breath,
  When _tolling_ in slow tones of death!
  Let’s hope that _all is well, is well_
  When tolls at last the funeral bell.

                                        ――_Geo. W. Bungay._


     [233] Published by special permission from the author.]


[Illustration: “And seeing, unseen, I watched the perfidy of him I
deemed most true.”]




  Dorothy Clyde;

  OR, THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER. A COMEDY IN TWO ACTS.


CHARACTERS:

  BARTON CLYDE, _a country squire_.
  LESLIE RAYMORE, _a clerk_.
  MORLEY DINGLE, _a rich man’s son_.
  CALEB WEATHERSPOUT, _an old bachelor_.
  DOROTHY, _the Squire’s daughter_.
  MRS. FELTON, _a poor widow_.
  EM’LY, _her only child_.
  PARTHENIA PHILP, _an heiress_.
  MERCY, _her maid_.

  MASQUERADERS.

  SCENE: A Pennsylvania village. TIME: The present.


Act I. Interior of widow’s cottage.

Act II. The masquerade.

COSTUMES: _For first act――modern. For second act――Squire, sailor;
Raymore, Chinese; Dingle, knight; Weatherspout, monk; Dorothy, gypsy;
Mrs. Felton, ghost; Em’ly, peasant; Miss Philp, duchess; Mercy, French
maid. Masqueraders to suit fancy._


ACT I.


SCENE: _Interior of widow Felton’s cottage. Table, C. Rocking-chair,
L. C. Door Pract. in F., windows, etc. Time, morning. Mrs. Felton
discovered seated in rocking-chair; Em’ly standing R. facing L._

EM’LY.――Mother, I was never so insulted in my life; she threw the
dress on her toilet stand, and fairly ground her teeth with rage.

MRS. FELTON.――Dear! dear! dear! what shall we do! I depended on the
money for making that dress to pay at least a month’s rent. Did you
explain our distressed condition to Miss Philp?

EM’LY.――Mother, dear, I did my best to reason with her, but she only
stamped her foot, and bade me hold my saucy tongue. She said the dress
was ruined.

MRS. FELTON.――Our lot is indeed hard. What a dreadful misfortune my
sickness has proved to be.

EM’LY.――Dorothy Clyde stopped me on the road opposite the mill; she
saw that my eyes were red, and pressed me so hard that I made a clean
breast of the whole matter. She said she would be over about ten
o’clock with her father, the Squire.

MRS. FELTON.――Oh, if your poor, dear papa had only lived, how
different our lot would be to-day. Alas! I fear we shall soon be
homeless.

EM’LY (_Kneels at her side_).――Do not give way to such gloomy
thoughts; God has promised to care for the widow and the fatherless;
let us trust in His goodness.

MRS. FELTON.――My child, your mother is justly rebuked. We will trust
in the Lord, come what may.

                                          [_Knock at the door._]

EM’LY (_Rises and opens door_).――Oh! walk in, Miss Philp.

(_Enter Miss Philp and Mercy, the latter bearing a bundle._)

MISS PHILP.――Walk in! Do you suppose I would run in, crawl in or creep
in? Walk in! Of course I’ll walk in, and when I am ready, I shall walk
out again. Humph!

MRS. FELTON.――Em’ly, dear, give the lady a chair. Pray be seated, Miss
Philp.

MISS PHILP (_Dusts the chair with her handkerchief_).――I think I shall
stand.

EM’LY.――The chairs are perfectly clean, Miss Philp; I carefully dusted
them early this morning.

MISS PHILP.――I prefer to stand, however.

MRS. FELTON (_To Mercy_).――Sit down, Mercy.

MERCY.――Thank you. (_Attempts to sit on chair._)

MISS PHILP.――Stop! how dare you sit when your mistress is standing!
Place that bundle on the table; such brazen conduct is intolerable.
And as for you, madam, you have not only ruined my robe, but you have
prevented my attendance at the ball to-night.

MRS. FELTON.――Mercy!

MERCY (_starts_).――Eh?

MRS. FELTON.――It was merely an ejaculation. (_To Miss Philp_).――I
deeply regret having incurred your displeasure.

EM’LY.――Perhaps we can remedy the defect if it is but trifling; it is
yet early in the day.

MERCY (_Places bundle on table_).――Why yes; I will open it (_Begins to
untie bundle_).

MRS. FELTON.――That’s it; how stupid we are.

MISS PHILP.――Don’t include me; I am not willing to be classified with
dolts.

EM’LY.――Oh, dear, no!

MRS. FELTON.――I meant no offense.

MERCY (_Takes dress from paper_).――Look at it, Mrs. Felton.

MISS PHILP.――Silence! Stop talking all together like quacking ducks;
your din will drive me distracted. Have you no refinement, no
breeding? How I dislike to mingle with vulgar persons. Young woman,
ah, that is, Em’ly, hold up that dress.

EM’LY (_Takes up dress_).――Yes, miss.

MISS PHILP.――Just try it on, so that I may show your mother her stupid
work.

MRS. FELTON.――Pardon me, but――

MISS PHILP.――Silence! I am talking.

MERCY (_Aside_).――Shame upon you, you spitfire!

EM’LY (_Putting on dress_).――I am sure we can fix it in time for this
evening.

MERCY (_Assisting Em’ly_).――How well you become fine clothes; you were
intended to be a lady. Just see what a graceful figure.

MISS PHILP.――Ridiculous; the idea! Why the girl looks like a jointed
doll.

MRS. FELTON.――Em’ly, dear, hold still.

EM’LY (_Raises dress to her eyes_).――Mother――

MISS PHILP.――Here, don’t wipe your eyes on that dress, if you please.

EM’LY.――Mother, I do not think it womanly in Miss Philp to thus take
advantage of our reverse in fortune.

MRS. FELTON.――There, there, Em’ly! Never mind, let me examine the
dress. Where is the fault, Miss Philp?

MISS PHILP.――The sleeves are too long, the neck is too small, and the
skirt is too short.

MRS. FELTON.――Alas! I fear it is spoiled. My mind has been so burdened
with trouble that I am beside myself.

MERCY.――It fits Em’ly to perfection.

EM’LY.――How can we ever pay you for the material? What shall we do?

MISS PHILP.――Madam, what is your bill for making this dress?

MRS. FELTON.――I sent you the bill.

MISS PHILP.――Ah, yes, I recollect. (_Draws bill from pocket_ _and
reads._) “To making dress, twelve dollars.” Well, it is of no use to
me; you may keep it――take the dress and receipt the bill.

MRS. FELTON.――But our rent――if we do not pay something to-day we may
be turned out into the world, homeless.

MISS PHILP.――I am not a charity visitor; you should study economy.
Ahem! Mercy, follow me. [_Exits door F. followed by Mercy._]

MRS. FELTON.――My child, my child! (_They embrace and stand weeping._)
[_Enter Squire and Dorothy; they pause and observe Mrs. Felton and
Em’ly._]

SQUIRE (_Aside_).――This is, indeed, a tableau. (_Aloud_) Ladies!

  MRS. FELTON.――}  (_Start_) Oh!
  EM’LY.――      }

DOROTHY (_Taking their hands_).――Why are you weeping? Papa will fix
things all right. Do not worry.

SQUIRE.――Mrs. Felton, your husband was a man whom I esteemed highly.
He at one time rendered me a valuable service, and it is but common
gratitude that I now befriend his family. Here is a check for double
the amount of all arrears of rent due on your cottage. (_Hands her
check._) Accept it as a loan until you are able to return it.

MRS. FELTON.――I could not think of it.

SQUIRE.――You must!

DOROTHY.――Take it for my sake; do not refuse; take it and welcome.

MRS. FELTON.――Oh, what kindness!

EM’LY (_Kisses Dorothy on forehead_).――My own, dear Dorothy.

SQUIRE.――Now for a little talk on another subject. Be seated. (_All
take chairs_) Mrs. Felton, you are aware that I am agent for the
Dingle estate, of which your cottage is a part. I have long acted in
that capacity as a matter of courtesy to my old friend, Caspar Dingle.
I shall look after his property no longer.

MRS. FELTON.――No doubt it is a great annoyance to you――

SQUIRE.――Not at all. Listen. I am rich, and my friend Dingle, in order
to augment his already immense estate, desires his son Morley to
become the husband of my daughter.

DOROTHY (_Confused_).――Oh, papa, how can you talk of that horrid young
man! You know I detest his very name.

SQUIRE.――My dear child, if you will allow me to talk, I can easily
show you the necessity of taking these ladies into our confidence.

DOROTHY.――Pardon me, papa, dear; although I have never met Mr. Morley
Dingle, yet from your description of his interview with you, I am sure
he is very rude and ill-bred.

SQUIRE.――True. Now in order that he may have a pretext for visiting
our village, he will in future collect his rents in person. He will be
here to-day, perhaps may now be on his way to your cottage.

  MRS. FELTON.――} Oh, horrors!
  EM’LY.――      }

SQUIRE.――You have my check.

MRS. FELTON.――True, true, kind sir; I had for the moment forgotten it.

SQUIRE.――Morley Dingle knows that my daughter has a generous nature
and abhors meanness in any guise; therefore, he would act his best
were he introduced to her. I prefer Dorothy should see him in his
ordinary character.

DOROTHY.――And how can I, papa?

SQUIRE.――He will call here for the rent. He knows Mrs. Felton is
largely indebted. Ladies, my plan is this: You and I will take a walk
in the grove back of the cottage. Dorothy will remain and represent
herself to be Em’ly; she can promise the rent within a week; plead for
time, anything, so that his manliness may be thoroughly tested.

DOROTHY.――No, no, papa!

SQUIRE.――Take off your hat, throw an old shawl over your shoulders.
(_Points through window._) See! there he comes. Let us be off.

EM’LY (_Aside_).――I wish I could stay and peep.

MRS. FELTON.――I hope he will not be cross to the dear child――

SQUIRE.――Come, quick!               [_Exit all except Dorothy._]

DOROTHY (_Hurriedly searching_).――What can I get? (_picks up apron_)
Ah, this will do! (_removes hat_) I hear his footstep on the gravel
walk. (_Listens._) Gracious, how my heart beats!

                                     [_Loud knock at the door._]

I wish papa was here.                       [_Prolonged knock._]

Well, he can’t eat me, anyhow. (_Opens door._)

                                               [_Enter Dingle._]

DINGLE (_Surveying Dorothy through eye-glasses_).――Ah! I presume you
are the daughter of the, ah――

DOROTHY.――Yes, sir; I am the daughter.

DINGLE.――Is it possible!

DOROTHY.――Sir, will you be seated?

DINGLE (_Aside_).――What airs these poor creatures assume. (_Aloud_)
Miss, (_takes card from case_) this will probably explain both who I
am and the nature of my business.

DOROTHY (_Takes card and reads aloud_).――“Morley Dingle, Dingleton,
Dingle Township, Pennsylvania,” (_aside_) Dingle, dong, dingle――
(_Aloud_) I am not prepared to pay you anything to-day, Mr. Dingle.
There has been very little money earned in this house since the last
payment was made.

DINGLE (_Sits on a chair and puts feet on table_).――You must settle
with me before I leave this village, or give up the house (_pulls book
from pocket_). Let me see; yes, here it is――Felton――March, April, May,
June――twelve dollars a month, just forty-eight dollars. What do you
take me for?

DOROTHY (_Aside_).――How I would like to tell you. (_Aloud._) O sir, if
you but knew the sufferings of the poor I am sure your sympathy would
guide your action.

DINGLE.――Not a bit of it. The laws of this State protect the
defenseless landlord more effectively than any other government on the
globe――except Ireland. I’m proud that I am a Pennsylvanian.

DOROTHY.――Surely, sir, you would not invoke the law to distress a poor
widow and her child?

DINGLE.――John Felton signed a lease giving me the right to sell all
his effects for any arrears of rent due upon this house.

DOROTHY.――Does not the law exempt a certain amount of household
chattels?

DINGLE.――John Felton waived the benefit of the exemption law.

DOROTHY.――But he is dead.

DINGLE.――Young woman, his family must suffer the consequences of his
act.

DOROTHY (_Indignantly_).――This is unjust; it is contrary to the letter
and spirit of the law.

DINGLE (_Looking through eyeglass_).――You talk like a member of the
bar; that is, a country member――a squire.

DOROTHY.――The exemption law was enacted as a merciful barrier against
the sweeping tide of adversity――a life-boat for helpless castaways:
how then dare any man’s hand thwart the law and defeat its purpose? To
waive that law repeals it: is this an absolute monarchy?

DINGLE.――This government is run upon a solid cash basis: if you have
cash, you can smile at waivers. The remedy, young woman, is cash.
That’s my prescription for landlords’ warrants; it’s a powerful
antidote. (_Taps his pocket and laughs_).

DOROTHY.――You shock me, sir; you fill me with alarm; would you strip
us of these poor household necessities.

DINGLE.――I am a benefactor to women. If I see they have no possibility
of keeping house I resort to heroic measures――I sell ’em out. What’s
the result? They get situations, get plenty to eat and comfortable
quarters.

DOROTHY.――And the little children?

DINGLE (_Pulls out watch_).――It is time to end this nonsense. Have the
rent by to-night. Good morning. [_Exit door F._]

DOROTHY (_Sits in chair_).――So that’s the suitor for my heart and
hand! Whew!

[_Enter Squire, followed by Mrs. Felton and Em’ly_].

SQUIRE (_Pointing with cane_).――There he goes! Look at him; see how
pompously he struts; observe the elevation of his nose! [_All look
towards window_]. Take care! down he goes! [_All laugh boisterously_].

DOROTHY.――Poor fellow, I wonder if he is hurt!

EM’LY.――His hat is completely demolished.

MRS. FELTON.――Rather a bad fall.

SQUIRE.――Off he starts again. There goes the strut――up goes the
nose――the lesson is lost. (_To Mrs. Felton_) Madam, now that we have
arranged for the masquerade, banish your sorrows: forget the trials of
the day in the pleasures of the evening. Your daughter knows her part
well; she will personate Dorothy in her conversation with Dingle,
until all unmask.

DOROTHY.――And my voice will convince him that I am his delinquent
tenant.

EM’LY.――Dorothy, dear, do you really think Miss Philp will not
recognize this dress?

DOROTHY.――She will be too eager to be seen by Morley Dingle, Esquire,
to even waste a thought on the toilet of any one save her precious
self. [_All listen._]

WEATHERSPOUT (_From without_).――This way, Leslie, this way; I’ve not
forgotten the art of climbing rail fences, even if I am seventy-five.

SQUIRE.――My old friend Weatherspout, as I live!

                                         [_Enter Weatherspout_].

WEATHERSPOUT (_Pausing on the threshold_). I――I――beg pardon!

SQUIRE.――Come in, my long-tried friend.

WEATHERSPOUT.――The door was open and it seemed kind o’ natural to walk
right in――so Leslie and――(_turning to door_) why, I thought he came
in! We have just helped ourselves to a draught of your delicious
spring water.

EM’LY (_Goes to door_).――Come in, Leslie.

                                       [_Enter Leslie Raymore._]

LESLIE.――Pardon my intrusion, ladies; I assure you I had no idea you
were engaged.

MRS. FELTON.――You are welcome.

  DOROTHY.――} No apology is necessary. EM’LY.――  }


WEATHERSPOUT.――Ladies, Mr. Raymore has been in my employment for a
number of years; in fact, since his boyhood. I have every confidence
in his honor and integrity.

SQUIRE.――We all know Leslie, and every one is acquainted with you, Mr.
Weatherspout: and it is exceedingly gratifying to hear of the cordial
relations which exist between two such worthy men――but you were about
to say――

WEATHERSPOUT.――I was about to remark that I have come here solely for
the purpose of attending the masquerade ball to-night.

LESLIE.――Mr. Weatherspout has stated the fact. I showed him the
invitation from Squire Clyde, and he gave me permission to accept only
on condition that I would allow him to accompany me.

SQUIRE.――Which I take as a high compliment to myself, and shall do all
in my power to make you remember the hospitalities of Clyde Hall.
[_All make show of conversing._]

DOROTHY (_To Leslie_).――I am so glad you have come.

LESLIE.――I am more than glad; I cannot express my happiness.

DOROTHY.――And papa wrote his consent――were you not surprised?

LESLIE.――No, Dorothy, love; your father is sensible, and judges a man
by his personal worth rather than by the weight of his purse.

DOROTHY.――You have told no one?

LESLIE.――Only my employer.

DOROTHY.――You rogue! No wonder he came with you.

SQUIRE.――Yes, yes; that is so, we had better go to the mansion. Mrs.
Felton, we will depart. Recollect, Em’ly, until we unmask you are
Dorothy Clyde――that is, to Morley Dingle. Good day, ladies. [_All exit
except Mrs. Felton and Em’ly._]

MRS. FELTON.――Em’ly, my child, God is good. Something seems to tell me
that there are better days in store for us.

EM’LY.――Let us hope, mother; (_takes her hand_) my heart, too, seems
lighter.

MRS. FELTON.――We will hope.


[CURTAIN.]

_End of the first act._


ACT II.


SCENE: _Interior of Clyde Hall. Seats arranged at wings. Door pract.
in Flat, through which flowers are visible. Em’ly and Dingle
discovered standing C. Both are masked._

DINGLE.――By yonder fair moon whose radiance is reflected in a thousand
dewy gems; by the glorious splendors of this summer night, I adjure
you to remove that mask.

EM’LY.――Sir Knight, if eloquence could tempt me to reveal my face
before the proper time, then your words would win your wish. I am not
what you think I am. Knights woo not poor peasant maids, and I am
poor, and humble, too.

DINGLE.――The wealth of those bright eyes would make one rich though he
were a beggar.

EM’LY.――Flattery from friends is at best embarrassing; from strangers
it is wholly out of place.

DINGLE (_Aside_).――There’s no humbleness in that remark. (_Aloud_) I
crave your forgiveness; I am the last man in the world who would do an
ungallant act.

EM’LY (_Aside_).――You are among the latest who did. (_Aloud_) Are you
always mindful of a woman’s feelings? Do you treat them all with
gentle courtesy?

DINGLE (_Aside_).――There’s a little sarcasm in that; I wonder what she
means? (_Aloud_) Certainly! I would scorn, loathe, abhor a man who
could forget his duty in that regard.

EM’LY.――Even though she owed him money?

DINGLE.――Eh! (_Aside_) What is she driving at? (_Aloud_) Miss Clyde,
you are severe.

EM’LY.――If any one designated me as Miss Clyde they erred. Once more I
repeat that I am not Dorothy Clyde.

DINGLE (_Laughs_).――We will not discuss that point. I have danced with
you twice to-night, and I have danced with no one else; and yet I have
had the honor of twice dancing with the lady whose name you mentioned.

EM’LY.――The music has ceased. The guests will come this way. Excuse
me.                                         [_Exits hastily L._]

DINGLE (_Looking L_).――O Jupiter, what a beauty! How lightly she trips
across the hall. Sweet Dorothy, thou hast won my heart.

                                            [_Enter Dorothy R._]

But why does she persist in denying her identity? A servant
volunteered to point out both her and the Felton girl; she evidently
desires to――

DOROTHY (_Coughs_).

DINGLE (_Aside_).――The tenant’s daughter. I would recognize that
haughty minx though she were doubly masked.

DOROTHY.――Pardon me, sir; I would inquire the way to the banquet room.

DINGLE (_Aside_).――It will never do to let her recognize my voice; I
will assume a falsetto tone. (_Aloud_) You had better find a servant,
Miss Gypsy Queen; I am not posted in the commissary department.

DOROTHY.――I perceive that all knights are not Quixotes in gallantry.
Thanks, however, for your suggestion.

DINGLE (_Sarcastic bow_).――Don’t mention it, fair fortune-teller.

DOROTHY.――If you knew me you would try to be more courteous; thus have
you unmasked your nature, though your face is still unseen.

                                                     [_Exit L._]

DINGLE.――The saucy beggar! Well, in some natures poverty serves to
intensify pride; I will seek the Squire.            (_Exits R._)

(_Enter Weatherspout and Miss Philp, Door F.; she leans upon his
arm._)

WEATHERSPOUT.――The night is lovely; years and years ago it was my
delight to wander forth beneath the moon’s soft rays――

MISS PHILP.――Years and years ago! There! you talk like a sexagenarian.
I will wager you what you will that you are under twenty-five! Aye,
that I know your name!

WEATHERSPOUT.――In a few minutes the guests will assemble and unmask;
if you guess my name I will anticipate that ceremony. Can you not
detect the tremor of age in my voice?

MISS PHILP (_Aside_).――The servant volunteered to tell me this man’s
name. He is merely assuming the ancient quaver. His form is as
straight as a pin oak. (_Aloud_) My eyes are not deceived, Mr. Morley
Dingle.

WEATHERSPOUT.――Not knowing the party for whom you take me, I am unable
to rate the value of your compliment.

MISS PHILP (_Aside_).――It is Dingle, sure! (_Aloud_) Then, holy Monk,
be my father confessor and learn that Mr. Morley Dingle is a perfect
Adonis, a gentleman of rare attainments, one whose name any woman
would be proud to――to――that is――include among her list of friends.

WEATHERSPOUT.――Or read upon her teaspoons――I comprehend.

MISS PHILP.――Of course I speak from hearsay only; I have not the
pleasure of a personal acquaintance with the gentleman; although I
think I have enjoyed his company this evening.

WEATHERSPOUT.――My child, you are mistaken; I am not Dingle. I am glad
for your sake that you are deceived. You will also be satisfied when
you have reflected upon the matter.

MISS PHILP (_Angrily_).――Do you know to whom you are talking?

WEATHERSPOUT.――Candidly, I do not.

MISS PHILP (_Aside_).――I see; he fears I will penetrate his disguise.
(_Aloud_) Oh, you are deep, very deep.

WEATHERSPOUT (_Offering his arm_).――Permit me to escort you to the
drawing-room.

MISS PHILP (_Takes his arm_).――What a dreamy, soul-inspiring night.

WEATHERSPOUT (_Yawning_).――Very.                [_They exit L._]

SQUIRE (_From without_).――I will tell you. Step this way. (_Enter
Squire and Leslie R., each holding mask in hand_) Knowing that Dingle
was anxious to identify my daughter, and that Miss Philp was dying to
meet Dingle, I instructed a trusty servant to mislead them by making
certain remarks within their hearing. The thing has worked like a
charm, and the most ludicrous blunders have resulted.

LESLIE.――I thought that Dorothy was unusually interested in the
movements of certain couples. So the little rogue is a party to your
conspiracy!

SQUIRE.――The motive justifies the means; I desire to reclaim an
arrogant young man and a silly woman; both are difficult cases, yet I
hope to succeed.

LESLIE.――Some one is calling――hark!

MERCY (_Without_).――Quick! quick! Squire, quick! (_Enters L. running_)
Oh! oh! oh――!

SQUIRE.――Speak, girl, what is amiss?

MERCY.――Oh, sir, you wouldn’t joke if you knew the trouble. It may end
in bloodshed!

SQUIRE.――Who’s joking?

MERCY.――You asked me a conundrum.

SQUIRE.――Never!

MERCY.――You asked me what is a miss――every girl knows what a miss is.

                                           [_Exits R. running._]

LESLIE.――The girl is mixed.          [_Leslie and Squire mask._]

DINGLE (_Without_).――You shall apologize or fight. (_Enter L._) Ah,
here are gentlemen who will see fair play. Come on, sir, come on!

                                       [_Enter Weatherspout L._]

WEATHERSPOUT.――Silence! Give me a chance to explain.

DINGLE (_Drawing sword_).――Retract, sir! Eat your words! (_Flourishes
sword_) Feast upon them! Swallow them!

WEATHERSPOUT.――Gentlemen, hear him! His tongue would madden an
auctioneer with envy.

DINGLE.――Ha! more insults! Hold me back! (_Makes a pass at
Weatherspout._) Let me dissect him!

                      [_Squire and Leslie take hold of Dingle._]

SQUIRE.――Remember where you are!

LESLIE.――Do nothing rash, sir!

WEATHERSPOUT.――Release him; I fear his jargon, not his blade; let me
explain, and if he then insists on satisfaction, I will thrash him
with my staff.

DINGLE.――My honor! (_Flourishes his sword_) must I submit to this!

SQUIRE.――Let the monk speak.

WEATHERSPOUT.――While standing on the porch enjoying the cool breeze,
my companion, a lady, playfully called me Dingle. I replied that the
air was filled with Dingles, whereupon this fellow sprang from behind
a bush, and would have throttled me, had I not sneezed in his face.

DINGLE.――What right had he to mention my name?

SQUIRE.――You are a masked knight――how should he know you are the
champion of one Dingle?

DINGLE (_Aside_).――What a donkey I have made of myself. (_Aloud_)
Gentlemen, there is a blunder here. Mr. Monk, I ask your pardon
(_Sheathes his sword_). I apologize.

                       [_Enter Mrs. Felton D. F. She pauses C._]

SQUIRE.――Gentlemen, you’ve raised the dead with your noise. Look!

WEATHERSPOUT.――Beg pardon, sir?

LESLIE.――Were you addressing me?

DINGLE.――What did you observe, sir?

SQUIRE.――I say it is a shame when even spirits cannot rest.

[_All look at each other for explanation._]

DINGLE.――My dear sir, you’ve indulged too freely in lobster salad;
you’ve got the nightmare.

SQUIRE (_Points at Mrs. Felton_).――Brave Sir Knight, look over your
shoulder.

DINGLE (_Turns slowly, sees Mrs. F., and runs off L._)

WEATHERSPOUT (_Same business_).

LESLIE.――Well, gentlemen――(_Turns and sees Mrs. F._) Ugh! (_Runs off
R._)

MRS. FELTON (_Removing pillow case from head_).――Is it possible that I
am such a hideous object that priests, soldiers and brigands flee from
my presence?

SQUIRE (_Removes mask_).――My dear Mrs. Felton, they were frightened
almost to death before you came; they were longing to disperse, and
you furnished the excuse.

MRS. FELTON.――This has been a night of excitement and pleasure to the
young folks; to me it has proved a season of consternation. One man
was so terrified on meeting me in the hall that he fell into a tub of
egg flip; another individual dropped the arm of his lady-love and ran
howling into the midst of the dancers.

SQUIRE.――When the guests behold your face, their fears will turn to
admiration.

MRS. FELTON.――Oh, now, really, Squire!

SQUIRE.――I have long sympathized with you in your bereavement; I have
observed your trials and sorrows with positive pain; sympathy often
ends in love――

MRS. FELTON (_Aside_).――Is he going to propose? (_Aloud_) Don’t,
don’t, Squire.

SQUIRE.――I repeat, sympathy often ends in love; Dorothy loves you
well.

MRS. FELTON (_Aside_).――Dorothy! (_Aloud_) She does, I am sure. Ahem!

SQUIRE (_Falls on his knee_).――And so does her father.

                      [_Enter Mercy L.; she pauses unobserved._]

MRS. FELTON (_Takes his hand_).――This is indeed an honor.

SQUIRE.――A true woman is an honor beyond price. I am the honored one
(_Look bashfully at each other_).

MERCY (_Aside_).――Well, if this isn’t the spooniest collection of
humans I ever was thrown among, then my name’s not Mercy. (_Aloud_)
Excuse me.

  SQUIRE.――     } (_Start_) Eh! MRS. FELTON.――}           Oh, my!

MERCY.――I’ve lost my mistress and I want to find her. It’s time to go
home.

SQUIRE.――The masqueraders are coming; (_Mrs. Felton and Squire mask_)
you will soon see your mistress. (_Waltz music in distance, to
continue until masqueraders enter, when change to march._) They are
now dancing the last waltz.

MRS. FELTON.――How sweetly the strains of music fall upon the ear.

SQUIRE (_Extending his arms_).――Do you waltz, my dear madam?

MERCY.――The idea!

MRS. FELTON (_Retreating_).――Oh, no, no, no.

MERCY.――Here they come!

(_Squire and Mrs. Felton take position C. Mercy L. E._)

SQUIRE.――They come, my dear Mrs. Felton.

MRS. FELTON.――Yes, they come.

SQUIRE.――My dear madam, let them come.

[_Enter Dingle and Em’ly, Leslie and Dorothy, Weatherspout and Miss
Philp, 2 L. E., followed by masqueraders; all countermarch to music,
and take final positions as follows: Dingle and Em’ly R. C., Leslie
and Dorothy L. C., Weatherspout and Miss Philp R., masqueraders form
semi-circle in rear._]

SQUIRE (_Removing mask_).――As your host I bid you each and all unmask.

                                                 (_All unmask._)

MISS PHILP (_Astonished_).――Only look! (_Aside_) Old as sin!

SQUIRE.――I will first present my daughter.

DINGLE (_Bows to Em’ly_).

SQUIRE.――Ladies and gentlemen (_takes Dorothy’s hand_), this is Miss
Dorothy Clyde (_all bow_).

DINGLE (_Aside_).――The widow’s daughter! (_Aloud to Em’ly_) Surely,
this is a joke; are you not Miss Clyde?

DOROTHY.――No, sir; _my_ name is Dorothy Clyde, and the young lady at
your side is the one who did _not_ hear your gallant views on the
subject of arrears of rent.

DINGLE.――Do you mean to say――?

EM’LY.――She means to say that I am Em’ly Felton.

SQUIRE.――And that you are by no means a stranger to Dorothy.

MISS PHILP.――And Mr. Dingle, pray what has become of him?

SQUIRE.――The ladies first. This is Miss Philp, my friends; this is
Miss Felton, and last, but not least, this is my esteemed――ah――that
is――my very esteemed friend, her mother. Now, Miss Philp, allow me to
introduce to your kind consideration Mr. Morley Dingle, of Dingleton,
Dingle Township, Pennsylvania.

DOROTHY (_Aside_).――Dingle, dong, dingle.

DINGLE.――I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss.

MISS PHILP.――It is such a pleasure to place your name――

WEATHERSPOUT (_Aside_).――On your teaspoons, if you could.

MISS PHILP.――Among those of my chosen friends.

SQUIRE.――Perhaps it would give Mr. Dingle exquisite pleasure to escort
you home.

DINGLE.――I have already a lady.

DOROTHY (_To Dingle_).――Are you going to distrain the household
chattels?

DINGLE.――Not with such good collateral security. I was wrong. I deeply
regret my action.

DOROTHY.――Then the court has reversed its decision?

DINGLE.――Completely! The waiver is a fraud.

SQUIRE.――Ladies and gentlemen, this is my old chum, Caleb
Weatherspout, and this is my future son-in-law, Leslie Raymore.

WEATHERSPOUT.――Of the firm of Weatherspout & Raymore.

MISS PHILP.――Mercy, get my wrap, quick.

MERCY.――Must you go home alone?

WEATHERSPOUT.――Not by any means. I shall see you both safely home.

MISS PHILP (_Aside_).――He don’t look so aged after all. (_Aloud_) How
kind, sir.

SQUIRE.――Now that we have thrown off our masks, let us keep them off.

MRS. FELTON.――And let us clasp hands in the light of a perfect
understanding.

                                             (_All join hands._)

LESLIE.――This is mainly due to Dorothy Clyde――

EM’LY (_Nods to Dorothy_).――The Squire’s Daughter.


[_Curtain._]

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers_.



[Illustration: “Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight, Make
me a child again, just for to-night!”]




  A Dog Story.


  I.

  He was strong and trim, and a good sized cur.
  A giant of dogs; with soft silk fur,
  Poised head, of an intellectual size,
  And two straight, luminous hero eyes.
  A tail whose gestures were eloquence;
  A bark with a germ of common sense.
  And this dog looked, upon the whole,
  As if he had gathered some crumbs of soul
  That fell from the feast God spreads for man――
  Looked like a line of the human plan.
  There went with his strong, well-balanced stride
  A dignity oft to man denied.
  God’s humblest brutes, where’er we turn,
  Are full of lessons for man to learn.
  That night that he crouched by the yielding door,
  And two grim, murderous thieves, or more,
  Had bribed the locks with their hooks of steel,
  He fought with more than a henchman’s zeal
  For sleeping loved ones’ treasures and life:――
  He conquered rogue, and bullet, and knife.
  That day that he walked by the river’s brink,
  Thinking (if certain men can think),
  And saw distress with a quick, sure eye,
  And heard the half-choked drowning cry
  A living life boat, soon he bore
  The half-killed man to a welcome shore.
  And when the wife of the rescued one
  Wept him her love for the great deed done,
  And fondled him in a warm embrace,
  He talked with his honest, kind old face,
  And said, “I have shown you nothing new;
  It is what we live and love to do.
  In lake or river, in sea or bay,
  My race are rescuers every day;
  In the snowy gulfs, ’mid hills above
  My race brings life to the race we love.”


  II.

  He was sick and reeling――deadly faint;
  He roamed the streets with a piteous plaint.
  He had lips afoam, and eyes hard set;
  He asked the mercy of all he met.
  He drearily ran his death-strown race;
  He found no pity in any face.
  He glanced at an old friend with a moan,
  There came to him back a well-aimed stone.
  No cure for him in his strange distress,
  No tender nursing and kind caress!
  All fled or fought when he came near;
  The world seemed mad with rage and fear.
  He searched for an unfrequented way;
  He would have prayed if a beast could pray.
  For he who man had deified
  Was now all mercy of man denied;
  He who to save man’s life had flown
  Now had to fight man for his own.

         *     *     *     *     *

  The soul of the humble brute has fled:
  The grand old dog lies safely dead.
  O, man-like brain, and God-like heart!
  You were made to carry a noble part.
  What spirit of vile Satanic breed
  Had sowed in your veins the poison-seed
  That turned to a curse your honest breath,――
  That shaped your lips to a fount of death?
  Sleep well old friend; your teeth of flame
  Grew not from a soul of vice and shame.
  Sleep well, old saint; not yours the will
  To plant the world with the germs that kill.
  Not yours the conscious guilt that lies
  In men who ravage with open eyes.
  You did, old dog, the best you knew,
  And that is better than most men do;
  And if ever I get to the great Just Place
  I shall look for _your_ honest, kind old face.

                                              ――_Will Carleton._




Exercise in Pronunciation.


A jocund, sacrilegious son of Belial, who suffered from bronchitis,
having exhausted his finances at the annual joust, in order to make
good the deficit, resolved to ally himself to a comely, lenient and
docile young lady of the Malay or Caucasian race. He accordingly
purchased a calliope, a coral necklace of chameleon hue, and securing
a suite of rooms at a hotel, he engaged the head waiter as his
coadjutor. He then dispatched a letter of the most unexceptionable
calligraphy extant, with a sentimental hemistich, inviting the young
lady to an orchestral concert.

She was harassed, and with a truculent look revolted at the idea,
refused to consider herself sacrificable to his desires, and sent a
polite note of refusal, on receiving which, he procured a carbine and
bowie knife, said that he would not now forge fetters hymeneal with
the queen, went to an isolated spot, severed his jugular vein, and
discharged the contents of his carbine into his abdomen, with a
grimace at the raillery of his acquaintances. He succumbed and was
irrefragably dead, and neither vagaries nor pageantry were permitted
when he was conveyed to the mausoleum followed by his enervated
canine.




  The Moon.


  Serenely, O moon, thou art beaming to-night,
  Tracking the sea with thy silvery light;
  Piercing the forest, thy beautiful rays
  Are patching the ground in fantastical ways.

  On city, on hamlet, on palace and hut,
  On the far-stretching plain, in the deep mountain cut,
  Thy mellow beams softly on all alike fall;
  O, queen of the night, thou hast homage from all:

  From the glistening dew, from the true lover’s sigh,
  From the cricket’s shrill voice and the katy-did’s cry;
  Thy heart-soft’ning power all races have felt;
  To thy soothing appeal the most callous must melt.

  O mute sympathizer, invoker of tales,
  A fleet of heart secrets each night to thee sails.
  To the shipwrecked at sea, when the storm clears away
  And calm night succeeds the wild, boisterous day,
  All huddled on raft, or faint clinging to spar,
  There’s a hope in thy beams that no danger can mar.

  When red in the east thou ascendest the sky,
  And thy disc meets the half-naked savage’s eye,
  He pauses, and feels as he views thy bright light
  That a Greater than he is displaying His might.
  Ere since by Omnipotence whirled into space,
  Thou hast gladdened the night with thy radiant face.

  To nations long dead, and unheard of by man,
  Thou wast familiar when first they began,
  Through their ages of splendor, their waning away,
  Till their last mould’ring relic succumbed to decay.

  And so, till Jehovah’s dread voice bids thee stay,
  And the night is absorbed by Eternity’s day,
  Thou shalt in thine orbit thy mission pursue,
  A bright silver ship in an ocean of blue.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




  The Suicide.


  The sun had set. The ruddy clouds
    Had changed to gloomy gray,
  And sweet, sad twilight soothed the hour
    Forsaken by the day.

  A village road, with nest-like cots,
    And oaks, on either hand.
  An old stone bridge, whose single arch,
    A dark, deep river spanned:

  And sounds of distant merry shouts
    Were borne upon the breeze,
  When, on the bridge there came a maid,
    And sank upon her knees.

  A maid? Perhaps a slighted wife――
    Or neither――none could tell――
  A stricken life――a broken heart,
    About to bid farewell――

  Farewell to that, which lacking hope,
    Is but a dreary waste;
  Where Nature’s brightest, fairest sweets
    Grow bitter to the taste.

  She rose――advanced unto the brink――
    A wild, imploring prayer――
  Alas! she stood, unloved――alone――
    A statue of despair.

  One plaintive wail, and then a plunge――
    The wavelets laved the shore――
  Then all was still. The river flowed
    As smoothly as before.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




  The Felon’s Wife.


  The scene was a court of justice, where criminals were tried,
  And a woman and child[234] stood sobbing close by a prisoner’s side.
  The man was the woman’s husband, the child their darling boy,
  And they waited the dreadful sentence that would two fond lives
    destroy.
  The sunshine streamed through the window and fell on the judge’s
    face,[235]
  While the song of a bird in a tree-top[236] seemed harsh and out of
    place;
  Then the sunlight merged into shadow,[237] and the bird had ceased
    to sing――
  So quick are the fitful changes that fate and nature bring.

  The ordeal soon was over, and the woman stood alone,
  Alone with her tender offspring, with a heart that weighed like stone.
  The convict’s tear still glistened like a gem on her pallid cheek,
  And that tear-drop mutely told her what his white lips could not
    speak.
  ’Twas a sad farewell, that parting, for it severed man and wife――
  Doomed her to toil unaided; him to servitude for life:
  But time soothes[238] the deepest sorrow, and love will hope and pray,
  And soon like a dream grew the terrors of that sad and awful day.

                      *     *     *     *     *

  ’Tis night on the Mississippi, and a steamer, staunch and new,
  Has stopped at a village landing her fuel to renew;
  A man, the only passenger, steps[239] hurriedly on board,
  And mates and crew stand ready, waiting the captain’s word:
  “Haul in the gang-plank, lively! cast off your hawser, quick!”
  Who――oo! blows the hoarse, loud whistle, for the fog hangs low[240]
    and thick:
  Dong! dong! rings the pilot’s signal; plash! plash! go the mammoth
    wheels,
  And into the gloomy shadows, like a monster swan she steals.[241]

  A hundred souls are sleeping, and the engine’s throbbing drone[242]
  Has lulled the weary look-out with its drowsy monotone.
  Now the mist is lifting[243] slightly, and a light[244] gleams on
    the shore――
  ’Tis gone; now the night grows blacker,[245] more dismal than before:
  Who-oo! goes the whistle hoarsely, but the steamer plows along,
  For the pilot knows his bearings and he softly hums a song.

  Who――oo! comes a sound, and faintly, like an echo far away;
  And the engine still is droning, still is heard the raining spray:
  “Boat ahead, sir!”[246] calls the look-out; “Ay, ay, sir, boat ahead!”
  Thus replies the watchful pilot as he glances at the red,[247]
  Then turns to see the green[248] light, which the mist-clouds magnify
  Till upon each wheelhouse, gleaming, stares a single monster eye.
  Below the lights burn dimly, for all are locked in sleep,
  Save the stewardess and a porter who silent vigil keep――
  Who――oo! that’s close upon us! dong! quick goes the pilot’s bell,
  The engineer springs promptly and handles his lever well:

  “God help us! what has happened?” the frantic people cry,
  While terror and wild confusion are seen in every eye:
    Hark[249] to the trampling overhead! to the rudder’s rattling chain!
    To the shrieks that come from the cabin, where the women still
      remain!
  One blinding flash![250] one shudder! now everything is still,
  Save the swash[251] of the flowing river, and the sigh of the night
    wind[252] chill.
  The papers were full of the story, ’twas their theme for a day or
    more,
  Then the tale grew old and the world rolled on as smoothly as before.

  In a lowly home by the river[253] live a woman and her son,
  And the lines on their patient faces show what toil and care have
    done:
  They stand with a priest and surgeon, near the bed of a dying man,
  And hark to his broken whispers, while his ashen face they scan:
  His life had been worse than wasted, and his soul was black with sin,
  And a seething hell of sorrow was raging his breast within――
  “Yet――I’d――make――one――reparation――” and his trembling voice sinks
    low――
  “I――would――do――one――thing――of――honor――tho’ the last――before――I――go.”

  From――the――wreck――of――the――smouldering――steamer――fate――bore――me――
    bleeding――here,――
  That――my――awful――retribution――to――these――victims――might――appear――
  I――swear![254]――” and his voice grows louder, “if――you――search――that
    ――satchel――there――[255]
  You――will――find――some――strange――confessions――and――the――proofs――of――
    truth――they bear――”
  On the wall[256] hangs a bag all blistered, which the woman hastes
    to reach,
  For she of all his hearers knows the purport of his speech.
  “This[257] proves my husband’s innocence! Thank God for what you’ve
    said!”
  And she turns to the lonely passenger, only to find him dead.

                      *     *     *     *     *

  Softly the sunbeams golden steal[258] by a prison bar
  Lighting an empty dungeon whose iron door stands ajar;[259]
  And the same sun lights a cottage,[260] with a warm and cheery glow,
  Where three fond hearts united, with rapture overflow:
  “O, husband,” the woman whispers, “I knew that you told me true;”
  And he smiles and gently answers, “let us our vows renew;
  Come, boy, kiss your new found mother, whom we’ll love to the end of
    life,
  For we’ve bid farewell forever to the grief-tried felon’s wife.”

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._


  GESTURES.
  [234] H. O.
  [235] Left H. O.
  [236] A. L.
  [237] B. P. H. O.
  [238] P. H. O.
  [239] H. F.
  [240] B. P. H. O.
  [241] H. F.
  [242] P. H. F.
  [243] Raise hand P.
  [244] H. L.
  [245] B. V. H. O.
  [246] Look up.
  [247] Look up to right.
  [248] Look up to left.
  [249] Raise hand to listen.
  [250] V. H. O.
  [251] P. Sw.
  [252] A. O.
  [253] H. O.
  [254] Raise hand to swear.
  [255] Ind. H. O.
  [256] H. O.
  [257] Fist raised as though holding satchel.
  [258] P. Sw.
  [259] H. O.
  [260] Left H. O.




  Little Christel.


  Fräulein, the young school mistress, to her pupils said one day,
  “Next week, at Pfingster holiday, King Ludwig rides this way;
  And you will be wise my little ones, to work with a will at your
    tasks,
  That so you may answer fearlessly whatever question he asks.
  It would be a shame too dreadful, if the king should have it to tell,
  That Hansel missed in his figures, and Peterkin could not spell!”

  “Oho! that never shall happen,” cried Hansel, and Peterkin too,
  “We’ll show King Ludwig when he comes, what the boys in this school
    can do.”
  “And we,” said Gretchen and Bertha, and all the fair little maids,
  Who stood in a row before her, with their hair in flaxen braids.
  “We will pay such good attention to every word you say
  That you shall not be ashamed of us when King Ludwig rides this way.”

  She smiled, the young schoolmistress, to see that they loved her so,
  And with patient care she taught them the things it was good to know.
  Day after day she drilled them, till the great day came at last,
  When the heralds going before him blew out their sounding blast;
  And with music and flying banners, and the clatter of horses’ feet,
  The King and his troops of soldiers rode down the village street.

  Oh, the hearts of the eager children, beat fast with joy and fear,
  And Fräulein trembled, and grew pale, as the cavalcade drew near;
  But she blushed with pride and pleasure when the lessons came to be
    heard,
  For in all the flock of her boys and girls, not one of them missed
    a word.
  And King Ludwig turned to the teacher, with a smile and a gracious
    look;
  “It is plain,” said he, “that your scholars have carefully conned
    their book.”

  “But now let us ask some questions, to see if they understand;”
  And he showed to one of the little maids an orange in his hand.
  It was Christel, the youngest sister of the mistress fair and kind,――
  A child with a face like a lily, and as lovely and pure a mind.
  “What kingdom does this belong to?” as he called her to his knee;
  And at once, “The vegetable,” she answered quietly.

  “Good,” said the monarch kindly; and showed her a piece of gold;
  “Now tell me what does this belong to, the pretty coin that I hold?”
  She touched it with a careful finger――for gold was a metal rare――
  And then, “The mineral kingdom!” she answered with confident air.
  “Well done for the little mädchen!” and good King Ludwig smiled
  At Fräulein and her sister, the teacher, and the child.

  “Now answer me one more question,”――with a twinkle of fun in his
    eye,――
  “What kingdom do _I_ belong to?” For he thought she would make reply
  “The animal;” and he meant to ask with a frown, if that was the thing
  For a little child like her, to say to her lord and master, the King?
  He knew not the artless wisdom that would set his wit at naught,
  And the little Christel guessed nothing at all of what was in his
    thought.

  But her glance shot up at the question, and the brightness in her
    face,
  Like a sunbeam on a lily, seemed to shine all over the place.
  “What kingdom do _you_ belong to?” her innocent lips repeat;
  “Why, surely, the Kingdom of Heaven!” rings out the answer sweet.
  And then for a breathless moment a sudden silence fell,
  And you might have heard the fall of a leaf as they looked at little
    Christel.

  But it only lasted a moment; then rose as sudden a shout,――
  “Well done, well done for little Christel!” and the bravos rang
    about.
  For the King in his arms had caught her, to her wondering, shy
    surprise,
  And over and over he kissed her, with a mist of tears in his eyes.
  “May the blessing of God,” he murmured, “forever rest on thy head!
  Henceforth, by his grace, my life shall prove the truth of what thou
    hast said.”

  He gave her the yellow orange, and the golden coin for her own,
  And the school had a royal feast that day whose like they had never
    known.
  To Fräulein, the gentle mistress, he spoke such words of cheer,
  That they lightened her anxious labor for many and many a year.
  And because in his heart was hidden the memory of this thing,
  The Lord had a better servant, the land had a better King.

                      ――_Mrs. Mary E. Bradley, in “Wide Awake.”_




  The Ballad of Breakneck.



  The sun shines out on the mountain[261] crest;
    Far down the valley the shadows[262] fall;
  All crimson and gold is the glowing west;[263]
    And wheeling and soaring the eagles[264] call.
  The good ship[265] rides with a filling sail;
    The sailors are crying, “Away! away!
  We must stem the tide ere the North wind fail;
    The night and the breeze brook no delay.”

  The young mate lingers upon the strand[266]
    Near a dusky maiden with flushing cheek;
  In his broad brown palm he holds her hand,
    And eager and low are the words they speak.
  “Weep[267] not, Nekama; I shall return;
    Wait for me here on the mountain side;
  When the woods in their autumn glory burn,
    I shall come again to claim my bride.”

  Slowly the Indian lifts her head;
    Dry is her cheek, and clear her eye:
  “Nekama[268] will wait as thou hast said:
    The son of the pale-face cannot lie.
  Seeking thy sails on the stream below,[269]
    Under the shade of the tall pine-tree,[270]
  When the beeches are gold and the sumachs glow,
    From the mountain top I shall watch for thee.”

  The sailors are calling; the broad sails flap;
    From his neck Dirck loosens his great gold chain,
  Flings[271] the gleaming links in Nekama’s lap,
    Then springs[272] to the shallop’s stern again.
  The stout ash bends to the rowers’ will,
    Till the small boat reaches the vessel’s side,
  Then he turns to Nekama waiting still,
    Sad, but calm in her savage pride.

  Sails the ship under high Cro’ Nest,[273]
    Wearing and tacking in Martins’ Reach,[274]
  While Dirck looks back with a man’s unrest;
    And Nekama[275] lingers upon the beach.
  Fade the sails to a vague white speck;
    Loom the mountains, hazy and tall;
  Dirck watches still from the vessel’s deck,
    And the girl moves not, though the night-dews fall.

  A year has passed, and upon the hills[276]
    Scarlet and russet have faded to brown;
  No sound is heard but the flowing rills,[277]
    The summer’s voices are hushed[278] and gone.[279]
  A late, sad crow[280] on a bare beech top
    Caws and swings in an autumn wind;
  The dead leaves fall, and the acorn’s drop[281]
    Breaks the stillness and scares the hind.

  Wrapped in her blanket Nekama stands,
    Scans[282] the horizon with eager eye.
  Late she lingers. She clasps[283] her hands,
    And a sadness dims her wide dark eye.
  Is it a mist[284] o’er the distant shore?
    Look how the maiden’s[285] dusky face
  Glows and brightens! a moment more,
    And the white speck changes,[286] and grows apace.

  He comes! he comes! From the wigwams near
    Gather the braves[287] and the squaws again;
  The men are decked with arrow and spear,
    And the women of wampum and feathers vain.
  Flecked is the river[288] with light canoes,
    Laden with gifts for the welcome guest;
  The spoils of the chase let him freely choose;
    Close to the ship[289] are the frail barks pressed.

  Brown and still as a bronze relief,
    Shyly Nekama[290] keeps her place
  Behind her father, the Mohawk chief,
    Who, plumed and tall, with painted face,
  Grasping a spear[291] in his nervous hand,
    Looking in vain one face to see,
  Turns and utters his proud demand:
    “Dirck Brandsen[292] comes not: where lingers he?”

  “Dirck stays in Holland,”[293] the sailors say;
    “He has wedded a dame of wealth and state;
  He sails no more for many a day――
    God send us all like happy fate!”
  Dark grows the brow of the angered sire:
    “Can the white man lie like a Huron knave?”
  The eyes of the maiden burn like fire,
    But her mien is steady, her words are brave.

  From her bosom she drags[294] the great gold chain;
    Dashed[295] at the captain’s feet it lies:
  “Take back to the traitor his gift again;
    Nekama has learned how a pale-face lies!”
  Proudly she steps[296] to her light canoe;
    Bends her paddle at every stroke;
  The graceful bark o’er the waters flew,
    Nor wist they a woman’s heart had broke.

  Up the mountain[297] Nekama hies;
    Stands in the pine tree’s shade again;
  Scans the scene with her wide wild eyes;
    Moans like a creature in mortal pain.
  The dark clouds crowd round the mountain peak,[298]
    Caws the crow on the bough[299] o’erhead
  The great limbs bend and the branches creak――
    “Ah, why do I live?[300] He is false!”[301] she said.

  A shriek is heard through the gathering storm;
    A rushing figure darkens the air;
  Out from the cliff[302] springs a slender form
    And the maiden’s grief lies buried there.[303]
  Towers the gray crag[304] grim and high;
    Drips the blood from its rugged side;
  Loud and shrill is the eagle’s call
    O’er the muttering wash of the angry tide!

  But Storm King[306] nods to old Cro’ Nest,[307]
    Where the pine-trees nod, and the hoarse crows call,
  Though the Mohawk sleeps ’neath that rocky crest,[308]
    While the leaves on his ruined castles fall.
  To-day on the Hudson sailing by,
    Under the shadow of Breakneck Hill,
  We tell the legend, and heave a sigh,
    Where Nekama’s memory lingers still.

                                          ――_Harper’s Magazine._


  GESTURES.
  [261] Left A. O.
  [262] P. H. F.
  [263] H. L.
  [264] Left A. Sw.
  [265] H. F.
  [266] H. O.
  [267] Look to H. O.
  [268] Look to Left H. O.
  [269] H. O.
  [270] A. O.
  [271] Sp.
  [272] H. F.
  [273] A. O.
  [274] Left H. F.
  [275] H. O.
  [276] Left A. O.
  [277] H. L.
  [278] P. H. O.
  [279] Drop hand.
  [280] Left A. O.
  [281] Sp.
  [282] Hand over eyes, and lean forward.
  [283] Clasp hands.
  [284] Left H. F.
  [285] H. O.
  [286] Left H. F.
  [287] B. H. O.
  [288] P. H. F.
  [289] H. F.
  [290] H.O.
  [291] Sp.
  [292] Turn to left.
  [293] to right.
  [294] Sp.
  [295] D. F.
  [296] H. O.
  [297] A. O.
  [298] B. Par. A. O.
  [299] A. F.
  [300] Wring hands.
  [301] B. D. Cli.
  [302] A. O.
  [303] Ind. D. O.
  [304] A. O.
  [305] H. O.]
  [306] Left A. O.
  [307] A. O.
  [308] Ind. A. O.


[Illustration: “Hide your faces, Holy Angels!”]




  The Chemist to his Love.


  I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me,
  Our mutual flame is like the affinity
  That doth exist between two simple bodies:
  I am Potassium to thine Oxygen;
  ’Tis little that the holy marriage vow
  Shall shortly make us one. That unity
  Is, after all, but metaphysical.
  Oh, would that I, my Mary, were an Acid,
  A living acid, and thou an alkali,
  Endowed with human sense, that brought together,
  We might coalesce unto one salt,
  One homogeneous crystal. Oh, that thou
  Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen!
  We would unite to form olefiant gas,
  Or common Coal, or Naphtha. Would to Heaven
  That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime,
  And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret!
  I’d be content to be Sulphuric Acid,
  So that thou might be Soda; in that case
  We should be Glauber’s Salt. Wert thou Magnesia
  Instead, we’d form the salt that’s named from Epsom.
  Could’st thou Potassa be, I, Aquafortis,
  Our happy union should be that compound form,
  Nitrate of Potash,――otherwise Saltpetre.
  And thus our several natures sweetly blent,
  We’d live and love together, until death
  Should decompose the fleshy tertium quid,
  Leaving our souls to all eternity
  Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs
  And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we
  Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs?
  We will. The day, the happy day is nigh,
  When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine.




A Wayward Life.

[An organ accompaniment, and singing by a concealed choir, will add
very materially to the effect of this piece.]


’Tis a cold winter night, and the earth is robed in a gown of snow.
The moon is partly hidden by the driving clouds, and but dimly lights
the sleeping world.

The scene is a grave-yard. In the centre stands an old church. From
its stained glass windows the warm light softly gleams. Slowly
tottering along the narrow path is seen a human form; it is a rough
old tramp, lonely, and almost bowed to the earth. He seeks among the
tall, white tombs; now he sinks wearily down on a hard, rough mound.
There is no marble slab to mark out the spot; only the drifted snow,
only the bare leafless willow that moans and sighs above it.

Hark! he speaks; his voice is feeble; he mournfully cries, “Mother,
I’ve come home to die with you. Here on your long-neglected grave,
here let me pillow my head and fancy I sleep in your arms; and the
soft music within that dear church, let me fancy ’tis your sweet voice
as you lull me to sleep. I dare not enter yon church, where in youth I
worshiped my God.”

See! he lays his head on that cold, hard mound, and sobs like a tired
little child, “Oh, mother, I am weary, so weary of life, of toil so
bitter and labor so hard. I long for rest, but I am afraid to die.” He
pauses, he listens, for within the church a voice speaks slowly and
reverently, “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I
will give you rest.” The tramp replies, “Could I but know those words
were meant for such a sinner as I!”――and heavy sobs convulse his poor,
wretched frame.

Now the choir sings:

  “Go tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief,
  Go tell it to Jesus, He’ll send thee relief;
  Go gather the sunshine He sheds on the way,
  He’ll lighten thy burden, go, weary one, pray.”

The wind moans piteously through the tall, gaunt trees, and he murmurs
half inaudibly, “The prayers that were taught me in sweet boyhood
years I then repeated with smiles, but now tears dim my eyes as I
think of that patient mother who lies beneath this mound. I killed
her! I broke her heart! But mother, oh, hear me to-night! With my
poor, weary form I will guard you and sleep on your snow-covered
grave. Could I know that when dead I could meet you in Heaven, I would
rest calmly here on this rough pillow, but alas for my sins, so many,
so vile! ’Tis only the pure and holy and good that ever dare hope they
may enter therein.”

Each note of the organ peals out, full of tenderest pathos, each word
from the singers comes clearly and plainly:

  “Weary of earth and laden with my sin,
  I look at Heaven and long to enter in;
  But there no evil thing may find a home,
  And yet I hear a voice that bids me come.”

Now he kneels in the snow and his head is bent low, he clasps his
trembling hands, then with one yearning look towards Heaven, he sinks
like a child, weary of play, sleepy and tired, on that snow-covered
pillow, the pillow of death.

Now the flakes fall faster and faster still, they cover him gently,
like a mother that covers her child, lest she waken it out of its
slumber.

Now more holy than ever, grander than ever, the old organ peals out,
and the choir sings:

  “Safe in the arms of Jesus,
  Safe on his gentle breast,
  There by his love o’er-shadowed,
  Sweetly my soul shall rest.”

                                          ――_Lizzie G. Vickers._




The Little Torment.


My name’s Jack. I’m eight years old. I’ve a sister Arathusa, and she
calls me a little torment. I’ll tell you why: You know Arethusa has
got a beau, and he comes to see her every night, and they turn the gas
’way, ’way down ’till you can’t hardly see. I like to stay in the room
with the gas on full blaze, but Arathusa skites me out of the room
every night. I checked her once, you better believe. You know she went
to the door to let Alphonso in, and I crawled under the sofa. Then
they came in, and it got awful dark, and they sat down on the sofa,
and I couldn’t hear nothing but smack! smack! smack! Then I reached
out and jerked Arethusa’s foot. Then she jumped and said, “Oh, mercy,
what’s that?” and Alfonso said she was a “timid little creature.” “Oh,
Alfonso, I’m happy by your side, but when I think of your going away
it almost breaks my heart.” Then I snickered right out, I couldn’t
help it, and Arathusa got up, went and peeked through the key-hole and
said, “I do believe that’s Jack, nasty little torment, he’s always
where he isn’t wanted.” Do you know this made me mad, and I crawled
out from under the sofa and stood up before her and said, “you think
you are smart because you wear a Grecian Bend. I guess I know what
you’ve been doing, you’ve been sitting on Alphonso’s lap, and letting
him kiss you like you let Bill Jones kiss you. You ought to be ashamed
of yourself. If it hadn’t been for that old false front of yours, Pa
would have let me have a velocipede like Tom Clifford’s. You needn’t
be grinding them false teeth of yours at me, I ain’t a-going out of
here. I ain’t so green as I look. I guess I know a thing or two. I
don’t care if you are 28 years old, you ain’t no boss of me!”




  The Stars.


  Spanglets of heaven! Ye seem to me
  The alphabet of immensity,
  By which I read, in dazzling light,
  The lofty name of the Infinite.
  Shine on! Shine on! in your depths of blue,
  ’Till every heart can read it too,
  And every raptured eye that’s bent
  Up to the studded firmament,
  Catches the glow of your ceaseless rays,
  And glistens in the Eternal’s praise.

  Beautiful stars! ’Neath your rich beams,
  As down from heaven their glory streams,
  When silence has sealed up the lips of Earth,
  And thought, more wild than the winds, has birth,
  I wander! I wander! with untold joy,
  To feast my soul on the orb-lit sky;
  And never did Chaldee, when taught to kneel
  At the shrines of your splendor, more wildly feel
  The torrents of bliss through his bosom flow,
  As he upward gazed from the dust below.

  Eyes of the universe! Gems divine!
  Suns that bask in your own pure shine!
  Countless guides of the awe-struck soul,
  As inquiring it rushes from pole to pole:
  I drink! I drink! at your fountains deep,
  While the world is locked in the arms of sleep,
  ’Till filled with the Pythonic draught of light,
  My intoxicate spirit deems all things bright;
  And earth (and its deeds) is lost to me,
  Eclipsed by your dazzling radiency.

                                 ――_Dublin University Magazine._




  Why She didn’t Stay in the Poorhouse.


  No, I didn’t stay in the poorhouse, and this is how, you see,
  It happened at the very last, there came a way for me.
  The Lord, he makes our sunniest times out of our darkest days,
  And yet we fail most always to render His name the praise.
  But, as I am goin’ to tell you, I have a home of my own,
  And keep my house, an’――no, I’m not a-livin’ here alone.
  Of course you wonder how it is, an’ I’m a-goin’ to tell
  How, though I couldn’t change a jot, the Lord done all things well.
    I’ve spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Rebecca, “that lives out
      West;”
  An’ Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best;
  An’ Susan;――but not a single word I said about another one,――
  Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was our wayward son,
  An’ while his father was livin’ he ran away to sea,
  An’ never sent a word or line to neither him nor me.
  Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there,
  An’ what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear.
  But I couldn’t talk of Georgie――he was too dear to blame,――
  It seemed as if I couldn’t bear even to hear his name.
  But when I took my pauper’s place in that old work-house grim,
  My weary heart was every day a-cryin’ out for him.
  For I’d tried the love of the others, and found it weak and cold,
  An’ I kind o’ felt if Georgie knew that I was poor and old,
  He’d help to make it better, and try to do his part,
  For love and trust are last of all to die in a woman’s heart.
  An’ he used to be always tellin’ when he was a man and strong,
  How he’d work for father and mother; and he never done no wrong,
  Exceptin’ his boyish mischief, an’ his runnin’ off to sea;――
  So somehow now, out of them all, he seemed the best to me.
  And so the slow days wore along, just as the days all go,
  When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we know
  Is nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till ’twould seem
  That the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream.
  And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him,
  And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes were dim.
    And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never again
  I should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men.
  When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin’ up to me,
  Sayin’ “Mother! my God! have they put you here?” An’ then I see
  ’Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, and I knowed nothin’ more,
  ’Cause I got faint, and but for him, I’d fallen on the floor.
  They say he swore some awful words,――I don’t know,――it may be;
  But swear or not, I know my boy’s been very, very good to me.
  An’ he’s bought the old home back again, an’ I’ve come here to stay,
  Never to move till the last move,――the final goin’ away.
  An’ I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie’s good an’ kind,
  An’ the thought of bein’ a pauper ain’t wearin’ on my mind;
  But still I never can forget until my dyin’ day,
  That they put me in the poorhouse ’cause I was in the way.




  “Bill” the Engineer.


  “All ’board!” “Sphee-ee-chee――sphee-ee-choof!”
  And the iron horse moves his steel-rimmed hoof,
  And snorts from his chest his breath of steam,
  With a quickening pulse and warning scream,
  Moves out[309] with his freight of human lives――
  A sinuous[310] chain of humming hives.

  Anon the hum is a rattling din,
  As the bright steel arms fly out and in,
  Till naught is heard save a deafening jar,
  As the train speeds[311] on like a shooting star,
  With a lengthening trail[312] like a smoky pall,
  Whose writhing folds envelope all.

  “Stoke up!” shouts Bill, the engineer;
  “We must rush this grade and the bottom clear
  With a monstrous bulge, to pull up hill
  T’other side――heavy train.” “All right, Bill!”
  And the coal went in and the throttle out.
  “Watch yo’ side the curve!” from Bill with a shout.

  Adown the grade with open throttle
  They swiftly glide as a flying shuttle――
  Weaving in streaks of green and gray,
  The warp and woof of bush and clay,
  While steam and smoke and dust behind
  Form mottled clouds in the tortured wind.

  Through the cut[313] and into the vale――
  Across the trestle that spans the swale;
  There the willows swirl, and the rank weeds sway,
  And the heron starts with a shriek away[314]――
  Blown from her course――a shrill refrain,
  ’Mid the whirling gusts of the flying train.

                      *     *     *     *     *

  Beyond the curve this side the hill,
  There runs a creek――by the old saw-mill――
    A covered bridge[315] and a water tank,
  With the watchman’s shanty on this bank:
  A quiet nook, for the mill is done,――
  With crippled Jemmie it ceased to run.

  Just round[316] the curve in the shady wood
  That fringes the creek, his low hut stood,
  Where Jemmie, the watch, spent his useful life,
  With a lovely child and a loving wife.
  Naught now came their peace to mar
  Worse than a swift train’s rumbling jar.

  To fame unknown, but to roadmen dear;
  For Jemmie had watched from year to year――
  And more than once did his vigil save
  A train and its lives from a watery grave;
  Since broken in purse and form at the mill
  He worked on crutches――a good watch still!

                      *     *     *     *     *

  “Hark![317] Tis the train! The mother’s ear
  Leans to the sound; then a mortal fear
  Freezes her veins――she sees not her child[318]!
  “Oh, darling! Oh, Maggie!” in accents wild.
  She starts[319] from the hut――now _feeling_ the way,
  “_Keep Maggie in when the trains go by_.”

  She strains her eyes[320] out toward the creek,
  Where up the track, with an ashen cheek,
  Hobbled the watch[321]――one pointing crutch
    Where Maggie lay[322] in the engine’s clutch――
  The wilting flowers across her breast;
  She’d wearied to sleep in their eager quest.

  “Save her, Mary![323] For God’s sake run!”
  Came Jemmie’s voice like a signal gun;
  The mother sprang like a startled deer,
  But the rushing train[324] was now too near――
  She saw, and swooned[325] with a piercing shriek
  That echoed afar o’er the winding creek;

  Ay, pierced the boom round the curve so near,[326]
  And smote on the ear of the engineer;
  “Great God! Down brakes! Quick! Reverse!”
  And Bill was out[327] on the iron horse,
  Treading his thrills o’er the roaring fires
  With his nerves strung tense as electric wires.

  Alas! the engine’s speed is too great;
  The baby dreams in the path of fate!
  Yet Bill knows the force and just the brace
  To lift a pound in such a case;
  With a rushing train and the child asleep,
  ’Tis a giants’ power his place must keep.

  Still reaching forth with an iron grasp,
  He does with his might this God-like task;
  Bears the startled child on high[328]――
  So happy to hear its frightened cry――
  Then crushing it to his manly breast,[329]
  Kisses its cheeks with a lover’s zest.

  “More brakes!” calls Bill, for the mother’s seen,[330]
  And the crutches and form of Jemmie between
  His wife and the train――that’s crushed the life
  From his child, he thinks――“I’ll die with my wife!”
  But the train now slackens and stops apace――
  Hard by a pallid upturned face.[331]

  “Saved!” cries Bill, from the engine’s front;
  “Saved!” echoes Jemmie, his crutches shunt;
  “Saved!” shout the passengers, “Saved from death!”
  “Saved?”[333] queries Mary, with conscious breath.
  Then helped to her feet――“God bless you sir!”
  And Bill’s grimy hand wipes back a tear.

  “All ’board!” Sphee-ee-chee――sphee-ee-choof!
  And the iron horse moves his steel-rimmed hoof;
  And the train resumes its journey far.
  Heroes have been, and heroes are――
  Of battle and State, of travel and skill,
  Of letters and art――but give us “Bill.”[334]

  At the end of the road they gave him a purse
  “I don’t want that!” and he muttered a curse;
  But finally took it, and stowed it away,
  And then threw[335] it to “Mag” as he passed next day.
  It whirled through the air and struck by the stoop,
  Where the three stood to greet him, a joyful group.

                                               ――_Bettersworth._

Published by permission of T. J. Carey, Editor of “Excelsior Readings
and Recitations.”


  GESTURES.
  [309] H. F.
  [310] H. O.
  [311] H. O. quick motion.
  [312] Trace line of smoke with ind. fin. from H. O. to H. F.
  [313] H. O. continuous gesture.
  [314] A. O.
  [315] H.O. continue with impulses to “_bank_.”
  [316] H. O. sweep.
  [317] Left listening.
  [318] Look around distractedly.
  [319] H. O.
  [320] Hand over eyes.
  [321] H. O.
  [322] Ind. H. F.
  [323] Throw both hands up.
  [324] Left H. O.
  [325] D. F.
  [326] Left H. L.
  [327] Left H. O.
  [328] Raise hand as though lifting child.
  [329] Hand on breast.
  [330] D. O.
  [331] D. L.
  [332] A. O.
  [333] Dazed manner.
  [334] H. F. cordially.
  [335] H. sweep.




  The True Remedy.


  Don’t say that times are pinching,
    Don’t say that bread is dear;
  Don’t say that our prospects darken,
    And that worse times are near.

  Times are not so very pinching,
    Bread is not so very dear;
  Countless stores of loaves are wasted,
    Burned in whisky,――drowned in beer.

  Don’t say that the harvest failed us,――
    “Under average,” “short,” or “light;”
  Don’t say that the Bounteous Giver
    Gave not as you think he might.

  God is bountiful, and giveth
    As becomes the Godhead’s hand;
  Food for man and beast providing,
    Scattering plenty o’er the land.
  Man himself, the food destroyer,
    Spurns and wastes the bounties given;
  Turns to famine God’s abundance,
    Robs his brothers, blasphemes heaven.

  Don’t say that _this_ is fearful,
    Killing men and burning corn;
  War is raging here among us,
    Day and night, and eve and morn.
  Noiselessly and never ending,
    In a quiet, legal way,
  Murdering, starving, scourging, blasting,
    All the year and every day!

  Take your grain in million quarters,
    Sink it in the lonely main,
  There to feed the gaping fishes,
    Never to be seen again;
  Hide it in earth’s drearest caverns,
    Burn it in the mid-day sun:――
  That were mercy, that were worship,
    When compared with what is done,――
  Taking bread from hungry children,
    And from starving, weeping wives;
  Turning it to direst poison;
        Demonizing human nature,
        Dwarfing it in moral stature,
        Blotting out each God-like feature,
    Shortening, tort’ring human lives!

  We say, something must be done;
    Government must interfere,――
  Take the “short and simple method;”
    Stop the whisky, stop the beer!

  You can stop them if you will.
    ’Tis a small thing, will you do it?
  ’Tis your country calls you to it;
    Stop the traffic――shut the still.

                                    ――_Temperance Speaker._


[Illustration: “But she, forsooth, must charm a man.”]




Wanted――A Wife.


I do wish somebody would tell me how to get a wife. For the last ten
years I’ve been continually proposing, at all sorts of times, in all
sorts of places, to all sorts of girls, and in all sorts of positions.
I have knelt in the clear moonlight, while the soft zephyrs of June
fanned my heated brow, and with my hands on my heart made the most
passionate appeal romantic maiden could desire. I have proposed in the
giddy mazes of the waltz; I have besought a fair girl to be mine while
skating, reminding her at the time that the path of life was far too
slippery to be trodden alone; I have popped the question on the
stairs, and in fact everywhere I could; the last time being in the
surf at Long Branch, where I begged the object of my affections to let
us breast the waves of life together.

But it’s of no earthly use! No one will have me except some
superannuated female, and I’m not partial to aged charmers, though,
goodness knows, I want a wife almost bad enough to take one. I’ve
hardly a button on any of my shirts, or other undergarments, and am
consequently obliged to fasten them with pins, (which occasionally
prick me at most inconvenient times). My toes are poking out of my
socks, and my fingers out of my gloves, while to crown all, I, who am
a great lover of cleanliness, am forced to sit in a horribly dirty
room. I have changed my boarding house ever so many times, but it
does’nt make a particle of difference. My landlady always says it
isn’t her business to “clean up” after me; the servants invariably
remark that its no business of theirs, and I’m sure nobody can say
that I ought to get a broom and dustpan and keep my own room clean.

My washerwoman is everlastingly cheating me, besides continually
suppressing various articles of clothing; and when I mildly inquire
where they have gone to, she solemnly swears she never had them;
though I could swear equally solemnly that she had. Then she cuts the
pearl buttons off my shirts, and declares they came off in “the wash;”
and if I venture timidly to suggest that she should put them on again,
she thanks God that all the gentlemen are not as mean as I am.

Oh, dear! It’s very hard upon a poor fellow not to be able to get a
wife when he wants one! I’m not so very bad looking either; to be sure
I squint a little, but then that peculiarity is sometimes admired, and
if it were not, surely some kind-hearted girl might shut her eyes to
the fact and confer upon me the inestimable benefit of becoming my
partner for life. I’m not bad-tempered, and don’t drink nor smoke. I’m
only thirty, and though I now belong to a club, I’ll promise to give
it up if required. I possess enough money to keep a wife comfortably;
have a good disposition; and what more could a girl ask. If, after
trying six months longer, I cannot induce any girl to have me, I will
emigrate to some tropical climate where clothes are almost
superfluous, and washerwomen unknown, and consequently where a wife
will not be one of the absolute necessities of civilized life.




  Back to Griggsby’s.


  Pap’s got his patent-right, and rich as all creation;
    But where’s the peace and comfort that we all had before?
  Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s station――
    Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

  The like of us a-livin’ here! It’s jest a mortal pity
    To see us in this great, big house, with carpets on the stairs,
  And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! city! city!
    And nothin’ but the city all around us everywheres!

  Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple,
    And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree!
  And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan’ people,
    And none that neighbors with us, or we want to go and see!

  Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s station――
    Back where the latch-string’s a-hangin’ from the door;
  And every neighbor round the place is dear as a relation――
    Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

  I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit and bilin’
    A-drivin’ up from Shallow Ford to stay the Sunday through;
  And I want to see them hitchin’ at their son-in-law’s and pilin’
    Out there at Lizy Ellen’s, like they used to do!

  I want to see the piece quilts the Jones girls is makin’,
    And I want to pester Laury ’bout their freckled hired hand,
  And joke her ’bout the widower she come purt’ nigh a-takin’,
    Till her pap got his pension ’lowed in time to save his land.

  Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s station――
    Back where there’s nothin’ aggervatin’ anymore,
  Shet away safe in the wood around the old location――
    Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

  I want to see Mirandy and help her with her sewin’,
    And hear her talk so lovin’ of her man that’s dead and gone
  And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he’s growin’,
    And smile as I have saw her, ’fore she put her mournin’ on.

  And I want to see the Samples on the old lower Eighty――
    Where John, our oldest boy, he was took and buried, for
  His own sake and Katy’s――and I want to cry with Katy
    As she reads all his letters over, writ from the war.

  What’s in all this grand life and high situation,
    And nary pink nor hollyhawk bloomin’ at the door――
  Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s Station――
    Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

                                                ――_J. W. Riley._




  The Old Spinster.


  No, she never was married, but was to have been――
    At the time she was running the loom――
  But the fact’ry burned down, some were mangled and scarred,
    And her lover was never her groom,
  As he wedded a handsomer girl.

  To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed,
    For her features were grim and distorted;
  Tho’ in years long gone by she was lovely and fair,
    As the hopes of her life that were thwarted
  By the dreadful mishap in the mill.

  But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore,
    Beat a heart that was loving and tender――
  As the villagers knew――and man, woman or child
    ’Gainst the merest rude speech would defend her
  So well was the poor woman loved.

  And right many’s the maid, who, bewailing her woe,
    Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her,
  Only soon to trip on with a happier look,
    While the silly goose inwardly blessed her,
  For her comforting words and advice.

  Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with mud,
    Afraid to go home――perhaps crying――
  But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the stains,
    And they laughed while their garments were drying,
  In the yard at the back of her cot.

  When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl,
    And the rustling of leaves were unheeded,
  In the room of the sick, by the flickering light
    Was she seen, where her presence was needed,
  While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall.

  And the out-casts who begged at her door for a crust,
    Ere they went on their wearisome ways,
  Felt that one thought them human and pitied their fate,
    Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days,
  And who reckoned them not by their rags.

  But the weight of her grief which was never revealed,――
    Save to Jesus――the friend of the lowly――
  Bore her down――and the sands of her desolate life,
    Which for years had been ebbing out slowly,
  Ceased to run――and her spirit was freed.

  When the villagers stood at the side of her grave,
    When the gray-headed preacher’s voice faltered,
  When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men――
    Oh! her beauty seemed fresh and unaltered
  As when happy she worked in the mill.

  And oft where she lies a bent form can be seen
    When the twilight is deep’ning its shadows:
  And the sweetest of flow’rets are found on her tomb,
    All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows;
  Yet who gathers them no one can tell.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




  A String of Broken Beads; or, Jingles from Favorite Authors.


                Oh, with what pride I used
  To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
  And bless him that the land was free. ’Twas free――
  From end to end, from cliff to lake, ’twas free!
  Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
  And plow our valleys, without asking leave!
  Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow
  In very presence of the Light Brigade.

                Cannon to right of them,
                Cannon to left of them,
                Cannon in front of them,
                All a gwine into the ark.

And there was the elephant-ah, that g-r-e-a-t animal-ah of which
Goldsmith describes in his Animated Nater-ah, which is as big as a
house-ah, and his bones as big as a tree-ah, depending somewhat upon
the size of the tree-ah; and there was Shem, and there was Ham, and
there was Japhet-ah, a-l-l a-gwine into the show-room.


  The auctioneer then in his labor began;
  And called out aloud as he held up a man,
  How much for a bachelor, who wants to buy?
  In a twinkling each maiden responded, “I――I!”
  In short, at a hugely extravagant price,
  The bachelors all were sold off in a trice,
  And forty old maidens――some younger, some older――
  Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder.
  But scarce had the honeymoon passed o’er their heads,
  When one morning to Zantippe, Socrates said,
  “I think for a man of my standing in life,
  This house is too small as I now have a wife:
  So without further delay Carpenter Cary
  Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy.”
  “Now, Socrates, dearest,” Zantippe replied,
  “I hate to hear everything vulgarly my’d;
  Now, whenever you speak of your chattles again,
  Say _our_ cowhouse, _our_ barn-yard; _our_ pig-pen.”
  “By your leave Mrs. Snooks, I’ll say what I please
  Of _my_ houses, _my_ lands, _my_ gardens, _my_ trees.”
  Then he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
  And his mother vain of her rank and gold.
  So, closing his heart, the judge rode on,
  And Maud was left in the fields alone.
  But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
  When he hummed in court the Bugle Song.
  Oh, love, they die in yon fair sky,
  They faint on field, and hill, and river;
  Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
  And grow forever and forever.
    Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
          Answer, echoes, answer.
    Hark! how the sign-board creaks! the blast howls by!
    Moan! moan! a dirge swells through the angry sky!
    Ha! tis his knock! he comes, he comes once more――
    Ha, ha! Take that! and that! and that!
    Ha, ha! So, through your coward throat
    The full day shines!... Two fox tails float
    And drift and drive adown the stream;

Therefore, my bruddren, if you’s a-gwine to git saved, you’s got to
git aboard de Ship of Faith. Dere ain’t no udder way my bruddren. Dere
ain’t no gitting up de back stairs, nor goin’ ’cross lots, you’s got
to git aboard de Ship of Faith, for

  Me thought I heard a voice cry ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house,
  Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore,
  Cawdor shall sleep no more!
  Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor,
  Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls twinkled on the tufted floor.
  “Wretch,” I cried, “Thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath
    sent thee
  Respite――respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
  Quaff, oh, quaff, this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!’
  Quoth the raven――Good night.

                               ――_Arranged by F. Lizzie Peirce._




  The Legend of Wissahickon.


  While yet the Pale-face ne’er had peeped
  Within that tranquil vale,――where steeped
  In sombre, fir-clothed heights,[336] and bound
  On either side[337] with moss-grown ground
  And craggy cliff,[338] a goodly stream,[339]
  With many a rippling noontide gleam,
  Nor ceased her daily tithes to pay
  To good Queen Ocean[340] far away――
  Deep sheltered from the hostile world
  The smoke from many a tent up-curled,
  Where, round the wigwam fire, red dames
  Talked o’er their tawny lords’ brave names,
  While they, with feathered death and bow
  And trackless step, now quick, now slow,
  Gave chase, in neighboring hills,[341] the game,
  There pasturing heedless, till death came
  In one fell dart. Life surely here――
  With naught but Manitou[342] to fear――
  Seemed sweet to those blest sons of men;
  Yet it did find its cares e’en then,
  For lo![343] at last there came a day
  Of sorrow and of dread dismay,
  When from a lowering cloud that spread[344]
  Across the summer blue o’erhead,
  Their God-chiefs awful voice was heard,
  As like the thunder rolled each word:

  “My children, I am called away
  Where other souls my presence pray,
  But ere I leave ye I must ask
  One boon of all,――a simple task
  ’Twill be to those whose faith hath borne
  The tests of fiery stake or thorn.
  Yet some I know among ye, who
  Will find it hard to sin eschew
  When left alone, and all must know,
  An evil spirit dwells below
  These rocks, and ever guards his chance
  To tempt ye, with his fiendish dance
  And wicked ways, to but forsake
  My laws for aught that he may make;
  Lo, should he rise when I am gone,
  Let no temptation lead ye on
  To overstep the bounds here set
  About your hunting grounds, nor let
  Aught of shape, however fair
  And good it seems, entice ye where
  My word hath said ye nay.”

                    Thus said,
  The cloudy spirit, then vanished
  Into the air from whence it grew;
  And now a wild commotion[345] flew
  Throughout the warriors gathered there;
  And wondered all how soon, and where,
  This new-brought ill its face should show,
  To tempt their Eve-like hearts; when lo!
  Ere two short days had dragged away,
  Within a distant wood,[346] where lay
  Soft twilight[347] ever ’mong the trees,
  Strange music stirred, and on the breeze
  Of evening came wild shouts of mirth,[348]
  That seemed to wake the very earth,[349]
  So boisterous were they, and, alas!
  The youths could not a moment pass
  Till they with stealthy steps were brought
  Close to that God-forbidden spot;
  And there, as o’er a lofty brow
  That hemmed the darksome glade, they now
  Did creep,[350] behold! a wondrous sight,[351]
  Such as their soul’s most fancied flight
  Had ne’er conceived of, met their eyes,
  Even like some glimpse of paradise:
  A Pale-face spirit,[352] lank and grim,
  With horns and claws that gave to him
  A weird, unearthly look, sat high
  Upon a rock that towered nigh;
  And while below[353] fair damsels played
  Wild antics through the woodland shade,
  He to loud fits of mirth gave vent,
  As near the maidens came and went,
  And cast before him laurels wreathed
  In crowns; then――ere the watchers breathed,
  Lest they should be discovered there――
  Lo! quick as lightning ’thwart the air,
  The fiendish god turned full to view,
  And ere the astonished gazers knew,
  Close by their side[354] with devilish smile
  He stood, and thus addressed them,[355] while
  With spell-bound gaze――their eyes made dim
  With fascination――now from him
  From whom they had no power to go,
  Did wander to the scene below,[356]
  Where still,――though now the sun had gone――
  To music soft, the dance went on:――

  “Would’st thou, oh man, to pleasure blind,
  Seeking a gift thou ne’er shalt find,
  Led by a promise far astray[357]
  Along that hard and narrow way,
  Would’st thou no more sad anguish know,
  Nor lose the chase with feeble bow?
  Would’st thou be free,[358] and tread once more
  The grounds your fathers roamed of yore?
  Wouldst thou find game in every copse
  And stream,[359] and gather plenteous crops
  In autumn, yet know naught of care
  Nor labor, but with damsels fair[360]
  And waxen, pass life’s endless days
  Along my smooth and flower-girt ways?
  Would’st thou, in fine, the height of bliss[361]
  Attain? I offer[362] ye all this,
  And more; come, follow me.”

                        He ceased,
  And like some semi-human beast,
  His blood-cast eye the crowd scanned o’er,
  Where some, entranced, could hear no more,
  But, weak of heart, with outstretched hand,
  Forgetting quite their God’s command
  Of yester morn, were quickly led
  Adown the cliff[363] with dizzy head
  And burning brain, and those, alas!
  From mortal view for aye did pass;

  But some there were who still delayed,
  Not resolute and half afraid
  To follow; lingering there they stood
  Till lo! the dawn[364] crept through the wood;
  And on its gentle face, behold![365]
  A strange-shaped cloud, fringed round[366] with gold,
  Came darkly flitting through the sky,
  Till seemingly it had drawn nigh
  Above[367] that gathering in the vale.
  Then quick the subtle fiend turned pale,
  As from the frowning mists o’erhead
  A mighty voice and angry said:――

  “Depart, ye tempter of the night!
  Hence! Dare ye show your face in light?
  Did I not bid thee well beware
  Lest thou shouldst fall in thine own snare?”
  The spirit fled,[368] but scarce had left
  His seat, when some great earthquake cleft
  The rock beneath his feet in twain,
  And deep he plunged[369] between. In vain
  He strove to rise again, for quick
  The waters from a hillside creek[370]
  O’erran that pool,[371] that marks to-day
  The spot where Satan passed away.
  Then kindly smiled the Manitou
  On those around, and said:――

                            “To you
  My children, who have yet withstood
  The things of evil for the good;
  To you whose faith has ne’er been turned
  Astray by sin, well have ye earned
  The joys foretold; so now go forth;
  The boundless woods from south to north,
  From east to west, are yours to roam
  For aye, till I shall call ye home.”

                                        ――_John L. Cooper._


  GESTURES.
  [336] A. O.
  [337] B. H. O.
  [338] A. O.
  [339] D. F.
  [340] Left. H. L.
  [341] H. O.
  [342] Ind. fin. A. O.
  [343] Raise hand.
  [344] V. A. O.
  [345] B. H. L.
  [346] H. F.
  [347] P. H. F.
  [348] H. F.
  [349] D. F.
  [350] P. D. F.
  [351] B. H. O.
  [352] Left. A. F.
  [353] D. F.
  [354] Left. H. L.
  [355] Look to left.
  [356] D. F.
  [356] Speak to H. O.
  [357] H. O.
  [358] B. H. O.
  [359] Left. H. O.
  [360] D. F.
  [361] Ind. fin. A. O.
  [362] B. O. H.
  [363] D. F.
  [364] H. L.
  [365] A. L.
  [366] A. Sw.
  [367] A. F.
  [368] Left. H. O.
  [369] Left. D. O.
  [370] Left. H. L.
  [371] Left. D. O.]


[Illustration: “To hear, to heed, to wed,
                  Fair lot that maidens choose,
                Thy mother’s tenderest words are said,
                  Thy face no more she views.”]




  A New Mother.


  I was with my lady when she died:
  I it was who guided her weak hand,
    For a blessing on each little head,
    And laid her baby by her on the bed,
  Heard the words they could not understand.

  And I drew them round my knee at night,
  Hushed their childish glee, and made them say,

    They would keep her words with loving tears,
    They would not forget her dying fears,
  Lest the thought of her should fade away.

  I, who guess’d what her last dread had been,
  Made a promise to that still, cold face,
    That her children’s hearts, at any cost,
    Should be with the mother they had lost,
  When a stranger came to take her place.

  And I knew so much: for I had lived
  With my lady since her childhood: known
    What her young and happy days had been,
    And the grief no other eyes had seen――
  I had watch’d and sorrow’d for alone.

  Ah! she once had such a happy smile!
  I had known how sorely she was tried:
    Six short years before, her eyes were bright
    As her little blue-eyed May’s that night,
  When she stood by her dead mother’s side.

  No――I will not say he was unkind;
  But she had been used to love and praise.
    He was somewhat grave: perhaps, in truth,
    Could not weave her joyous, smiling youth
  Into all his stern and serious ways.

  She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,
  First in pride and honor as in grace――
    She, whose will had once ruled all around,
    Queen and darling of us all――she found
  Change enough in that cold, stately place.

  Yet she would not blame him, even to me,
  Though she often sat and wept alone;
    But she could not hide it near her death,
    When she said with her last struggling breath,
  “Let my babies still remain my own!”

  I it was who drew the sheet aside,
  When he saw his dead wife’s face. That test
    Seem’d to strike right to his heart. He said,
    In a strange, low whisper, to the dead,
  “God knows, love, I did it for the best!”

  And he wept――O yes, I will be just――
  When I brought the children to him there,
    Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes;
    And he sooth’d them with his fond replies
  Bidding me give double love and care.

  Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake:
  Little Arthur, with his serious air;
    May, with all her mother’s pretty ways,
    Blushing, and at any word of praise
  Shaking out her sunny golden hair.

  And the little one of all――poor child!
  She had cost that dear and precious life.
    Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady’s name,
    When the baby’s gloomy christening came,
  And he call’d her “Olga――like my wife.”

  Save that time he never spoke of her.
  He grew graver, sterner every day:
    And the children felt it, for they dropp’d
    Low their voices, and their laughter stopp’d
  While he stood and watch’d them at their play.

  No, he never nam’d their mother’s name.
  But I told them of her: told them all
    She had been, so gentle, good and bright;
    And I always took them every night
  Where her picture hung in the great hall.

  There she stood: white daisy’s in her hand,
  And her red lips parted as to speak
    With a smile; the blue and sunny air
    Seem’d to stir her floating golden hair,
  And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.

  Well, so time pass’d on; a year was gone,
  And Sir Arthur had been much away,
    When the news came! I shed many tears
    When I saw the truth of all my fears
  Rise before me on that bitter day.

  Any one but her I could have borne!
  But my lady lov’d her as her friend,
    Through their childhood and their early youth,
    How she used to count upon the truth
  Of this friendship that would never end!

  Older, graver than my lady was,
  Whose young, gentle heart on her relied,
    She would give advice, and praise, and blame,
    And my lady lean on Margaret’s name,
  As her dearest comfort, help and guide.

  I had never liked her, and I think
  That my lady grew to doubt her too
    Since her marriage; for she named her less,
    Never saw her, and I used to guess
  At some secret wrong that I never knew.

  That might be or not. But now, to hear
  She would come and reign here in her stead,
    With the pomp and splendor of a bride:
    Would no thought reproach her in her pride
  With the silent memory of the dead?

  Lo the day came, and the bells rang out,
  And I laid the children’s black aside;
    And I held each little trembling hand,
    As I strove to make them understand,
  They must greet their father’s new-made bride.

  Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern,
  And his lady’s eyes might well grow dim,
    When the children shrank in fear away,――
    Little Arthur hid his face, and May
  Would not raise her eyes, or speak to him.

  When Sir Arthur bade them greet “their mother,”
  I was forced to chide, yet proud to hear
    How my little loving May replied,
    With her mother’s pretty air of pride,――
  “Our dear mother has been dead a year!”

  Ah! the lady’s tears might well fall fast,
  As she kiss’d them, and then turned away.
    She might strive to smile or to forget,
    But I think some shadow of regret
  Must have risen to blight her wedding-day.

  She had some strange touch of self-reproach;
  For she used to linger day by day
    By the nursery door or garden gate
    With a sad, calm, wistful look, and wait
  Watching the children at their play.

  But they always shrank away from her
  When she strove to comfort their alarms,
    And their grave, cold silence to beguile:
    Even little Olga’s baby smile
  Quiver’d into tears when in her arms.

  I never could chide them; for I saw
  How their mother’s memory grew more deep
    In their hearts. Each night I had to tell
    Stories of her whom I loved so well
  When a child, to send them off to sleep.

  But Sir Arthur――O, this was too hard!――
  He who had been always stern and sad
    In my lady’s time, seem’d to rejoice
    Each day more; and I could hear his voice
  Even, sounding younger and more glad.

  He might perhaps have blamed them; but his wife
  Never failed to take the children’s part.
    She would stay him with her pleading tone,
    Saying she would strive, and strive alone,
  Till she gained each little wayward heart.

  And she strove indeed, and seem’d to be
  Always waiting for their love, in vain;
    Yet when May had most their mother’s look,
    Then the lady’s calm, cold accents shook
  With some memory of reproachful pain.

  Little May would never call her mother:
  So one day, the lady bending low,
    Kiss’d her golden curls, and softly said,
    “Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead,――
  Your dear mother used to call me so.”

  She was gentle, kind, and patient too,
  Yet in vain: the children held apart.
    Ah, their mother’s gentle memory dwelt
    Near them, and her little orphans felt
  She had the first claim upon their hearts.

  So three years pass’d; then the war broke out;
  And a rumor seemed to spread and rise;
    First we guess’d what sorrow must befall,
    Then all doubt fled, for we read it all
  In the depths of her despairing eyes.

  Yes; Sir Arthur had been called away
  To that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife,
    Now he seemed to know with double pain
    The cold, bitter gulf that must remain
  To divide his children from his wife.

  Nearer came the day he was to sail,
  Deeper grew the coming woe and fear,
    When one night, the children at my knee,
    Knelt to say their evening prayer to me,
  I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.

  There he waited till their low “Amen;”
  Stopp’d their rosy lips raised for “good night!”
    Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near,
    As he bade them stay with him, and hear
  Something that would make his heart more light.

  Little Olga crept into his arms;
  Arthur leant upon his shoulder; May
    Knelt beside him, with her earnest eyes
    Lifted up in patient, calm surprise――
  I can almost hear his words to-day.

  “Years ago, my children, years ago,
  When your mother was a child, she came
    From her northern home, and here she met
    Love for love, and comfort for regret,
  In one early friend,――you know her name.

  “And this friend――a few years older――gave
  Such fond care, such love, that day by day
    The new home grew happy, joy complete,
    Studies easier, and play more sweet,
  While all childish sorrows pass’d away.

  “And your mother――fragile, like my May――
  Leant on this deep love,――nor leant in vain.
    For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!)
    Gave the sweet and took the bitter part,
  Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.

  “Years pass’d on, and then I saw them first:
  It was hard to say which was most fair,
    Your mother’s bright and blushing face,
    Or the graver Margaret’s stately grace;
  Golden locks, or braided raven hair.

  “Then it happen’d by a strange, sad fate,
  One thought entered into each young soul:
    Joy for one――if for the other pain;
    Loss for one,――if for the other gain,
  One must lose, and one possess the whole.

  “And so this――this――what they car’d for――came
  And belong’d to Margaret: was her own.
    But she laid the gift aside, would take
    Pain and sorrow for your mother’s sake,
  And none knew it but herself alone.

  “Then she travell’d far away, and none
  The strange mystery of her absence knew,
    Margaret’s secret thought was never told:
    Even your mother thought her changed and cold,
  And for many years I thought so too.

  “She was gone; and then your mother took
  That poor gift which Margaret cast aside:
    Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not――
    What it was had better be forgot;
  It was just then she became my bride.

  “Margaret is my dear and honored wife,
  And I hold her so. But she can claim
    From your hearts dear ones, a loving debt
    I can neither pay, nor yet forget:
  You can give it in your mother’s name.”

  Next day was farewell――a day of tears;
  Yet Sir Arthur as he rode away,
    And turned back to see his lady stand
    With the children clinging to her hand,
  Look’d as if it were a happy day.

  Ah, they lov’d her soon! The little one
  Crept into her arms as to a nest;
    Arthur always with her now; and May
    Growing nearer to her every day:――
  Well, I loved my own dear lady best.

                                      ――_Adelaide Proctor._




  Richard Dingle’s Speech.


  I am Master Richard Dingle,
    Tho’ my comrades call me Dick,
  And I have a purpose single,
    Which I’ll mention very quick.

  Every day I get a lecture
    For behaving very wrong;
  And with wise looks some conjecture
    That I’ll never get along.

  But what’s past my mind’s construing
    Is, that all these busy elves
  Scold and thrash poor me for doing
    What they daily do themselves!

  Master Meekly says ’tis fearful,
    To be crushing harmless flies,
  Yet can he, with gun, quite cheerful
    Seek the bird that bleeding lies.

  Others say: “Look here, Dick Dingle,
    Love of gold is vain and vile.”
  Yet when they detect its jingle,
    Why, somehow they always smile.

  Doctor Blacktooth says tobacco
    Is not even fit for brutes,
  Yet to make his teeth still blacker
    Smokes the rankest of cheroots!

  Now it seems to me the purest
    Seldom scold us when they teach,
  For they know the way that’s surest
    Is to practice what they preach!

                                       ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




Word Pictures.


In fulfillment of our promise in a former number, we will now endeavor
to give a few ideas upon the important subject of “suiting the action
to the word.” Gestures are of two kinds, curved and straight, or
emphatic and descriptive.

In the preparation for emphatic gestures the hand should be brought up
on the oblique to different degrees of elevation, depending upon the
force of emphasis, and then given a stroke on whatever line the sense
requires.

Descriptive gestures require the curved preparation, _i. e._, the hand
is brought in front of the body in the direction of the opposite
shoulder, and then a graceful sweep is made in the line desired.

In the preparation of a selection for recitation, the first requisite
is to lay out your picture, and locate every object that is mentioned;
let it be firmly set in your mind so that you will not change the
position of any portion of the scene during the course of the
recitation.

A very fine piece for practice upon this is the “Ballad of Breakneck,”
in the present number. Suppose you turn to it and imagine yourself to
be standing upon the banks of the Hudson, in a position commanding the
view down the river; by examining the marked gestures you will be able
to locate the entire scene. In the delivery of a piece, always try to
see with your mind’s eye what you are describing to your audience, and
if the object is supposed to be in sight, let the eye follow the
gesture; this, however, should be avoided in emphatic GESTURES, or
where the thing described is supposed to be hidden from view.

The following rules will serve as a guide in deciding the directions
that gestures should take:

_Front_ gestures express unity, personality, direct address, and
forward motion; also refer to the future.

_Oblique_ gestures express plurality, general assertion, and are used
in addressing numbers.

_Lateral_ gestures express vastness in time, numbers, space or idea;
also casting away, and negation.

_Backward_ gestures express remoteness in time or space.

_Descending_ gestures pertain to the will, express determination and
emphasis.

_Horizontal_ gestures pertain to the intellect, and are used in
argument and address.

_Ascending_ gestures pertain to the imagination, and express
exultation.

                                           ――_F. Lizzie Peirce._




  The Meeting at Wendletown.


  ’Twas early in the winter when first the talk began
  About the rights of women and the cruelty of man,
  Sech talk was new in Wendeltown, it scared us all to hear
  How ignorant we women was about our proper speer;
  And how we’d toiled and pinched and saved, and nothing better knew,
  While our husbands did the thinking and held the pursestrings too.

  Miss Harper come and tell us this――a lecturer――you know.
  Law me! how beautiful she talked; her words jest seemed to flow
  As smooth and easy as the brook――she looked and moved so quiet;
  But she fairly shook old Wendletown, she raised up sech a riot;
  And when I heerd her tell about us women’s “wasted years,”
  Although I’m old and tough, you’d think, I couldn’t keep from tears.

  Soon all the wives and mothers too, began to see quite plain
  That jest to bake and churn and mend was laboring in vain:
  While Mrs. Cap’n Brown she come and sez, sez she to me,
  “I’m going to have a high career,” whatever that may be.

  But Miss Harper hed to leave us, so she advertised one day
  That she’d lecture in the school-house once before she went away.
  Well, the room was packed that evening and Miss Harper did her best,
  Her gift of speech was wonderful,――that all the men confessed――
  She soared, way up into the clouds, and back to earth again,
  And showed us most convincin’ly the worthlessness of men!

  Her speech was drawing to a close, and she was jest a saying:
  “Dear sisters, spurn your tyrant, man, and scorn the part he’s
    playing;
  Let _him_ perform the menial tasks he’s set for you so long,
  While _you_ stand on the mountain tops, rejoicing free and strong!”

  Joe Hale was setting close at hand, right in the foremost row,
  And on his knees his little child, ’bout two year old or so:
  Joe was a poor, lone widower, his wife was dead and gone,
  His home was near the school-house, and I ’spose he felt forlorn,
  So he’d come and brought the baby, though the reason why I knew――
  His hired girl had slipped away to hear the lecture too.
  And jest that very minute, when the room was still as death,
  And you might have heerd a pin drop as Miss Harper stopped for breath,

  That little toddling thing slid from off her father’s knee,
  Crept close up to the lecturer’s desk and said: “Does ’ou love me?”
  Poor Joe jest turned a fiery red, and tried to snatch the child;
  But Miss Harper she leaned over and looked at him and smiled;
  Then dropping all her papers, in the twinkling of an eye,
  She clasped the little one, who gave a wondering, happy cry,
  And laid her little curly head right down upon her breast,
  With both arms clinging round her neck, as if she’d found her rest!

  It’s as fresh now as a picter, though it happened months ago,
  How she held that little baby girl a whispering soft and low;
  Her eyes as bright and smiles a-coming and a-going,
  While all the sound that you could hear was jest the child a-crowing.

  Up to this time astonishment had kept the folks all still;
  But some one shouted out――“Three cheers and give ’em with a will!
  It’s plain enough Miss Harper has found _her_ proper speer,
  And man, the tyrant’s conquered! Now boys a rousing cheer!”

  That meeting broke up in a tumult, but Joe was waiting there;
  He’s a manly, handsome fellow, and when I saw the pair
  Go walking off together, I sez, sez I, “It needs no witch to tell
  What’s coming next.” And warn’t I right? Folks laughed and talked a
    spell,
  But we all danced at the wedding! Law! how she settled down!
  There ain’t no better housewife than Mrs. Hale in all this town.


[Illustration: “Oh, my heart’s love! oh, my dear one!
                Lay thy poor head on my knee.”]




Petruchio’s Widow.

A SHAKESPERIAN TRAVESTY

IN ONE ACT.


  CHARACTERS.

  MR. ROMEO MONTAGUE, _an unlucky suitor_. MR. MOSES SHYLOCK, _a
  pawnbroker_. MRS. KATE PETRUCHIO, _a dashing widow_. MISS HELENA,
  _an affectionate spinster_. MRS. DESDEMONA OTHELLO, _an unhappy
  neighbor_. MRS. JESSICA LORENZO, _an ungrateful daughter_.


SCENE:――_A parlor; door pract. C. flat; window L. flat, open; table
beneath window; rocking chair R. C.; chairs at wings; Mrs. Petruchio
discovered standing in door._

MRS. PET.――’Tis a good thing that Jessica has finished dusting this
parlor; no nonsense will I tolerate from man, woman, or child within
this domicile. (_Enters and throws herself in rocking chair._)
Petruchio ran affairs while living; but, in his demise――poor fellow――I
re-inherited the freedom of my tongue. (_Calls_) Jessica!

JESSICA (_from without_).――I am here; please wait; don’t scold; here I
am. (_Enters L._) Your pleasure, madam.

MRS. PET.――Have you washed the front steps, scrubbed the pavement and
wrung out the clothes that were wet by the rain?

JESSICA.――Alas! all these, and more, have I done. I have picked the
beans, mixed the batter for muffins, put the mackerel in soak for
breakfast, and――――

MRS. PET.――Enough! Why thus parade before my fancy’s eye the coarse
details of cookery. I tell you ’tis scarce an hour since I ate――the
subject is distasteful.

JESSICA.――But, madam, you asked me what――――

MRS. PET. (_stamps foot_).――Silence!

JESSICA.――You are dreadfully cross. When I came to you and told you
the story of my life, how I eloped with poor, dear Lorenzo, who was
all a woman could ask, while the money I took from father lasted――――

MRS. PET.――And who hastily departed simultaneously with the last
ducat――――

JESSICA.――Do not wound my spirit.    I repeat, you promised to give me
shelter, to shield me, treat me kindly――――

MRS. PET.――Shut up! move! Lorenzo, you say, has gone to Padua to seek
a position as pen-wiper to Ballario; believe it not; he is in Venice
suing for a divorce before the Duke. Unhappy woman, move!

JESSICA (_aside_).――As Jessica Shylock I was envied as a rich man’s
child; as Jessica Lorenzo I am――――

MRS. PET.――What’s the use of whining; you will never see Lorenzo more.

JESSICA.――

  There is a tide in the affairs of men――
  If men, then women, too――
  Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune;
  Omitted, all the voyage of their life
  Is bound in shallows and in miseries;
  And we must take the current when it serves,
  Or lose our ventures!

I leave for Venice this very night!

MRS. PET.――Away to the kitchen and put on the beans!

JESSICA (_looks off L_).

MRS. PET.――

  Alas! how is it with you,
  That you do bend your eye on vacancy
  And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?
  Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep!

JESSICA (_points L_).――T. O. M.

MRS. PET.――T. O. M.? Tom who?

JESSICA.――No, no! The――old――man; my father, Moses Shylock, is creeping
up the gravel path. Hide me! Do not betray me!

MRS. PET.――

  Though all the world should crack their duty,
  And throw it from their soul; though perils did
  Abound as thick as thought could make them, and
  Appear in forms more horrid; yet would I
  Be true; yea, true as truth itself,
  And stand unshaken yours,――

Away to the kitchen and you are safe!

JESSICA.――I love my father, but I fear his righteous rage.

MRS. PET.――Stay, then; confess and ask his pardon.

JESSICA (_Shakes head sadly and exits R_).

MRS. PET.――

  What! gone without a word?
  Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak;
  For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

                                    [_Enter_ SHYLOCK, _door F_.]

MRS. PET.――How now, Shylock? What news among the merchants? What will
you loan upon my ulster?

SHYLOCK.――Take it to my brother Solomon, on the Rialto; he’ll give you
liberally and charge you naught for camphor.

MRS. PET.――Have you heard from your daughter, and your son-in-law,
Lorenzo, lately?

SHYLOCK.――No, no; not I. All hope to find her long hath fled. One-half
the jewels that she took no doubt Lorenzo pawned; and yet the
thankless knave sent me not e’en a ticket to redeem the goods!

MRS. PET.――’Tis said, for satisfaction’s sake, you now refuse to grant
renewal of your loans, e’en though the interest thereon be paid; ay,
that Antonio, the poor butcher, will lose the meats that now are
forfeit. Why take his venison? Wilt answer, Shylock?

SHYLOCK.――

  I hate him, for he is a Christian;
  But more, for that, in low simplicity,
  He lends out money gratis, and brings down
  The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
  If I can catch him once upon the hip
  I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
  He hates our sacred nation; and he rails
  Even there where merchants most do congregate,
  On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
  Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe
  If I forgive him.

MRS. PET.――If I were his wife you would not thus berate the man. If
Petruchio could speak, he’d say so too.

SHYLOCK.――I seek my truant child; I heard she lived, not long since,
hereabouts.

MRS. PET.――Excuse me, Mr. Shylock, call again.

SHYLOCK.――Have you any old garments to sell?

MRS. PET.――Leave, and call again; two neighbors now approach who may
mistake the object of your visit. Go! Leave by the side door.

SHYLOCK.――

  O father Abraham, what these Christians are,
  Whose own hard dealings teach them to suspect
  The thoughts of others! Adieu!                     [_Exit L._]

MRS. PET (_looking L_).――O, you miserly old money-grabber, if you
think I will tell on poor Jessica, you know but little of Kate
Petruchio! Go! go! go! you old parent, you stingy father, and con over
your collaterals of watches, fiddles, bibles and pistols!

              [_Enter_ MISS HELENA _and_ MRS. OTHELLO, _door F.;
                        they pause and observe_ MRS. PETRUCHIO.]

If I was your wife wouldn’t I take the kinks out of those grizzly
locks, though!

MRS. OTHELLO (_to_ HELENA).――What should this mean?

HELENA.――O what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!

MRS. PET.――Ah, ladies, kind, sweet neighbors, how glad I am to see you
here!

MRS. OTHELLO.――Do you have any pain here? (_Touches head_).

HELENA.――Is not the plumb-bob of your mental plumb-line out of plumb?

MRS. PET.――

  Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.
  My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,
  And makes as healthful music: It is not madness
  That I have uttered: bring me to the test,
  And I the matter will re-word, which madness
  Would gambol from.

Saw you not that animated gaberdine descend my garden path?

MRS. OTHELLO.――You do not mean our mutual uncle, Moses Shylock; from
whom, however, I never borrow.

HELENA.――Nor I.

MRS. PETRUCHIO.――Do you mean to insinuate that I presume upon his
kinship to obtain loans?

MRS. OTHELLO.――What have I done that thou dar’st wag thy tongue in
noise so rude against me?

HELENA.――Hist! he comes!

MRS. PETRUCHIO.――Who comes?

HELENA.――My Romeo.

MRS. OTHELLO.――Your Romeo! Forsooth you have not spoken to him more
than twice.

ROMEO (_Without, singing_).――

  “Oh, meet me by moonlight alone,
  And then I will tell you a tale
  Must be told in the moonlight alone,
  In the grove――――”

HELENA.――

  If music be the food of love, sing on,
  Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
  The appetite may sicken and so die.

MRS. PET.――

  This music mads me; let it sound no more,
  For though it have helped mad men to their wits,
  In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.

ROMEO (_without, sings_).――

  “Oh, meet me by moonlight a ―― ―― ―― ―― ―― lone!”

HELENA.――

  That strain again; it had a dying fall;
  Oh, it came o’er my ear like the sweet south,
  That breathes upon a bank of violets,
  Stealing and giving odor.

ROMEO (_without, sings_).――

  “Yes, meet――yes, meet――yes, meet me by moonlight a――lone.”

MRS. PET.――Horrible! monstrous! was ever sound so nerve-destroying
heard save from the larynx of a dying calf? I despise these daylight
serenades.

MRS. OTHELLO.――

  The woman that hath no music in herself,
  Nor is not woo’d with concord of sweet sounds,
  Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;
  The motions of her spirit are dull as night,
  And her affections dark as Erebus:
  Let no such dame be trusted!

MRS. PET.――Ha! this is more than I can brook; my tongue’s my own to
wag it as I will, therefore attempt not to criticise my criticisms――――I
repeat, the fellow sings like a Scandinavian bag-pipe.

HELENA.――Ladies, pray be still! He may hear your dreadful comments.

                                        [_Knock heard at door._]

’Tis he!

MRS. OTHELLO.――Let him not in until I depart! If Mr. Othello should
happen to step in and find me in company with this gallant youth his
jealousy would know no bounds!

                                             [_Knock repeated._]

MRS. PET.――Nonsense! I hope he does come, I’d like to give him my
opinion of jealous husbands――

  Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine
  To joyless dread, and mak’st the loving heart
  With hateful thoughts to languish and to pine,
  And feed itself with self-consuming smart;
  Of all the passions in the mind thou vilest art!

ROMEO (_without_).――I suppose there’s no one home. (_Knocks_). Hello!
anybody in?

HELENA (_opens door_).――Mr. Romeo! how delightful this surprise.

ROMEO (_enters_).――To me this is a pleasure sweet, sweet beyond
comparison. (_Aside._) Her looks do argue her replete with modesty.

HELENA.――It gives me wonder, great as my content, to see you here
before me.

MRS. PET.――

  Sir, you are very welcome to our house:
  It must appear in other ways than words,
  Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.

MRS. OTHELLO.――

  A hundred thousand welcomes; I could weep,
  And I could laugh; I am light and heavy――welcome.

                                     [_Looks about cautiously._]

Yea, I could laugh and weep (_aside_.) It entirely depends upon the
movements of Mr. Othello. He’s so jealous.

MRS. PET.――Be seated, friend Romeo; Miss Helena will entertain you
while Mrs. Othello and I see that the festive board is spread below.
Come, away to the pantry!

                              [_Exit followed by_ MRS. OTHELLO.]

ROMEO (_places a chair for Helena_).

  (_Aside_) There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip,
            Nay, her foot speaks. (_Aloud._) Be seated, miss.

HELENA.――Thank you, sir. (_Aside._) I know not why I love this youth.

ROMEO.――

  Helena, I love thee; by my life I do;
  I swear by that which I will lose for thee,
  To prove him false that says I love thee not!

HELENA.――Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ay, and I will take
thy word.

ROMEO (_takes chair_).――

  O happy fair!
  Your eyes are load-stars, and your tongue’s sweet air,
  More tunable than lark to shepherds’ ear,
  When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.

HELENA.――You have bereft me of all words.

ROMEO (_aside_).――

  See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
  O that I were a glove upon that hand,
  That I might touch that cheek!

                                              [_Knock at door._]

  (_Aloud._) Ah, me! for aught that I could ever read;
             Could ever hear by tale or history,
             The course of true love never did run smooth.

                                       [_Rises and opens door._]

               [_Enter_ SHYLOCK _with old garments on his arm_.]

HELENA (_rising_).――

  His horrid image doth unfix my hair,
  And make my seated heart knock at my ribs.

ROMEO.――

  Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!
  Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned,
  Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell;
  Be thy intents wicked or charitable
  Thou comest in such a questionable shape
  That I will speak to thee!

SHYLOCK (_to_ HELENA).――

  I do defy him, and I spit at him;
  Call him a slanderous coward and a villain,
  Which to maintain, I would allow him odds,
  And meet him where I tried to run a-foot;
  Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps.

                                   [_Throws garments on floor._]

HELENA.――

  What cracker is this same that deafs our ears
  With this abundance of superfluous breath?

ROMEO.――

  He gives the bastinado with his tongue;
  Our ears are cudgel’d; not a word of his,
  But buffets better than a fist of France:
  Zounds, I was never so bethumped with words
  Since I first called my brother’s father dad.

SHYLOCK.――Peace! one word: in yonder pile, for little more than half
the cost, a seal-skin wrap and overcoat may grace your youthful forms.

ROMEO (_to_ SHYLOCK _in undertone_).――I pray thee, gentle signor of
the Gilded Balls, say naught before this maid that will reveal the
fact that half my garments now repose upon your shelves.

HELENA (_to_ SHYLOCK).――To-night I’ll steal into thy place of trade,
and, under cover of the evening’s shades, examine well the seal-skin
sack whereof you speak. Say nothing now, sir; mum’s the word!

SHYLOCK.――’Tis in my memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the
key of it.

           [_Enter_ JESSICA, MRS. PETRUCHIO _and_ MRS. OTHELLO.]

JESSICA.――Oh! Oh! (_jumps behind_ MRS. PETRUCHIO).

MRS. OTHELLO.――Hide me! Save me!

MRS. PET.――Thou shalt be punished for thus frightening me, thou man of
loans. Be quiet sweet Mrs. Othello, thy husband is not here.

MRS. OTHELLO.――Mr. Romeo, what brings this, our general kinsman, here
upon the scene?

ROMEO.――His business calls him here.

MRS. PET.――Romeo, put him out: mind not his glaring eyes, but put him
hence!

ROMEO.――

  Prythee, peace!
  I dare do all that may become a man;
  Who dares do more is none!

MRS. PET.――

  What seek’st thou?
  Avaunt, and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
  Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
  Thou hast no speculation in thy eyes
  Which thou dost glare with!

HELENA (_to_ SHYLOCK).――

  Win her with gifts if she respect not words;
  Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind,
  More quick than words do move a woman’s mind.

MRS. PET.――See here, old man, just tell me what you want?

SHYLOCK.――

  My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!
  Fled with a Christian! O my, my Christian ducats!
  Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter!
  A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,
  Stolen by my daughter! Justice! find the girl!

ROMEO.――Poor man!

HELENA.――Why not advertise her in the papers?

MRS. OTHELLO.――Or, like my husband, employ a private detective?

SHYLOCK (_to_ MRS. PETRUCHIO).――Woman, tell me where to find my child!
Lorenzo, he has been set free by the Venice court’s decree. If the
proof you wish to see, take the train for the city by the sea.

MRS. PET.――I know not where Jessica Shylock lives, nor care to hear
your family cares.

SHYLOCK.――

  A serpent heart, hid with a flow’ring face,
  Did ever dragon keep so fair a case?
  Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical!
  Just opposite to what thou seem’st――
  I see my daughter’s head behind thy ear,
  Ay, behind the wig that doth surmount thy head!

MRS. PET.――Me wear a wig? O wrinkled Jew, take back thy child, whom
only kindness taught me to conceal. No more courage now remains: away
with her! In saying that I wear a wig, you crush my heart, and now I
fain would be alone.

JESSICA (_embraces_ SHYLOCK).――Father, forgive me!

ROMEO.――See! the Jew relents!

HELENA.――O gentle Romeo!

MRS. OTHELLO.――I hope I shall get home before the Moor returns!

SHYLOCK (_takes_ MRS. PETRUCHIO’S _hand_.)

  You are a widow, and I without a wife,
  Seek, vainly seek, for joy in life――
  Will you, in short, old Shylock wed?

MRS. PET.――Think you, sir, my reason’s fled. (_Withdrawing hand
indignantly._) Marry you? Never! Sooner would I see you hanged.

SHYLOCK.――But are you happy?

ROMEO.――

        Happy in this, she is not yet so old
        But she may learn; and happier than this,
        She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
        Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit
        Would ne’er commit itself to yours.

SHYLOCK.――Go to, and why?

MRS. OTHELLO.――

  Oh! sir, you are too old;
  Nature, in you, stands on the very
  Verge of her confine.

HELENA.――

  Our hostess needs no fossil staff
  On which to lean through life;
  The dame in scorn does at you laugh,
  Go, seek an older wife!

ALL.――Yes, go! (_pounding and pushing him_.) Go! go! go!

SHYLOCK (_runs to centre and kneels_).――Mercy! (_All take positions._)


                             [CURTAIN.]

                                            ――_George M. Vickers._




  [372]The Proud Flag of Freedom.


  The proud flag of freedom, unsullied, behold
    How cluster about it the glories of years,
  As skyward and westward, ’mid purple and gold,
    In the land of the sunset, its home, it appears.
  America’s token of faith never broken,
    Sweet signal that flutters o’er mountain and sea;
  That mutely repeats what our fathers have spoken,
    That tells the oppressed they may come and be free!

  O proud flag of freedom, how swells with delight
    The breast of the wand’rer who meets thee afar;
  What home-visions come with the gladdening sight,
    And how fond dwells his eye on each stripe and each star!
  Thus be it forever, while oceans may sever,
    Or fate hold in exile, a man from our shore!
  Tho’ fairer the clime, an American never
    Forgets his own colors, but loves them the more.

  Thou proud flag of freedom, so lovely in peace,
    So awfully grand in the dread crash of war,
  Be ever unfaded ’till nations shall cease,
    While there’s room in the blue for another bright star:
  From danger defending, still onward, ascending;
    The hope of mankind and the envy of none:
  _E Pluribus Unum_, our motto transcending,
    Till earth’s constellations are blended in one!

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._


     [372] By permission of J. C. Beckel, Esq., owner of the
     copyright.]




  Lost in the Mountains.


  See you that[373] yellow thread, that, snake-like, winds
  High up the mountain side, now hid, now seen,
  Now lost[374] to view amid the shelving crags
  And stunted pines? That is a rugged pass,
  Called, hereabouts, The Devil’s Trail. Just where
  We stand,[375] I stood one Autumn day, and heard
  The legend from an aged mountaineer,
  And, as my mem’ry serves me, word for word,
  Like this the story ran:

                            Mark Lysle, a rich,
  Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child,
  Long years agone, lived in that house[376] whose red
  Roof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and though
  You see a light, blue plume of smoke above
  The chimney top, yet other hearts now sit
  About the hearth and watch its glow, for that
  Bright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died out
  One stormy night, never to burn again.
  For miles and miles,[377] which way you went, the fame
  Of Lysle would greet your ear; his courtesies,
  His open house and hospitalities,
  Were themes discussed no less than were his quick
  Resentment of a fancied slight, his fierce,
  Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness to
  Avenge a wrong. But those who knew his child,
  Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair,
  And read the truth within her hazel eyes,

  Deemed her in ev’ry[378] trait of character
  His antipode, his very opposite――
  A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle.
  Together lived they in that[379] red-roofed house,
  He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns:
  She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient,
  So like her mother――an exotic frail,
  A Northern lily ’neath a Southern sun.

  One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched[380]
  Far west from Lysle’s estate; whose negro huts
  Gleamed white amid the evergreens; the man
  Her father called his chosen friend, this man,
  Her senior by a score of years, and ill
  Of feature, sought the maiden’s hand, nay, claimed
  It by a compact with her father made
  Before her mother’s death. But Maud, sweet Maud,
  Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound,
  Whose only statute was her father’s will,
  Thus far had viewed her marriage in the light
  Of something that she might escape, a thing
  She might avoid, that would not come to pass;
  As those condemned to death will hope when hope
  Is dead, so hung she on the rosy thought,
  And comfort took in hoping that it would
  Not be; and though his would-be gallantries
  Oft filled her with disgust,[381] and oft provoked
  A loathing in her breast, she hated not.

  Once, on a summer day, with book in hand,
  Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch,

  Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed:
  A sudden cry aroused them both in time
  To see a horse, with empty saddle, dash[382]
  Across the road and leap the hedge. While yet
  They stood amazed some field hands moving slow,
  Came up the shaded walk[383] bearing between
  Their swarthy forms the helpless body of
  A man. With almost woman’s tenderness
  Mark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youth
  Borne to his choicest room, and summoned quick
  A surgeon, nor would rest until assured
  His uninvited guest was doing well,
  As well as one with broken limb could do.
  Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home,
  Was thrust by fate upon a stranger’s care.

  The leaves[384] have lost their summer hue of green;
  The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low;
  The grain is garnered, and a late bee wings
  Its way across the porch. Young Clair and Maud
  Stand side by side[385]; the setting sun shines full
  Upon their faces[386]: pale is his and sad,
  And hers all tenderness and sympathy:
  His time to go has come; this night will be
  His last beneath her father’s roof. In two
  Short months, by merest chance, their youthful hearts
  Have learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly.
  Behind a tree[387] two other forms crouch low;
  Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale.
  They glide away[388] unseen.


                            That night when all
  Were gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle,
  In tones that fell like death upon the ears
  Of those who heard him speak, announced
  It as his will,[389] that on the coming day
  His daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend;
  “And, sir,” said he to Clair, “as you must deem
  It time to go, I shall not press you to
  Remain, but bid you speed upon your way,”
  And then, with haughty bow, strode out.[390]

                                              “Farewell,[391]
  Until we meet again――” “No,[392] Maud, we must
  Not say good-bye; to leave you now would be
  To part forever,” then young Clair’s voice sank
  Into a whisper; then, with one pure kiss
  In haste imprinted on her brow, he left
  The room, and then the house.

                                The tall, old clock
  That in the hallway stood, was striking nine
  As Maud stole out[393] into the night. Dark clouds
  Were rising[394] in the west. The lightning flashed
  From out the distant sky;[395] the thunder boomed
  And rattled off in echoes ’mong the hills;[396]
  The black mass rising soon obscured[397] the stars
  O’erhead; then plashing rain drops told the storm
  Had burst. “To wed the hand and not the heart
  Is sin, far greater than to disobey.
  May God forgive me if I err: my heart[398]

  Must be my guide.” Thus murmured Maud, as all
  Alone she sped across the fields to reach
  Yon rugged pass[399] where Clair had gone to wait,
  That when she came they both might mount his steed,
  And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming they
  Would choose that fearful path for flight.

                                            The sun
  Shone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked[400]
  With gems. The storm had gone; the night had gone,
  And she had gone, the star[401] of Mark Lysle’s home,
  Gone――to return no more.

                            The dark night through,
  Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliff
  Had watched and listened for his promised bride;
  Had bended to the rock his ear,[402] had called,
  Loud as he dared, “Maud! I am waiting, Maud!”
  But never came reply.

                        Again, “Here, Maud!”
  Then sobbed and sighed the wind,[403] all else was still.
  At dawn of day, and fearing that she could
  Not brave the storm, all wan and pale he rode
  Swift down the steep descent to learn the worst.
  He scarce had reached the narrow valley road
  Ere Lysle and Dale each bade him halt[404] or die.
  Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore,
  And charged him with the maiden’s death or worse.
  “She’s lost! O God,[405] she’s lost! Come, follow me!”
  Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horse
  In terror bore him up[406] the winding path.

  “I come!” shrieked out his rival, Dale; “I come!”
  And off he dashed,[407] his livid face drawn grim
  With jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and then
  The throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed.

                                                A cry!
  Again a cry of mortal pain was heard!
  The throng pressed up, and round[408] a jutting point,
  Till came in view a level breadth[409] of rock
  That shelved and overhung a sheer descent[410]
  Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor’s work
  On pedestal of stone, young Henri Clair
  Sat rigid on his steed and pointed down[411]
  The deep abyss. In horror peered they all
  Below, where lay the object of his gaze――
  The white, the lifeless form of Maud.

                                        The spell
  Was broke by one wild laugh from Henri’s lips.
  With curb he drew[412] his horse erect; he threw
  His mantel o’er its head, struck deep his spurs,
  And with the shout, “My bride!” leaped down to death.[413]

  And to this day the story still is told
  Of trav’lers, who, belated on the pass,
  Have heard, when, softly sobbed the wind, a voice
  Call tenderly and low, “I’m waiting, Maud!――
  Here, Maud!――Is that you, Maud?”

                                            ――_George M. Vickers._


  GESTURES.
  [373] Ind. A. O.
  [374] Drop hand.
  [375] D. O.
  [376] Left H. O.
  [377] B. H. O.
  [378] H. O.
  [379] Left H. O.
  [380] H. Sw.
  [381] V. H. O.
  [382] H. Sw.
  [383] H. F.
  [384] A. O.
  [385] H. F.
  [386] B. H. F.
  [387] Left H. O.
  [388] Left H. Sw.
  [389] D. F.
  [390] H. Sw.
  [391] Turn to Right.
  [392] Turn to Left.
  [393] H. F.
  [394] Raise hand P. H. L.
  [395] H. L.
  [396] H. Sw.
  [397] V. A. O.
  [398] Hand on heart.
  [399] A. O.
  [400] P. D. O.
  [401] Point up.
  [402] Bend over.
  [403] B. H. O. and turn them to P.
  [404] P. Ind. H. F.
  [405] Raise eyes.
  [406] A. F.
  [407] A. F.
  [408] A. O.
  [409] P. H. O.
  [410] P. D. O.
  [411] Point down.
  [412] Draw rein with left hand.
  [413] D. F.]


[Illustration: “Father, Thy will, not mine, be done.”]




  Maiden Song.


  Long ago and long ago, and long ago still,
  There dwelt three merry maidens upon a distant hill.
  One was tall Meggan, and one was dainty May,
  But one was fair Margaret, more fair than I can say,
            Long ago and long ago.

  When Meggan plucked the thorny rose, and when May pulled the brier,
  Half the birds would swoop to see, half the beasts draw nigher;
  Half the fishes of the stream would dart up to admire:
  But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower, or poppy, hot aflame,
  All the beasts and all the birds and all the fishes came
            To her hand more soft than snow.

  Strawberry leaves and May-dew in brisk morning air,
  Strawberry leaves and May-dew make maidens fair.
  “I go for strawberry leaves,” Meggan said one day:
  “Fair Margaret can bide at home, but you come with me, May;
  Up the hill and down the hill, along the winding way,
            You and I are used to go.”

  So these two fair sisters went with innocent will
  Up the hill and down again, and round the homestead hill:
  While the fairest sat at home, Margaret like a queen,
  Like a blush-rose, like the moon in her heavenly sheen,
  Fragrant-breathed as milky cow or field of blossoming bean,
  Graceful as an ivy bough, born to cling and lean,
            Thus she sat to sew and sing.

  When she raised her lustrous eyes a beast peeped at the door;
  When she downward cast her eyes a fish gasped on the floor;
  When she turned away her eyes a bird perched on the sill,
  Warbling out its heart of love, warbling, warbling still
            With pathetic pleadings low.

  Light-foot May, with Meggan, sought the choicest spot,
  Clothed with thyme, alternate grass; then, while day waxed hot,
  Sat at ease to play and rest, a gracious rest and play;
  The loveliest maidens near or far, when Margaret was away,
            Who sat at home to sing and sew.

  Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks, wind-play tossed their hair,
  Creeping things among the grass stroked them here and there;
  Meggan piped a merry note, a fitful, wayward lay,
  While shrill as bird on topmost twig piped merry May;
            Honey-smooth the double flow.

  Sped a herdsman from the vale, mounting like a flame,
  All on fire to hear and see, with floating locks he came;
  Looked neither north nor south, neither east nor west,
  But sat him down at Meggan’s feet as love-bird on his nest,
  And wooed her with a silent awe, with trouble not expressed;
  She sang the tears into his eyes, the heart out of his breast;
            So he loved her, listening so.

  She sang the heart out of his breast, the words out of his tongue;
  Hand and foot and pulse he paused till her song was sung.

  Then he spoke up from his place simple words and true:
  “Scanty goods have I to give, scanty skill to woo;
  But I have a will to work and a heart for you:
            Bid me stay or bid me go.”

  Then Meggan mused within herself: “Better be first with him,
  Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits, who shines my brightness dim,
  Forever second where she sits, however fair I be:
  I will be lady of his love, and he shall worship me;
  I will be lady of his herds and stoop to his degree,
            At home where kids and fatlings grow.”

  Sped a shepherd from the height headlong down to look,
  White lambs followed, lured by love of their shepherd’s crook:
  He turned neither east nor west, neither north nor south,
  But knelt right down to May, for love of her sweet-singing mouth;
  Forgot his flocks, his panting flocks in parching hillside drought;
            Forgot himself for weal or woe.

  Trilled her song and swelled her song with maiden coy caprice
  In a labyrinth of throbs, pauses, cadences:
  Clear-noted as a dropping brook, soft-noted like the bees,
  Wild-noted as the shivering wind forlorn through forest trees:
  Love-noted like the wood-pigeon who hides herself for love,
  Yet cannot keep her secret safe, but cooes and cooes thereof;
            Thus the notes rang loud or low.

  He hung breathless on her breath; speechless, who listened well;
  Could not speak or think, or wish till silence broke the spell.
  Then he spoke and spread his hands, pointing here and there:
  “See my sheep, and see my lambs, twin lambs which they bare.
  All myself I offer you, all my flocks and care,
            Your sweet song hath moved me so.”

  In her fluttered heart young May mused a dubious while:
  “If he loves me as he says”――her lips curved with a smile:
  “Where Margaret shines like the sun, I shine like the moon;
  If sister Meggan makes her choice I can make mine as soon:
  At cockcrow we were sister-maids, we may be brides at noon.
            Said Meggan, “Yes;” May said not “No.”

  Fair Margaret stayed alone at home, awhile she sang her song,
  Awhile sat silent, then she thought: “My sisters loiter long.”
  That sultry noon had waned away, shadows had waxed great:
  “Surely,” she thought within herself, “My sisters loiter late.”
  She rose, and peered out at the door, with patient heart to wait,
  And heard a distant nightingale complaining of its mate;
  Then down the garden slope she walked, down to the garden gate,
            Leaned on the rail and waited so.

  The slope was lightened by her eyes like summer lightning fair,
  Like rising of the haloed moon lightened her glimmering hair,

  While her face lightened like the sun whose dawn is rosy white.
  Thus crowned with maiden majesty she peered into the night,
  Looked up the hill and down the hill, to left hand and to right,
            Flashing like fire-flies to and fro.

  Waiting thus in weariness, she marked the nightingale,
  Telling, if any one would heed, its old complaining tale.
  Then lifted she her voice and sang, answering the bird:
  Then lifted she her voice and sang, such notes were never heard.
            From any bird when Spring’s in blow.

  The king of all that country, coursing far, coursing near,
  Curbed his amber-bitted steed, coursed amain to hear;
  All his princes in his train, squire, and knight, and peer,
  With his crown upon his head, his sceptre in his hand,
  Down he fell at Margaret’s knees, Lord, King of all that land,
            To her highness bending low.

  Every beast and bird, and fish came mustering to the sound,
  Every man and every maid from miles of country round:
  Meggan on her herdsman’s arm, with her shepherd, May;
  Flocks and herds trooped at their heels along the hillside way;
  No foot too feeble for the ascent, not any head too gray,
            Some were swift and none were slow.

  So Margaret sang her sisters home in their marriage mirth;
  Sang free birds out of the sky, beasts along the earth,
  Sang up fishes of the deep――all breathing things that move,
  Sang from far and sang from near to her lovely love;
            Sang together friend and foe;

  Sang a golden-bearded king straightway to her feet,
  Sang him silent where he knelt in eager anguish sweet.
  But when the clear voice died away, when longest echoes died,
  He stood up like a royal man and claimed her for his bride.
  So three maids were wooed and won in a brief May-tide,
            Long ago and long ago.

                                      ――_Christina G. Rossetti._




Lecture by One of the Sex.


My antiquated hearers, male and female. Squenchin’ my native modesty
which is natural to the weaker vessels of whom I am which, I feel
impelled to speak to you this evenin’ on the subject of woman――her
origin, her mission, her destiny. A subject, bein’ as I am a woman
myself, I hev given much attention to.

Man, my hearers, claims to be the superior of woman! Is it so? and ef
so, in what, and how much?

Wuz he the fust creation? He wuz, my hearers, but what does that
prove?

Man wuz made fust, but the experience gained in makin’ man wuz applied
to the makin’ of a betterer and more finerer bein’ of whom I am a
sample.

Nachur made man but saw in a brief space of time that he couldn’t take
keer of himself alone, and so he made a woman to take keer uv him, and
that’s why we wuz created; tho’ seein’ all the trouble we hev, I don’t
doubt that it would hev been money in our pockets if we hedn’t been
made at all.

Imagine, my beloved hearers, Adam afore Eve wuz created! Who sewed on
his shirt buttons? Who cooked his beefsteak? Who made his coffee in
the mornin’ and did his washin’?

He wuz mizzable, he wuz,――he must have boarded out and eat hash!

But when Eve come, the scene changed. Her gentle hand soothed his
achin’ brow when he come in from a hard day’s work. She hed his house
in order; she hed his slippers and dressin’ gown ready, and after tea
he smoked his meerschaum in peace.

Men, cruel, hard-hearted men, assert that Eve wuz the cause of his
expulsion from Eden――that she plucked the apple and give him half; oh,
my sisters, it’s true, it’s too true, but what uv it?

It proves fustly, her goodness. Had _Adam_ plucked the apple, if it
had been a good one, he’d never a thought of his wife at home, but
would have gobbled it down himself, and perhaps have taken her the
core.

Eve, angel that we all are, thought of him and went halvers with him.

_Secondly_, it wuz the means of good anyhow. It introduced death into
the world, which separated ’em while they still hed love for each
other.

I appeal to the sterner sex present to-night. S’posin’ all of you had
been fortunate enough to win such virgin souls as me, could you endure
charms like mine for an eternity. If I had a husband, I know he’d
bless Eve for introducin’ death into the world.

Woman is man’s equal, but is she occupyin’ her true speer? Alas, not!
We are deprived of the ballot, we ain’t allowed to make stump
speeches, or take part in politics. Is it right? How many men vote who
know what they are votin’ for?

I demand the ballot. I want to take part in torchlight processions! I
want to demonstrate my fitness for governing by coming home elevated
on election nights. I demand the right of going to Congress. I want to
assume that speer which nachur fitted me for equally with man, but
from which masculine jealousy has thus far excluded me.

There hev been women in the world who have done something. There was
the Queen of Sheba, who was excelled only by Solomon, and all that
surpassed her in him wuz that he could support 3,000 women.

Bless Solomon’s heart! I’d like to see him do it now. Where could he
find a house big enough to hold ’em with their dozen Saratoga trunks
apiece?

How shall we gain our lost rights and assume that position in the
world to which we are entitled to?

Oh, my sisters, these is a question upon which I have cogitated long
and vigorously.

We might do it by pisonin’ all the men, but we would be robbed of
one-half of our triumph, for they wouldn’t be alive to see how well we
did things without ’em.

We might resolve to do no more of the degradin’ work they have imposed
onto us. But if we didn’t, who would?

One week’s eatin’ what they would cook, would sicken any
well-regulated woman, and besides, they might not let us eat at all.

Matrimony, thus far in the world’s history, has been our only destiny.

I am glad I had always strength of mind enough to resist all
propositions leadin’ to my enslavement.

I had too much respect for myself to make myself the slave of a man.

Wunst, indeed, I might have done so, but the merest accident in the
world saved me. A young man in my younger days, when the bloom wuz on
the peach, ere sleepless nights spent in meditatin’ on the wrongs of
my sex had worn furrows into these wunst blushing cheeks, a young man
come to our house, and conversed sweetly with me.

It wuz my fust beau, and oh, my sisters, had he that night asked me to
be his’n, I should have been weak enough to have said Yes, and I would
have been a washer of dishes and a mender of stockin’s for life.

But fate saved me! He did’nt ask me.

                                ――_Revised by F. Lizzie Peirce._




  Enguerrande’s Child.


  La Comtesse Marie holds festival
    In the fairest nook of her fair demesne,
  For courtly gallants and smiling dames
    To mimic the sports of the village green,
  In hats à la paysanne looped up with gems,
    And rustic kirtles of satin sheen.

  But Comtesse Marie, though crowned with May,
    Scarce smiles on the lovers who round her press,
  And sits on her floral throne _distrait_,
    Nor heeds who, watching her, strives to guess
  What troubles this heiress, free to choose
    From the proudest peers of the _haute noblesse_.

  She sighs--and a suitor the sigh repeats;
    Again--and another bends over her chair,
  For every mood of a lady charms
    When la dame is so wealthy, so young, and fair;
  She speaks--and the murmur of talk is hushed,
    And they throng around with expectant air:

  “Too sad to sing, and too tired to dance--
    Shall our sport take sober cast to-night?
  And gathering under the fragrant limes,
    Shall we tell old stories of maidens bright,
  Of crusader bold, and the Soldan grim,
    Of dreary legend of ghost and sprite?”

  Then gay De Norville, for wild, weird tale
    To please the layde, has racked his brain;
  While Saint Leu, with twirls of his huge mustache,
    His last duello fights o’er again,
  And fancies that Marie’s cheek grows pale
    As he lightly dwells on his wounds and pain.

  But on one tall figure, that stands aloof,
    The eye of la Comtesse is seen to fall:
  And hast _thou_ nothing to tell?” she asks,
    “Canst thou from the past no deed recall,
  That might quicken awhile our sluggish blood?
    Bethink thee, I pray, good Capitaine Paul.”

  Le Capitaine Paul, whom no one knows,
    A soldier of fortune, scarred and browned,
  A man more prized in the camp than court,
    Steps into the circle and glances round;
  And scornful eyes on his boldness frown,
    But Marie has smiled, and he holds his ground.

  What boots the rest if _she_ bids him speak?
    What matter who lists if he gains _her_ ear?
  The shaft of malice is launched in vain,
    That aims at the stranger a barbèd sneer,
  And the sauciest suitors of belle Marie
    Unchecked may flout him while she is near.

  He turns from the guests, with their covert smiles,
    Begins with a stammer, and speaks by rote
  Till treasured mem’ries awake--and then
    His full lip quivers, and swells his throat,
  And his sinewy hand is clenched, as oft
    It hath clenched at the ring of the bugle’s note.

  And thus _le capitaine_ tells his tale:
    “Revolt and faction had cursed our land--
  Tonnerre! that Frenchmen should be such curs!
    Our city walls was were but poorly manned;
  I--sous lieutenant--a boy in years;
    Our brave commander, Jacques Enguerrande.

  “We had one treasure, we soldiers, then--
    Enguerrande’s daughter, a happy child;
  She had no mother, but fifty slaves,
    By her winning looks and ways beguiled--
  Great bearded fellows--were at her call,
    And felt themselves paid if their mistress smiled.

  “One night--sharp--sudden--resistless broke
    The storm upon us: from every den
  The lawless rabble came howling forth,
    And we--ah, blind! not to learn till then,
  That in all that city we loved so well,
    There was but one handful of loyal men!

  “For life, for honor we fought, and still
    Our foes increased as the tumult spread,
  Yet side by side with Jacques Enguerrande
    I stood till we fell together--he, dead;
  I, wounded--how badly, these scars reveal;
    And then our last man, in his terror, fled.

  “Over our bodies the crowd tramped on,
    Nor recked if ’twere brothers their feet defiled;
  The city was all their own, and the greed
    Of plunder had made them mad or wild;
  And I heard one voice, with a drunken laugh,
    Call out for the child, Jacques Enguerrande’s child.

  “At that sound the blood to my heart returns,
    And fiercely I struggle on to my knees!
  Never must Enguerrande’s orphaned one
    Fall into such miscreant hands as these!
  To my feet and away, ere the roaring mob
    Can hunt back the wounded wretch who flees!

  “Doubling upon them, and first to gain
    The little chamber wherein she slept,
  Where, roused from repose by the horrid din,
    In the darkest corner she cowered and wept,
  I bore her down by a winding stair,
    And into the streets with my burden crept.

  “Hushing her sobs I staggered on,
    Faint, dizzy with pain, and perhaps despair;
  For sadly we needed some refuge safe,
    And who would offer it?--nay, who dare?
  Till an aged crone peeped fearfully out
    Of her wretched hovel, and hid us there.

  “But, alas! though almost too old to live,
    She feared the mob, and she feared to die,
  And in selfish dread, when again night fell,
    From her door she thrust us, and bade us fly;
  Yet she flung me a blouse, and _bonnet rouge_,
    That none should my soldier’s dress descry.

  “Bribed with the little one’s rosary--
    Le voici, I have it here on my breast;
  I brought it back for its weight in gold--
    A fellow I drew aside from the rest,
  Let us slip by while he kept the guard,
    And like hunted deer for the woods we pressed.

  “Scarce half a league from the city walls,
    Lo! swooping down like a fiery blast--
  Armed to the teeth, and hot with wrath--
    Rank after rank spurring quickly past--
  The avengers came of Jacques Enguerrande,
    And I felt that his child was safe at last!

  “She knew their leader--she shrieked his name--
    He halted--I told you what garb I wore,
  They thought me a rebel; the little one
    With oaths and blows from my arms they tore,
  And left me for dead on the cold hard earth;
    But the child was safe--and my tale is o’er.”

  “But your payment?” a dozen voices ask,
    And le Capitaine smiles in his deep disdain;
  “Pardon, mesdames! for a deed of love
    No soldier his palm with gold would stain;
  Only this boon did I ever crave--
    One look at her angel face again!

  “Qu’importe? she is rich and happy, and I----”
    He pauses--la Comtesse has left her throne;
  Once more on his breast a fair head lies,
    Once more round his neck are white arms thrown,
  And sweet lips murmur, “Mon brave! mon brave!
    Let my poor love for the past atone!”

  The play is ended--the guests depart--
    La Comtesse was none so fair after all!
  But many an eye looks back with regret
    On the broad domain, and the princely hall,
  That Enguerrande’s child with her hand bestows
    On the scarred and sun-burned Capitaine Paul.

                                                   ――_Tid Bits._




  The King’s Kiss.[414]


  A king rode forth one summer morn, his vast domain to see;
  Through fields of wheat and fields of corn, rode on his majesty:
  Quoth he, “A mighty king am I; whate’er I say must be,
  For none there lives that dare deny a favor asked by me.”

  The king in search of rest and shade, dismounted in a dell,
  Where, drawing water, stood a maid beside a mossy well;
  With courtly bow the thirsty king, the proffered draught received,
  And as he drank, a gallant thing his royal mind conceived.

  “Fair girl,” said he, “those lips of thine were surely made to kiss,
  And fain I’d press them close to mine, refuse me not that bliss.”
  “No, no,” the blushing lass replied, “no kiss you’ll get from me,
  For I’m a true and promised bride, to one who’s far at sea.”

  “I am the King,” the monarch said, “must I be disobeyed?”
  The maiden slowly dropped her head, and trembled, sore afraid:
  Then looking up with marble face, and wet but brave blue eye,
  Said she, “Ere thus my troth debase, within the well I die!”

  “Enough,” the conquered sovereign cried, “this ring in honor wear,
  For truly have I found a bride, as pure as she is fair.”
  The king rode off a wiser man than oft is monarch’s lot,
  And deemed that naught was sweeter than the kiss he never got.

                                              ――_George M. Vickers._


     [414] By permission of W. F. Shaw, owner of Copyright.]




Contrasts in Shakespeare.

  Oration delivered at the Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of
  Elocution and Languages, June, 1886.


Through the whole of Shakespeare’s plays, we find every prominent
character stamped with a separate individuality, which is preserved in
every detail and characteristic, whether in the insane jealousy of
Othello, the impetuosity of Harry Hotspur, the constancy of Portia,
the vindictiveness of Shylock, the wickedness of Don John, or the
benign, forgiving spirit of Prospero.

There is a silvery vein of wit threading his plays, gleaming and
flashing like a sparkling brook in the sunshine.

It runs smoothly in the calmly-uttered and thoughtful sentences of
Hamlet; it bubbles and laughs in the saucy badinage of Beatrice and
Celia; seeks the shadow in the melancholy of Jacques; enters the realm
of the pun in the wordy self-assertion of Polonius, and descends to
the comic and sometimes the vulgar in Falstaff and Dogberry.

In the character of Hamlet we find a keen sense of humor, overcast by
the ever-present suspicion of his father’s foul end, and a vague
distrust of those around him. A certain sarcasm lurks in the depths,
and imparts an incisiveness to every well-turned sentence. He says to
Guildenstern:

  HAMLET.――Will you play upon this pipe?

Guildenstern replies:

  GUILD.――My lord, I cannot.

  HAM.――I pray you.

  GUILD.――Believe me, I cannot.

  HAM.――I do beseech you.

  GUILD.――I know no touch of it, my lord.

  HAM.――’Tis as easy as lying: Govern these ventages with your finger
  and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse
  most excellent music. Look you, these are the stops.

  GUILD.――But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I
  have not the skill.

  HAM.――Why, look you, now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You
  would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck
  out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note
  to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice
  in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak! ’Sblood, do you
  think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what
  instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon
  me.

Hamlet deals largely in simile and metaphor; no finer instance
occurring than in the passage where he is called upon to account for
the body of Polonius. Rosencranz, repelling his insinuations, asks:

  ROS.――Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

  HAM.――Ay, sir, that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards,
  his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the
  end: he keeps them like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first
  mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned,
  it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

With a feeling of relief we turn to merry, heart-whole Beatrice, and
we glory in the ease with which she puts to rout the valiant soldier
Benedick. With what exquisite nonchalance she remarks:

  BEAT.――I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedick,
  nobody marks you.

She throws down the gauntlet of defiance to Cupid in the words:

  BEAT.――I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he
  loves me.

And she retains her woman’s right to the last word in her parting
shot:

  BEAT.――You always end with a jade’s trick. I know you of old.

Her merry derision of Don Pedro is shown in her reply to his gallant
offer:

  DON P.――Will you have me, my lady?

  BEAT.――No, my lord, unless I could have another for working days.
  Your grace is too costly to wear every day.

Of the same bright, refreshing character is Celia, but Beatrice is
more brusque, while Celia has a tender vein of womanliness which tones
her raillery, while her sprightliness is more strongly thrown out in
the early scenes of the play by its contrast with the constantly
recurring melancholy of Rosalind. This antithesis is clearly
observable in the following:

  CEL.――Why cousin! why Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word?

  ROS.――Not one to throw at a dog.

  CEL.――No, thy words are too precious to cast away upon curs; throw
  some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

  ROS.――Then were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed
  with reasons and the other mad without any.

  CEL.――But is this all for your father?

  ROS.――No, some of it is for my child’s father. Oh, how full of
  briers is this working-day world.

  CEL.――They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday
  foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats
  will catch them.

  ROS.――I could shake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.

  CEL.――Hem them away.

  ROS.――I would try if I could cry “hem” and have him.

  CEL.――Come, come; wrestle with thy affections.

  ROS.――O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself!

  CEL.――O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time in despite of a
  fall.

After Rosalind and her cousin leave the court for the Forest of Arden,
Rosalind’s spirits rise, and then it is she who becomes the prominent
sprightly character in the play. She receives Orlando after a short
absence with the reproach:

  ROS.――Why how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You
  a lover! And you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight
  more.

  ORL.――My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

  ROS.――Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a minute
  into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part
  of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid
  hath clapped him on the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heartwhole.

  ORL.――Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

  ROS.――Nay, and you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as
  lief be wooed of a snail.

  ORL.――Of a snail!

  ROS.――Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his
  house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a
  woman.

In Polonius we meet with a character in direct contrast to those we
have mentioned. The old gentleman, like many of the present day, loves
to hear himself talk, and, owing to his high political position, has
probably become so accustomed to receiving the applause of fawning
courtiers, that the habit of punning has become a second nature to
him; even after receiving the gentle reprimand of his Queen, it still
is impossible for him to abstain from them, as is instanced in the
conversation on the cause of Hamlet’s peculiarities.

  POL.――My liege and madam, to expostulate
        What majesty should be, what duty is,
        Why day is day, night night, and time is time,
        Were nothing but to waste night, day and time.
        Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,
        And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
        I will be brief. Your noble son is mad:
        Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
        What is’t but to be nothing else but mad?
        But let that go.

  QUEEN.――            More matter, with less art.

  POL.――Madam, I swear I use no art at all,
        That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pity,
        And pity ’tis ’tis true; a foolish figure;
        But farewell it, for I will use no art.
        Mad let us grant him, then; and now remains
        That we find out the cause of this effect,
        Or rather say, the cause of this defect,
        For this effect, defective, comes by cause:
        Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.

Let us now turn to Portia, happy, witty Portia, with a soul far above
the fickle spendthrift, Bassanio, but with all a woman’s devotion,
adoring him in spite of his faults. Her gentle dignity in accepting
the hoped-for result of his choice of the caskets is sweetly evinced
in the following:

  POR.――You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,
        Such as I am; though for myself alone
        I would not be ambitious in my wish,
        To wish myself much better; yet, for you
        I would be trebled twenty times myself;
        A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times
        More rich;
        That only to stand high in your account,
        I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,
        Exceed account; but the full sum of me
        Is sum of nothing, which, to term in gross,
        Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d;
        Happy in this, she is not yet so old
        But she may learn; happier than this,
        She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
        Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit
        Commits itself to yours to be directed,
        As from her lord, her governor, her king.

In the Trial Scene we discover the contrasting side of Portia’s
character, and we will close with a quotation from her speech to
Shylock.

  POR.――The quality of mercy is not strained,
        It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
        Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
        It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
        ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
        The thronèd monarch better than his crown;
        His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
        The attribute to awe and majesty,
        Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
        But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
        It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
        It is an attribute to God himself;
        And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
        When mercy seasons justice.

                                             _F. Lizzie Peirce._


[Illustration: “Let me think!”]




  Merry Mike.


  Merry Mike from the door bounded off to his play,
  With his head in his hat on a blustery day;
  When the wind of a sudden came frolicking down
  And lifted Mike’s hat from his round little crown.
    Don’t you call that funny, I’d like to know?

  Then he made up his mind to return to the house,
  But the merry wind pushed itself under his blouse.
  And it roared and it roared, and he puffed as he ran,
  Till it just knocked over this queer little man.
  “Ho! ho! ho!” said Mike, and he said “ha! ha! ha!
  I’ll get up again, old wind, you see.”

  Then the wind with a flurry of bluster and racket
  Went crowding and crowding under his jacket,
  And it lifted him off of his two little feet,
  And carried him bodily over the street.
    Mike laughed ha! ha! ha! and he laughed ho! ho! ho!

  But the wind, with its antics, was plainly not through,
  For fiercer and fiercer, and fiercer it blew,
  Till making one effort of fury intense
  It carried Mike bodily over the fence.

  He met there a somewhat discouraged old cow,
  That had blown thither too, though he failed to see how,
  Then he smiled and said, “Make yourself easy, my friend,
  Only keep your mind quiet and things will soon mend,”
  Mike laughed ha! ha! ha! and he laughed ho! ho! ho!
  “For the wind is just playing, old cow, you know.”

  As he scampered off home, what above should he see
  But the roof of a shed that had lodged in a tree;
  And he laughed and he laughed till his sides fairly ached,
  For, he said, this is better than wedding or wake.
    And he roared, ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!

  “That boy,” say the terrified folks of the town,
  “He would laugh just the same if the sky tumbled down.”
  “Indeed, and I would,” answered Mike, with a grin,
  “For I might get a piece with a lot of stars in.”
  And he chuckled, he! he! he! and he chuckled, ho! ho! ho!
  The very idea delighted him so.

  His father complained to the priest, “Now, I say,
  Mike never stops laughing by night or by day.”
  “Let him laugh,” spoke the priest, “he will change by and by;
  ’Tis better to laugh than to grumble and cry;
  It’s the _way_ with the lad; let him laugh if he like,
  And be glad you’ve a son that’s as merry as Mike.”




  The Village Choir.


  Half a bar, half a bar,
    Half a bar onward!
  Into an awful ditch,
  Choir and Precentor hitch,
  Into a mess of pitch,
    They led the Old Hundred.

  Trebles to right of them,
  Tenors to left of them,
  Basses in front of them,
    Bellowed and thundered.
  Oh! that Precentor’s look,
  When the sopranos took
  Their own time and hook,
    From the Old Hundred.

  Screeched all the trebles here,
  Boggled the tenors there,
  Raising the parson’s hair,
    While his mind wandered;
  Theirs not to reason why
  This psalm was pitched too high;
  Theirs but to gasp and cry
    Out the Old Hundred.

  Trebles to right of them,
  Tenors to left of them,
  Basses in front of them,
    Bellowed and thundered.
  Stormed they with shout and yell;
  Not wise they sang, nor well,
  Drowning the sexton’s bell,
    While all the church wondered.

  Dire the Precentor’s glare,
  Flashed his pitchfork in air,
  Sounding the fresh key to bear
    Out the Old Hundred.
  Swiftly he turned his back,
  Reached he his hat from rack,
  Then from the screaming pack
    Himself he sundered.

  Tenors to right of him,
  Trebles to left of him,
  Discords behind him,
      Bellowed and thundered.
  Oh, the wild howls they wrought;
  Right to the end they fought!
  Some tune they sang, but not――
    Not the Old Hundred.




The Book Agent Beats the Bandit.


Brown, Jones and Robinson, three of as good fellows as ever melted the
heart of a country trader to the merry music of the pliant chin, sat
one evening of last week in the smoking compartment of a chair car on
the R. and T. H. Western Railroad. With them was a tall, thin,
dyspeptic man with sandy hair, dressed in a rusty suit of black.
Nature had endowed him with long legs, and his tailor with short
pants. His coat collar was rich enough in accumulated grease to keep a
soap factory going for a month. His mouth was of brass, and his cheek
as hard as last year’s cider. He was a book agent. Already had he
gobbled up the drummers for a Life of Christ and Pocket Encyclopedia
of 215 numbers, when suddenly a real Jesse-James-like train bandit
opened the door and stood, pistol in hand, before the quartet.

Brown’s soul sank down into the heels of his boots. Beads of
perspiration big as snow balls stood on Jones’ classic brow, while his
hair lifted his hat two solid inches from the crown of his head.
Robinson murmured the first verse of “Ever of Thee I’m Fondly
Dreaming,” and thought he was praying. But the book agent bounded from
his seat with a “How do, stranger? Delighted to see you. Do let me
show you my superb ‘History of Boone County,’ a perfect bonanza of
domestic peace and happiness to every householder who is fortunate
enough to possess one. Three hundred pages of elegant letter press,
printed on toned paper and embellished with fine steel engravings and
an official map of the State. A carefully compiled, correct
topographical and historical――――”

“Shut up!” roared the bandit.

“Shut up? You bet it will, and fastens itself with a double-action
brass clasp――my own invention――and from its simplicity of design and
beauty of construction worth half the price of the book. Given away,
sir; literally given away, for $3 in boards or $4.50 in morocco with
beveled edges.”

“If yer say――――”

“I do say it, sir. Look at this exquisite title page with a vignette
portrait of the gifted author. Here you see a genealogical abstract
chart in which you can write the names of your illustrious ancestors
and beloved family――births, marriages, deaths and――――”

“Stop!” shrieked the bandit, as the agent grasped him by the
buttonhole.

“You may well say ‘stop,’ sir; I’ve said enough to make you ache to
possess this beautiful volume, but I haven’t begun to――――”

“Sit down!” the robber roared in a voice that made the puffs of the
engine sound like the sighs of a sick zephyr, and loosened all the
joints of Jones’s limbs.

“Biographical sketches of eminent men, glowing obituary, with an
original poem on death, agricultural statistics, tables of mortality,
valuable notes on immigration, trade reports, all the geological――――”

“Lemme go, or I’ll blow the roof of yer head off,” shrieked the
robber, as he wrested himself from the agent’s grasp and dropped off
the rear car into the gathering gloom of the coming night.

Then Robinson drew from his pocket his faithful revolver and looked
big. Jones rolled his sleeves up and asked where the villain was gone
to. Brown fished from under the spittoon a roll of bills and hoped
they didn’t think he had been scared. But the agent sank wearily to
his seat, and for the first time in all that long journey was silent
for nearly four consecutive minutes.

                                           ――_Evansville Argus._




Not in the Ranks.


The old army overcoat that used to be such a familiar sight on our
streets is one of the rarest now; indeed, it is so seldom seen that we
involuntarily turn and gaze after it, as something that brings sad and
often cruel memories. The other day an old man wearing a coat of this
kind, which reached to his heels, stopped at a cottage a little way
out of town and asked leave to rest awhile on the porch.

“I’m a bit tired,” he said to the woman who opened the door, “an’ if
you don’t mind I’ll sit here and rest myself for a spell.”

“You’re welcome,” said the woman kindly, with a glance at the martial
blue. Then she left him alone, but after a little while returned with
a bowl of coffee and a plate of white biscuit.

“Eat,” she said, gently; “I had a boy who was a soldier.”

“But I’m not a soldier,” answered the old man. “I never was a soldier;
my boy went to war and was killed. He was all I had, too. This coat
was his; seems like he’s near me when I have it on. I gave him to his
country; the handsomest and bravest boy he was, too, in the whole
regiment. God bless him. He did his duty, died on the field, and this
coat was all that came back to his poor old dad. No; I never was a
soldier.”

The woman went in and brought out some cake and the whitest honey, and
added it to the coffee and biscuit.

“Are you alone in the world?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” answered the old man, cheerfully; “I’ve got a sister, but
she’s old and lame, and she has a daughter that is sickly and ailing.
You see I have them to work for, and they are a sight of comfort to
me. Many’s the time I’d have broken down since Mary died but for them
poor critters. Mary was my wife, ma’am; she was a master hand to nuss
sick folks, and she thought after Tim died as it were her duty to go
into the hospital service and nuss the soldiers, and she died these
sixteen years ago; but she did a heap of good work first. Many a
soldier has kissed her shadow on the wall! Mary, darlin’, God wanted
ye in the ranks up there; I’ve often wished that I had been a soldier,
if only to be fit for the little mother and Tim; but I never was.”

He drank the coffee, ate the good food thankfully, and offered to pay
for it with some hoarded pieces of old worn silver; but the woman
shook her head.

“Put back your money. My son was a soldier,” she said.

“But I am not a soldier. Well, well,” (as he looked into her face,) “I
thank you, and I take it for his sake.”

He wished good-night to his kind entertainer and turned away. As he
walked off, slow and limping, bent by infirmity, the long skirt of his
army overcoat struck bright and blue against the splendor of the
sunset; he shaded his eyes with one trembling hand and looked
wistfully at the rose and amethyst door that seemed to open in the
west. What saw he there? A little, round-shouldered woman with a
small, homely face; a lank, overgrown boy, with sparse, red hair. Ay,
and of such as these are angels made. So, watching, he passed down
into the shadows and disappeared.

The woman at the gate looked after him.

“No soldier!” she said gently, “but I wonder if the boy who died on
his first battle-field ever fought as he has, or sacrificed as much to
his country? All the soldiers didn’t go into the war with flying flags
and rolling drums. Some of them stayed at home and fought harder
battles. I’m glad I gave him a bite and a sup. He is a soldier, and a
brave one, too, and one day he will know it!”

And I think she was right.

                                         ――_Detroit Free Press._




The Old Actor’s Story.

First Honor at the Third Annual Commencement of the Mt. Vernon
Institute of Elocution and Languages, 1886.


  Mine is a wild, strange story,――the strangest you ever heard;
  There are many[415] who won’t believe it, but it’s gospel[416] every
    word;
  It’s the biggest drama of any in a long,[417] adventurous life;
  The scene was a ship, and the actors――were myself and my new-wed wife.

  You musn’t mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then;
  I’m old, you know, and I wander――it’s a way with old women and men,
  For their lives lie all behind[418] them, and their thoughts go far
    away,[419]
  And are tempted afield, like children, lost on a summer day.

  The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful
    night,
  But I see it again this evening, I can never shut[420] out the sight.
  We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know,
  When we had an offer for Melbourne,[421] and made up our minds to go.

  We’d acted together in England, traveling up and down[422]
  With a strolling band of players, going from town to town;
  We played the lovers together――we were leading lady and gent――
  And at last we played in earnest, and straight[423] to the church
    we went.

  The parson gave us his blessing,[424] and I gave Nellie the ring,[425]
  And swore that I’d love and cherish, and endow her with everything.
  How we smiled at that part of the service when I said “I thee endow!”
  But as to the “love and cherish,” friends, I meant to keep that[426]
    vow.

  We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was
    good,
  When it wasn’t we went without[427] it, and we did the best we could.
  We were happy and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we
    made,――
  Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade.

  Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit;
  Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a
    flit,――[428]
  Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call;
  But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet[429] to fall.

  We got an offer for Melbourne,――got it that very week.
  Those were the days when thousands went over their fortunes to seek,
  The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot
  Good for a “spec,” and took us as actors among his lot.

  We hadn’t a friend in England――we’d only ourselves to please――
  And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the
    seas.[430]
  We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough;
  We hadn’t been out a fortnight before we had had enough.

  But use is a second nature, and we’d got not to mind a storm,
  When misery came upon us,――came in a hideous form.[431]
  My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad
  That the doctor said she was dying,――I thought ’twould have sent
    me mad,[432]――

  Dying where leagues[433] of billows seemed to shriek for their prey,
  And the nearest land was hundreds[434]――ay, thousands――of miles away.
  She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death,
  So still I’d to bend and listen[435] for the faintest sign of breath.

  She seemed in a sleep,[436] and sleeping, with a smile[437] on her
    thin, wan face;
  She passed away[438] one morning, while I prayed[439] to the throne
    of grace.
  I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said,
  Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless――my wife was dead!

  Dead! I wouldn’t believe it. They forced me away that night,
  For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright.
  I was shut in the farthest cabin,[440] and I beat my head on the side,
  And all day long in my madness, “They’ve murdered her!”[441] I cried.

  They locked me away from my fellows,――put me in cruel[442] chains,
  It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon’s brains.
  I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil[443] sent
  To gloat o’er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent.

  I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists,
  And my wife lay dead quite near[444] me. I beat[445] with my fettered
    fists,
  Beat at my prison panels, and then――O God!――and then
  I heard the shrieks of women[446] and the tramp of hurrying men.

  I heard the cry, “Ship a-fire!” caught up by a hundred throats,
  And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats;
  Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood,
  And the place[447] grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I
    stood.

  I beat[448] at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back,
  And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning
    crack[449]
  I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail,
  Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale.

  I dashed[450] at the door in fury, shrieking, “I will not die!
  Die in this burning prison!”――but I caught no answering cry.
  Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar,
  And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door.

  I was free[451]――with the heavy iron door dragging me down[452] to
    death;
  I fought my way to the cabin,[453] choked with the burning breath
  Of the flames that danced around me[454] like man-mocking fiends at
    play,
  And then――O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying day.

  There[455] lay my Nell as they’d left her, dead in her berth that
    night;
  The flames flung a smile[456] on her features,――a horrible,[456a]
    lurid light,
  God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by her
    side;
  I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died.

  In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain;[457]
  I heard a sound as of breathing,[458] and then a low cry of pain;
  Oh, was there mercy in heaven?[459] Was there a God in the skies?
  The dead woman’s lips were moving,[460] the dead woman opened her
    eyes.

  I cursed[461] like a madman raving――I cried to her, “Nell! my
    Nell!”[462]
  They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell,
  They had left us alone to perish――forgotten me living――and she
  Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven,[463] instead of
    the sea.[464]

  I clutched at her,[465] roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her
    still;
  I seized her in spite of my fetters,――fear gave a giant’s will.
  God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and
    the wreck
  Up――up[466] to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck.

  We’d a moment of life together,――a moment of life, the time,
  For one last word to each other,――’twas a moment supreme, sublime.
  From the trance we’d for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to
    life,
  And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there,[467] husband and
    wife!

  It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away,
  When a shout came over the water,[468] and I looked, and lo, there
    lay,
  Right away from the vessel,[469] a boat that was standing by;
  They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky.

  I shouted a prayer to Heaven,[470] then called to my wife,[471] and
    she
  Tore with new strength at my fetters――God helped her, and I was free;
  Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped[472] for one chance of life.
  Did they save us? Well, here I am,[473] sir, and yonder’s[474] my dear
    old wife.

  We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by
  Took us on board, and at Melbourne[475] landed us by and by.
  We’ve played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip,
  But ne’er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship!

                                             ――_George R. Sims._


  GESTURES.
  [415] H. O.
  [416] H. F.
  [417] H. Sw.
  [418] H. B.
  [419] H. L.
  [420] V. HO.
  [421] Left H. L.
  [422] H. Sw.
  [423] H. F.
  [424] B. P. H. F.
  [425] H. O.
  [426] H. F.
  [427] H. L.
  [428] Left H. L.
  [429] B. D. F.
  [430] Left H. L.
  [431] V. H. O.
  [432] Hand to head.
  [433] B. H. O.
  [434] H. L.
  [435] Bend in listening attitude.
  [436] D. O.
  [437] Turn to P.
  [438] A. O.
  [439] Clasp hands.
  [440] Left H. L.
  [441] B. Cl.
  [442] Sp.
  [443] Cl. D.
  [444] H. L.
  [445] Sp.
  [446] A. O.
  [447] B. H. O.
  [448] Sp.
  [449] A. O.
  [450] B. V. H. F.
  [451] B. H. O.
  [452] B. D. F.
  [453] H. O.
  [454] B. H. O.
  [455] D. O.
  [456] P. D. O.
  [457] Hand to head.
  [458] Listening.
  [459] A. O.
  [460] D. O.
  [461] B. Cl. D.
  [462] B. Par. D. O.
  [463] A. O.
  [464] D. O.
  [465] Sp.
  [466] A. O.
  [467] B. D. O.
  [468] Look to Left.
  [469] Left H. O.
  [470] A. O.
  [471] H. O.
  [472] B. Par. H. O. to left.
  [473] Point to self.
  [474] Ind. H. O.
  [475] Left H. O.


[Illustration: “Merciful heavens! is that true?”]




  Ben Hassan’s Dream.


  I stood alone beside a mighty sea;
  The waves in awful majesty swept in
  And crashed upon the strand. Far out beyond
  The snowy-crested line of breakers rode
  A ship; and as she rose and fell her tall
  Masts seemed to trace a message on the sky:
  “O, ship! O, restless waste!” I cried, “Be true,
  Be merciful, that they who watch on board,
  And they that wait at home, may once more clasp
  The hands and press the lips of those they love.”

  The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent.
  ’Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sands
  Stretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky;
  Upon my left lay leagues of sand; before,
  Behind; which way I looked was burning sand:
  The fierce sun overhead poured down a stream
  Of heat intolerable. Silence reigned.
  The caravan had gone. I leaned low down
  To hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost!
  Would my siesta prove a sleep of death?

  Another scene: The sun had set, and peace
  Pervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfume
  Of flowers filled the evening air. The sound
  Of tinkling bells came faintly from a plain
  Where camels browsed. The slender minarets,
  And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town,
  That nestled ’mid the distant, waving palms.
  A troop of horsemen slowly came in view;
  Their banner bore the crescent and the star.
  I knelt and cried: “Praise be to Allah’s name!”

  And then, it seemed, I was within a grot
  That opened on a placid lake. The moon
  Was at the full and o’er the water threw
  A track of silver sheen. Beside me stood
  A child with upturned face. I placed my hand
  Upon its head, when, lo! from out the lake
  Arose a horrid, monster form. It glared
  With baleful eyes and then advanced. “Keep off!
  Keep off!” I shrieked, then seized the child and turned
  To fly――when suddenly the vision changed:

  Once more I dwelt beneath my parents’ roof,
  A happy, careless child. The olden scenes
  Were fresh again, and things forgot had life
  And form. O home!――how blest are they that have
  A home!――sweet haven sure when others fail!
  “Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!”
  It was my mother’s voice. Ah, yes, her eyes
  Were beaming love, as angel-like she smiled
  And kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face,
  I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




  Six o’Clock.


  Down by the rugged coast of Maine
  Breaks on the air the glad refrain
  That welcomes old Time on his westward flight,
  That makes the dull eye of the toiler bright,
  And heralds the bliss of a single night;
  Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek,
  At six o’clock and six times a week.

  Loveliest hour of all the day,
  Blest is thy sweet and mystic sway:
  Affection and hope in their might are rife
  In each watching child; in the waiting wife;
  The father that tramps from his daily strife;
  The widow’s son and his fond embrace;
  In the smile that beams on her pallid face.

  Who hath not felt the wondrous spell,
  Ushered by whistle and by bell?
  A halo of peace round each home it flings;
  To poor and to weary relief it brings;
  And e’en the black tea-kettle gaily sings:
  O moments calm! Ye foretell the rest
  That soon must come to each human breast.

  Westward speed on o’er hill and dell,
  City and town and cot to tell;
  On, on, like a courier, dash away,
  Hard pressing the heels of departing day
  Till stopped by the waters of “’Frisco” Bay!
  Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek,
  At six o’clock, and six times a week.

                                             ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




Charlie’s Story.


  I was sitting in the twilight,
    With my Charlie on my knees,
  Little two-year old, forever
    Teasing “Talk a tory to me pease.”
  “_Now_,” I said, “talk _me_ a ’tory.”
    “Well,” reflectively, “I’ll ’mence.
  Mamma, I did see a kitty,
    Great big kitty on the fence.”

  Mamma smiles. Five little fingers
    Cover up her laughing lips;
  “Is oo laughing?” “Yes” I tell him,
    But I kiss the finger tips;
  And I say: “Now tell another.”
    “Well” (all smiles) “now I will ’mence.
  Mamma, I did see a doggie,
    Great big doggie on the fence.”

  “Rather similar, your stories,
    Aren’t they, dear?” A sober look
  Swept across the pretty forehead;
    Then he sudden courage took.
  “But I know a nice _new_ ’tory
    ’Plendid, Mamma! Hear me ’mence,
  Mamma, I did see a――elfunt
    Great big elfunt on the fence!”




The Months.

A PAGEANT.


PERSONIFICATIONS.

  JANUARY. }              FEBRUARY. }
  MARCH.   }              APRIL.    }
  JULY.    } Gentlemen.   MAY.      } Ladies.
  AUGUST.  }              JUNE.     }
  OCTOBER. }              SEPTEMBER.}
  DECEMBER.}              NOVEMBER. }

ROBIN REDBREASTS; LAMBS AND SHEEP; NIGHTINGALE AND NESTLINGS.

_Various Flowers, Fruits, etc._


SCENE:――A COTTAGE WITH ITS GROUNDS.

(_A room in a large, comfortable cottage; a fire burning on the
hearth; a table on which the breakfast things have been left standing.
January discovered seated at the fire._)

JANUARY.

  Cold the day and cold the drifted snow,
  Dim the day until the cold dark night.
                                             [_Stirs the fire._]

  Crackle, sparkle, fagot; embers, glow:
  Some one may be plodding through the snow,
  Longing for a light,
  For the light that you and I can show.
  If no one else should come,
  Here Robin Redbreast’s welcome to a crumb,
  And never troublesome:
  Robin, why don’t you come and fetch your crumb?

      Here’s butter for my bunch of bread,
        And sugar for your crumb;
      Here’s room upon the hearth-rug,
        If you’ll only come.

      In your scarlet waistcoat,
        With your keen bright eye,
      Where are you loitering?
        Wings were made to fly!

      Make haste to breakfast,
        Come and fetch your crumb,
      For I’m as glad to see you
        As you are glad to come.

(_Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping with their beaks at the
lattice, which January opens. The birds flutter in, hop about the
floor, and peck up the crumbs and sugar thrown to them. They have
scarcely finished their meal, when a knock is heard at the door.
January hangs a guard in front of the fire, and opens to February, who
appears with a bunch of snowdrops in her hand._)

JANUARY.

  Good-morrow, sister.

FEBRUARY.

                        Brother, joy to you!
  I’ve brought some snowdrops; only just a few,
  But quite enough to prove the world awake,
  Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew,
  And for the pale sun’s sake.

(_She hands a few of her snowdrops to January, who retires into the
background. While February stands arranging the remaining snowdrops in
a glass of water on the window-sill, a soft butting and bleating are
heard outside. She opens the door, and sees one foremost lamb, with
other sheep and lambs bleating and crowding towards her._)

FEBRUARY.

  O you, you little wonder, come――come in,
  You wonderful, you woolly, soft, white lamb:
  You panting mother ewe, come too,
  And lead that tottering twin
  Safe in:
  Bring all your bleating kith and kin,
  Except the horny ram.

(_February opens a second door in the background, and the little flock
files through into a warm and sheltered compartment out of sight._)

  The lambkin tottering in its walk,
    With just a fleece to wear;
  The snowdrop drooping on its stalk
            So slender,――
  Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair,
  Braving the cold for our delight,
            Both white,
            Both tender.

(_A rattling of door and windows; branches seen without, tossing
violently to and fro._)

  How the doors rattle, and the branches sway!
  Here’s brother March comes whirling on his way,
  With winds that eddy and sing.

(_She turns the handle of the door, which bursts open, and discloses
March hastening up, both hands full of violets and anemones._)

FEBRUARY.

  Come, show me what you bring;
  For I have said my say, fulfilled my day,
  And must away.

MARCH.

(_Stopping short on the threshold._)

    I blow and arouse,
    Through the world’s wide house,
  To quicken the torpid earth:
    Grappling I fling
    Each feeble thing,
  But bring strong life to the birth.
    I wrestle and frown,
    And topple down;
  I wrench, I rend, I uproot;
    Yet the violet
    Is born where I set
  The sole of my flying foot.

(_Hands violets and anemones to February, who retires into the
background._)

    And in my wake
    Frail wind-flowers quake,
  And the catkins promise fruit.
    I drive ocean ashore
    With rush and roar,
  And he cannot say me nay:
    My harpstrings all
    Are the forests tall,
  Making music when I play.
    And as others perforce,
    So I on my course
  Run and needs must run,
    With sap on the mount,
    And buds past count,
  And rivers and clouds and sun,
    With seasons and breath
    And time and death
  And all that has yet begun.

(_Before March has done speaking, a voice is heard approaching
accompanied by a twittering of birds. April comes along singing, and
stands outside and out of sight to finish her song._)

APRIL.

(_Outside._)

  Pretty little three
  Sparrows in a tree,
    Light upon the wing;
    Though you cannot sing,
    You can chirp of Spring:
  Chirp of Spring to me,
  Sparrows, from your tree.

  Never mind the showers,
  Chirp about the flowers,
    While you build a nest:
    Straws from east and west,
    Feathers from your breast,
  Make the snuggest bowers
  In a world of flowers.

  You must dart away
  From the chosen spray,
    You intrusive third
    Extra little bird;
    Join the unwedded herd!
  These have done with play,
  And must work to-day.

APRIL.

(_Appearing at the open door._)

  Good-morrow and good-bye: if others fly,
  Of all the flying months you’re the most flying.

MARCH.

  You’re hope and sweetness, April.

APRIL.

                    Birth means dying,
  As wings and wind mean flying;
  So you and I and all things fly or die;
  And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying.
  But meanwhile I’ve a rainbow in my showers,
  And a lapful of flowers,
  And these dear nestlings, aged three hours;
  And here’s their mother sitting,
  Their father merely flitting
  To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.

(_As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowers and nest
full of birds. March wanders away into the grounds. April, without
entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nestlings watching them._)

APRIL.

  What beaks you have, you funny things,
    What voices, shrill and weak;
  Who’d think anything that sings
    Could sing with such a beak?
  Yet you’ll be nightingales some day
    And charm the country-side,
  When I’m away and far away,
    And May is queen and bride.

(_May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss. April starts
and looks round._)

APRIL.

  Ah, May, good-morrow, May, and so good-bye.

MAY.

  That’s just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh;
  Your sorrows half in fun,
  Begun and done
  And turned to joy while twenty seconds run.
  At every step a flower
  Fed by your last bright shower,――

(_She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with April, who
strolls away through the garden._)

MAY.

  And gathering flowers I listened to the song
  Of every bird in bower.

      The world and I are far too full of bliss,
          To think or plan or toil or care;
              The sun is waxing strong,
              The days are waning long,
                And all that is,
                    Is fair.

      Here are May buds of lily and of rose,
          And here’s my namesake-blossom, May;
              And from a watery spot
              See here, forget-me-not,
                With all that blows
                    To-day.

      Hark to my linnets from the hedges green,
          Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove,
              And every nightingale
              And cuckoo tells its tale,
                And all they mean
                      Is love.

(_June appears at the further end of the garden, coming slowly towards
May, who seeing her, exclaims:_)

MAY.

  Surely you’re come too early, sister June.

JUNE.

  Indeed I feel as if I came too soon
  To round your young May moon,
  And set the world a-gasping at my noon,
  Yet must I come. So here are strawberries,
  Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please;
  And there are full-blown roses by the score,
  More roses and yet more.

(_May, eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds._)

JUNE.

  The sun does all my long day’s work for me,
    Raises and ripens everything;
  I need but sit beneath a leafy tree
    And watch and sing.

(_Seats herself in the shadow of a laburnum._)

  Or if I’m lulled by note of bird and bee,
    Or lulled by noontide’s silence deep,
  I need but nestle down beneath my tree
    And drop asleep.

(_June falls asleep; and is not awakened by the voice of July, who
behind the scenes is heard half singing, half calling._)

JULY.

(_Behind the scenes._)

  Blue flags, yellow flags, all freckled,
  Which will you take? Yellow, blue, speckled!
  Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow,
  Each in its way has not a fellow.

(_Enter July, a basket of many-colored irises swung upon his
shoulders, a bunch of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate piled full
of peaches balanced upon the other. He steals up to June, and tickles
her with the grass. She wakes._)

JUNE.

  What, here already?

JULY.

                      Nay, my tryst is kept;
  The longest day slipped by you while you slept.
  I’ve brought you one curved pyramid of bloom,

                                   (_Hands her the plate._)

  Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where the bees,
    As downy, bask and boom
    In sunshine and in gloom of trees.
    But get you in, a storm is at my heels;
    The whirlwind whistles and wheels,
    Lightning flashes and thunder peals,
    Flying and following hard upon my heels.

(_June takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbor._)

JULY.

  The roar of a storm sweeps up
    From the east to the lurid west,
  The darkening sky, like a cup,
    Is filled with rain to the brink;

  The sky is purple and fire,
    Blackness and noise and unrest;
  The earth, parched with desire,
    Opens her mouth to drink.

  Send forth thy thunder and fire,
    Turn over thy brimming cup,
  O sky, appease the desire
    Of earth in her parched unrest;

  Pour out drink to her thirst,
    Her famishing life lift up;
  Make thyself fair as at first,
    With a rainbow for thy crest.

  Have done with thunder and fire,
    O sky with the rainbow crest;
  O earth, have done with desire,
    Drink, and drink deep, and rest.

(_Enter August, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds of
grain._)

JULY.

  Hail, brother August, flushed and warm,
  And scathless from my storm.
  Your hands are full of corn, I see,
  As full as hands can be:
  And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm
  In their recovered calm,
  And that they owe to me.

(_July retires into the shrubbery._)

AUGUST.

  Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,
    Barley bows a graceful head,
  Short and small shoots up canary,
    Each of these is some one’s bread;
  Bread for man or bread for beast,
      Or at very least
      A bird’s savory feast.
  Men are brethren of each other,
    One in flesh and one in food;
  And a sort of foster brother,
    Is the litter, or the brood
  Of that folk in fur and feather,
      Who, with men together,
      Breast the wind and weather.

(_August descries September toiling across the lawn._)

AUGUST.

  My harvest home is ended; and I spy
  September drawing nigh
  With the first thought of Autumn in her eye,
  And the first sigh
  Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.

(_September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped high with
fruit._)

SEPTEMBER.

  Unload me, brother. I have brought a few
  Plums and these pears for you,
  A dozen kinds of apples, one or two
  Melons, some figs all bursting through
  Their skins; and pearled with dew
  These damsons, violet-blue.

(_While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the ground,
selects various fruits, and withdraws slowly along the gravel walk,
eating a pear as he goes._)

SEPTEMBER.

      My song is half a sigh
      Because my green leaves die;
  Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying;
      And well may Autumn sigh,
            And well may I
  Who watch the sere leaves flying.

      My leaves that fade and fall,
      I note you one and all;
  I call you, and the autumn wind is calling,
      Lamenting for your fall,
            And for the pall
  You spread on earth in falling.

  And here’s a song of flowers to suit such hours:
  A song of the last lilies, the last flowers,
  Amid my withering bowers.

  In the sunny garden bed
    Lilies look so pale,
  Lilies droop the head
    In the shady, grassy vale;
  If all alike they pine
  In shade and in shine,
  If everywhere they grieve,
  Where will lilies live?

(_October enters briskly, some leafy twigs bearing different sorts of
nuts in one hand, and a long, ripe hop-vine trailing after him from
the other. A dahlia is stuck in his button-hole._)

OCTOBER.

  Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over,
  Even if the year has done with corn and clover,
  With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact, it’s true;
  Some leaves remain, and some flowers too,
  For me and you.
  Now see my crops.

                          [_Offering his produce to September._]

          I’ve brought you nuts and hops;
  And when the leaf drops, why the walnut drops.

(_October wreathes the hop-vines about September’s neck, and gives her
the nut twigs. They enter the cottage together, but without shutting
the door. She steps into the background; he advances to the hearth,
removes the guard, stirs up the smouldering fire, and arranges several
chestnuts ready to roast._)


OCTOBER.

      Crack your first nut, light your first fire,
        Roast your chestnuts, crisp on the bar,
      Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher;
        Logs are as cheery as sun or as star,
        Logs we can find wherever we are.

  Spring, one soft day, will open the leaves,
    Spring, one bright day, will lure back the flowers;
  Never fancy my whistling wind grieves,
    Never fancy I’ve tears in my showers;
    Dance, nights and days! and dance on, my hours.

                                  (_Sees November approaching._)

OCTOBER.

  Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim
  And grim,
  With dismal ways.
  What cheer, November?

NOVEMBER.

(_Entering and shutting the door._)

  Nought have I to bring,
  Tramping a-chill and shivering,
  Except these pine cones for a blaze,――
    Except a fog which follows,
    And stuffs up all the hollows,――
  Except a hoar frost here and there,――
    Except some shooting stars,
    Which dart their luminous cars,
  Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air.

(_October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the background,
while November throws her pine cones on the fire and sits down
listlessly._)

NOVEMBER.

  The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired
   Of all that’s high or deep;
  There’s naught desired and naught required
    Save a sleep.

  I rock the cradle of the earth,
    I lull her with a sigh;
  And know that she will wake to mirth
    By and bye.

(_Through the window December is seen running and leaping in the
direction of the door. He knocks._)

NOVEMBER.

(_Calls out without rising._)

  Ah, here’s my youngest brother come at last:
  Come in, December.

(_He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens in berry,
etc._)

              Come in and shut the door,
  For now it’s snowing fast;
  It snows, and will snow more and more;
  Don’t let it drift in on the floor.
  But you, you’re all aglow; how can you be
  Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold.

DECEMBER.

  Nay, no closed doors for me,
  But open doors and open hearts and glee
  To welcome young and old.
    Dimmest and brightest month am I;
  My short days end, my lengthening days begin;
  What matters more or less sun in the sky,
    When all is sun within?

                      (_He begins making a wreath as he sings._)

  Ivy and privet dark as night
    I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show,
  And holly for a beauty and delight,
    And milky mistletoe.

  While high above them all I set
    Yew twigs and Christmas roses, pure and pale;
  Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet
    May keep, so sweet and frail;

  May keep each merry singing bird,
    Of all her happy birds that singing build:
  For I’ve a carol which some shepherds heard
    Once in a wintry field.

(_While December concludes his song, all the other months troop in
from the garden, or advance out of the background. The twelve join
hands in a circle, and begin dancing round to a stately measure as the
Curtain falls._)

                                      ――_Christina G. Rossetti._

Illustration: “Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
               Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lockinvar?”




  Uncle Ned’s Tale.


  Well, lads, it was in summer time, and just at morning’s light
  We heard the “Boot and Saddle” sound: the foe was then in sight,
  Just winding round a distant hill[476] and opening on the plain.
  Each trooper looked with careful eye to girth and curb and rein.
  We snatched a hasty breakfast――we were old campaigners then:
  That morn, of all our splendid corps, we’d scarce one hundred men;
  But they were soldiers, tried and true, who’d rather die[477] than
    yield;
  The rest were scattered far and wide[478] o’er many a hard-fought
    field.
  Our trumpet now rang sharply out, and at a swinging-pace
  We left the bivouac behind;[479] and soon the eye could trace[480]
  The columns moving o’er the plain. Oh! ’twas a stirring sight
  To see two mighty armies there preparing for the fight:
  To watch the heavy masses, as, with practised, steady wheel,
  They opened out in slender lines of brightly flashing steel.
  Our place was on the farther flank,[481] behind some rising ground,
  That hid the stirring scene from view; but soon a booming sound
  Proclaimed the opening of the fight. Then war’s loud thunder rolled,
  And hurtling shells and whistling balls their deadly message told.

  We hoped to have a gallant day; our hearts were all aglow;
  We longed for one wild, sweeping charge,[482] to chase the flying foe
  Our troopers marked the hours glide by, but still no orders came:
  They clutched their swords[483] and muttered words ’twere better not
    to name.
  For hours the loud artillery roared――the sun was at its height――
  Still there we lay behind the hill,[484] shut out from all the fight!
  We heard the maddened charging yells, the ringing British cheers,
  And all the din of glorious war kept sounding in our ears.
  Our hearts with fierce impatience throbbed, we cursed the very hill
  That hid the sight: the evening fell, and we were idle still.
  The horses, too, were almost wild, and told with angry snort
  And blazing eye their fierce desire to join the savage sport.

  When lower still the sun had sunk, and with it all our hope,
  A horseman, soiled with smoke and sweat, came dashing down the
    slope.[485]
  He bore the wished-for orders. “At last!” our Colonel cried:
  And as he read the brief dispatch, his glance was filled with pride.
  Then he who bore the orders, in a low, emphatic tone,
  The stern, expressive sentence spake “He _said it must be done_!”
  “It _shall_ be done!” our Colonel cried. “Men, look to strap and
    girth,
  We’ve work to do this day, will prove what every man is worth;
  Ay, work, my lads, will make amends for all our long delay――
  The General says on us depends the fortune of the day!”

  No order needed we to mount――each man was in his place,
  And stern and dangerous was the look on every veteran face.
  We trotted sharply up the hill,[486] and halted on the brow,
  And then that glorious field appeared.[487] Oh! lad, I see it now!
  But little time had we to spare for idle gazing then:
  Beneath us in the valley,[488] stood a dark-clad mass of men:
  It cut the British line in two. Our Colonel shouted, “There![489]
  Behold your work! Our orders are _to charge and break that square_!”
  Each trooper drew a heavy breath, then gathered up his reins,
  And pressed the helmet o’er his brow, the horses tossed their manes
  In protest fierce against the curb, and spurned[490] the springy
    heath,
  Impatient for the trumpet’s sound to bid them rush to death.

  Well, boy, that moment seemed an hour: at last we heard the words――
  “Dragoons! I know you’ll follow me. Ride steady, men! Draw swords!”
  The trumpet sounded: off[491] we dashed, at first with steady pace,
  But growing swifter as we went. Oh, ’twas a gallant race!
  Three-fourths the ground was left behind: the loud and thrilling
    “Charge!”
  Rang out; but fairly frantic now, we needed not to urge
  With voice or rein our gallant steeds, or touch their foaming flanks,
  They seemed to fly. Now straight in front[492] appeared the kneeling
    ranks.
  Above them waved[493] a standard broad: we saw their rifles raised――
  A moment more, with awful crash, the deadly volley blazed.

  The bullets whistled through our ranks, and many a trooper fell;
  But we were left. What cared we then? but onward rushing still!
  Again the crash roared fiercely out; but on![494] still madly on!
  We heard the shrieks of dying men, but recked not who was gone.
  We gored the horses’ foaming flanks, and on through smoke and glare.
  We wildly dashed, with clenched teeth. We had no thought, no care!
  Then came a sudden, sweeping rush. Again with savage heel
  I struck my horse: with awful bound he rose right o’er[495] their
    steel!

  Well, friend, I cannot tell you how that dreadful leap was made,
  But there I rode, inside the square, and grasped[496] a reeking blade.
  I cared not that I was alone, my eyes seemed filled with blood:
  I never thought a man could feel in such a murderous mood.
  I parried not, nor guarded thrusts; I felt not pain nor wound,
  But madly spurred the frantic horse, and swept my sword around.[497]
  I tried to reach the standard sheet; but there at last was foiled.
  The gallant horse was jaded now, and from the steel recoiled.

  They saw his fright, and pressed him then; his terror made him rear,
  And falling back he crushed[498] their ranks and broke their guarded
    square!
  My comrades[499] saw the gap he made, and soon came dashing in:
  They raised me up, I felt no hurt, but mingled in the din.
  I’d seen some savage work before, but never was engaged
  In such a wild and savage fight as now around me raged.
  The foe had ceased their firing, and now plied the deadly steel:
  Though all our men were wounded then, no pain they seemed to feel.
  No groans escaped from those who fell, but horrid oaths instead,
  And scowling looks of hate were on the features of the dead.
  The fight was round the standard: though outnumbered ten to one,
  We held our ground,――ay, more than that,――we still kept pushing
    on.[500]

  Our men now made a desperate rush to take the flag by storm.
  I seized the pole,[501] a blow came down and crushed my outstretched
    arm.
  I felt a sudden thrill of pain, but that soon passed away;
  And with a devilish thirst for blood, again I joined the fray.
  At last we rallied all our strength, and charged o’er heaps of slain:
  Some fought to death; some wavered――then fled[502] across the plain.

  Well, boy, the rest is all confused: there was a fearful rout;
  I saw our troopers chase the foe, and heard their maddened shout.
  Then came a blank: my senses reeled, I know not how I fell;
  I seemed to grapple with a foe, but that I cannot tell.
  My mind was gone: when it came back I saw the moon[503] on high,
  Around me all was still[504] as death. I gazed[505] up at the sky,
  And watched the glimmering stars above,――so quiet did they seem,――
  And all that dreadful field appeared like some wild, fearful[506]
    dream.
  But memory soon came back again, and cleared my wandering brain,
  And then from every joint and limb shot fiery darts of pain.
  My throat was parched, the burning thirst increased with every breath;
  I made no effort to arise, but wished and prayed for death.

  My bridle arm was broken, and lay throbbing on the sward,
  But something still my right hand grasped: I thought it was my sword.
  I raised[507] my hand to cast it off,――no reeking blade was there;
  Then life and strength returned,――I beheld the Standard of the Square!
  With bounding heart I gained my feet. Oh! then I wished to live,
  ’Twas strange the strength and love of life that standard seemed to
    give!
  I gazed around: far down the vale I saw a camp-fire’s glow.[508]
  With wandering step I ran that way,――I recked not friend or foe.
  Though stumbling now o’er heaps of dead, now o’er a stiffened horse,
  I heeded not, but watched the light, and held my onward course.

  But soon that flash of strength had failed, and checked my feverish
    speed;
  Again my throat was all ablaze, my wounds began to bleed.
  I knew that if I fell again my chance of life was gone.
  So, leaning on the standard pole, I still kept struggling on.
  At length I neared the camp-fire: there were scarlet jackets round,
  And swords and brazen helmets lay strewn upon the ground.
  Some distance off, in order ranged, stood men,[509]――about a score:
  O God! ’twas all that now remained of my old gallant corps!
  The muster-roll was being called: to every well-known name
  I heard the solemn answer――“Dead!” At length my own turn came.

  I paused to hear,――a comrade answered, “Dead! I saw him fall!”
  I could not move another step, I tried in vain to call.
  My life was flowing fast, and all around was gathering haze,
  And o’er the heather tops I watched my comrades’ cheerful blaze.
  I thought such anguish as I felt was more than man could bear,
  O God! it was an awful thing to die with help so near!
  And death was stealing o’er me: with the strength of wild despair.
  I raised the standard o’er my head, and waved it through the air.
  Then all grew dim: the fire, the men, all vanished from my sight,
  My senses reeled: I know no more of that eventful night.

  ’Twas weeks before my mind came back: I knew not where I lay,
  But kindly hands were round me, and old comrades came each day.
  They told me how the waving flag that night had caught their eye,
  And how they found me bleeding there, and thought that I must die;
  No wonder ’twas with all their care, I soon began to mend.
  The General came to see me, too, with all his brilliant train,
  But what he said, or how I felt, to tell you now ’twere vain.
  Enough, I soon grew strong again; the wished-for route had come,
  And all the gallant veteran troops set out with cheers for home.

  We soon arrived; and then my lads, ’twould thrill your hearts to hear
  How England welcomed home her sons with many a ringing cheer.
  But tush! what boots it now to speak of what was said or done,
  The victory was dearly bought, our bravest hearts were gone.
  Ere long the King reviewed us. Ah! that memory is sweet.
  They made me bear the foreign flag, and lay it at his feet.
  I parted from my brave old corps: ’twere matter, friends, for tears,
  To leave the kind old comrades I had ridden with for years.
  I was no longer fit for war, my wanderings had to cease.
  There, boys, I’ve told you all my tale, now let me smoke in peace.

                                       ――_James Boyle O’Reilly._

_Published by special permission._


  GESTURES.
  [476] H. F.
  [477] D. F.
  [478] B. H. O.
  [479] H. B.
  [480] H. Sw.
  [481] H. L.
  [482] B. H. F.
  [483] Sp.
  [484] H. L.
  [485] Left H. O.
  [486] A. F.
  [487] B. D. O.
  [488] D. F.
  [489] Ind. D. F.
  [490] V. D. L.
  [491] H. F.
  [492] H. F.
  [493] Sp.
  [494] B. H. F.
  [495] Sp.
  [496] Raised Fists.
  [497] Sp.
  [498] P. D. B.
  [499] D. B.
  [500] H. F.
  [501] Grasp.
  [502] Left H. L.
  [503] A. O.
  [504] B. P. H. O.
  [505] Look up.
  [506] V. H. O.
  [507] Raise hand.
  [508] D. F.
  [509] H. F.




Read This if You Can.


Geoffrey, surnamed Winthrop, sat in the depot at Chicago waiting for
his train and reading the _Tribune_, when a squadron of street Arabs
(incomparable for squalor), thronged from a neighboring alley,
uttering hideous cries, accompanied by inimitable GESTURES of heinous
exultation, as they tortured an humble black and tan dog.

“You little blackguards!” cried Winthrop, stepping outside and
confronting them, adding the inquiry, “Whose dog is that?”

“That audacious Caucasian has the bravado to interfere with our
clique,” tauntingly shrieked the indisputable little ruffian,
exhibiting combativeness.

“What will you take for him?” asked the lenient Geoffrey, ignoring the
venial tirade.

“Twenty-seven cents,” piquantly answered the ribald urchin, grabbing
the crouching dog by the nape.

“You can buy licorice and share with the indicorous coadjutors of your
condemnable cruelty,” said Winthrop, paying the price and taking the
dog from the boy. Then catching up his valise and umbrella, he
hastened to his train. Winthrop, satisfied himself that his sleek
protégé was not wounded, and then cleared the cement from the pretty
collar, and read these words:

“Leicester. Licensed, No. 1770.”

Hearing the pronunciation of his name, the docile canine expressed
gratitude and pleasure, and then sank exhausted at his new patron’s
feet and slept.

Among the other passengers was a magazine contributor, writing
vagaries of Indian literature, also two physicians, a somber,
irrevocable, irrefragable allopathist, and a genial homeopathist, who
made a specialty of bronchitis. Two peremptory attorneys from the
legislature of Iowa were discussing the politics of the epoch, and the
details of national finance, while a wan, dolorous person, wearing
concave glasses, alternately ate troches and almonds for a sedative,
and sought condolence in a high lamentable treble from a lethargic and
somewhat deaf and enervate comrade not yet acclimated.

Near three exemplary brethren (probably sinecurists) sat a group of
humorous youths; and a jocose sailor (from Asia) in a blouse waist and
tarpaulin hat, was amusing his patriotic juvenile listeners by
relating a series of the most extraordinary legends extant, suggested
by the contents of a knapsack, which he was calmly and leisurely
arranging in a pyramidal form on a three-legged stool. Above swung
figured placards, with museum and lyceum advertisements too verbose to
be misconstrued.

A mature matron of medium height and her comely daughter soon entered
the car, and took seats in front of Winthrop (who recalled having seen
them one Tuesday in February in the parquet of a theatre). The young
lady had recently made her debut into society at a musical soiree at
her aunt’s. She had an exquisite bouquet of flowers that exhaled sweet
perfume. She said to her parent, “Mamma, shall we ever find our lost
Leicester?”

Geoffrey immediately addressed her, saying, as he presented his card――

“Pardon my apparent intrusiveness; but prithee, have you lost a pet
dog?”

The explanation that he had been stolen was scarcely necessary, for
Leicester, just awakening, vehemently expressed his inexplicable joy
by buoyantly vibrating between the two like the sounding lever used in
telegraphy (for to neither of them would he show partiality) till,
succumbing to ennui, he purported to take a recess, and sat on his
haunches, complacently contemplating his friends. It was truly an
interesting picture.

They reached their destination ere the sun was beneath the horizon.
Often during the summer Winthrop gallantly rowed from the quay with
the naive and blithe Beatrice, in her jaunty yachting suit, but no
coquetry shone from the depths of her azure eyes. Little Less, their
jocund confidante and courier (and who was as sagacious as a spaniel)
always attended them on these occasions, and whene’er they rambled
through the woodland paths. While the band played Beethoven,
Mendelssohn, Bach, and others, they promenaded the long corridors of
the hotel. And one evening, as Beatrice lighted the gas by the etagere
in her charming boudoir in their suite of rooms, there glistened
brilliantly a valuable solitaire diamond on her finger.

Let us look into the future for the sequel to perfect this romance,
and around a cheerful hearth we see again Geoffrey and Beatrice, who
are paying due homage to their tiny friend Leicester.

                                     ――_Quarterly Elocutionist._


[Illustration: “Away then! I am locked in one of them.
                If you do love me, you will find me out.”]




  The Ivy-Clad Ruin.[510]


  ’Tis the old, old church that for years I’ve known,
  And with ivy green are its walls o’ergrown;
  All its ancient splendor has passed away,
  And there’s naught remaining but grim decay;
  The pale moonbeams glimmer the windows through,
  And the roofless floor is all damp with dew;
  Both the pious priest and his flock are gone,
  And the gravestones watch o’er their dead alone.

  Oh, how oft I’ve passed thro’ the spacious aisle
  And have met the throng with a friendly smile;
  In the bygone days when I saw them kneel,
  When I felt the thrill of the organ’s peal;
  But the forms I knew enter here no more,
  And no footsteps fall on the mouldy floor;
  There’s but one thing left that with life I’ve seen――
  ’Tis the faithful vine of the ivy green.

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._

     [510] By permission of W. F. Shaw, owner of the copyright.




“Yes, I’m Guilty.”


  “Yes, I’m guilty,” the prisoner said,
  As he wiped his eyes and bowed his head.
  “Guilty of all the crimes you name;
  But this yere lad is not to blame.
  ’Twas I alone who raised the row,
  And, Judge, if you please, I’ll tell yer how.
  You see, this boy is pale and slim;
  We calls him saint.――His name is Tim.――
  He’s like a preacher in his ways:――
  He never drinks, or swears, or plays,
  But kinder sighs and weeps all day;
  ’Twould break yer heart to hear him pray.
  Why, sir, many and many a night,
  When grub was scarce and I was tight,
  No food, no fire, no light to see,
  When home was hell, if hell there be,
  I’ve seen that boy in darkness kneel,
  And pray such words as cut like steel;
  Which somehow warmed and lit the room,
  And sorter chased away the gloom.
  Smile if you must, but facts are facts,
  And deeds are deeds, and acts are acts;
  And though I’m black as sin can be
  His prayers have done a heap for me,
  And make me think that God, perhaps,
  Sent him on earth to save us chaps.
  This man what squealed and pulled us in,
  He keeps a place called Fiddlers’ Inn,
  Where faiks, and snides, and lawless scamps
  Connive and plot with thieves and tramps.
  Well, Tim and me, we didn’t know
  Just what to do or where to go,
  And so we stayed with him last night.
  And this is how we had the fight:
  They wanted Tim to take a drink,
  But he refused, as you may think,
  And told them how the flowing bowl
  Contained the fire that kills the soul.
  ‘Drink! Drink!’ they cried, ‘this foaming beer;
  ’Twill make you strong and give you cheer.
  Let preachers groan and prate of sin,
  But give to us the flowing gin!’
  Then Tim knelt down beside his chair,
  And offered up this little prayer:
  ‘Help me, dear Lord,’ the child began,
  As down his cheeks the big tears ran,
  ‘To keep the pledge I gave to you,
  And make me strong, and good, and true.
  I’ve done my best to do what’s right,
  But, Lord, I’m sad and weak to-night.
  Father, mother, oh, plead for me――
  Tell Christ I long with you to be!’
  ‘Get up, you brat, don’t pray ’round here,’
  The landlord yelled with rage and fear,
  Then, like a brute, he hit the lad,
  Which made my blood just b’iling mad.
  I guess I must uv hurt his head,
  For I struck hard for the man that’s dead.
  No, he hain’t no folks or friends but me:
  His dad was killed in ’sixty-three.
  Shot at the front, where bursting shell
  And cannon sang their song of hell,
  And muskets hissed with fiery breath,
  As brave men fell to their tune of death.
  I promised his father before he died,
  As the life blood rushed from his wounded side,
  I promised him, sir, and it gave him joy,
  That I’d protect his darling boy.
  I simply did what his father would,
  And helped the weak, as all men should.
  Yes, I knocked him down and blacked his eye,
  And used him rough I’ll not deny;
  But think of it, Judge, a chap like him
  Striking the likes of little Tim.
  If I did wrong, send me below,
  But spare the son of comrade Joe.――
  You forgive him; and me? Oh, no!
  A fact? God bless you! Come, Tim, let’s go.”

                                          ――_J. M. Munyon._




  The Enchanted Shirt.


  The King was sick. His cheek was red,
    And his eye was clear and bright;
  He ate and drank with a kingly zest,
    And peacefully snored at night.

  But he said he was sick, and a king should know,
    And the doctors came by the score.
  They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,
    And sent to the schools for more.

  At last two famous doctors came,
    And one was as poor as a rat,――
  He had passed his life in studious toil,
    And never found time to grow fat.

  The other had never looked in a book;
    His patients gave him no trouble;
  If they recovered, they paid him well;
    If they died, their heirs paid double.

  Together they looked at the royal tongue,
    As the King on his couch reclined;
  In succession they thumped his august chest,
    But no trace of disease could find.

  The old sage said, “You’re as sound as a nut.”
    “Hang him up,” roared the King in a gale――
  In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;
    The other leech grew a shade pale;

  But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,
    And thus his prescription ran――
  _The King will be well if he sleeps one night
    In the shirt of a happy man._

                      *     *     *     *     *

  Wide o’er the realm the couriers rode,
    And fast their horses ran,
  And many they saw, and to many they spoke,
    But they found no Happy Man....

  They saw two men by the roadside sit,
    And both bemoaned their lot;
  For one had buried his wife, he said,
    And the other one had not.

  At last they came to a village gate,
    A beggar lay whistling there!
  He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled
    On the grass in the soft June air.

  The weary couriers paused and looked
    At the scamp so blithe and gay;
  And one of them said, “Heaven save you friend!
    You seem to be happy to-day.”

  “O yes, fair sirs,” the rascal laughed,
    And his voice rang free and glad;
  “An idle man has so much to do
    That he never has time to be sad.”

  “This is our man,” the courier said;
    “Our luck has led us aright.
  I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,
    For the loan of your shirt to-night.”

  The merry blackguard lay back on the grass,
    And laughed till his face was black;
  “I would do it,” said he, and he roared with the fun,
    “But I haven’t a shirt to my back.”

                      *     *     *     *     *

  Each day to the King the reports came in
    Of his unsuccessful spies,
  And the sad panorama of human woes
    Passed daily under his eyes.

  And he grew ashamed of his useless life,
    And his maladies hatched in gloom;
  He opened his windows and let the air
    Of the free heaven into his room.

  And out he went in the world, and toiled
    In his own appointed way;
  And the people blessed him, the land was glad,
    And the King was well and gay.

                                         ――_Col. John Hay._




Fra Giacomo.


  Alas, Fra Giacomo,
    Too late!――but follow me;[511]
  Hush![512] draw the curtain[513]――so!――
    She is dead,[514] quite dead, you see.
  Poor little lady! she lies
  With the light gone out of her eyes,
  But her features still wear[515] that soft
    Gray, meditative expression,
  Which you[516] must have noticed oft,
    And admired, too, at confession.

  How saintly she looks[517] and how meek!
    Though this[518] be the chamber of death,
    I fancy I feel her breath[519]
  As I kiss her on the cheek.
  With that pensive, religious face,
  She has gone to a holier place![520]
  And I hardly appreciated her――
    Her praying, fasting, confessing,
  Poorly,[521] I own, I mated her;
  I thought her too cold, and rated[522] her
    For her endless image-caressing.
  Too saintly for me by far,
  As pure and as cold as a star,[523]
    Not fashioned for kissing and pressing――
  But made for a heavenly crown.
  Ay, father, let us go down――
    But first, if you please, your blessing![524]

  Wine?[525] _No?_ Come, come, you must!
    You’ll bless it with your prayers,
  And quaff a cup, I trust,
    To the health of the saint[526] up stairs!
  My heart[527] is aching so!
    And I feel so weary and sad
    Through the blow that I have had――
  You’ll sit,[528] Fra Giacomo?
  My friend! (and a friend I rank you)
    For the sake of that saint[529],――nay, nay![530]
    Here’s the wine[531]――as you love me, stay!
  ’Tis Montepulciano!――Thank you.[532]

  Heigho! ’Tis now six summers
    Since I won that angel and married her:
    I was rich,[533] not old, and carried her
  Off in the face of all comers.
  So fresh, yet so brimming with soul!
    A tenderer morsel, I swear,
  Never made the dull black coal[534]
    Of a monk’s eye glitter and glare.
    Your pardon![535]――nay, keep your chair!
  I wander a little, but mean
  No offence to the gray gabardine:
  Of the church,[536] Fra Giacomo,
  I’m a faithful upholder,[537] you know.
  But (humor me![538]) she was as sweet
    As the saints in yon[539] convent windows,
  So gentle, so meek, so discreet,
    She knew not what lust does or sin does.
  I’ll confess, though, before we were one
    I deemed her less saintly, and thought
    The blood in her veins had caught
  Some natural warmth from the sun.[540]
  I was wrong[541]――I was blind as a bat――
    Brute[542] that I was, how I blundered!
  Though such a mistake as that
  Might have occurred as pat
    To ninety-nine men in a hundred.[543]
  Yourself,[544] for example: you’ve seen her?
  Spite[545] her modest and pious demeanor,
  And the manner so nice and precise,
    Seemed there not color and light,[546]
    Bright motion and appetite,
  That were scarcely consistent with _ice_?[547]
  Externals implying, you see,
    Internals less saintly than human!
  Pray speak,[548] for between you and me
    You’re not a bad judge of a woman!

  A jest――but a jest![549]... Very true:[550]
    ’Tis hardly becoming to jest,
    And that saint upstairs[551] at rest――
  Her soul may be listening, too!
  Well may your visage[552] turn yellow――
  I was always a brute[553] of a fellow!
  To think how I doubted and doubted,
  Suspected, grumbled at, flouted[554]
  That golden-haired angel――and solely
  Because she was zealous and holy!
  Noon and night and morn
    She devoted herself to piety;
  Not[555] that she seemed to scorn
    Or dislike[556] her husband’s society;
  But the claims of her _soul_[557] superseded
  All that I[558] asked for or needed,
  And her thoughts were far away[559]
  From the level of sinful clay,
  And she trembled if earthly matters
  Interfered with her _aves_ and _paters_.[560]
  Poor dove, she so fluttered[561] in flying
    Above the dim vapors of hell――
  Bent on self-sanctifying――
  That she never thought of trying
    To save her husband as well.
  And while she was duly elected
    For a place in the heavenly roll,[562]
  I (brute[563] that I was!) suspected
    Her manner[564] of saving her soul.
  So half for the fun of the thing,
  What did I (blasphemer![565]) but fling
  On my shoulders[566] the gown of a monk――
    Whom I managed for that very day
    To get safely out of the way[567]――
  And seat me, half sober, half drunk,
  With the cowl thrown over my face;
  In the father confessor’s place.
  _Eheu! benedicite!_[568]
  In her orthodox sweet simplicity,
  With that pensive, gray expression
  She sighfully knelt[569] at confession,
  While I bit my lips till they bled,
    And dug my nails into my hand,[570]
  And heard with averted head[571]
    What I’d guessed,[572] and could understand.
  Every word was a serpent’s sting,
    But wrapt[573] in my gloomy gown,
  I sat, like a marble thing,
    As she told me all![574] SIT DOWN![575]

  More wine,[576] Fra Giacomo!
  One cup――if you love me! No?
  What, have these dry lips drank
    So deep of the sweets of pleasure――
    _Sub rosa_,[577] but quite without measure――
  That Montepulciano tastes rank?
  Come, drink![578] ’twill bring the streaks
  Of crimson back to your cheeks;[579]
  Come, drink again to the saint[580]
  Whose virtues you loved to paint,
  Who stretched on her wifely bed,
    With the tender gray expression
    You used to admire at confession,
  Lies POISONED,[581] overhead!

  Sit still[582]――or by Heaven, you die![583]
  Face to face,[584] soul to soul, you and I
  Have settled accounts in a fine
  Pleasant fashion,[585] over our wine.
  Stir not,[586] and seek not to fly――
  Nay, whether or not, you are mine!
  Thank Montepulciano[587] for giving
    You death in such delicate sips;
  ’Tis not every monk ceases living
    With so pleasant a taste on his lips;
  But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,
    Take this![588] and this! and this!

                      *     *     *     *     *

  Cover him over, Pietro,[589]
  And bury him in the court below[590]――
  You can be secret, lad, I know!
  And, hark you,[591] then to the convent[592] go――
  Bid every bell[593] in the convent toll,
  And the monks say mass for your mistress’[594] soul.

                                            ――_Robert Buchanan._


  GESTURES.
  [511] H. O.
  [512] L. P. H. O.
  [513] Sp.
  [514] D. O.
  [515] P. D. O.
  [516] L. H. O.
  [517] Look to D. O.
  [518] B. H. O.
  [519] Stoop.
  [520] A. O.
  [521] P. D. O.
  [522] V. H. O.
  [523] Ind. A. O.
  [524] Kneel.
  [525] H. O.
  [526] L. A. O.
  [527] Sp.
  [528] H. O.
  [529] L. A. O.
  [530] P. H. O.
  [531] H. O.
  [532] Bow and sit at left of a table.
  [533] B. H. O.
  [534] Lean forward.
  [535] P. H. O.
  [536] L. H. O.
  [537] A. O.
  [538] V. Con.
  [539] L. H. L.
  [540] A. O.
  [541] P. H. O.
  [542] B. Cli. D.
  [543] B. H. O.
  [544] H. O.
  [545] V. H. O.
  [546] H. O.
  [547] P. H. O.
  [548] H. O.
  [549] V. H. O.
  [550] P. H. O.
  [551] L. A. O.
  [552] H. O.
  [553] B. Cli. D.
  [554] V. Con.
  [555] B. H. O. Con.
  [556] V. H. O.
  [557] L. H. O.
  [558] To left.
  [559] L. H. L.
  [560] Hand applied.
  [561] Sp.
  [562] A. O.
  [563] Cli. D.
  [564] H. O.
  [565] V. H. O.
  [566] Sp.
  [567] L. H. O.
  [568] B. V. Par. H. O.
  [569] D. E.
  [570] Sp.
  [571] Sp.
  [572] Ind. H. O.
  [573] Sp.
  [574] Fist on table.
  [575] Rise and P. H. O.
  [576] Offer wine.
  [577] P. H. O.
  [578] B. H. O.
  [579] H. O.
  [580] L. A. O. sustained.
  [581] L. Point up forcibly.
  [582] P. H. O.
  [583] D. O.
  [584] Fold arms and face to right.
  [585] B. H. O.
  [586] P. H. E.
  [587] Point to table.
  [588] Cross to right and stab.
  [589] Look to left and P. D. O.
  [590] D. L.
  [591] L. Ind. H. O.
  [592] L. H. L.
  [593] L. A. O.
  [594] L. Point up.




  A Grain of Truth.


  The luxury derived in doing good
  Is oft the only recompense men get
  For kindly deeds; e’en toil of years is paid
  Too oft with ingrate acts, and motives pure
  As angel thoughts are powerless to stay
  Suspicion’s tongue; but, oh, ’tis sweet to know
  Our duty has been done ’twixt man and man,
  To feel we have been loyal to ourselves;
  To know one voice at least proclaims us true,
  The whispered voice of God, within our hearts!

                                          ――_George M. Vickers_.




The Corsican.

This piece is most effective if given sitting by the right side of a
table.


  Well, Michel, the luck seems against[595] you to-night,
  You do nothing but lose;――it may change? You are right,[596]
  For Dame Fortune’s a jade that one never can trust;
  She may smile on our labors, but one[597] always must
  Keep both eyes wide open――your play,[598]――mine again,――
  Or he’ll pay[599] for his confidence, fifty to ten.
  Pshaw! don’t[600] be faint-hearted――another deal, try;
  Now don’t swear,――what’s the use? You may win by and by:
  Why! what are these?[601] Jewels? Your dead wife’s, you say?
  You’ll stake them against all I’ve won here to-day?
  You’ve nothing but these? All’s lost?――(_the end’s near!_)[602]
  Well, put the stones there;[603] why, how white you appear!
  You’re faint from reverses; ho![604] landlord! I say――
  A flask of your best without any delay:
  Come, drink, man; ’twill cheer you――tut![605] have no reserve;
  Here’s to your success![606] Ha! that strengthens one’s nerve.
  I’ll deal the cards first; ’tis your turn――come, begin;
  Just think of the stakes you will have if you win.
  Have you ever seen Paris? Were born there? Indeed!
  They say ’tis a place where a man must take heed[607]
  Lest his money and life be not taken away
  In a hurry,――one moment[608]――’tis my turn to play.
  A strange tale I’ve heard――no offence――of their mode,
  And the close-cutting rules of their well-prepared code;
  This narrative’s true;――at least, so I’ve been told.――
  A young Corsican noble, scarce twenty years old――
  A mere boy in years, but with wealth at command,
  And a title as proud as the best in the land――
  About twelve years ago to gay Paris repaired,
  To see life as ’tis there to be seen, and――get snared.[609]
  With some friends like himself,――young, thoughtless and gay,[610]
  He managed to while time and money away.[611]
  Among other places, the gossips all tell,――
  He was brought to a flash,[612] gilded gaming hell,
  Kept by a certain French Count――have a care![613]
  You play wildly; now put your best there;――
  By a certain French Count, De la Fontelle by name,
  And his wife, a bewitching, heart-damaging dame;
  As well-matched a pair for their devilish trade,
  As the fiend incarnate[614] had e’er till then made.
  Well, into this hell-trap of splendor and guilt,[615]
  Young Malletti――his name――was dragged;――see, you have spilt
  All your wine;――you are nervous from play: fill once more;――
  And then like the rest,[616] I imagine, before
  He well was aware or his own thoughts could tell,
  He madly in love with the fair Countess fell.
  He was handsome and rich, young, easily led――
  A most opportune prize, and so easily bled.
  She so skillfully――women, what devils[617] are ye!――
  Lured him on till no longer the power had he
  Or the will to resist;――I’ve just played the knave;――
  Till his honor and soul into her hands he gave――
  Heaven curse[618] her! It makes a man crazy to think
  How these fair, smiling creatures will drag to the brink
  Of destruction a poor, silly fool:――You are pale,
  And no wonder; the blood leaves the heart at the tale.
  But, mind you, the husband with eyes turned away――[619]
  Unconscious――ha! ha! of what passed every day,――
  To his own affairs kept, nor with her interfered;
  She could manage her own; but the end was soon neared.
  His money at last was all gone, and he then
  Turned to her――to her love appealed,[620] but when
  On his two knees, with words full of fond love, the young
  Noble knelt[621] with his proud heart and spirit sore wrung,――
  And abjectly――God! yes, abjectly[622] sued,――
  But your pardon; I feel so deeply imbued
  With the sense of this wrong, that the throats I could seize――
  A neck in each grasp――and complacently squeeze[623]
  Out the life of these two devils, breath after breath,
  Till my eager revenge would be stopped but by death.
  Well, in spite of his burning entreaties, this pair,
  With laughter and blows――ay, what wouldn’t they dare?――
  The young noble seized, and out[624] he was thrown
  Like a dog;――he who never till that time had known
  The harsh tone of insult. But come,[625] give me some wine;
  Such a tale would stir more than your feelings[626] and mine:[627]
  For all[628] who have souls and have hearts not of stone
  Can judge of the tumult his soul must have known,
  When robbed of his money,[629] his honor,[630] his life,[631]
  By this Judas incarnate and syren-tongued wife,
  He found himself out on the streets,[632] treated worse
  Than the veriest menial or slave.[633] May the curse
  Of the injured their foul souls pursue![634] But, howe’er,
  Young Malletti that night to this house did repair,
  And in her own bed the fair serpent slew;――
  Drove his knife to the hilt in her heart;[635]――Wouldn’t you?[636]――
  And cut her white throat――ay! he left a grand mark,――
  But the husband escaped from the house[637] in the dark――
  The cowardly cur![638] But you suffer; your frame
  Is all trembling. Ah! Michel, your nature’s[639] the same
  As my own, full of tenderness, gentle and weak;
  As regards now its sympathy ’tis that I speak.
  But come, play again; ’tis the last trick; I drink[640]
  To your health and success! Ha! ha! One would think
  From your looks you were pale with some terrible fear.
  There’s nothing to dread,――there are none but us here,
  And the days of dark murder in secret are o’er:――
  Ace! King! I win. Though mine is the gain,
  It gives me, friend Michel, less pleasure than pain.
  But let us return to our sheep, as they say
  In la belle France, your land ever charming and gay.
  Young Malletti was captured, convicted I’m told,
  To the galleys[641] was sent,――a life sentence, too:
  Now I think ’twas too much for his just crime――don’t you?
  But mark![642] two years since――ay! this very day,――
  The convicts rebelled, and some few got away,
  And among them Malletti.――Why, man, how you shake!
  And what a strange, terrified look your eyes take!
  Well, Malletti had Corsican blood in his veins,――
  Such blood as ne’er cools while on earth[643] there remains
  The being or thing that had offered insult:
  He no rest, peace or happiness ever would know,
  Till dead[644] at his feet he the Count would lay low.
  He searched France from north to south,[645] England went
    through,[646]
  And at last of his old foe discovered a clue:
  He found him disguised both in feature and name;――
  Come, Michel, what ails you? Your drinking’s too tame.
  Here, fill up your goblet;[647] I’ll give you a toast;[648]
  Dios! man; what a face! It would frighten a ghost;
  Here’s success to all men who the life blood may spill
  Of such as the Count and his wife! But sit still,[649]
  And wait till my narrative ends. ’Tis a queer
  Story, take it in all, but true――never fear.
  I’m sorry you lost, Michel, sorry indeed,
  And feel that at my hands some succor[650] you need,
  Which you shall receive――ay! shall, on my life.
  These gems are superb![651] They belonged to your wife?
  ’Tis the fortune of cards;――a full purse to-day;
  To-morrow like smoke-clouds it all melts away.[652]
  But, no doubt, you’re eager and anxious to know
  What held back the young noble’s long-wished-for blow:
  Ah! he wished his revenge to be perfect, complete,
  A sort of a climax. Revenge must be sweet;
  That is, if we judge from Malletti’s standpoint.
  What unction with which his keen sword to anoint!
  Well, at the card table day following day,
  The two were engaged, and strangely to say,
  The Count lost every sou[653] in the world he possessed;
  And at last by reverses became so hard pressed
  That he staked his wife’s jewels;――_ha, ha! don’t stir yet!_[654]
  But wait, dearest Michel, my friend, till I get
  To the end. Well, the jewels he staked and _he lost_.
  Then Malletti uprose from his seat[655] and crossed
  To the side of the Count, _as I now do to you,――
  Keep your seat――we’re alone――none can hear:――
  Revenge is so sweet when the cost was so dear_;――
  He drew a stiletto[656]――in this manner,――see!
  And plunged it with joy to the hilt――_look at me!
  Ha! you know me, vile caitiff! What, mercy! Forgive!_
  The seconds are numbered that you have to live:
  This moment takes out of my life all the pain,
  And wipes out the stain on my honor again.
  Thy struggles are useless,――’tis _revenge’s_ fell clasp
  That holds thee resistless within its close grasp.
  _Look your last on my face_, while thus with a blow[657]
  I send your black soul to the regions below;――[658]
  _There_[659]――Count de la Fontelle; now join your fair spouse
  In the chambers of hell,[660] and keep your carouse――
  Ha! that twinge again;[661]――twice I felt it before,――
  And a drowsy sensation[662] seems now stealing o’er
  All my frame;――God of heaven! what is this?[663] Can it be?
  Poisoned![664] Ha! slave![665] thou hast done too for me.――
  What pain darts across me![666] My blood is on fire!
  My brain reels,――Oh, mercy! is’t thus I expire![667]
  Help! help! Oh, will no one attend to my cry!
  Must I in my agony unaided lie,
  And suffer the torment the damned[668] only feel!
  Ha! no;――I’ve a friend left in thee, faithful steel:[669]
  Thou shalt end all and quickly;――thy virtue I’ll try;
  Ah, Count! thou art well avenged;――_thus――thus![670] I die!_

                                     ――_Thos. F. Wilford, A. M._


  GESTURES.
  [595] H. O.
  [596] Con. V.
  [597] Ind. H. O.
  [598] In this and the passages following that speak of the play,
        imitate motions of card playing.
  [599] H. O.
  [600] V. H. O.
  [601] Sp.
  [602] Speak to left with L. hand in front of mouth.
  [603] Motion to table.
  [604] To left.
  [605] Con. V.
  [606] Sp.
  [607] Ind.
  [608] Con. V.
  [609] P. H. O.
  [610] B. H. O.
  [611] L. H. Sw.
  [612] A. O.
  [613] P. H. O.
  [614] Cli.
  [615] H. O.
  [616] B. H. O.
  [617] L. Cli. D.
  [618] B. Cli. D.
  [619] V. H. O.
  [620] B. H. F.
  [621] B. D. F.
  [622] B. P. D. F.
  [623] Sp.
  [624] B. Par. to L. H. O.
  [625] H. O.
  [626] H. O.
  [627] To self.
  [628] B. H. O.
  [629] H. O.
  [630], [631] Imp.
  [632] L. H. O.
  [633] L. D. O.
  [634] P. H. F.
  [635] Sp.
  [636] H. O.
  [637] L. H. O.
  [638] L. P. D. O.
  [639] H. O.
  [640] Sp.
  [641] L. H. L.
  [642] H. O.
  [643] Ind.
  [644] D. F.
  [645] D. F.
  [646] L. H. Sw.
  [647], [648] Sp.
  [649] P. H. O.
  [650] B. H. O.
  [651] Sp.
  [652] A. Sw.
  [653] Ind.
  [654] P. H. O.
  [655] Rise and cross in front of table.
  [656] Sp.
  [657] Sp.
  [658] Sheathe dagger.
  [659] P. D. O.
  [660] D. F.
  [661] Hand on breast.
  [662] Hand to head.
  [663] Take up wine glass.
  [664] Replace it.
  [665] D. O.
  [666] Strong dramatic action.
  [667] Sit.
  [668] B. Cli.
  [669] Draw dagger.
  [670] Stab.


[Illustration: “Two fox-tails float and drift and drive adown the
stream.”]




All Wrong.

A FARCE, IN ONE ACT.


CHARACTERS.

  JOHN DUPEWELL, _a rogue_.
  OLIVER OPENFACE, _benevolent old gent_.
  TOMMY, _a street fakir_.
  POLICEMAN.
  TILLY, _Openface’s daughter_.
  PEDESTRIANS.


SCENE: A City Street in the Morning.

(_Tommy discovered standing in centre of stage, near flat, holding a
string in right hand, to which are attached several small rubber
balloons inflated with gas._)

                      *     *     *     *     *

TOMMY.――Well, here goes for another hard day’s work. This standin’ on
yer feet, an’ shoutin’ all day is wicked on the toes and lungs. Hello!
here comes a swell. Balloons! balloons! Here’s yer genuine rubber air
wessels filled with gas!

                                       (_Enter Dupewell――Left._)

DUPEWELL (_Swinging cane and not noticing Tommy_).――Something must be
done to raise the wind.

TOMMY.――Balloons! balloons! balloons!

DUPEWELL.――Shut up! shut up, sir! Your goods are too suggestive of the
present state of my stomach.

TOMMY.――Don’t lean on me that way; I’m a poor boy, I want to be
encouraged, for me stock’s light, trade’s dull, and both pockets is
empty.

DUPEWELL.――Poor fellow! Perhaps I can give you a start in life, but it
all depends upon――

TOMMY.――Oh, sir, I never had nobody to take me by the hand and say,
“Tommy, here’s a chance, take it!” I’ve been lookin’ for a openin’ all
me life――

DUPEWELL.――And the biggest kind of a one right under your nose.
(_Points cane at Tommy’s mouth._)

TOMMY.――I can’t see it.

DUPEWELL.――Well, I’ll explain. How many balloons have you sold to-day?

TOMMY.――Not one; haven’t broke a string.

DUPEWELL.――Good! People are beginning to throng the street. Now
listen; if you will strictly obey all my instructions, I will to-night
give you more cash, and a squarer meal than your pockets ever held or
your palate ever tasted.

TOMMY.――That’s what I dreamed last night; I seed a great big――

DUPEWELL.――Never mind your dream. What do you want for your balloons,
all of them?

TOMMY.――Fifty cents.

DUPEWELL.――If I purchase them, will you enter my employ at once, and
promise to obey me, unquestioned, in all things?

TOMMY.――When do you eat breakfast?

DUPEWELL.――In a short time; as soon as we attend to a small affair. Do
you solemnly――

TOMMY.――Hold on! I never swear. I’ll be bound, I’ll affirm, I’ll
promise to agree; but don’t ask me to swear; ’tain’t right.

DUPEWELL.――That will answer; your word will do. (_Takes half-dollar
from pocket and looks at it._) (_Aside_.)――Farewell ’till next we
meet. (_Aloud._)――Well, sir, here is the money.

TOMMY (_Taking money_).――Here’s your balloons.

DUPEWELL.――I don’t want them just now. Tommy, loan me that coin a few
minutes.

TOMMY (_backing away_).――Can’t do that.

DUPEWELL (_angrily_).――What! disobey my first request? Besides, you
hold good collateral. (_Points to balloons._)

TOMMY (_aside_).――This is a bad openin’; he’s leanin’ on me heavy at
the start. (_Hands money to Dupewell._) I don’t see how I’m to make a
profit on this sale.

DUPEWELL (_hurriedly_).――Tut! Now for business; mark what I say; there
are some persons coming this way. I’ll step off in this direction a
few paces. Watch me. When I raise my hat, let your balloons go, fall
on your knees and groan; say nothing to any one, but groan in reply to
every question. I will attend to the rest.

TOMMY.――Let me hold the fifty cents.

DUPEWELL.――Silence. (_Exit L._)

TOMMY (_looking after Dupewell_).――That’s a queer fellow. I think I’ll
skeet. Oh! there goes his hat. (_Lets the balloons go, falls on his
knees and groans._)

                                   (_Enter Oliver Openface――R._)

OPENFACE (_trying to assist Tommy to arise_).――My poor fellow, what
ails you? Do tell me, are you sick?

                                       (_Re-enter Dupewell――R._)

                              (_Tommy groans and looks upward._)

DUPEWELL (_to Openface_).――Sad! sad! Know the man well; worthy
case――sick wife――eleven children, oldest four years――wounded in late
war――lost his balloons; look! (_Points upward._)

OPENFACE.――Ah, I see. (_Pulls out handkerchief and wipes eyes._) What
shall we do?

DUPEWELL.――Make donation――encourage honesty. (_Hands fifty cents to
Tommy, who takes it and groans._)

OPENFACE (_examining his wallet_).――I have nothing less than a
fifty-dollar bill. (_Holds note in his hand._)

                                        (_Dupewell takes note._)

OPENFACE.――Hold on, there. (_Reaches for note._)

DUPEWELL.――No, no! Let this poor man get it changed around the corner;
thoroughly honest――trusted him with thousands――be responsible myself.
(_Aside to Tommy_)――Meet me at the Hero’s Inn. (_Makes believe to give
note to Tommy, but puts it in his own pocket._) (_Aloud_) Go, now!
Run! The gentleman’s waiting. (_Exit Tommy, running._)

DUPEWELL (_touching Openface on arm and pointing up_).――How small
those balloons appear; a mere speck.

OPENFACE (_looking up_).――I cannot see them; my eyes are too old.

DUPEWELL (_points_).――See! There they go! (_Takes wallet from
Openface’s pocket._) See! see!

OPENFACE (_impatiently_).――I’d like to see that fellow coming with my
change.

DUPEWELL (_starting to go_).――I’ll see what keeps him.

OPENFACE.――But hold on――

DUPEWELL (_aside_).――That’s what I intend to do. (_Taps wallet._)
(_Aloud._)――Be back in a second. (_Exit R.――hurriedly._)

OPENFACE.――I just recollect that there is a dollar bill in the middle
pocket of my wallet; see what time I could have saved if――(_feels in
his pockets_)――if――if――I had only――(_still feeling in his
pockets_)――if I had only thought of it before. (_Discovers that his
wallet is gone._) Come back you, there! Watch! Thieves!

(_Falls on his knees_) Police! Police!

                                         (_Enter Policeman――R._)

POLICEMAN (_poking Openface in side with club_).――Git up! Git up!

OPENFACE.――Police! I’m robbed, I’m――I’m――murder!

                                 (_Enter Pedestrians――Running._)

POLICEMAN.――He’s got ’em bad; a genteel case of the tremmens.

                                          (_Pedestrians laugh._)

POLICEMAN.――Somebody git a push-cart; there’s one down at the corner
grocery.

PEDESTRIAN.――I’ll go, I’ll go! (_Exit._)

OPENFACE (_attempts to rise_).――Let me up, let me get up, I’m a――――

POLICEMAN (_putting him down again_).――Keep quiet; I’ve ordered the
carriage; I’ll watch the snakes.

                                          (_Pedestrians laugh._)

OPENFACE.――Let me speak.

POLICEMAN (_to pedestrians_).――Here comes a lady. Clear the sidewalk.

      (_Pedestrians gather around Openface so that Tilly cannot
                                                      see him._)

POLICEMAN (_aside_).――What a beauty!

                              (_Enter Tilly, carrying parasol._)

TILLY.――Dear me! I wonder what has happened.

OPENFACE.――I am a gentleman, let me go! I have been basely robbed, let
me go, I say!

POLICEMAN.――Shut up! shut up!

TILLY.――That voice, that beloved voice! Surely I have heard that voice
before!

POLICEMAN (_bowing low_).――No doubt, lady, you have often listened to
my tones when I’ve been on the beat――――

PEDESTRIAN (_aside_).――Which is all the time.

TILLY.――I do not mean your voice.

OPENFACE (_groans_).――Let me rise.

TILLY.――’Tis he! My father!

POLICEMAN (_motioning her away_).――Go home, Miss, go home; he’s got
’em bad; he wouldn’t know you.

TILLY (_places handkerchief to her eyes_).――My heart will surely
break.

POLICEMAN.――Oh! now we’ll get him off in good shape; here comes the
push-cart.

                    (_Enter Pedestrian, carrying an arm chair._)

POLICEMAN.――Why didn’t you bring the barrow?

PEDESTRIAN.――The groceryman just left with a load of onions and won’t
be back for an hour.

POLICEMAN.――Make way for the chair.

                             (_Pedestrians divide to R. and L._)

OPENFACE (_stands up_).――I will go straight to the Mayor and enter a
complaint.

TILLY (_rushes to Openface_).――My father!

OPENFACE.――My darling child! (_They embrace._)

TILLY.――Oh, how did it happen?

POLICEMAN.――What’s this mean?

OPENFACE.――It means that I have been swindled on the highway, and that
you have treated me in a villainous manner.

PEDESTRIANS.――Hear! hear!

    (_Enter Dupewell and Tommy. The latter wears a straw hat and
                                            long linen duster._)

OPENFACE.――I will give one hundred dollars for the arrest of the
thieves!

TILLY.――And I will owe a debt of gratitude that years can ne’er
efface.

TOMMY (_aside_).――This is the opening I’ve been looking for. Here’s a
chance for a fortune and a wife.――(_Seizes Dupewell._)――(_Aloud_)――
Here’s the thief!

DUPEWELL (_takes wallet from his breast and slips it into Tommy’s
pocket_).――’Tis false, I deny the charge!

POLICEMAN (_arrests Dupewell_).――Is this the man?

OPENFACE.――He looks like one of the thieves, but I am not certain; the
other one I could identify at once by his clothes.

POLICEMAN.――If you cannot identify him I must let him go. (_Releases
Dupewell._)

DUPEWELL.――Pity must give way to justice;――(_Points to Tommy_)――Seize
him, he is the robber!

POLICEMAN.――Ah, ha! Come here. (_Taking hold of Tommy._)

DUPEWELL.――Feel his pockets, search him.

TOMMY.――You’re welcome to feel in these pockets. I’ve got nothing but
loose change, the proceeds of a horse I just sold.

POLICEMAN.――Let me see. (_Taking wallet from Tommy’s pocket._) Is this
your property? (_Hands it to Openface._)

OPENFACE.――It is; and yet I never saw this man before!

TOMMY.――Of course he didn’t.

DUPEWELL.――Take off his coat and hat.

POLICEMAN.――Come sir; take them off!

TOMMY (_struggles to escape_).――I didn’t take it; I didn’t, I didn’t,
let me go!

DUPEWELL (_assists to remove Tommy’s hat and duster_).――Now――(_to
Openface_),――is this the culprit?

OPENFACE.――It is; just as the rascal appeared when he committed the
crime.

DUPEWELL.――I claim the reward.

OPENFACE.――Come home with me. You shall dine with me; I will then
reward you; you shall be my friend for life!

POLICEMAN.――Bring the chair here.

TILLY.――Never mind sir; papa will order a coupé.

POLICEMAN.――It is for this rogue. (_Tommy is forced into_ _the chair,
after which it is raised up by two pedestrians, a third using Tommy’s
legs for shafts._)

TOMMY.――Bad luck’s leanin’ on me heavy――at last I’ve found an openin’;
but it’s the openin’ of the jail door. Ah! it’s all wrong, it’s all
wrong.

(_All form in line with Tommy at the head; Dupewell supports Tilly on
his arm; next Openface and Pedestrians._)

POLICEMAN.――Forward, march!

       (_March is played by Piano or Orchestra, while procession
                                               countermarches._)

TOMMY (_kicking in chair_).――It’s all wrong! It’s all wrong! wrong!
Balloons! balloons! it’s all wrong.

OPENFACE.――Hold! (_The procession halts._) My dear sir, (_to
Dupewell_) the cry of balloons! balloons! from that young man in the
chair reminds me that I had my wallet when you called my attention to
the fugitive balloons that were growing smaller and smaller as they
arose in the air!

DUPEWELL.――Well, sir!

OPENFACE.――It is not well, sir, for you, sir, for I had my wallet
then, and it was only after you left me that I missed it. Release the
unhappy youth and let the iron talons of the law clutch this monstrous
scoundrel who would fasten his crime upon a verdant youth.

      (_Tommy is released and Dupewell is placed in the chair._)

TOMMY.――Luck’s openin’ an’ shuttin’ like an alligator’s jaw; where’ll
it end?

TILLY.――You shall go home with us; we will try to educate you and give
you profitable employment.

OPENFACE.――It is even so; I will get you a government appointment,
but! but, sir! hereafter beware of taking up with strangers in matters
of business; bad associates have ruined many a man. Let the phalanx
move.

                                            (_Music continues._)

POLICEMAN.――Forward, march!

                                  (_Procession countermarches._)

DUPEWELL (_kicking_).――It’s all wrong! it’s all wrong! it’s all wrong!


                             [CURTAIN.]

                                            ――_Geo. M. Vickers._




  Go Fan Yourself.


  When moist with perspiration,
    When the mercury is high,
  When stung to aggravation,
    When your tongue and lips are dry
  Then fretting’s worse than folly,
    Rather let this be your rule――
  Shake off all melancholy,
    Go and fan yourself――keep cool.

  Go fan yourself, cease growling,
    Just remember who you are;
  Stop snarling, snapping, scowling,
    It will pay you better far.
  If toiling melts your collars,
    Recollect that life’s a school――
  That all the lucky scholars
    Win the prize by keeping cool.

  Go fan yourself when heated,
    Set the motto to a tune,
  And let it be repeated
    Though December ’tis or June;
  Since mortal man is fickle
    And his brother oft doth fool,
  Just keep the saw in pickle,
    Go and fan yourself――keep cool.

                             ――_George M. Vickers._




  Nell.


  You’re a kind[671] woman, Nan! Ay, kind and true![672]
  God[673] will be good to faithful folk like you!
  You knew my Ned?
  A better,[674] kinder lad never drew breath.
  We loved each other true, and we were wed
  In church, like some who took him to his death;[675]
  A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost[676]
  His senses when he took a drop too much.

  Drink[677] did it all――drink made him mad when cross’d――
  He was a poor man, and they’re hard[678] on such.
  O Nan! that night! that night!
  When I was sitting in this[679] very chair,
  Watching and waiting in the candle-light,
  And heard[680] his foot come creaking up the stair,
  And turned and saw him standing yonder,[681] white
  And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair!
  And when I caught[682] his arm and called in fright,
  He pushed[683] me, swore, and to the door[684] he pass’d
  To lock and bar[685] it fast.
  Then down he drops[686] just like a lump of lead,
  Holding his brow,[687] shaking, and growing whiter,
  And――Nan!――just then the light[688] seem’d growing brighter,
  And I could see the hands[689] that held his head,
  All red![690] all bloody red!
  What could I do but scream? He groaned to hear,
  Jump’d to his feet, and gripped[691] me by the wrist;
  “Be still,[692] or I shall kill thee, Nell!” he hiss’d.
  And I was still for fear.
  “They’re after[693] me――I’ve knifed a man!” he said,
  “Be still![694]――the drink――drink did it!――he is dead!”[695]
  Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn’t weep;
  All I could do was cling[696] to Ned and hark,[697]
  And Ned was cold,[698] cold, cold, as if asleep,
  But breathing hard and deep.
  The candle[699] flicker’d out――the room grew dark[700]
  And――Nan!――although my heart[701] was true and tried――
  When all grew cold[702] and dim,
  I shuddered[703]――not for fear of them outside,[704]
  But just afraid to be alone with him.[705]
  “Ned! Ned!”[706] I whisper’d――and he moan’d and shook,
  But did not heed or look!
  “Ned! Ned![707] speak, lad! tell me[708] it is not true!”
  At that he raised his head and look’d so wild;
  Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw
  His arms around[709] me, crying like a child,
  And held me close――and not a word was spoken,
  While I clung tighter to his heart and press’d him,
  And did not fear him, though my heart was broken,
  But kiss’d his poor stain’d hands, and cried, and bless’d[710] him!

  Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold
  With sound[711] of falling rain――
  When I could see his face,[712] and it look’d old,
  Like the pinch’d face of one that dies[713] in pain;
  Well, though we heard folk stirring[714] in the sun,
  We never thought to hide away or run,
  Until we heard those voices[715] in the street,
  That hurrying of feet,
  And Ned leap’d up,[716] and knew that they had come.
  “Run, Ned!”[717] I cried, but he was deaf and dumb;
  “Hide, Ned!”[718] I scream’d, and held him; “Hide thee, man!”[719]
  He stared with blood-shot eyes and hearken’d, Nan!
  And all the rest[720] is like a dream――the sound
  Of knocking[721] at the door――
  A rush of men――a struggle on the ground[722]――
  A mist――a tramp――a roar;
  For when I got my senses back again,
  The room was empty,[723] and my head[724] went round!
  God[725] help him? God _will_ help him! Ay, no fear![726]
  It was the drink,[727] not Ned[728]――he meant no wrong;
  So kind! So good!――and I am useless[729] here,
  Now he is lost that loved me true and long.
                  … That night before he died,
  I didn’t cry――my heart[730] was hard and dried;
  But when the clocks[731] went “one,” I took my shawl
  To cover up my face, and stole away,
  And walk’d[732] along the silent streets, where all
  Look’d cold[733] and still and gray,
  And on[734] I went, and stood in Leicester Square,
  But just as “three” was sounded close at hand
  I started and turn’d east,[735] before I knew,
  Then down Saint Martin’s Lane, along the Strand,
  And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo.
  Some men and lads went by,
  And turning round, I gazed,[736] and watch’d ’em go,
  Then felt that they were going to see him die,[737]
  And drew my shawl[738] more tight, and follow’d slow.[739]
  More people pass’d me, a country cart with hay
  Stopp’d close beside[740] me, and two or three
  Talk’d about _it_![741] I moan’d, and crept[742] away!

  Next came a hollow sound[743] I knew full well,
  For something gripped[744] me round the heart!――and then
  There came the solemn tolling[745] of a bell!
  O God! O God![746] how could[747] I sit close by,
  And neither scream nor cry?
  As if I had been stone, all hard and cold,
  I listen’d,[748] listen’d, listen’d, still and dumb,
  While the folk murmur’d, and the death-bell[749] toll’d,
  And the day brighten’d,[750] and his time had come.
                … Till, Nan!――all else was silent[751] but the knell
  Of the slow bell![752]
  And I could only wait, and wait, and wait,
  And what I waited for[753] I couldn’t tell――
  At last there came a groaning deep and great――
  St. Paul’s struck “eight”[754]――
  I scream’d, and seem’d to turn to fire and fell![755]
  God[756] bless him, live or dead!
  He never meant no wrong, was kind and true.
  They’ve wrought their fill of spite[757] upon his head.
  Why didn’t they be kind, and take me[758] too?
  And there’s the dear old things[759] he used to wear,
  And there’s[760] a lock of hair.
  And Ned, my Ned! is fast asleep,[761] and cannot hear me call.
  God bless you,[762] Nan, for all you’ve done and said!
  But don’t mind me, my heart[763] is broke, that’s all![764]

                                            ――_Robert Buchanan._


  GESTURES.
  [671] H. F.
  [672] H. O.
  [673] A. F.
  [674] H. O.
  [675] D. F.
  [676] H. L.
  [677] B. Cli. D.
  [678] P. H. O.
  [679] P. H. O.
  [680] Raise hand to listen.
  [681] H. O.
  [682] Sp.
  [683] L. V. H. L.
  [684] H. O.
  [685] V. H. O.
  [686] D. O.
  [687] B. to head.
  [688] L. H. Sw.
  [689] D. O.
  [690] B. V. Par. to D. O.
  [691] L. Sp.
  [692] Speak to left.
  [693] H. L.
  [694] L. P. H. O.
  [695] B. Cli. D.
  [696] H. O.
  [697] Raise hand to listen.
  [698] P. D. O.
  [699] L. H. O.
  [700] B. V. H. O.
  [701] Hand to heart.
  [702] B. P. H. O.
  [703] B. Cli. and shudder.
  [704] H. O.
  [705] D. O.
  [706], [707] B. Par. to D. O.
  [708] Clasp hands.
  [709] Sp. continued.
  [710] P. H. O.
  [711] Lis.
  [712] D. O.
  [713] P. D. O.
  [714], [715] H. O.
  [716] Raise P.
  [717], [718], [719] L. H. L.
  [720] B. H. O.
  [721] H. O.
  [722] D. O.
  [723] B. H. O.
  [724] Hand to head.
  [725] Look to left.
  [726] L. V. H. O.
  [727] H. F.
  [728] H. L.
  [729] B. D. L.
  [730] Hand to heart.
  [731] Raise hand to listen.
  [732] H. Sw.
  [733] Turn to P.
  [734] H. O.
  [735] Left, continuous gesture to “Waterloo.”
  [736] H. O.
  [737] B. Cli. D.
  [738] Sp.
  [739] H. O.
  [740] L. H. O.
  [741] B. Cli. D.
  [742] H. O.
  [743] Lis.
  [744] Sp.
  [745] B. Sp.
  [746] Raise B. Cli.
  [747] B. Cli. D.
  [748] Lis.
  [749] A. O.
  [750] B. H. O.
  [751] P. H. O.
  [752] A. O.
  [753] B. H. F.
  [754] A. O.
  [755] B. D. F.
  [756] A. F.
  [757] P. H. O.
  [758] To self.
  [759] H. O.
  [760] Sp.
  [761] H. L.
  [762] L. P. H. O
  [763] Hand on heart.
  [764] H. O.




A Soldier’s Offering.


  The laurel wreath of glory
    That decks the soldier’s grave,
  Is but the finished story,
    The record of the brave;
  And he who dared the danger,
    Who battled well and true,
  To honor was no stranger,
    Though garbed in gray or blue

  Go, strip your choicest bowers,
    Where blossoms sweet abound,
  Then scatter free your flowers
    Upon each moss-grown mound;
  Though shaded by the North’s tall pine
    Or South’s palmetto tree,
  Let sprays that soldiers’ graves entwine,
    A soldier’s tribute be.

                                          ――_George M. Vickers._


[Illustration: “Ha, ha, ha! well, I believe I do bear a part with a
tolerable grace.”]




The Ruling Passion.


She had never mailed a letter before, and so she approached the stamp
clerk’s window with the same air that she would enter a dry goods
store.

“I would like to look at some stamps, please,” she said.

“What denomination do you want?” asked the clerk.

“Denomination!” This was remarked in surprise. She hadn’t supposed
that stamps belonged to any church at all.

“Yes,” replied the clerk, who saw no necessity for holding a lengthy
palaver over the sale of a stamp, especially when other people were
waiting. “Is it for a letter or a newspaper?”

“Oh, I want to send a letter to my Uncle John; he’s just moved to――”

“Then you need a two-cent stamp,” interrupted the clerk, offering her
one of that value.

“I hardly like that color,” she observed, holding the brick-tinted
stamp up to the light and surveying it critically.

The clerk looked at her in astonishment. In his long experience in the
postal business he had never before met a customer who objected to the
color of the stamps.

“That is a two-cent stamp, madame. Please stand aside and let the
gentleman behind you come up.”

“Haven’t you got them in any other color?” she asked, wholly oblivious
to the “gentleman behind.”

The clerk began to act cross.

“I never did like that shade of red,” she added.

“There is only one color,” he replied, curtly.

“That is strange,” she mused. “I’d think you’d keep them in different
shades, so that there’d be some choice.”

The clerk said nothing, but he kept getting crosser every minute, and
murmurs of disapprobation began to rise from the ever-lengthening line
of people who would have been thankful to get their stamps without
criticizing their hue.

“You are sure you have none in a brighter red, or even in a different
color――Nile green, or seal brown, or jubilee blue, for instance?”

“You can put two one-cent stamps on your letter if you like,” said the
clerk, who began to see that the customer could not be frowned away
from the window.

“Let me see them, please.”

Two blue stamps were solemnly handed to her, and the crowd began to
hope that at last she was suited.

“Ah, that will do,” she said, as she took up the one-cent stamps and
eyed them as if they were samples of dress goods. “I like that shade
better. I’ll take only one, if you please.”

And she handed the other back to the clerk, who took it mechanically,
but managed to add:

“If it’s for a letter you’ll need two. These are one-cent stamps and
letter postage is two cents per ounce.”

“Oh, I don’t want to put two stamps on my letter,” she said; “I don’t
think they will look well.”

“It requires two cents to carry a letter, madame, and you must either
put a two-cent stamp on or two ones. It won’t go without. And I must
ask you to please hurry, for you are keeping a great many people away
from the window.”

“That’s singular. I don’t like the look of two together. You are sure
the other doesn’t come in seal brown, or”――

“No!” thundered the clerk, getting very red in the face.

“Then I’ll have to see if I can’t suit myself elsewhere.”

And she departed.

The clerk replaced his despised red and blue stamps, mopped his
perspiring brow, and began to make up for lost time.




I’m Getting Too Big to Kiss.


  The friends of my childhood with pleasure I greet,
    Their faces I ever hold dear,
  In palace or cottage, on meadow or street,
    Wherever they chance to appear.
  Then do not misjudge me, and deem me not cold,
    Nor call me a queen, haughty miss,
  Oh, no one can budge me, so do not be bold,
      I’m getting too――too big to kiss.

  ’Tis hardly a year since the guests of the house,
    On leaving, would kiss me adieu,
  The parson, the deacon, old Schnider Von Krouse,
    Ned Blanc, and the young squire, too.
  They called me a treasure, a sweet, roguish maid;
    Now nonsense like that is amiss,
  Though once ’twas a pleasure, I’m really afraid
    That somebody’s too big to kiss.

  Now if you should happen by moonlight to walk,
    With some one you know very well,
  Remember ’tis harmless to laugh and to talk,
    Or sweet little stories to tell.
  But oh, have a care, girls, and heed me, I pray,
    For what I would counsel is this――
  Refuse, though his hair curls, and promptly this say:
    I’m getting, sir, too big to kiss.

  Oh, no, no, no, no, sir! Allow me to pass;
    Oh, no, sir, ’tis more than I dare:
  That game’s out of fashion (I’m sorry, alas!)
    You needn’t look cross as a bear.
  Yet still I’ve an ember of pity right here,
    I’ll throw you just one kiss like this,
  But, sir, you’ll remember, now don’t come so near――
    That really I’m too big to kiss.

                                          ――_George M. Vickers._




Waiting for the Mail.


    It is strange I get no letter――
      I have written twenty-four――
  And the chances now decidedly are slim;
    How I wish my luck was better,
      I am really feeling sore,
  And my cup of sorrow’s flowing to the brim.

    Though my sweetheart’s tall and slender,
      With a dark and roguish eye,
  And a blushing cheek that shames the blooming rose.
    One more letter will I send her,
      Then I’ll write a last good-bye,
  And so bring my dream of pleasure to a close.

    If she’s caught another lover,
      Just to make the moments glide,
  (Which, without a doubt, she really thinks she ought,)
    Then, of course, I’ll look it over,
      And continue to confide――
  For the best of mortals like a little sport!

    But suppose this other fellow
      Should, with sly and skillful art,
  In the darling girl’s affections fill my place!
    ’Tis enough to make me bellow,――
      ’Tis enough to break my heart,――
  ’Tis enough to make me run and hide my face.

    When we parted last December,
      Oh, she vowed she’d share my lot;
  And to me her silence is a puzzle quite:
    Though I happen to remember――
      And ’tis strange that I forgot――
  That my darling ducky never learned to write!

                                          ――_George M. Vickers._




Ben-Hur’s Chariot Race.


The trumpet sounded short and sharp. The starters, one for each
chariot, leaped down, ready to give assistance if any of the fours
proved unmanageable. Again the trumpet blew, and simultaneously the
gate-keepers threw[765] the stalls open. Forth from each stall, like
missiles in a volley from so many great guns, rushed[766] the six
contesting fours――the Corinthian’s, Messala’s, the Athenian’s, the
Byzantine’s, the Sidonian’s, and Ben-Hur’s――and the vast assemblage
rose[767] and, leaping upon the benches, filled[768] the circus with
yells and screams.

The competitors were under view from nearly every part[769] of the
circus, yet the race was not begun; they had first to make
successfully the chalked line, stretched for the purpose of equalizing
the start. If it were dashed upon, discomfiture of man and horses
might occur; on the other hand, to approach it timidly was to incur
the hazard of being thrown behind in the beginning of the race――a
certain loss of the great advantage of being next the wall[770] on the
inner line of the course.

Each driver looked first for the rope, then for the coveted inner
line. With all six aiming at the same point[771] and speeding
furiously, a collision seemed inevitable. Quick the eye, steady the
hand, unerring the judgment required. The fours neared the rope
together. Ben-Hur was on the extreme left[772] of the six. At Messala,
who was more than an antagonist to him, he gave one searching look,
and saw the soul of the man, cunning, cruel, desperate, in a tension
of watchfulness and fierce resolve.

In that brief instant all his former relations with Messala came
before him. First, happy childhood, when, loving and beloved, they
played together. Then, manhood that brought a change in Messala, and
the Roman’s inborn contempt of Jews asserted itself and broke the
friendship. Then the bitter day, when, by the accidental falling of a
loose tile, the Roman procurator was nearly killed, and he, Ben-Hur,
was accused of willfully throwing the missile. One word from Messala
would have saved the family from ruin, but the word was not spoken.
Nay, more, it was Messala that urged on the Roman authorities and
prevented even a fair trial of the case. It was Messala’s influence
that had banished[773] him to the galleys for life, that had consigned
his mother and sister to an uncertain fate, whose very uncertainty was
more torture[774] than their certain death would have been. It was
Messala that had stolen his property and with it had bought the
silence of the authorities on the cruel deeds; and was it not money
that belonged to the House of Hur that Messala was betting with in
this very race? Was it human nature[775] to resist an opportunity for
vengeance like this? No.[776] At whatever cost[777] he would humble
his enemy.

He saw that Messala’s rush would, if there was no collision, and the
rope fell, give him the wall. Therefore, he yielded it for the time.
Just then the trumpeter blew a signal. The judges dropped[778] the
rope. And not an instant too soon, for the hoof of one of Messala’s
horses struck it as it fell. The Roman shook out[779] his long lash,
loosed the reins, leaned forward, and with a triumphant shout[780]
took the wall.

“Jove with _us_![781] Jove with _us_!”[781] yelled the Roman faction,
in a frenzy of delight.

“Jove with us!”[782] screamed a young nobleman.

“He wins![783] Jove with us!” answered his associates.

Messala having passed, the Corinthian was the only contestant on the
Athenian’s right, and to his side he tried to turn his four; but the
wheel of the Byzantine, who was next on the left, struck the
tail-piece of his chariot, knocking[784] his feet from under him.
There was a crash, a scream of rage and fear, and the unfortunate
Athenian fell[785] under the hoofs of his own steeds. Sanballat, a
friend of Ben-Hur, turned to a group of Roman noblemen.

“A hundred sestertii on the Jew!”[786] he cried.

“Taken!”[787] answered one of the group.

“Another hundred on the Jew!” shouted Sanballat. Nobody appeared to
hear him. The situation below was too absorbing, and they were too
busy shouting, “Messala! Messala! Jove with us!”

While the spectators were shivering at the Athenian’s mishap, and the
Sidonian, Byzantine, and Corinthian were striving to avoid involvement
in the ruin, Ben-Hur drew head to the right,[788] and, with all the
speed of his Arabs, darted[789] across the trails of his opponents,
and took the course[790] neck and neck with Messala, though on the
outside. And now, racing together, side by side, a narrow interval
between them, the two neared the second goal. Making the turn here was
considered the most telling test of a charioteer. A hush[791] fell
over the circus. Then, it would seem, Messala observed Ben-Hur and
recognized him, and at once the audacity of the man flamed out.

“Down, Eros![792] up, Mars!”[793] he shouted, whirling his lash.
“Down, Eros! up, Mars!” he repeated, and gave the Arab steeds of
Ben-Hur a cut, the like of which they had never known.

The blow was seen in every quarter. The silence deepened and the
boldest held his breath.[794] The affrighted four sprang forward[795]
as with one impulse, and forward leaped[796] the car. The car trembled
with a dizzy lurch, but Ben-Hur kept his place and gave the horses
free rein, and called to them in a soothing voice, trying to guide
them round[797] the dangerous turn, and before the fever of the people
began to abate he had back the mastery. Nor that only; on approaching
the first goal he was again side by side with Messala, bearing with
him the sympathy and admiration of every one[798] not a Roman. Even
Messala, with all his boldness, felt it unsafe to trifle further.

On[799] whirled the cars. Three rounds were concluded; still Messala
held the inside position; still Ben-Hur moved with him side by side;
still the other competitors followed as before. The contest began to
have the appearance of a double race, Messala and Ben-Hur in the
first, the Corinthian, Sidonian, and Byzantine in the second. In the
fifth round the Sidonian succeeded in getting a place outside Ben-Hur,
but lost it directly. The sixth round was entered upon without change
of relative position. Gradually the speed had been quickened; men and
beasts seemed to know alike that the final crisis was near. The
interest, which from the beginning had centred chiefly in the struggle
between the Roman and the Jew, with an intense general sympathy for
the latter, was fast changing to anxiety on his account. On all the
benches the spectators bent forward, motionless.

“A hundred sestertii on the Jew!”[800] cried Sanballat to the Romans.

There was no reply.

“A talent, or five talents, or ten;[801] choose ye!”

“I will take thy sestertii,” answered a Roman youth.

“Do not so,” interposed a friend.

“Why?”

“Messala has reached his utmost speed. See him[802] lean over his
chariot-rim, the reins loose as flying ribbons, then look at the Jew!”

“By Hercules!” replied the youth, “I see, I see! If the gods help him
not, he will be run away with by the Israelite. No; not yet!
Look![803] Jove with us! Jove with us!”

If it were true that Messala had gained his utmost speed, he was
slowly but certainly beginning to forge ahead. His horses were running
with their heads low down; from the balcony their bodies appeared
actually to skim the earth; their nostrils showed blood-red in
expansion; their eyes seemed straining in their sockets. The good
steeds were doing their best! How long could they keep the pace? It
was but the commencement of the sixth round. On they dashed! As they
neared the second goal, Ben-Hur turned in behind[804] the Roman’s car.
The joy of the Messala faction reached its bound. They screamed, and
howled, and tossed[805] their colors, and Sanballat filled his tablets
with their wagers. Ben-Hur was hardly holding a place at the tail of
his enemy’s car.

Along the home-stretch――sixth round――Messala leading; next him,
pressing close, Ben-Hur. Thus to the first goal, and around it,
Messala, fearful of losing his place, hugged the stony wall with
perilous clasp; a foot to the left[806] and he had been dashed[807] to
pieces; yet when the turn was finished, no man, looking at the
wheel-tracks of the two cars, could have said, “Here[808] went
Messala, there[809] the Jew.” They left but one trace behind them.

And now all the people drew a long breath, for the beginning of the
end was at hand. First, the Sidonian gave the scourge to his four, and
they dashed[810] desperately forward, promising for an instant to go
to the front. The effort ended in promise. Next, the Byzantine and the
Corinthian each made the trial with like result, after which they were
practically out of the race. Thereupon, all the factions except the
Romans joined hope in Ben-Hur, and openly indulged their feeling.

“Ben-Hur! Ben-Hur!”[811] they shouted. “Speed thee,[812] Jew!”

“Take the wall now!”

“On![813] loose the Arabs! Give them rein and scourge!”

“Let him not have the turn on thee again. Now or never!”[814]

Either he did not hear, or could not do better, for half-way round the
course and he was still following; at the second goal, even still no
change.

And now, to make the turn, Messala began to draw in[815] his left-hand
steeds. His spirit was high; the Roman genius was still present. On
the pillars,[816] only six hundred feet away, were fame, fortune,
promotion, and a triumph[817] ineffably sweetened by hate,[818] all in
store for him! That moment Ben-Hur leaned forward over his Arabs and
gave them the reins.[819] Out flew[820] the many-folded lash in his
hand; over the backs of the startled steeds it writhed[821] and
hissed,[822] and hissed[823] and writhed[824] again and again, and,
though it fell not, there were both sting and menace in its quick
report. Instantly, not one, but the four as one, answered with a
leap[825] that landed them alongside the Roman’s car. Messala, on the
perilous edge of the goal, heard but dared not look to see what the
awakening portended. The thousands on the benches understood it all.
They saw the four close outside Messala’s outer wheel, Ben-Hur’s inner
wheel behind the other’s car. Then, with a cunning touch[826] of the
reins, Ben-Hur caught Messala’s fragile wheel with the iron-shod point
of his axle and crushed[827] it. There was a crash loud enough to send
a thrill through the circus, and out over[828] the course a spray of
shining white and yellow flinders flew. Down on its right side toppled
the bed of the Roman’s chariot. There was a rebound, as of the axle
hitting the hard earth; another and another; then the car went to
pieces, and Messala, entangled in the reins, pitched forward[829]
headlong, and lay still, crushed, and bleeding, and crippled for life.
Above the noises of the race arose one voice, that of Ben-Hur:

[830]“On, Altair! On, Rigel! What, Antares! dost thou linger now?
Good horse-oho, Aldebaran! I hear them singing in the tents. I hear
the children singing, and the women singing of the stars, of Altair,
Antares, Rigel, Aldebaran, victory――and the song will never end. Well
done! On, Antares! The tribe is waiting for us, and the master is
waiting! ’tis done! ’tis done! Ha! ha! We have overthrown the proud!
The hand that smote us is in the dust! Ours the glory! Ha!
ha!――steady! The work is done――soho! Rest!”

And Ben-Hur turned the goal of victory and revenge,[831] and the race
was won![832]

                                           ――_Gen. Lew Wallace._


  GESTURES.
  [765] B. V. H. F.
  [766] H. F.
  [767] B. raised P.
  [768] B. A. O.
  [769] B. H. O.
  [770] H. F.
  [771] Ind. H. F.
  [772] Left H. O.
  [773] H. L.
  [774] P. D. O.
  [775] H. F.
  [776] Cli. D.
  [777] H. O.
  [778] P. Sp.
  [779] Sp.
  [780] Throw up fist.
  [781] B. thrown outward, emphasize _us_.
  [782] A. O.
  [783] Point to Messala and look around.
  [784] V. D. Sw.
  [785] D. F.
  [786] To left, raise hand.
  [787] Ind. H. O.
  [788] Sw. to H. O.
  [789] Sp.
  [790] H. F.
  [791] B. P. H. O.
  [792] Whip hand Cli. D. F.
  [793] Up.
  [794] Hand to breast.
  [795] H. F.
  [796] Imp.
  [797] H. Sw.
  [798] B. H. O.
  [799] H. F.
  [800] To left, raise hand.
  [801] Repeat.
  [802] Ind. H. F.
  [803] H. F.
  [804] H. F.
  [805] A. Sw.
  [806] Left H. F. Sp.
  [807] Left D. F.
  [808] - [809] Designate.
  [810] H. F.
  [811] A. Sw.
  [812] H. F.
  [813] H. F.
  [814] Cli. raised.
  [815] Left Sp.
  [816] Ind. H. F.
  [817] A. O.
  [818] Cli. D.
  [819] B. Sp.
  [820] Sp.
  [821] - [822] - [823] - [824] Motion as expressed.
  [825] H. F.
  [826] Sp.
  [827] P. D. F.
  [828] P. D. Sw.
  [829] Sp.
  [830] Chant this on two tones of the voice, higher pitch for
        important words and lower for unimportant, holding reins in
        both hands.
  [831] A. O.
  [832] H. F. strong.




Dolores.


  Her old boat loaded with oranges,
    Her baby tied on her breast,
  Minorcan Dolores bends her oars,
  Noting each reed[833] on the swift-moving shores;
  But the way is long and the inlet wide――[834]
  Can two small hands overcome the tide
    Sweeping up from the west?

  Four little walls of conquina stone,
    Rude thatch of palmetto leaves;
  There[835] they have nestled, like birds in a tree,[836]
  From winter, and labor, and hunger free,
  Taking from earth their small need, but no more;
    No thought of the morrow,[837] no laying in store.
  No gathering patient sheaves.

  Alone in their southern island home,
    Through the year of summer days,
  The two live on; and the bountiful beach[838]
  Clusters its sea-food within his reach;
  The two love on, and the tropical land
    And life is a shining haze.

  Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,
    With dreamy, passionate eyes――
  Far in the past,[839] lured by Saxon wiles,
  A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles,
  Now, tinged with the blood of the creole quadroon
  Their children live idly along[840] the lagoon,
    Under the Florida skies.[841]

  Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,
    Ah! their blooming life of love!――
  But fever falls, with its withering blight;[842]
  Dolores keeps watch through the sultry night;
  In vain[843] her poor herbs, in vain[844] her poor prayers,
  Her Luiz is mounting the silver-winged stairs
    That lead up[845] to heaven above.

  So, her old boat loaded with oranges,
    Her baby tied on her breast,
  Dolores rows off to the ancient town,[846]
  Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching down
  From the far cold North;[847] they are men who know――
  Thus Dolores thinks――how to cure all[848] woe;
    Nay, their very touch is blest.

  “Oranges! Oranges!”[849] hear her cry,
    Through the shaded plaza path;
  But the Northern soldiers come marching in
    Through the old Spanish city with stir and din;
  And silent people[850] stand sullen by,
  To see the old flag mount[851] again to the sky――
    The flag they had trampled[852] in wrath.

  Ah! brown Dolores, will no one hear,
    And buy thy little store?
  Now north,[853] now south,[854] on the old sea-wall,
  But her pitiful tones unheeded fall;
  Now east,[855] now west,[856] through the angry town,
  Patient she journeys up and down,
    Nor misses one surly door.

  Then, desperate, up[857] to the dreaded ranks
    She carries her passionate suit;
  “I have no money,[858] for none would buy;
  But come,[859] for God’s sake, or he will die!
  Save him――my Luiz――he is so young,”
  She pleads in her liquid Minorcan tongue,
    And proffers[860] her store of fruit.

  But the Northern soldiers move steadily on,[861]
    They hear not, nor understand;
  The last blue rank has passed down the street,[862]
  She sees but the dust of their marching feet;[863]
  They have crossed the whole country,[864] by night and by day,
  And marked with their blood every step of the way,
    To conquer[865] this Southern land.

  They are gone――O despair![866] she turns to the church,[867]
    Half fainting, her fruit wet with tears;
  “Perhaps de old Saint, who is always dere,
  May wake up and take dem to pay for a prayer;
  They are very sweet, as the saint will see,
  If he would but wake up and listen to me.
    But he sleeps, so he never hears.”

  She enters;[868] the church is filled[869] with men,
    The pallid men of the North;
  Each dingy old pew[870] is a sick man’s bed,
  Each battered old bench[871] holds a weary head,
  The altar candles are swept away,[872]
  For vials and knives in shining array,
    And a new saint[873] is stepping forth.

  He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine,
    A saint of a Northern creed,
  Clad in a uniform, army blue,
  But surely the saints may wear any hue,[874]
  Dolores thinks, as he takes her hand,
  And hears all her story, and understands
    The cry of her desperate need.

  An orange he gives to each weary man,[875]
    To freshen the fevered mouth,
  Then forth[876] they go down the old sea-wall,
  And they hear[877] in the dusk the pickets call,
  And the row-boat is moored on the shadowy shore,[878]
  The Northern saint can manage an oar,
    And the boat glides fast[879] to the south.

  A healing touch and a holy drink,
    A bright little heavenly knife,
  And this Northern saint, who prays no prayers,
  Brings back the soul from the spirit-winged stairs,[880]
  And once more Minorcan Luiz’s dark eyes,
  In whose depths the warmth of the tropics lies,
    Rest calm[881] on the awe-stricken wife.

  “Oh! dear Nordern saint![882] a shrine will I build,
    Wild roses I’ll bring from afar,[883]
  De jasmine, orange flower, wood tulips bright,
  And dose will I worship each morning and night.”
  “Nay, nay![884] poor Dolores, I am but a man,
  A surgeon, who binds up, with what skill he can,
    The wounds of this heart-breaking man.

  “See, build me no shrines, but take this small book,[885]
    And teach the brown baby to read.”
  He is gone, and Dolores is left on the shore,
  She watches the boat[886] till she sees it no more,
  She hears[887] the quick musketry all through the night,
  She holds fast the book in her pine knot’s red light,
    The book of the Northern creed.

                      *     *     *     *     *

  The sad war is over, the dear peace has come,
    The blue-coated soldiers depart.[888]
  The brown baby reads the small book, and the three
  Live on in their isle in the Florida sea,
  The brown baby learns many things wise and strange,
  But all[889] his new English words never can change
    The faith of Dolores’ fond heart.


  GESTURES.
  [833] H. Sw. at side.
  [834] B. H. O.
  [835] H. O.
  [836] A. O.
  [837] H. F.
  [838] D. O.
  [839] H. B.
  [840] H. Sw.
  [841] Glance up.
  [842] P. H. O.
  [843] H. L.
  [844] Imp.
  [845] A. F.
  [846] H. F.
  [847] Left H. L.
  [848] H. O.
  [849] Listen.
  [850] H. O.
  [851] A. O.
  [852] P. D. O.
  [853] Left H. L.
  [854] H. L.
  [855] H. F.
  [856] H. B.
  [857] H. F.
  [858] B. D. L.
  [859] B. Cla.
  [860] B. H. F.
  [861] H. Sw.
  [862] Look to R. bending forward.
  [863] H. L.
  [864] B. H. O.
  [866] D. F.
  [866] B. Cli. D.
  [867] H. F.
  [868] H. F.
  [869] B. H. O.
  [870] H. Sw.
  [871] Left H. Sw.
  [872] V. H. Sw.
  [873] H. F.
  [874] H. O.
  [875] H. Sw.
  [876] H. F.
  [877] Lis.
  [878] D. O.
  [879] H. Sw.
  [880] A. O.
  [881] P. H. O.
  [882] B. Cla.
  [883] H. L.
  [884] V. H. O.
  [885] H. O.
  [886] Hand over eyes.
  [887] Listen.
  [888] Left H. L.
  [889] B. H. O.


[Illustration: “Wrapped in her blanket, Nekama stands, Scans the
horizon with eager eye.”]




Scene from Merchant of Venice.


ACT III.

SCENE II. _Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Enter Bassanio, Portia,
Gratiano, Nerissa, and attendants._

PORTIA.――[890]

  I pray you, tarry: pause[891] a day or two
  Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,
  I lose your company; therefore, forbear[892] a while
  There’s something tells me, but it is not love,
  I would not lose you; and you know yourself,[893]
  Hate counsels not in such a quality.
  I could teach you
  How to choose right, but then I am forsworn;
  So will I never be; so may you miss me;
  But if you do, you’ll make me wish a sin,
  That I had been forsworn. Beshrew[894] your eyes,
  They have o’erlook’d me and divided me;
  One half of me is yours,[895] the other half yours,[896]
  Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,[897]
  And so all yours.
  I speak too long; but ’tis to peize the time,
  To eke it, and to draw it out[898] in length,
  To stay you from election.

BASSANIO.――

                      Let me choose;[899]
  For as I am, I live upon the rack.
  Come, let me to my fortune[900] and the caskets.

PORTIA.――

  Away,[901] then! I am lock’d in one of them;
  If you do love me, you will find me out.
  Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof.[902]
  Let music sound while he doth make his choice;
  Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,
  Fading[903] in music: that the comparison
  May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream
  And watery death-bed for him.
  Go,[904] Hercules!
  Live thou, I live. With much more dismay
  I view the fight, than thou[905] mak’st the fray.

BASSANIO.――

  So may the outward shows be least themselves:
  The world is still deceiv’d with ornament.
  In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt
  But, being season’d with a gracious voice,
  Obscures[906] the show of evil? In religion,
  What damnèd error, but some sober brow
  Will bless[907] it, and approve it with a text,
  Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
  Thus, ornament is but the guilèd shore
  To a most dangerous sea, the beauteous scarf
  Veiling[908] an Indian beauty;
  Therefore, thou gaudy gold,
  Hard food for Midas, I will none[909] of thee;
  Nor none[910] of thee, thou pale and common drudge
  ’Tween man and man: but thou,[911] thou meagre lead,
  Which rather threat’nest than dost promise aught,
  Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence;
  And here choose I. Joy be the consequence!

PORTIA (_aside_).――

  How all the other passions fleet[912] to air,
  As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac’d despair,
  And shuddering fear,[913] and green-eyed jealousy!
  O love! be moderate;[914] allay thy ecstasy;
  In measure rein thy joy; scant this excess.
  I feel too much thy blessing; make it less,
  For fear I surfeit.

BASSANIO.――

                    What find I here?
                             (_Opening the leaden casket._)

  Fair Portia’s counterfeit![915] What demi-god
  Hath come so near creation?
  Here’s the scroll,
  The continent and summary of my fortune.

        [916]_You that choose not by the view,
        Chance as fair, and choose as true!
        Since this fortune falls to you,
        Be content and seek no new.
        If you be well pleas’d with this,
        And hold your fortune for your bliss,
        Turn you where your lady is,
        And claim her with a loving kiss._

  A gentle scroll.[917] Fair lady, by your leave;
  I come by note, to give and receive.
  Yet as doubtful whether what I see be true,
  Until confirm’d, sign’d, ratified by you.

PORTIA.――

  You see me,[918] Lord Bassanio, where I stand,
  Such as I am; though for myself alone
  I would not be ambitious in my wish,
  To wish myself much better; yet for you[919]
  I would be trebled twenty times[920] myself,
  A thousand times[921] more fair, ten thousand times[922] more rich,
  That only to stand high in your account,
  I might in virtues,[923] beauties,[924] livings,[925] friends,[926]
  Exceed account; but the full sum of me
  Is sum of nothing,[927] which, to term in gross,
  Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d:
  Happy in this,[928] she is not yet so old
  But she may learn; happier than[929] this,
  She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
  Happiest of all[930] is that her gentle spirit
  Commits itself to yours[931] to be directed,
  As from her lord, her governor, her king.
  Myself and what is mine[932] to you and yours[933]
  Is now converted; but now I was the lord
  Of this fair mansion,[934] master of my servants,
  Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now,
  This house, these servants, and this same myself[935]
  Are yours,[936] my lord. I give them with this ring;[937]
  Which when you part from, lose, or give away,
  Let it presage[938] the ruin of your love,
  And be my vantage to exclaim you.

BASSANIO.――

  Madam, you have bereft me[939] of all words;
  Only my blood[940] speaks to you in my veins.
  But when this ring[941]
  Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence;
  O then be bold to say, Bassanio’s dead!


  GESTURES.
  [890] Portia speaks to the right and Bassanio to left.
  [891] P. H. O.
  [892] V. H. O.
  [893] H. O.
  [894] V. H. O.
  [895] H. O.
  [896] Imp.
  [897] Imp.
  [898] P. H. Sw.
  [899] B. Cla.
  [900] L. H. L.
  [901] H. L.
  [902] L. V. H. L. speak to L.
  [903] P. H. Sw.
  [904] L. H. L.
  [905] H. O.
  [906] V. H. O.
  [907] P. H. O.
  [908] P. H. O.
  [909] V. Con.
  [910] Imp.
  [911] H. F.
  [912] B. Sp.
  [913] B. Cli.
  [914] B. Cla. to breast.
  [915] Hold miniature.
  [916] Sp.
  [917] Turn to left.
  [918] B. H. O. Sp.
  [919] H. O.
  [920] B. H. O.
  [921] - [922] Impulses.
  [923] H. O.
  [924] - [925] - [926] Imps.
  [927] D. L.
  [928] H. O.
  [929] Imp.
  [930] B. H. O.
  [931] H. O.
  [932] To self.
  [933] H. O.
  [934] H. Sw.
  [935] To self.
  [936] H. O.
  [937] Sp.
  [938] Ind. H. O.
  [939] B. D. O. and bow.
  [940] To breast.
  [941] Sp.




  Thora.


  I.

  Thin and graceful, like a clipper, Thora was from top to toe,
  Though her dress was very scanty and perhaps, not _comme il faut_;
  Bare and brown her little feet were, and her cheeks were sunburnt,
    too,
  But her lips were very rosy and her eyes were very blue.

  One black skirt with red embroidery and a snowy white _pelisse_
  Were her wonted dress on week-days, when she felt herself at ease.
  Hats she only wore in winter, when with snow the air[942] was dim,
  But her eyes peeped forth full brightly ’neath the big sou’wester’s
    brim.

  For who thinks that a sou’wester, e’en if e’er and e’er so wide,[943]
  From the boys’ admiring glances could a pretty maiden hide.
  And ’tis known[944] how much attention every pretty maid annoys;
  And――it was a thousand pities![945]――Thora did not like the boys;

  They were either rude and noisy, or too bashful and confused;
  As for loving them! No, thank you;[946] she would rather be excused!
  And, besides, there were so many[947]――stout and slender, short and
    tall――
  How should she her choice determine, since she could not love them
    all?

  Thus she spoke unto her mother, sitting in the evening’s glow,
  In the shadow of the fish-nets,[948] which were drooping, row[949]
    on row,[950]
  From their stakes; while to the westward[951] hung the sun so huge
    and red;
  Tinged with flame the white-winged sea-birds,[952] drifting idly
    o’er her head.

  “Sooth to say, thy words are canny,”[953] said the good-wife with a
    sigh,
  Glancing seaward to conceal the merry twinkle in her eye;
  “Yet ’tis right young maids should marry; childless age brings no
    maid boon.
  Beauty lost, in vain they hanker, fretting idly for the moon.

  “Therefore I will tell thee,[954] daughter, what ’tis wise for thee
    to do;
  One man, e’en if e’er so canny,[955] never knows as much as two.
  We will call the girls together from the valley’s every part,[956]
  They shall choose among thy wooers him who is to own thy heart.”

  “Oh! what sport!”[957] cried pretty Thora; “thanks to thee, my mother
    dear!
  Oh! how gayly we shall chatter when no prying men are near!
  Loved and cherished shall my name be by the maidens round about;[958]
  I shall cause no cheek to wither and no pretty lips to pout.”


  II.

  While the mountain tops[959] were rosy and with dew the grass[960]
    was wet,
  Thora hastened to the boat-house[961] to repair the fishing net;
  Skipping, jumping, wild and wanton, danced[962] she o’er the fields
    away,
  Tossing[963] to the sportive echoes many a bright and careless lay.

  When the lads who boats were bailing heard the pretty Thora sing,
  Joining hands, they ran to meet her,[964] throwing round[965] the
    maid a ring,
  Now!” they cried, with boist’rous laughter; “now we’ve surely caught
    thee, Miss,
  Thou canst only buy thy freedom if thou give us each a kiss.”

  “Come and take it,[966] lads,” cried Thora; “here’s my mouth[967] and
    here my hand;[968]
  Kiss, indeed! Why don’t you take it? Modest, sooth, is your demand!”
  And when one stepped briskly forward, half emboldened by her speech,
  With a slap[969] she sent him spinning, like a top upon the beach.

  With a peal of mocking laughter, off[970] she bounded like a hind,
  And her loosened yellow tresses fluttered gayly in the wind,
  While the lad, abashed, bewildered, strolled away[971] with burning
    ears
  To compose his wounded feelings and escape his comrades’ jeers.

  Now a gallant lad was Halvor, who in storm and billows’ roar
  Oft had steered his skiff securely close beneath[972] the rocky shore,
  And the thought within him rankled, with a dull and gnawing pain,
  That a little maid had smote him whom he could not smite again.

  And the dimpled face of Thora haunted him by night and day;
  He was sure that he must love her, for his wrath had flown away;[973]
  Yet he could have sworn a little, had not swearing been a sin,
  Why should he thus love a maiden who was neither kith nor kin?

  Strange to say, the little Thora, when her anger was at rest,
  Found some queer, soft thoughts awaking dimly in her troubled
    breast:[974]
  “Had she not too harshly punished an offense not gravely meant?
  Could she hope for God’s forgiveness who could rudely thus resent?”

  Thus with doubt and passion wrestling, and by vague regrets
    distraught,
  Shyly nursing tender yearnings which she dared not frame in thought,
  On the strand alone she wandered,[975] where, in whispered pulses
    beat,
  Drunk with sleep, the mighty ocean, darkly heaving at her feet.[976]

  There it seemed――what odd illusion!――that her footsteps on the sand
  Broke into a double rhythm, sharply echoing o’er the strand,
  And she felt a shadowy presence in the moonlight, gaunt and
    dread,[977]
  Moving stealthily behind her,[978] and she dared not turn her head.

  Swiftly, wildly, on[979] she hurried, while cloud, and moon, and star,
  With a dumb, phantasmal ardor, sped along[980] th’ horizon’s bar;
  Till exhausted, panting, sobbing, and bewildered with alarm,
  Scarce she fell[981] ere she was lifted lightly on her lover’s
    arm.[982]

  “Thora,” said he, stooping o’er her, “pardon if I caused thee fright;
  But my heart[983] was full to bursting. Speak I must, and speak
    to-night.
  Silence, Thora, is so heavy, like a load upon the breast;
  Sooth, I think thou hast bewitched me; I can find no peace nor rest.”

  Thora half-way stayed her weeping, and the moon,[984] which peeped
    askance
  From behind her cloud, revealed the tearful brightness of her glance.
  “Oh! thou wouldst not love me,”[985] sobbed she, “if thou knew’st how
    bad I am――
  Once――I hung――a great, live lobster――on the tail of Hans, our ram!”

  Scarce I know how he consoled her; but ere long her tears were dried,
  And ’twas rumored in the parish――though again it was denied――[986]
  That while all the moon was hidden――[987] all except the golden
    tips――[988]
  There was heard a sound mysterious, as of softly-meeting lips.

  For the good-wife, mildly grumbling at the idle spinning-wheel,
  Rose at length and trudged[989] sedately, anxious for the daughter’s
    weal,
  Over sand, and stone, and tangle, where the frightened plovers
    flew[990]
  Screaming seaward, and majestic skyward[991] soared the silent mew.

  And ’twas she who with amazement heard the soft, mysterious sound;
  And ’tis said she shook and tottered, almost fainting on the ground.
  Scarce her reason she recovered, if the wild reports be true,
  For she saw a queer-shaped figure,[992] which proved later to be two.

  “Daughter,” said she, not ungently, “I have sought thee in alarm,
  Fearing, in the treacherous moonlight, thou perchance hadst come to
    harm;
  Yet I hoped that I should find thee, though the night be dark and
    drear,
  Knowing that thou lov’st to wander where no prying men are near.”

  Dumb, abashed stood little Thora, and her cheeks were flaming red;
  Nervously she twirled her apron,[993] and she hung her pretty head,
  Till at length she gathered courage and she whispered breathlessly:
  “Mother, dear,[994] I love him truly, and he says that he loves me.”

  “Lord ’a mercy on us, daughter!”[995] solemnly the dame replied;
  “I who have the maids invited that they might thy choice decide;
  For of men there are so many[996]――stout and slender, short and tall――
  How’s a maid to choose among them, since she cannot love them all?”

  Now the moon,[997] who had been hiding in a veil of misty lace,
  Wishing to embarrass no one by the shining of her face,
  Peeped again, in modest wonder, ere her cloud she gently broke,
  And she saw the good-wife smiling, as to Thora thus she spoke:

  “Since thou hast chosen, daughter――every bird[998] must try his
    wings――
  Tell me, how didst thou discover that thy heart to Halvor clings?”
  “Well,” she said, in sweet confusion, while her eyes grew big with
    tears,
  “Thou wouldst scarcely understand it, mother dear――I boxed his ears.”


  GESTURES.
  [942] A. O.
  [943] Measure.
  [944] Ind. H. F.
  [945] Con. V.
  [946] Con. V.
  [947] H. O.
  [948] L. H. O.
  [949] P. Sp.
  [950] Imp.
  [951] H. L.
  [952] L. A. O.
  [953] Impersonate.
  [954] Ind. H. O.
  [955] H. O.
  [956] B. H. O.
  [957] Speak to left, clasp hands.
  [958] B. H. O.
  [959] Left A. O.
  [960] Left D. O.
  [961] H. O.
  [962] P. H. Sw.
  [963] Raise P. Sp.
  [964] B. H. F.
  [965] B. Sp.
  [966] Fold arms.
  [967] To mouth.
  [968] Sp.
  [969] Sp.
  [970] Left H. O.
  [971] H. Sw.
  [972] D. O.
  [973] H. Sw.
  [974] To breast.
  [975] H. Sw.
  [976] D. F.
  [977] B. V. H. O.
  [978] Glance sidewise without turning head.
  [979] H. F.
  [980] A. Sw.
  [981] D. F.
  [982] Sp.
  [983] To heart.
  [984] A. O.
  [985] Sp.
  [986] Ind. H. F.
  [987] V. A. O.
  [988] Ind. A. O.
  [989] H. F.
  [990] A. Sw.
  [991] Raise P.
  [992] Ind. H. F.
  [993] Sp.
  [994] B. Cla. to breast.
  [995] B. raised V.
  [996] B. H. O.
  [997] A. O.
  [998] H. O.




Valley Forge.

Extract from an oration delivered upon the occasion of the first
Centenary Anniversary of the Encampment at Valley Forge.


My countrymen, the century that has gone by[999] has changed the face
of nature and wrought a revolution in the habits of mankind. We stand
to-day at the dawn[1000] of an extraordinary age. Freed[1001] from the
chains of ancient thought and superstition, man has begun to win the
most extraordinary victories in the domain of science. One by one he
has dispelled[1002] the doubts of the ancient world. Nothing is too
difficult for his hand to attempt――no region too remote[1003]――no
place too sacred[1004] for his daring eye to penetrate. He has robbed
the earth[1005] of her secrets and sought to solve the mysteries of
the heavens![1006] He has secured and chained[1007] to his service the
elemental forces of nature――he has made the fire[1008] his steed――the
winds[1009] his ministers――the seas[1010] his pathway――the
lightning[1011] his messenger. He has descended into the bowels[1012]
of the earth, and walked in safety on the bottom[1013] of the sea. He
has raised his head above the clouds,[1014] and made the impalpable
air[1015] his resting-place. He has tried to analyze the stars,
count[1016] the constellations, and weigh the sun. He has advanced
with such astounding speed[1017] that, breathless, we have reached a
moment when it seems as if distance had been annihilated,[1018]
time made as naught, the invisible seen, the inaudible heard,
the unspeakable spoken, the intangible felt, the impossible
accomplished.[1019] And already we knock at the door of a new
century[1020] which promises to be infinitely brighter[1021] and more
enlightened and happier than this. But in all this blaze of light
which illuminates the present and casts its reflection into the
distant recesses of the past, there is not a single ray which shoots
into the future.[1022] Not one step have we taken toward the solution
of the mystery of life. That remains as dark and unfathomable[1023] as
it was ten thousand years ago.

We know[1024] that we are more fortunate than our fathers. We
believe[1025] that our children shall be happier than we. We
know[1026] that this century is more enlightened than the last. We
believe that the time to come[1027] will be better and more glorious
than this. We think, we believe, we hope, but we do not know.[1028]
Across that threshold[1029] we may not pass; behind that veil we may
not penetrate. Into that country it may not be for us to go. It may be
vouchsafed to us to behold[1030] it, wonderingly, from afar, but never
to enter in. It matters not. The age in which we live is but a link in
the endless and eternal chain. Our lives are like the sands upon the
shore;[1031] our voices like the breath of this summer breeze[1032]
that stirs the leaf for a moment and is forgotten. Whence we have come
and whither we shall go, not one[1033] of us can tell. And the last
survivor of this mighty multitude shall stay but a little while.

But in the impenetrable To Be, the endless generations are
advancing[1034] to take our places as we fall. For them as for us
shall the earth roll on[1035] and the seasons come and go, the
snowflakes fall, the flowers bloom, and the harvests be gathered in.
For them as for us shall the sun, like the life of man, rise out[1036]
of darkness in the morning and sink[1037] into darkness in the night.
For them as for us shall the years march by[1038] in the sublime
procession of the ages. And here,[1039] in this place of sacrifice, in
this vale of humiliation, in this valley of the shadow[1040] of that
Death out of which the life of America arose, regenerate and free, let
us believe with an abiding faith[1041] that, to them, Union will seem
as dear,[1042] and Liberty as sweet,[1043] and Progress as
glorious,[1044] as they were to our fathers and are to you[1045] and
me, and that the institutions which have made us happy, preserved by
the virtue of our children, shall bless the remotest generations of
the time to come.[1046] And unto Him[1047] who holds in the hollow of
His hand the fate of nations, and yet marks[1048] the sparrow’s fall,
let us lift up our hearts this day, and into His eternal care[1049]
commend ourselves, our children, and our country.

                                                ――_H. A. Brown._


  GESTURES.
   [999] H. Sw.
  [1000] H. F.
  [1001] H. O.
  [1002] V. H. O.
  [1003] H. B.
  [1004] A. O.
  [1005] D. F.
  [1006] A. O.
  [1007] P. H. F.
  [1008] H. O.
  [1009] A. O.
  [1010] H. L.
  [1011] Ind. A. O.
  [1012] D. F.
  [1013] P. D. Sw.
  [1014] A. O.
  [1015] V. A. O.
  [1016] Ind. imps.
  [1017] H. F. strong.
  [1018] B. V. H. O.
  [1019] D. F.
  [1020] H. F.
  [1021] H. Sw.
  [1022] H. F.
  [1023] P. D. O.
  [1024] - [1025] - [1026] H. O.
  [1027] H. F.
  [1028] D. L.
  [1029] P. D. F.
  [1030] H. F.
  [1031] H. L.
  [1032] A. O.
  [1033] D. L.
  [1034] H. F.
  [1035] P. H. Sw.
  [1036] Raise P. F.
  [1037] Drop P. L.
  [1038] H. Sw.
  [1039] H. F.
  [1040] P. D. O.
  [1041] A. O.
  [1042] - [1043] H. O.
  [1044] A. O.
  [1045] H. O.
  [1046] H. F.
  [1047] A. F.
  [1048] Ind. H. O.
  [1049] A. F.


[Illustration: “Now I lay me down to sleep.”]




How “Ruby” Played.

Jud Brownin, when visiting New York, goes to hear Rubinstein, and
gives the following description of his playing.


Well, sir, he had the blamedest, biggest, catty-cornedest pianner you
ever laid eyes on; somethin’ like a distracted billiard-table on three
legs. The lid was hoisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn’t been,
he’d a tore the entire inside clean out and scattered ’em to the four
winds of heaven.

_Played well?_ You bet he did; but don’t interrupt me. When he first
sit down, he ’peared to keer mighty little ’bout playin’, and wisht he
hadn’t come. He tweedle-leedled a little on the treble, and
twoodle-oodled some on the base――just foolin’ and boxin’ the thing’s
jaws for bein’ in the way. And I says to a man settin’ next to me,
says I, “What sort of fool playin’ is that?” And he says, “Heish!” But
presently his hands commenced chasin’ one another up and down the keys
like a parcel of rats scamperin’ through a garret very swift. Parts of
it was sweet, though, and reminded me of a sugar squirrel turnin’ the
wheel of a candy cage.

“Now,” I says to my neighbor, “he’s showin’ off. He thinks he’s a
doin’ of it, but he ain’t got no idee, no plan of nothin’. If he’d
play me a tune of some kind or other, I’d――”

But my neighbor says, “Heish,” very impatient.

I was just about to get up and go home, bein’ tired of that
foolishness, when I heard a little bird wakin’ up away off in the
woods, and call sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up and see that
Ruby was beginning to take some interest in his business, and I sit
down again. It was the peep of day. The light came faint from the
east, the breezes blowed gentle and fresh; some more birds waked up in
the orchard, then some more in the trees near the house, and all begun
singin’ together. People began to stir, and the gal opened the
shutters. Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a
little more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing
it was broad day; the sun fairly blazed, the birds sung like they’d
split their little throats; all the leaves was movin’, and flashin’
diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and happy as a
king. Seemed to me like there was a good breakfast in every house in
the land, and not a sick child or woman anywhere. It was a fine
mornin’.

And I says to my neighbor, “That’s music, that is.”

But he glared at me like he’d like to cut my throat.

Presently the wind turned; it began to thicken up, and a kind of gray
mist came over things; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain
begun to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground; some flashed up
like long pearl earrings, and the rest rolled away like round rubies.
It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves
into long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver
streams, runnin’ between golden gravels, and then the streams joined
each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed
silent, except that you could kinder see the music, specially when the
bushes on the banks moved as the music went along down the valley. I
could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun didn’t shine, nor
the birds sing; it was a foggy day, but not cold.

The most curious thing was the little white angel boy, like you see in
pictures, that run ahead of the music brook and led it on, and on,
away out of the world, where no man ever was, certain. I could see
that boy just as plain as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without
any sunset, and shone on the graveyards where some few ghosts lifted
their hands and went over the wall, and between the black, sharp-top
trees, splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies in the lit-up
windows, and men that loved ’em, but could never get a-nigh ’em, who
played on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I could
have cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don’t know who,
better than the men with the guitars did.

Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned and wept like a
lost child for its dead mother, and I could a got up then and there
and preached a better sermon than any I ever listened to. There wasn’t
a thing in the world left to live for, not a blame thing, and yet I
didn’t want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable
than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn’t understand it. I
hung my head and pulled out my handkerchief, and blowed my nose loud
to keep me from cryin’. My eyes is weak, anyway. I didn’t want anybody
to be a-gazin’ at me a-snivelin’, and it’s nobody’s business what I do
with my nose. It’s mine. But some several glared at me, mad as blazes.
Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He ripped out and
he rared, he tipped and he tared, he pranced and he charged like the
grand entry at a circus. ’Peared to me that all the gas in the house
was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt up my head,
ready to look any man in the face, and afraid of nothin’. It was a
circus, and a brass band, and a big ball all a-goin’ on at the same
time. He lit into them keys like a thousand of brick; he gave ’em no
rest day or night; he set every livin’ joint in me a-goin’; and, not
bein’ able to stand it no longer, I jumped, sprang onto my seat, and
jest hollered:

“_Go it, Rube!_”

Every blamed man, woman, and child in the house riz on me and shouted,
“Put him out! Put him out!”

“Put your great-grandmother’s grizzly-gray-greenish cat into the
middle of next month!” I says. “Tech me, if you dare! I paid my money,
and you just come a-nigh me!”

With that some several policemen run up, and I had to simmer down. But
I could ’a’ fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was bound to
hear Ruby out or die.

He had changed his tune again. He hop-light ladies and tip-toed fine
from end to end of the key-board. He played soft and low and solemn. I
heard the church-bells over the hills. The candles of heaven was lit,
one by one I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to
play from the world’s end to the world’s end, and all the angels went
to prayers. * * * Then the music changed to water; full of feeling
that couldn’t be thought, and began to drop――drip, drop――drip, drop,
clear and sweet, like tears of joy falling into a lake of glory. It
was sweeter than that. It was as sweet as a sweetheart sweetened with
white sugar mixt with powdered silver and seed diamonds. It was too
sweet. I tell you the audience cheered. Rubin he kinder bowed like he
wanted to say, “Much obleeged, but I’d rather you wouldn’t interrup’
me.”

He stopt a moment or two to ketch breath. Then he got mad. He run his
fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeves, he opened his
coat-tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over,
and, sir, he just went for that old pianner. He slapt her face, he
boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he
scratched her cheeks, until she fairly yelled. He knockt her down, and
he stampt on her shameful. She bellowed, she bleated like a calf, she
howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat,
and _then_ he wouldn’t let her up. He ran a quarter-stretch down the
low grounds of the base, till he got clean in the bowels of the earth,
and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, through the hollows and
caves of perdition, and then he fox-chased his right hand with his
left till he got way out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes
was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you couldn’t hear
nothin’ but the shadders of ’em. And _then_ he wouldn’t let the old
pianner go. He for’ard two’d, he crost over first gentleman, he
chassade right and left, back to your places, he all hands’d aroun’
ladies to the right, promenade all, in and out, here and there, back
and forth, up and down, perpetual motion, double twisted and turned
and tacked and tangled into forty eleven thousand double bow knots.

By jinks! it was a mixtery. And then he wouldn’t let the old pianner
go. He fecht up his right wing, he fecht up his left wing, he fecht up
his centre, he fecht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by
platoons, by company, by regiments, and by brigades. He opened his
cannon――siege guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve-pounders
yonder――big guns, little guns, middle-sized guns, round shot, shells,
shrapnels, grape, canister, mortar, mines, and magazines, every livin’
battery and bomb a-goin’ at the same time. The house trembled, the
lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin’ come
down, the sky split, the ground rokt――heavens and earth, creation,
sweet potatoes, Moses, ninepences, glory, tenpenny nails, Sampson in a
’simmon tree, Tump Tompson in a tumbler-cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle――
ruddle-uddle-uddle-uddle――raddle-addle-addle-addle――riddle-iddle-iddle-
iddle――reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle――p-r-r-r-r-r-lang! Bang!!!! lang!
per-lang! p-r-r-r-r-r! Bang!!!

With that bang! he lifted himself bodily into the air, and he come
down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows, and
his nose, striking every single, solitary key on the pianner at the
same time. The thing busted, and went off into seventeen hundred and
fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi-demi-semi-quivers,
and I know’d no mo’.

When I come to, I were under ground about twenty foot, in a place they
call Oyster Bay, a-treatin’ a Yankee that I never laid eyes on before,
and never expect to again. Day was br’akin’ by the time I got to the
St. Nicholas Hotel, and I pledge you my word I did not know my name.
The man asked me the number of my room, and I told him, “Hot music on
the half-shell for two!”




Nydia, the Blind Girl of Pompeii.

Adapted from Helen Potter’s rendering, by Frances E. Peirce.


Nydia was a Thessalonian, and well-born. Being taken prisoner by the
Romans, she was sold into slavery, and treated with great cruelty. Her
blindness, beauty, and pitiful condition appealed to the sympathies of
Glaucus, a wealthy young Athenian, who purchased her. Arbaces, envious
of her possession, and an enemy of Glaucus, captured and imprisoned
her, and caused Glaucus to be accused of murder and condemned to fight
a lion in the arena. The lion refused, however, to touch him, and
Nydia, escaping from her prison at the time of the dreadful eruption
of Vesuvius, found Glaucus, and conducted him and his _fiancée_ to the
sea. Finding that he loved another, she drowned herself.

                      *     *     *     *     *

Kind Sosia, chide[1050] me not. I cannot endure to be so long alone;
the solitude appals[1051] me. Sit with me, I pray, a little while.
Nay,[1052] fear not that I should attempt to escape. Place thy
seat[1053] before the door. Keep thine eye on me, I will not stir from
this spot. Alas! why[1054] am I imprisoned here? [1055]What is the
hour? Evening, thou sayest? Hast thou heard how went the trial of the
Athenian, Glaucus? He is condemned for shedding priestly blood![1056]
The gods forbid! ’Tis false, ’tis false, I say! Arbaces saw[1057] the
deed? Arbaces, the Egyptian? Arbaces hates the priest; hates Glaucus,
too. Come, Truth,[1058] and triumph o’er thy foes. (_Exit Sosia._)

What shrieks are those I hear;[1059] so near and yet so far! It seems
this way,[1060] here! Ah! yes. (_Calls._) Who is it in distress? Who
cries aloud? Calenus, the priest? What, you saw Arbaces strike the
blow! Then you can prove dear Glaucus innocent. But why are you here?
(_Aside._) Ah! me! if free to speak, he could save[1061] my master!
(_Calls again._) Listen, if you were free, would you give testimony
against Arbaces, the rich and powerful Arbaces? Would you the truth
proclaim? Would you save the Athenian? Your priestly word can save
him. If I procure you liberty, you will not play me false? No, no! I
will not doubt you; you could not be so cruel! Remember, Calenus, you
have promised![1062]

How can I release the priest?[1063] how best the truth make known? how
gain the præetor’s ear? Ah! these gems[1064] I have worn so long may
clear the way. I was not born a slave――no, no! My birth is equal his.
Why, then freedom would give me the right to love dear Glaucus.

Sosia! Sosia! Come hither,[1065] guard. Sosia, how much dost thou
require to make up the purchase of thy freedom? Two thousand
sesterces! The gods be praised![1066] Not more? Seest thou these
bracelets[1067] and this chain?[1068] I’ll give them thee if thou wilt
let me out, only for one little hour; let me out at midnight; I will
return before to-morrow’s dawn; nay, thou[1069] canst go with me, keep
me in sight, and bring me back again. How could I flee from thee
against thy will? I am blind! Thou sayest me nay?[1070] Is there no
hope, then? Oh! he is leaving me![1071] I shall go mad,[1072] mad!
Stay,[1073] one moment――only one――thou wilt not at least refuse to
take a letter for me; thy master cannot kill thee for that. Thou wilt?
The gods be praised![1074] Bring me a tablet of wax and a stilus.
(_Writes._)

“[1075]Nydia, the slave, to Sallust, the friend of Glaucus. I am a
prisoner in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the prætor and procure my
release, and we shall yet save Glaucus from the lion. There is another
prisoner within these walls, whose witness can exonerate the Athenian
from the charge against him; one who saw the crime――who can prove the
criminal is a villain hitherto unsuspected. Fly! hasten! quick! quick!
Bring with you armed men, lest resistance be made, and a cunning and
dexterous smith; for the dungeon of my fellow-prisoner is thick and
strong. Oh! by thy right hand, and thy father’s ashes, lose not a
moment.”

Sosia, I am blind and in prison. Thou mayest think to deceive me――thou
mayest pretend only to take the letter to Sallust, but here I solemnly
dedicate[1076] thy head to vengeance, thy soul to the infernal[1077]
powers, if thou wrongest thy trust, and I call upon thee to place thy
right hand of faith in mine,[1078] and repeat after me these words:
“By the ground on which we stand――by the elements which contain life,
and can curse life――by Orcus, the all-avenging――by the Olympian
Jupiter, the all-seeing――I swear that I will discharge my trust and
faithfully deliver into the hands of Sallust this letter. And if I
perjure myself in this oath, may the full curses of heaven and hell be
wreaked upon me.” Enough!――I trust thee――take thy reward.[1079] It is
already dark――depart at once. (_Exit Sosia._)

And I, alas, I am a slave forevermore.[1080] No more can look for
freedom――for love. Tears, tears! Why, why should eyes that cannot see
have power to weep?

Hark![1081] the lion roars as if in fear. It is the amphitheatre and
the games are on! I hear a cry, I hear a voice[1082]――“_The lion
touches not the victim!_” Aye, even the wild beasts love Glaucus.
“_Arbaces, the Egyptian, is the murderer! Glaucus is innocent! Set him
free! Set him free!_” He is saved, he is saved![1083] What
heaviness[1084] fills the air? The ground trembles as though rocked by
an earthquake, or is it the throbbing of my heart?[1085] What does it
mean? Sosia, Sosia! Unlock the door and let me out. [1086]What sounds
do I hear? What thunder shakes the ground; what cries――what strange
sounds; the air is hot and stifling――I cannot breathe! Oh! Sallust, is
that thy voice? Speak! and tell me what has happened. Vesuvius all
ablaze, and the sun gone down at noon? Ah! the gods[1087] are angry!
Canst thou tell me of Glaucus? Hast thou seen him? crouched beneath
the arch of the Forum? Ah, then, I can find him, for I am free! Some
friendly hand slipped the bolts of my prison.

[1088]Glaucus! Glaucus! How can I hope to reach his ears amidst all
this tumult and confusion? Hark![1089] a new sound comes from afar. It
is the chant of the Christians on their way to their temple to
worship.

  (Chanted.)
  _Woe! woe! Behold the Lord descendeth to judgment!
  He maketh fire come down from the heavens in the sight of men!
  Woe! woe! ye strong and mighty!
  Woe to ye of the fasces and the purple!
  Woe to the idolater and the worshiper of the beast!
  Woe to ye who pour forth the blood of saints and gloat over the death
    pangs of the sons of God! Woe! woe!_

Glaucus! Glaucus![1090] He answers my call. Ah! take[1091] my hand;
this way,[1092] this way; to the sea, to the sea! Trust me, I know the
way! To the sea, to the sea! (_Exit._)

  (Chant off the stage.)

  _Woe to the proud ones who defy Him;
  Woe to the wicked who deny Him;
  Woe to the wicked, woe!_

                                                ――_Lord Lytton._


  GESTURES.
  [1050] V. con.
  [1051] B. V. H. O.
  [1052] V. con.
  [1053] H. F.
  [1054] Drop hand hopelessly.
  [1055] Sits.
  [1056] Rises suddenly.
  [1057] Ind. H. F.
  [1058] B. H. F.
  [1059] Lis.
  [1060] Feels her way round the wall.
  [1061] Clasp hands.
  [1062] Feels her way back again.
  [1063] Intense thoughtful position.
  [1064] Feels wrists and throat.
  [1065] Beckon.
  [1066] Clasp hands.
  [1067] Show wrists.
  [1068] To neck.
  [1069] H. F.
  [1070] Both hands appealingly to front, then stagger back.
  [1071] Start forward.
  [1072] Hand to head.
  [1073] P. H. F.
  [1074] Throw B. up.
  [1075] Motion of writing for the whole letter.
  [1076] Ind. straight up.
  [1077] Ind. D. F.
  [1078] H. F.
  [1079] H. F.
  [1080] Weeps.
  [1081] Lis.
  [1082] For all words italicized use a far-off, imitative voice.
  [1083] B. thrown upward.
  [1084] Hand to breast.
  [1085] To heart.
  [1086] The next lines must be given with strong dramatic power,
         natural gestures, and intense facial expression.
  [1087] Clasp hands.
  [1088] Take several steps to right.
  [1089] Lis. to left.
  [1090] Speak to right.
  [1091] H. O.
  [1092] Left H. O.




  The Dream of Eugene Aram.


  ’Twas in the prime of summer-time,
    An evening calm and cool,
  And four-and-twenty happy boys
    Came bounding out of school;[1093]
  There were some that ran, and some that leapt
    Like troutlets in the pool.

  Away[1094] they sped, with gamesome minds,
    And souls untouched by sin;
  To a level mead they came, and there
    They drave the wickets in:
  Pleasantly shone[1095] the setting sun
    Over the town of Lynn.

  Like sportive deer they coursed about,
    And shouted as they ran――
  Turning to mirth all things[1096] of earth,
    As only boyhood can,
  But the usher[1097] sat remote from all,
    A melancholy man!

  His hat was off, his vest apart,
    To catch Heaven’s[1098] blessed breeze;
  For a burning thought was in his brow,
    And his bosom ill at ease;
  So he leaned his head on his hands, and read
    The book between his knees.

  Leaf after leaf he turned[1099] it o’er,
    Nor ever glanced aside,
  For the peace of his soul he read that book
    In the golden eventide;
  Much study had made him very lean,
    And pale, and leaden-eyed.

  At last he shut the ponderous tome;
    With a fast and fervent grasp
  He strained[1100] the dusky covers close,
    And fixed the brazen hasp:
  “O God![1101] could I so close my mind,
    And clasp it with a clasp!”

  Then leaping[1102] on his feet upright:
    Some moody turns he took――
  Now up the mead, then down the mead,
    And past a shady nook――
  And lo! he saw a little boy[1103]
    That pored upon a book.

  “My gentle lad, what is’t you read,
    Romance or fairy fable?
  Or is it some historic page,
    Of kings and crowns unstable?”
  The young boy gave an upward glance――
    “It is ‘The Death of Abel.’”[1104]

  The usher took six hasty strides,
    As smit with sudden pain――
  Six hasty strides beyond the place,
    Then slowly back again;
  And down[1105] he sat beside the lad,
    And talked with him of Cain;

  And, long since then, of bloody men
    Whose deeds tradition saves;
  Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
    And hid[1106] in sudden graves;
  Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
    And murders done in caves;

  And how the sprites of injured men
    Shriek upward[1107] from the sod――
  Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
    To show the burial clod;
  And unknown facts of guilty acts
    Are seen in dreams from God;

  He told how murderers walked the earth
    Beneath the curse[1108] of Cain,
  With crimson clouds before their eyes,
    And flames about their brain;
  For blood has left upon their souls
    Its everlasting stain.

  “And well,” quoth he, “I know, for truth,
    Their pangs must be extreme――
  Woe, woe, unutterable woe,[1109]
    Who spill life’s sacred stream!
  _For why?_ Methought, last night, I wrought
    A murder in a dream!

  “One that had never done me wrong,
    A feeble man, and old;
  I led him to a lonely field――[1110]
    The moon[1111] shone clear and cold;
  ‘Now here,’ said I, ‘this man shall die,
    And I will have his gold!’

  “Two sudden blows[1112] with ragged stick,
    And one with a heavy stone,
  One hurried gash[1113] with a hasty knife,
    And then the deed was done;
  There was nothing lying at my foot
    But lifeless flesh and bone.

  “Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
    That could not do me ill;
  And yet I feared him all the more,
    For lying there so still;[1114]
  There was a manhood in his look,
    That murder could not kill.

  “And, lo! the universal air[1115]
    Seemed lit with ghastly flame;
  Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes[1116]
    Were looking down in blame;
  I took the dead men by his hand,[1117]
    And called upon his name.

  “O God![1118] it made me quake to see
    Such sense within the slain;
  But when I touched[1119] the lifeless clay,
    The blood gushed out[1120] amain;
  For every clot a burning spot
    Was scorching in my brain.[1121]

  “My head was like an ardent coal;
    My heart[1122] as solid ice;
  My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
    Was at the devil’s price;
  A dozen times I groaned; the dead
    Had never groaned but twice.

  “And now, from forth the frowning sky,[1123]
    From the heaven’s topmost height,
  I heard a voice――the awful voice
    Of the blood-avenging sprite:
  ‘Thou guilty man! take up thy dead,
    And hide it from my sight!’

  “I took the dreary body up,[1124]
    And cast[1125] it in a stream――
  A sluggish water, black[1126] as ink,
    The depth was so extreme,
  My gentle boy, remember[1127] this
    Is _nothing but a dream_!

  “Down[1128] went the corpse with hollow plunge,
    And vanished in the pool;
  Anon I cleansed[1129] my bloody hands,
    And washed my forehead[1130] cool,
  And sat among the urchins young,
    That evening in the school.

  “O heaven![1131] to think of their white souls,
    And mine so black and grim!
  I could not share in childish prayer,
    Nor join in evening hymn;
  Like a devil of the pit[1132] I seemed,
    Mid holy cherubim.

  “And peace went with them, one and all,
    And each calm pillow spread;
  But guilt was my grim chamberlain,
    That lighted me to bed;
  And drew my midnight curtains round,[1133]
    With fingers bloody red.

  “All night I lay in agony,
    In anguish[1134] dark and deep,
  My fevered eyes I dared not close,
    But stared aghast at Sleep;
  For Sin has rendered unto her
    The keys of hell to keep.

  “All night I lay in agony,
    From weary chime to chime,
  With one besetting, horrid hint,
    That racked[1135] me all the time――
  A mighty yearning like the first
    Fierce impulse unto crime.

  “One stern tyrannic thought, that made
    All other thoughts its slave;[1136]
  Stronger and stronger every pulse
    Did that temptation crave,
  Still urging me to go[1137] and see
    The dead man in his grave.

  “Heavily I rose up, as soon
    As light was in the sky,
  And sought the black, accursed[1138] pool,
    With a wild, misgiving eye;
  And I saw the dead[1139] in the river bed,
    For the faithless stream was dry.

  “Merrily rose the lark,[1140] and shook
    The dewdrop from its wing;
  But I never marked its morning flight,
    I never heard it sing;
  For I was stooping once again
    Under the horrid thing.

  “With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,
    I took him up[1141] and ran;
  There was no time to dig a grave
    Before the day began:
  In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,
    I _hid_[1142] the murdered man;

  “And all that day I read in school,
    But my thought was otherwhere;
  As soon as the midday task was done,
    In secret I was there;
  And a mighty wind had swept[1143] the leaves,
    And _still_ the corpse[1144] was bare.

  “Then down I cast me[1145] on my face,
    And first began to weep,
  For I knew my secret then was one
    That earth refused to keep――
  Or land or sea, though he should be
    Ten thousand fathoms[1146] deep.

  “So wills the fierce avenging sprite,
    Till blood for blood atones;
  Ay, though he’s buried in a cave,
    And trodden down with stones,
  And years have rotted off his flesh,
    The world shall see his bones.

  “O God! that horrid, _horrid_[1147] dream
    Besets me now, _awake_;
  Again, again, with dizzy brain,[1148]
    The human life I take;
  And my red right hand grows raging hot,
    Like Cranmer’s at the stake.

  “And still no peace for the restless clay,
    Will wave or mould allow;
  The horrid thing _pursues_ my soul――
    It stands before[1149] me _now_!”
  The fearful boy looked up, and saw
    Huge drops upon his brow.

  That very night, while gentle sleep
    The urchin’s eyelids kissed,
  Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
    Through the cold and heavy mist;
  And Eugene Aram walked[1150] between,
    _With gyves upon his wrist_.

                                           ――_Thomas Hood._


  GESTURES.
  [1093] H. O.
  [1094] H. Sw.
  [1095] P. H. Sw.
  [1096] B. H. O.
  [1097] Left H. O.
  [1098] Glance up.
  [1099] Sp.
  [1100] Sp.
  [1101] Look up.
  [1102] Left, raise P.
  [1103] D. F.
  [1104] Look up.
  [1105] D. F.
  [1106] P. D. F.
  [1107] Raise P.
  [1108] P. H. O.
  [1109] Shake head.
  [1110] H. F.
  [1111] A. O.
  [1112] Sp.
  [1113] Sp.
  [1114] P. D. F.
  [1115] A. Sw.
  [1116] Ind. A. Impulses.
  [1117] Sp.
  [1118] Left hand to face.
  [1119] P. Sp.
  [1120] Raise P. Sp.
  [1121] To head.
  [1122] To heart sustained.
  [1123] Look up. [1124] - [1125] B. Sp.
  [1126] P. D. F.
  [1127] Ind. H. O.
  [1128] D. F.
  [1129] B. Sp.
  [1130] To head.
  [1131] Clasp hands and look up.
  [1132] Ind. D. O.
  [1133] B. Sp.
  [1134] B. Cli. D.
  [1135] To breast.
  [1136] P. D. O.
  [1137] H. O.
  [1138] V. D. O.
  [1139] Ind. D. O.
  [1140] A. O.
  [1141] B. Sp.
  [1142] P. D. O.
  [1143] P. D. Sw.
  [1144] D. O.
  [1145] B. P. D. F.
  [1146] D. F.
  [1147] B. V. H. O.
  [1148] To head.
  [1149] H. F. and shrink backward.
  [1150] H. F.


   [Illustration: “Shoo! shoo! a mouse, a great mouse! shoo! shoo!”]




  One Day Solitary.[1151]


  I am all right! Good-bye,[1152] old chap!
    Twenty-four hours, that won’t be long;
  Nothing to do but take a nap,
    And――say![1153] can a fellow sing a song?
  Will the light fantastic be in order――
    A pigeon-wing[1154] on your pantry floor?
  What are the rules for a regular boarder?
    Be quiet? All right![1155] Cling-clang goes the door.

  _Clang-clink_ the bolts, and I am locked in;
    Some pious reflection and repentance
  Come next, I suppose, for I just begin
    To perceive the sting[1156] in the tail of my sentence――
  “One day whereof shall be solitary.”
    Here I am at the end of my journey,
  And[1157]――well, it ain’t jolly, not so very――
    I’d like to throttle[1158] that sharp attorney.

  He took my money, the very last dollar,[1159]
    Didn’t leave me so much as a dime,
  Not enough to buy me a paper collar
    To wear at my trial; he knew all the time[1160]
  ’Twas some that I got for the stolen silver.
    Why hasn’t he been indicted, too?
  If he doesn’t exactly rob and pilfer,
    He lives by the plunder[1161] of them that do.

  Then didn’t it put me into a fury,
    To see him step up,[1162] and laugh and chat
  With the county attorney, and joke with the jury,
    When all was over, then go back[1163] for his hat,
  While Sue was sobbing to break her heart,
    And all I could do was to stand and stare?[1164]
  He had pleaded my cause,[1165] he had played his part,
    And got his fee――and what more[1166] did he care?

  It’s droll to think how, just out yonder,[1167]
    The world goes jogging on the same;
  Old men will save, and boys will squander,
    And fellows will play at the same old game
  Of get-and-spend to-morrow,[1168] next year――
    And drink and carouse, and who will there be
  To remember a comrade buried here?[1169]
    I am nothing to them, they are nothing to me.

  And Sue――yes, she will forget me too,
    I know; already her tears are drying.
  I believe there is nothing that girl can do
    So easy as laughing, and lying, and crying.
  She clung to me while there was hope,
    Then broke her heart in that last wild sob;
  But she ain’t going to sit and mope
    While I am at work on a five years’ job.

  They’ll set me to learning a trade, no doubt,
    And I must forget to speak or smile;
  I shall go marching in[1170] and out,[1171]
    One of a silent tramping file
  Of felons, at morning, and noon, and night,
    Just down to the shops[1172] and back to the cells,[1173]
  And work with a thief at left[1174] and right,[1175]
    And feed, and sleep, and――nothing else.[1176]

  Was I born for this?[1177] Will the old folks know?
    I can see them[1178] now on the old home-place;
  His gait is feeble, his step is slow,
    There’s a settled grief on his furrowed face;
  While she goes wearily groping[1179] about
    In a sort of dream, so bent, so sad!
  But this won’t do![1180] I must sing and shout,
    And forget myself, or else go mad.[1181]

  I won’t be foolish; although for a minute[1182]
    I was there[1183] in my little room once more.
  What wouldn’t I give just now to be in it?
    The bed is yonder,[1184] and there[1185]is the door;
  The Bible is here[1186] on the neat, white stand;
    The summer sweets are ripening now;
  In the flickering light I reach my hand[1187]
    From the window, and pluck them from the bough.

  When I was a child (oh! well for me
    And them if I had never been older!),
  When he told me stories on his knee,
    And tossed me, and carried me on his shoulder;
  When she knelt down and heard my prayer,
    And gave me in my bed my good-night kiss――
  Did they ever think that all their care
    For an only son could come to this?

  Foolish again![1188] No sense in tears
    And gnashing the teeth; and yet,[1189] somehow,
  I haven’t thought of them so for years;
    I never knew them, I think, till now.
  How fondly, how blindly, they trusted me!
    When I should have been in my bed asleep,
  I slipped from the window,[1190] and down[1191] the tree,
    And sowed for the harvest which now I reap.

  And Jennie――how could I bear to leave her?
    If I had but wished――but I was a fool!
  My heart was filled with a thirst and a fever,
    Which no sweet airs of heaven could cool.
  I can hear her asking: [1192]“Have you heard?”
    But mother falters and shakes her head;
  [1193]“O Jennie! Jennie! never a word!
    What can it mean? He must be dead!”

  [1194]Light-hearted, a proud, ambitious lad,
    I left my home that morning in May;
  What visions,[1195] what hopes, what plans I had!
    And what have I[1196]――where are they all[1197]――to-day?
  Wild fellows, and wine, and debts, and gaming,
    Disgrace,[1198] and the loss of place and friend;
  And I was an outlaw,[1199] past reclaiming.
    Arrest and sentence, and――that is the end![1200]

  Five years! Shall ever I quit this prison?[1201]
    Homeless, an outcast, where[1202] shall I go?
  Return to them, like one arisen[1203]
    From the grave, that was buried long ago?
  All is still;[1204] ’tis the close of the week;
    I slink[1205] through the garden, I stop by the well,
  I see him totter,[1206] I hear her shriek!――
    What sort of a tale will I have to tell?

  But here I am![1207] What’s the use of grieving?
    Five years――will it be too late to begin?
  Can sober thinking and honest living
    Still make me the man I might have been?
  I’ll sleep. Oh![1208] would I could wake to-morrow
    In that old room, to find, at last,
  That all my troubles and all their sorrow
    Are only a dream[1209] of the night that is past.

                                           ――_J. T. Trowbridge._

     [1151] Requires a table and chair.


  GESTURES.
  [1152] Wave hand.
  [1153] P. H. O.
  [1154] Sp. feet.
  [1155] Nod.
  [1156] Ind. H. F.
  [1157] Walk up and down.
  [1158] Sp.
  [1159] H. F.
  [1160] B. H. O. conversational.
  [1161] H. O.
  [1162] Imitate.
  [1163] Left H. L.
  [1164] Imitate.
  [1165] B. H. O.
  [1166] H. L.
  [1167] L. H. O.
  [1168] H. F.
  [1169] D. F.
  [1170] Hand carried across body and then out to.
  [1171] H. O.
  [1172] H. O.
  [1173] H. F.
  [1174] Left H. O.
  [1175] H. O.
  [1176] Sit.
  [1177] Left elbow on table, hand to head.
  [1178] H. O.
  [1179] P. H. O.
  [1180] Rise.
  [1181] To head.
  [1182] Sit.
  [1183] H. O.
  [1184] H. F.
  [1185] H. O.
  [1186] Left H. F.
  [1187] H. O. Sp.
  [1188] Toss head.
  [1189] Head in hand.
  [1190] H. O.
  [1191] D. O.
  [1192] To left.
  [1193] To right.
  [1194] Rise.
  [1195] V. H. F.
  [1196] H. O.
  [1197] B. H. O.
  [1198] P. D. O.
  [1199] H. L.
  [1200] Look around cell, B. H. O.
  [1201] Sit.
  [1202] B. H. O.
  [1203] Raise P.
  [1204] P. H. F.
  [1205] P. Sw. to F.
  [1206] H. F.
  [1207] Thumbs in armholes of vest, and lean back in chair.
  [1208] Head on hand.
  [1209] V. Sp.




Meg Merrilies.

ADAPTED BY FRANCES E. PEIRCE.


ARGUMENT.――Henry Bertram is stolen by the gypsies when a child; he is
abandoned by them, serves in the army, and finally wanders back to his
native place. The gypsies discover him, and, to extort money from the
man who holds illegal possession of young Bertram’s estates, conspire
to carry him off by force or to murder him. From this dilemma old Meg
Merrilies delivers him at the peril of her life. Shot by her own
people, she dies heroically proclaiming his heirship to the estates of
Ellangowan.


ACT II.

SCENE III. _A wild forest, cliff and hills in the distance; a gypsy
hut in the centre._

BERT.――My good woman, do you know me, that you look at me so hard?

MEG.――Ay, better than you know yourself!

BERT.――Aye, aye. That is, you’ll tell my fortune.

MEG.――Yes, because I know your past.

BERT.――Indeed! Then you have read a perplexed page.

MEG.――It will be clearer soon.

BERT.――Never less likely.

MEG.――Never more so! If, with a simple spell, I cannot recall times
which you have long forgotten, hold me the most miserable impostor.
Hear me, hear me, Henry――Henry Bertram! Hark! hark to the sound of
other days! Listen, and let your heart awake. (_Sings. Air, Gypsy
Girl._)

  Oh! hark ye, young Henry,
    Thy sire is a knight,
  Thy mother a lady,
    So lovely and bright;
  The hills and the dales,
    From the towers which we see,
  They all shall belong,
    My dear Henry, to thee.
  Oh! rest thee, babe; rest thee, babe;
    Sleep on till day.
  Oh! rest thee, babe; rest thee, babe;
    Sleep while thee may.

BERT.――These words do, indeed, thrill my bosom with strange emotions.
Woman, speak more plainly, and tell me why those sounds thus agitate
my inmost soul, and what ideas they are that thus darkly throng upon
my mind at hearing them.

MEG.――

  Listen youth, to words of power;
  Swiftly comes the rightful hour!
  They who did thee scathe and wrong,
  Shall pay their deeds by death ere long.
  The dark shall be light, and the wrong made right,
  And Bertram’s right, and Bertram’s might,
  Shall meet on Ellangowan’s height!

BERT.――Bertram! Bertram! Why does that name sound so familiar to me?

MEG.――And now, begone! Franco, Franco, guide these strangers on their
way to Kippletringan; Kippletringan! Yet stay; let me see your hand.
What say these lines of fortunes past? Wandering, and woe, and danger,
and crosses in love and friendship! What of the future? Honor, wealth,
prosperity, love rewarded and friendship reunited! But what of the
present? Ay! there’s a trace, which speaks of danger, of captivity,
perchance; but not of death! If you are attacked, be men, and let your
hands defend your heads! I will not be far distant from you in the
moment of need. And now begone! Fate calls you! Away, away, away!
(_Exit._)


ACT III.

SCENE I. _Sea-shore, with the castle on the rocks._

MEG.――So, so; his death is purposed; and they have chosen the scene of
one murder to commit another. Right! the blood spilt on that spot has
long cried for vengeance, and it shall fall upon them. Sebastian,
speed to Dinmont and the youth; tell them not to separate for their
lives――guide them to the glen near the tower; there let them wait till
Glossin and Hatteraick meet in the cavern, and I will join them. Away,
and do my bidding! (_Exit Sebastian._) Now to send to Mannering; I
must remain on the watch myself――Gabriel I dare not trust. Ha! who
comes now? ’Tis Abel Sampson, Henry Bertram’s ancient tutor! It shall
be so. (_Advance._) Stop! I command ye!

LUCY.――She’s mad!

MEG.――No; I am not mad! I’ve been imprisoned for mad, scourged for
mad, banished for mad; but mad I am not! Halt, and stand fast, or ye
shall rue the day while a limb of you hangs together! Stay, thou
tremblest! (_Take out an old black whiskey bottle and hold it out to
Sampson, left._) Drink of this and put some heart in ye, or I will――
Can your learning tell you what that is, eh? Will you remember my
errand now? Ay! then tell Colonel Mannering, if ever he owed a debt to
the house of Ellangowan, and hopes to see it prosper, he must come
instantly, armed and well attended, to the glen, below the tower of
Derncleugh, and fail not on his life! You know the spot! Ay, Abel
Sampson, there blazed my hearth for many a day! and there, beneath the
willow that hung its garlands over the brook, I’ve sat and sung to
Harry Bertram, songs of the old time. That tree is wither’d now, never
to be green again, and old Meg Merrilies will never, never sing blythe
songs more. But I charge you, Abel Sampson, when the heir shall have
his own――as soon as he shall――that you tell him not to forget Meg
Merrilies, but to build up the old walls in the glen for her sake, and
let those that live there be too good to fear the beings of another
world, for, if ever the dead come back among the living, I will be
seen in that glen many a night after these crazed old bones are
whitened in the mouldering grave! ha! ha! (_Laugh and stagger back._)

I have said it, old man! ye shall see him again, and the best lord he
shall be that Ellangowan has seen these hundred years. But you’re o’er
long here. To Mannering! Away! and bid him come to that spot
instantly, or the heir of Ellangowan may perish forever! Away, away!
(_Exit while speaking the last two words._)

                                           ――_Sir Walter Scott._




  The Dukite Snake.


  Well, mate, you’ve asked me about a fellow
  You met to-day in a black and yellow
  Chain-gang suit, with a peddler’s pack,
  Or with some such burden strapped to his back.
  Did you meet him square? No, passed you by?[1210]
  Well, if you had, and had looked in his eye,
  You’d have felt for your irons then and there;
  For the light of his eye is a madman’s glare.
  Some eight years back, in the spring of the year,
  He came from Scotland and settled here.[1211]

  A splendid young fellow he was just then,
  And one of the bravest and truest of men.
  In a year his wife came, and he showed her round
  His sandal-wood and his crops in the ground,
  And spoke of the future; they cried for joy,
  The husband’s arm clasping his wife and boy.

  Well, friend, if a little of heaven’s best bliss
  Ever comes from the upper world[1212] to this,
  It came into that manly bushman’s life,
  And circled him round with the arms of his wife.

  God bless that bright memory! Even to me,
  A rough, lonely man, did she seem to be,
  While living, an angel[1213] of God’s pure love,
  And now I could pray to her face above.
  And David――he loved her as only a man
  With a heart as large as was his heart, can.
  I wondered how they could have lived apart,
  For he was her idol, and she was his heart.

  Friends, there isn’t much more of the tale to tell;
  I was talking of angels awhile since. Well,
  Now I’ll change to a devil――ay, to a devil![1214]
  You needn’t start; if a spirit of evil
  Ever came to this world its hate to slake
  On mankind, it came as a dukite snake,
  Now, mark[1215] you, these dukites don’t go alone;
  There’s another near when you see but one;
  And beware you of killing that one you see
  Without finding the other; for you may be
  More than twenty miles from the spot that night,
  When camped, but you’re tracked by the lone dukite,
  That will follow[1216] your trail like death or fate,
  And kill you as sure as you killed its mate.

  Well, poor Dave Sloane had his young wife here
  Three months; ’twas just this time of the year.
  He had teamed some sandal-wood to the Vasse,
  And was homeward bound when he saw on the grass[1217]
  A long red snake.[1218] He had never been told
  Of the dukite’s ways; he jumped to the road,
  And smashed[1219] its flat head with the bullock goad.
  He was proud of the red skin, so he tied
  Its tail to the cart, and the snake’s blood dyed
  The bush on the path he followed that night.
  He was early home, and the dead dukite
  Was flung at the door to be skinned next day.
  At sunrise next morning he started away
  To hunt up his cattle. A three hours’ ride
  Brought him back; he gazed on his home with pride
  And joy in his heart; he jumped from his horse
  And entered――to look on[1220] his young wife’s corse,
  And his dead child clutching its mother’s clothes
  As in fright; and there, as he gazed, arose,
  From her breast, where ’twas resting, the gleaming head
  Of the terrible dukite, as if it said,
  “I’ve had vengeance, my foe! you took all I had!”
  And so had the snake: David Sloane was mad!

  I rode to his hut just by chance that night,
  And there[1221] on the threshold the clear moonlight
  Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in[1222] the door;
  The dead were stretched[1223] on the moonlit floor;
  The man held the hand of his wife, his pride,
  His poor life’s treasure, and crouched[1224] by her side.
  I touched and called him; he heeded me not;
  So I dug her grave in a quiet spot,
  And lifted them both, her boy on her breast,
  And laid them down in the shade to rest.
  Then I tried to take my poor friend away,
  But he cried so woefully, “Let me stay[1225]
  Till she comes again!” that I had no heart
  To try to persuade him then to part
  From all that was left to him here――her grave;
  So I stayed by his side that night, and save
  One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound――

  O God! that wail――like the wail of a hound!
  ’Tis six long years since I heard that cry,
  But ’twill ring in my ears till the day I die.
  Since that fearful night no one has heard
  Poor David Sloane utter sound or word.
  You have seen to-day how he always goes;[1226]
  He’s been given that suit of convict’s clothes
  By some prison officer. On his back
  You noticed a load like a peddler’s pack?
  Well, that’s what[1227] he lives for; when reason went,
  Still memory lived, for his days are spent
  In searching for dukites; year by year
  That bundle of skins is growing. ’Tis clear
  That the Lord out of evil some good still takes;
  For he’s clearing[1228] this bush of the dukite snakes.

                                          ――_J. Boyle O’Reilly._


  GESTURES.
  [1210] H. Sw.
  [1211] H. O.
  [1212] A. O.
  [1213] Look up.
  [1214] Ind. D. O.
  [1215] Ind. H. F.
  [1216] P. D. F. Sw.
  [1217] D. F.
  [1218] Trace with finger.
  [1219] Sp.
  [1220] P. D. F.
  [1221] D. F.
  [1222] V. H. F.
  [1223] P. D. Sw.
  [1224] P. D. F.
  [1225] Clasp hands.
  [1226] H. Sw.
  [1227] H. O.
  [1228] V. H. Sw.




Mad.

This piece won the Post-Graduate medal at the Ninth Annual
Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution and Languages,
1892.


    ’Twas many years since I had left my home
  To travel distant lands, but time sped on;[1229]
  Again with eagerness and wonderment
  I sought the cherish’d haunts[1230] and friends of yore.
  One man whom I remember’d as a boy,
  Whose piercing eyes, pale face, and silken locks
  Had oft comment attracted, now I found
  In mad-house pent. He recognized my face,
  Although he would anon bewilder’d gaze.
  In changing tones which shed a ling’ring light[1231]
  Awhile upon his soul, but swiftly turn’d
  To fierce embitter’d grief, he told me there
  His all-absorbing tale. ’Twas thus he spoke:
  “They call me mad. And hour by hour I’m watch’d
  By lurking keepers, who with looks askance,[1232]
  Would search my thoughts, and deem themselves unseen,
  For when I would return their gaze, they droop
  Their eyes, and with a heedless air pass by.[1233]
  They call me mad, and so deny[1234] my right
  To liberty enjoy’d by other men.
  They call me mad! but know they[1235] what they mean?

    “Yea, if vividly to recall the past,
  And linger with emotions deep and fond
  On all that yielded life a moment’s joy,
  And now lies garner’d in sweet Mem’ry’s store――
  If this[1236] betokens madness――I am mad.
  Or if to know with what dear promise youth
  Was robed――how cherish’d were the constant thoughts
  Of happiness to come in future years――
  And feel how treach’rous was the fate that crush’d[1237]
  Those thoughts and bade me dare to seek revenge[1238]――
  If this may madness prove, then I am mad.
  And this is why,[1239] forsooth, they deem me so!

    “Even now the recollection of the past,
  In varied visions, float[1240] before mine eyes,
  And thoughts of old afflictions make me feel
  How blest[1241] I might have been――how sad I am![1242]

    “A group of children trotting[1243] off to school,
  While two[1244] amongst the rest, a boy and girl,
  Go hand in hand, and prattle as they go,
  Then fondly kiss and part, till, school-time o’er,
  They meet and kiss again, and hand in hand
  Return to home,[1245] recounting all they’ve learnt.
  Anon they paddle in the rippling brook,[1246]
  Their merry voices striving to out-do
  The babble of the water ’neath their feet;
  Or, roaming in the fields,[1247] they mimic birds[1248]
  That seem to sing a sweet accomp’niment
  To happy childhood passing thus away.

    “The glad years speed[1249] along. Those children twain
  Have ripen’d ’neath the influence of time,
  For life has but reveal’d its summer days
  To him[1250] of impulse strong and keen-sensed soul――
  To her[1251] of beauteous face and loving heart,
  And each is happy in the other’s love.

    “And this glad pair in childhood and in youth
  Was Cousin Ruth and I. Oh! it was joy
  To loiter arm in arm on summer eves
  By hedge-rows,[1252] or through fields[1253] of long-grown grass
  Where breath’d sweet-scented breezes all around,[1254]
  And birds sang anthems to the dying day;
  Or wonder where the murm’ring river ran,[1255]
  While tales of love gave birth to cheerful smiles.
  And just as pleasant in the winter-tide
  To tread the hard, crisp roads; and watch the stars,
  That look’d like angel-lovers gladd’ning Earth,
  While we humm’d homely airs, and never dreamt
  That aught but death could e’er divide our hearts.

    “Ah! Death assumed most unsuspected guise――
  The guise of one whom I deemed friend, alas!
  And whom I’d make my confidant of hopes
  To be fulfill’d in future happy days.
  You know[1256] the rest. My friend became my foe,
  And won the heart of her I loved, though that
  I might have brook’d in silence and in pain,
  But he a villain[1257] proved, and mock’d[1258] her tears.
  I learnt the truth; then sought,[1259] and found him, too,
  Though not alone, as my heart wish’d. Arose
  Within my breast[1260] the promptings of wild hate,
  And, like a furied fiend, with fierce intent
  I grasp’d[1261] his throat and dash’d[1262] him to the ground,
  And would have slain[1263] him there had those around
  Not dragg’d my tight’ning fingers from his flesh.

    “Thus foil’d, a sudden impulse seized my soul,
  And hate[1264] intense begat intenser love.[1265]
  From those who held me I sprang forth,[1266] then rush’d
  To find my Ruth and clasp[1267] her to my breast;
  I yearn’d, at least, to heal her sorrow’d heart,
  Forget her wrong, and love her as of old.
  But when I found her, my poor girl was dead;
  There[1268] on the cruel river’s bank she lay,
  The water dripping[1269] from her golden hair――
  Those golden ringlets I had fondled oft!
  I clasp’d her hand[1270] and gazed into her eyes,
  Whose steadfast stare seemed now to pierce me through,
  And placed my lips against her clay-cold cheek
  Till presently they bore her[1271] from my sight.

    “Night came; the wand’ring wind was wailing wild,
  And dreary rains were lashing[1272] all the land;
  I felt them not, I only felt the fire
  That raged within my soul,[1273] and wander’d on[1274]
  With pale and haggard features, glaring, blood-shot eyes,
  Dishevell’d hair, clench’d fists,[1275] and boiling blood!
  Amid the chaos of my brain[1276] one thought
  Usurp’d despotic sway, and led me on
  And on, with purpose fix’d and fierce――to kill,[1277]
  To murder[1278] him who slew my only love!

    “Ere long I found the thing I sought――alone!
  I heard[1279] the sound of voices, heard them say
  ‘Good-night,’ ‘Good-night.’ One voice I knew; ’twas his!
  I cowered low,[1280] till, with quick step, he pass’d,
  Then, silent as a tiger, follow’d[1281] swift.
  When he had gain’d the meadow he must cross,
  I quicken’d pace, and saw him speed before――[1282]
  ‘Hillo, hillo!’ I cried; he stood to hear,
  And ere a moment pass’d I reach’d his side.
  There was a look of terror in his face,
  And seeing me he scream’d, and would have fled,
  But, with a grasp of steel, I clutch’d[1283] his throat,
  And, though he craved for mercy, strangled him,
  And crush’d[1284] the reptile’s form beneath my foot,
  Then left him[1285] lying on the meadow path,
  And onward[1286] swiftly sped――I know not where,
  Until, o’ercome by agony of heart,
  Upon the grass[1287] in dark despair I fell!
  My throat[1288] was parch’d, a mist[1289] came o’er my eyes,
  My head was rack’d, the blood forsook my veins,
  And coldness, by degrees, my senses numb’d.[1290]

    “When I awoke as ’twere from a long dream
  Of agonizing thought, I was confined
  Within these walls,[1291] and knew they call’d me mad.”


  GESTURES.
  [1229] H. Sw.
  [1230] H. F.
  [1231] P. H. F.
  [1232] Eyes Sp.
  [1233] H. Sw.
  [1234] D. L.
  [1235] H. O.
  [1236] H. F.
  [1237] P. D. O.
  [1238] Cli. raised.
  [1239] H. O.
  [1240] V. H. Sw.
  [1241] B. H. O.
  [1242] Drop hands hopelessly.
  [1243] H. Sw.
  [1244] Ind. H. O.
  [1245] Left H. Sw.
  [1246] D. F.
  [1247] H. Sw.
  [1248] Look up.
  [1249] H. Sw.
  [1250] H. O.
  [1251] Left H. O.
  [1252] H. O.
  [1253] Imp.
  [1254] B. H. O.
  [1255] H. Sw.
  [1256] H. F.
  [1257] Cli. D.
  [1258] P. Ind. H. O.
  [1259] H. F.
  [1260] To breast.
  [1261] - [1262] B. Sp.
  [1263] Ind. D. F.
  [1264] B. Cli. D.
  [1265] B. H. O.
  [1266] H. F.
  [1267] B. Sp.
  [1268] D. F.
  [1269] Turn to P.
  [1270] Sp.
  [1271] Left H. Sw.
  [1272] B. P. H. O.
  [1273] To breast.
  [1274] H. Sw.
  [1275] B. Cli.
  [1276] To head.
  [1277] Ind. H. O.
  [1278] Cli. D. O.
  [1279] Lis. to left.
  [1280] Bend body.
  [1281] H. Sw.
  [1282] H. F.
  [1283] B. Sp.
  [1284] B. P. D. F.
  [1285] D. O.
  [1286] H. F.
  [1287] P. D. F.
  [1288] To throat.
  [1289] To eyes.
  [1290] P. D. O.
  [1291] B. H. O.


  [Illustration: “And having wound their loathsome track to the top
                  Of this huge, mouldering monument of Rome,
                  Hang hissing at the nobler man below.”]




  A Woman’s Vengeance.


  I thank[1292] you for your sympathy,
  But help! No,[1293] there is none for me.
  For what I’ve done I feel no sting
  Of penitence, nor can time bring
  One pang of sorrow. You may think
  Me hard, unfeeling, and may shrink[1294]
  From me with loathing when I say,
  I’m glad my bullet found the way
  Into his heart; and I would do
  The same again, and glory,[1295] too,
  In having done it. Penalty!
  For what they now may do with me
  I care but little.[1296] He is dead,
  And that ends all.
  What made me do the deed? The old,
  Old[1297] time-worn story of man’s cold
  And heartless cruelty; of wrongs
  Heaped on her head,[1298] to whom belongs
  At least respect,[1299] if nothing more.
  I met him――him, my husband――just
  Five years ago. My God! what trust
  I placed in his fair words, so soft,
  So sweet, so full of love. But love is blind,
  And I was madly so. The first two years
  Were full[1300] of joy――joy without tears.
  My life was of peaceful love.
  But, ah! the change came sudden, fast;
  My summer sun was overcast.[1301]
  The godlike being that I thought
  Of all mankind[1302] most perfect wrought,
  Tore off[1303] the mask that hid his face,
  And, to my horror,[1304] in his place
  Revealed a demon,[1305] blackest-hued,
  Remorseless, pitiless, imbued
  With all the wickedness that heart
  Can hold, or shameless sin[1306] impart
  The loving words to curses[1307] turned;
  My fond advances all were spurned.[1308]
  I soon became for him a thing
  To tread upon――a clod to fling[1309]
  From out his path. I took my child
  And fled[1310] one night, half maddened, wild,
  Far from his sight――I cared not where
  So I again his face might ne’er
  Behold. But soon once more with words
  That seemed to me like songs of birds[1311]
  He sought me out, and with eyes
  Filled with repentant tears, implored
  Forgiveness; and I――fool![1312] ignored[1313]
  The past, forgot my woes, and went
  Back to his home with heart content.
  O Heaven![1314] could I have but foreseen,
  Could I have known he did not mean
  To keep the vows so freely made!
  Once more his promises were cast
  Aside,[1315] as idle words, and worse
  Than e’en before――a daily curse[1316]
  My life became.
  Then came at last the final blow――
  The worst that love can contemplate,
  And which can turn that love to hate.[1317]
  One night, when he had gone from me,
  I found a letter which he carelessly
  Had overlooked. The script[1318] was small
  And neat――a woman’s hand! A wall
  Of fire outstretched[1319] before my eyes;
  A nameless horror seemed to rise.
  No, no! this could not be. He might
  Be bad, be dead to sense of right,
  But false! O Heaven![1320] The dreadful thought
  Surged in my brain.[1321] I crushed[1322] it, fought[1323]
  It down with frenzied eagerness.
  The note was open; chilled, nerveless,
  I drew it[1324] from its fold and read,
  [1325]“This night to meet him,” so it said.
  This night! how throbbed[1326] my aching head!
  Her house it gave――the place, the hour――
  I seemed renewed with sudden power.
  He[1327] would be there, and so would I.[1328]
  I cast[1329] the hated letter by;
  My child from off the floor I clasped,
  And from the bureau drawer I grasped
  A loaded pistol that would right
  My wrong. So out[1330] into the night,
  Into the raging storm, I fled,
  My babe clasped[1331] in my arms.
  I could but repeat,
  “False! false! I’ll be revenged!”[1332] My soul
  Now stirred and roused beyond control,
  Was filled with one desire alone,
  And that was that he should atone[1333]
  For this――to woman――foulest[1334] wrong.
  So through the night I sped along
  Until I reached her house.
  And then I heard[1335]
  A voice within――his voice! Each word
  In sweet and loving tenderness,
  And accents that _my_[1336] heart should bless
  Were lavished on _her_[1337] listening ears.
  I listened, listened,[1338] all unseen,
  Until I thought I should go wild.[1339]
  Then, with a desperate hand, flung wide[1340]
  The casement. With a bound, beside
  The two[1341] I stood. She started――screamed;
  He turned[1342] and saw me, and then seemed
  A moment as if turned to stone;
  And as his baseness I made known,
  She――poor thing――with a long, low cry,
  Sank[1343] to the floor despairingly.
  Then, like a fiend let loose from hell,
  He toward[1344] me leaped with one fierce yell,
  And grasping[1345] quick a heavy chair
  Cried, “Curse you!” whirled it high[1346] in air.
  I sprang aside[1347] in sudden dread;
  The blow fell full upon the head
  Of my sweet child, that lifeless dropped
  Back in my arms. My heart throbs[1348] stopped;
  A red mist swam[1349] before my sight;
  I could not scream, try as I might.
  I grasped the pistol[1350] from my breast,
  _And then I killed[1351] him!_ All the rest
  For days to me was blank;[1352] and when――
  O Heaven! why did I not die then?
  At last my sense came back. I would
  Have taken my own life if I could.
  But it perhaps was better[1353] so;
  God will not judge me hard, I know.
  And when, in answer to His call,
  I stand within the heavenly hall,[1354]
  And the Blessed One
  Says, “Why hast thou transgressed my laws?”
  My babe shall plead its mother’s[1355] cause.

                                          ――_Thomas F. Wilford._


  GESTURES.
  [1292] Bow head.
  [1293] V. Con.
  [1294] B. V. to right.
  [1295] A. O.
  [1296] Shrug shoulders.
  [1297] H. B.
  [1298] P. H. O.
  [1299] H. O.
  [1300] B. H. O.
  [1301] V. A. O.
  [1302] B. H. O.
  [1303] V. Sp.
  [1304] B. V. to R.
  [1305] Ind. D. O.
  [1306] P. D. O.
  [1307] Cli. D.
  [1308] V. H. O.
  [1309] Left D. Sw.
  [1310] H. L.
  [1311] A. O.
  [1312] B. Cli. D.
  [1313] V. H. O.
  [1314] Clasp hands.
  [1315] V. H. L.
  [1316] B. Cli. D.
  [1317] P. D. O.
  [1318] Look in left hand.
  [1319] V. H. Sw.
  [1320] Clasp to breast.
  [1321] To head.
  [1322] B. P. D.
  [1323] B. Cli. D.
  [1324] Sp.
  [1325] Trace on left hand.
  [1326] Hand to head.
  [1327] H. O.
  [1328] To self.
  [1329] Left Sp.
  [1330] H. F.
  [1331] B. Sp.
  [1332] Cli. raised.
  [1333] D. F.
  [1334] B. Cli. D.
  [1335] Lis.
  [1336] To self.
  [1337] H. O.
  [1338] Lean to R. and raise hand.
  [1339] To head.
  [1340] B. V. Sp.
  [1341] H. F.
  [1342] Look to left.
  [1343] B. D. F.
  [1344] Left H. O.
  [1345] - [1346] B. Sp.
  [1347] Start back.
  [1348] R. hand to heart.
  [1349] Left V. Sw.
  [1350] Sp.
  [1351] Ind. H. F.
  [1352] B. V. H. F.
  [1353] B. H. O.
  [1354] A. O.
  [1355] To self.




The Dream of Aldarin.

Arranged by Laura Coleman, who won with it the first gold graduating
medal at the Eighth Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of
Elocution and Languages, 1891.


A chamber with a low, dark ceiling,[1356] supported by massive
rafters[1357] of oak; floors[1358] and walls[1359] of dark stone,
unrelieved by wainscot or plaster――bare, rugged, and destitute.

A dim, smoking light,[1360] burning in a vessel of iron, threw[1361]
its red and murky beams over the fearful contents of a table. It was
piled high[1362] with the unsightly forms of the dead. Prostrate among
these mangled bodies, his arms flung carelessly[1363] on either side,
slept and dreamed Aldarin[1364]――Aldarin, the Fratricide.

He hung on the verge of a rock, a rock of melting bitumen, that burned
his hands to masses of crisped and blackened flesh. The rock projected
over[1365] a gulf, to which the cataracts of earth might compare as
the rivulet[1366] to the vast ocean.[1367] It was the Cataract of
Hell. He looked below. God of Heaven,[1368] what a sight! Fiery waves,
convulsed and foaming, with innumerable whirlpools[1369] crimsoned by
bubbles of flame. Each whirlpool swallowing millions[1370] of the
lost. Each bubble bearing on its surface the face of a soul,
lost[1371] and lost forever.[1372]

Borne on by[1373] the waves, they raised[1374] their hands and cast
their burning eyes to the skies, and shrieked the eternal death-wail
of the lost.

Over this scene, awful and vast, towered a figure[1375] of ebony
blackness, his darkened brow concealed[1376] in the clouds, his
extended arms grasping[1377] the infinitude of the cataract, his feet
resting upon islands of bitumen far in the gulf[1378] below. The eyes
of the figure were fixed upon Aldarin,[1379] as he clung with the
nervous clasp of despair to the rock, and their gaze curdled[1380] his
heated blood.

He was losing his grasp; sliding and sliding from the rock, his feet
hung over[1381] the gulf. There was no hope for him. He must
fall――fall[1382]――and fall forever. But lo! a stairway,[1383] built of
white marble, wide, roomy, and secure, seemed to spring from the very
rock to which he clung, winding upward from the abyss, till it was
lost in the distance far, far above. He beheld two figures slowly
descending[1384]――the figure of a warrior[1385] and the form of a
dark-eyed woman.[1386] He knew those figures; he knew them well. They
were his victims! Her face, his wife’s! beautiful as when he first
wooed her in the gardens of Palestine;[1387] but there was blood[1388]
on her vestments, near the heart, and his lip was spotted with one
drop of that thick, red blood. “This,” he muttered, “this, indeed, is
hell,[1389] and yet I must call for aid――call to them!”[1390] How the
thought writhed like a serpent round his very heart.

He drew himself along the rugged rock, clutching[1391] the red-hot ore
in the action. He wanted but a single inch, a little inch and he might
grasp the marble of the stairway. Another and a desperate effort. His
fingers clutched it,[1392] but his strength was gone. He could not
hold it in his grasp. With an eye of horrible intensity he looked
above. “Thou wilt save me,[1393] Ilmerine, my wife. Thou wilt drag me
up to thee.” She stooped. She clutched his blackened fingers and
placed them around the marble.[1394] His grasp was tight and
desperate. “Julian, O Julian! grasp this hand.[1395] Aid me, O Julian!
my brother!” The warrior stooped, laid hold on his hand, and drawing
it toward the casement, wound it around[1396] another piece of marble.
But again his strength fails. [1397]“Julian, my brother; Ilmerine, my
wife, seize me! Drag me from this rock of terror! Save me! O save
me!”[1398] She stooped. She unwound finger after finger. She looked at
his horror-stricken face and pointed to the red wound in her
heart.[1399] He looked toward the other face. “Thou, Julian,[1400]
reach me thy hand. Thy hand, or I perish!” The warrior slowly reached
forth his hand from beneath the folds of his cloak. He held before the
eyes of the doomed a goblet of gold.[1401] It shone and glimmered
through the foul air like the beacon fire of hell.

“Take it away![1402] ’Tis the death bowl!” shrieked Aldarin’s livid
lips. “I murdered thee. Thou canst not save.” He drew back from the
maddening sight. He lost his hold, he slid from the rock, he
fell.[1403]

[1404]Above, beneath, around, all[1405] was fire, horror,[1406] death;
and still he fell.[1407] “Forever and forever,” rose the shrieks of
the lost. All hell groaned aloud, “Ever, ever. Forever and forever,”
and his own soul muttered back, “This――this――is――hell!”[1408]

                                             ――_George Lippard._


  GESTURES.
  [1356] A. O.
  [1357] B. A. O.
  [1358] D. O.
  [1359] H. O.
  [1360] H. F.
  [1361] P. H. Sw.
  [1362] P. Sp.
  [1363] Sp.
  [1364] H. F.
  [1365] P. D. F.
  [1366] D. O.
  [1367] H. Sw.
  [1368] B. V. H. O. and look down.
  [1369] Sp. P. D. F.
  [1370] B. D. O.
  [1371] D. F.
  [1372] Imp.
  [1373] H. Sw.
  [1374] B. Sp.
  [1375] Ind. H. F.
  [1376] V. A. F.
  [1377] B. P. H. O.
  [1378] D. F.
  [1379] Ind. D. F.
  [1380] B. to heart.
  [1381] P. D. F.
  [1382] P. D. Sp.
  [1383] Trace upward with finger.
  [1384] Trace downward with finger.
  [1385] H. F.
  [1386] Imp.
  [1387] H. L.
  [1388] Ind. H. F.
  [1389] Cli. D.
  [1390] H. F.
  [1391] Sp.
  [1392] Sp.
  [1393] B. Cla.
  [1394] Sp.
  [1395] A. F.
  [1396] Sp.
  [1397] B. extended.
  [1398] Imp.
  [1399] To self.
  [1400] Left A. F.
  [1401] L. Sp.
  [1402] B. V. H. F.
  [1403] D. F.
  [1404] Look around.
  [1405] B. H. O.
  [1406] Turn to vertical.
  [1407] B. D. F.
  [1408] B. Cli. A.




The Death of Uncle Tom.

Adapted by C. R. Bechtel.


The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before surly temper of
Legree to the last degree; and his fury, as was to be expected, fell
upon the defenceless head of Tom. When he hurriedly announced the
tidings among his hands, there was a sudden light in Tom’s eye, a
sudden upraising of his hands, that did not escape him. He saw that he
did not join the muster of the pursuers. He thought of forcing him to
do it, but, having had, of old, experience of his inflexibility when
commanded to take part in any deed of inhumanity, he would not, in his
hurry, stop to enter into any conflict with him.

Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had learned of him to
pray, and offered up prayers for the escape of the fugitives.

When Legree returned, baffled and disappointed, all the long-working
hatred of his soul toward his slave began to gather in a deadly and
desperate form.

“Well, Tom!” said Legree, walking up and seizing him grimly by the
collar of his coat, and speaking through his teeth, in a paroxysm of
determined rage, “do you know, I’ve made up my mind to kill you?”

“It’s very likely, Mas’r,” said Tom, calmly.

“I have,” said Legree, with grim, terrible calmness, “done――just――
that――thing, Tom, unless you’ll tell me what you know about these yer
gals!”

Tom stood silent.

“D’ye hear?” said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that of an
incensed lion. “Speak!”

“I han’t got nothing to tell, Mas’r,” said Tom, with a slow, firm,
deliberate utterance.

“Do ye dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don’t know?” said
Legree.

Tom stood silent.

“Speak!” thundered Legree, striking him furiously. “Do you know
anything?”

“I know, Mas’r, but I can’t tell anything. I can die!”

Legree drew in a long breath, and, suppressing his rage, took Tom by
the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, said in a terrible
voice, “Hark’e, Tom! ye think, ’cause I’ve let ye off before, I don’t
mean what I say; but this time I’ve made up my mind, and counted the
cost. You’ve always stood it out agin me; now I’ll conquer ye or kill
ye!――one or t’other. I’ll count every drop of blood there is in you,
and take ’em, one by one, till ye give up!”

Tom looked up at his master, and answered, “Mas’r, if you was sick, or
in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I’d give ye my heart’s
blood; and if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would
save your precious soul, I’d give ’em freely, as the Lord gave His for
me. O Mas’r! don’t bring this great sin on your soul! It will hurt you
more than ’twill me! Do the worst you can――my troubles’ll be over
soon; but, if ye don’t repent, yours won’t never end!”

Like a strange snatch of heavenly music heard in the lull of a
tempest, this burst of feeling made a moment’s blank pause.

Legree stood aghast and looked at Tom, and there was such a silence
that the tick of the old clock could be heard measuring, with silent
touch, the last moments of mercy and probation to that hardened heart.

It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause――one irresolute,
relenting thrill――and the spirit of evil came back with sevenfold
vehemence, and Legree, foaming with rage, smote his victim to the
ground.

                      *     *     *     *     *

Two days after, a young man drove a light wagon up through the avenue
of China-trees fronting Legree’s house, and, throwing the reins
hastily on the horse’s neck, sprang out and inquired for the owner of
the place.

It was George Shelby, the son of Tom’s former master.

He was soon introduced into the house, where he found Legree in the
sitting-room.

Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospitality.

“I understand,” said the young man, “that you bought, in New Orleans,
a boy named Tom. He used to be on my father’s place, and I came to see
if I couldn’t buy him back.”

Legree’s brow grew dark, and he broke out, passionately:

“Yes, I did buy such a fellow, and a fine bargain I had of it, too!
The most rebellious, saucy, impudent dog! Set up my niggers to run
away; got off two gals worth eight hundred or a thousand dollars
apiece. He owned to that, and when I bid him tell me where they was,
he up and said he knew, but he wouldn’t tell, and stood to it, though
I gave him the cussedest flogging I ever gave nigger yet. I b’lieve
he’s trying to die, but I don’t know as he’ll make it out.”

“Where is he?” said George, impetuously. “Let me see him.”

The cheeks of the young man were crimson and his eyes flashed fire,
but he prudently said nothing as yet.

“He’s in dat ar shed,” said a little fellow, who stood holding
George’s horse.

Legree kicked the boy and swore at him, but George, without saying
another word, turned and strode to the spot.

Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night, not suffering, for
every nerve of suffering was blunted and destroyed. He lay, for the
most part, in a quiet stupor, for the laws of a powerful and well-knit
frame would not at once release the imprisoned spirit. By stealth,
there had been there, in the darkness of the night, poor desolated
creatures, who stole from their scanty hours’ rest that they might
repay to him some of those ministrations of love in which he had
always been so abundant. Truly, those poor disciples had little to
give――only the cup of cold water――but it was given with full hearts.

When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and his heart
sick.

“Is it possible――is it possible?” said he, kneeling down by him.
“Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend!”

Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. He moved
his head gently, smiled, and said――

  “Jesus can make a dying bed
  Feel soft as downy pillows are.”

Tears, which did honor to his manly heart, fell from the young man’s
eyes, as he bent over his poor friend.

“Oh! dear Uncle Tom! do wake――do speak once more! Look up! Here’s
Mas’r George――your own little Mas’r George. Don’t you know me?”

“Mas’r George!” said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feeble
voice. “Mas’r George!” He looked bewildered.

Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul, and the vacant eye became
fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands
clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks.

“Bless the Lord! it is――it is――it’s all I wanted! They haven’t forgot
me. It warms my soul; it does my old heart good! Now I shall die
content! Bless the Lord, oh! my soul!”

“You sha’n’t die! you mustn’t die, nor think of it. I’ve come to buy
you, and take you home,” said George, with impetuous vehemence.

“Oh! Mas’r George, ye’re too late. The Lord’s bought me, and is going
to take me home, and I long to go. Heaven is better than Kintuck.”

“Oh! don’t die! It’ll kill me!――it’ll break my heart to think what
you’ve suffered――and living in this old shed here! Poor, poor fellow!”

“Don’t call me poor fellow!” said Tom, solemnly. “I have been poor
fellow, but that’s all past and gone now. I’m right in the door, going
into glory! Oh! Mas’r George! Heaven has come! I’ve got the
victory!――the Lord Jesus has given it to me! Glory to His name!”

At this moment the sudden flush of strength which the joy of meeting
his young master had infused into the dying man gave way. A sudden
sinking fell upon him; he closed his eyes; and that mysterious and
sublime change passed over his face that told the approach of other
worlds.

He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations, and his
broad chest rose and fell heavily. The expression of his face was that
of a conqueror.

“Who――who――who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” he said, in
a voice that contended with mortal weakness, and, with a smile, he
fell asleep.

There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of our friend. He
needs none! His Lord knows where he lies, and will raise him up,
immortal, to appear with Him when He shall appear in His glory.

Pity him not! Such a life and death is not for pity! Not in the riches
of omnipotence is the chief glory of God, but in self-denying,
suffering love! And blessed are the men whom He calls to fellowship
with Him, bearing their cross after Him with patience. Of such it is
written: “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

                                      ――_Harriet Beecher Stowe._


 [Illustration:

  “To-morrow’ll be the happiest day of all the glad New Year,
  For I’m to be Queen of the May, mother, I’m to be Queen of the May!”]




“Swore Off.”

This piece won the class medal at the Ninth Annual Commencement of the
Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution and Languages, 1892.


_Sit on chair at right side of a common table._

  Boys, take another![1409] To-night we’ll be gay,
  For to-morrow, you know, is the New Year’s Day,
  And I promised my Bessie to-night should be
  The very last night I stayed on this spree.
  I’ve been a good fellow――spent lots of “tin”
  In sampling and drinking both whiskey and gin;
  And yet I remember,[1410] a long while ago,
  When the sight of a drunken man frightened me so.
  I ran for a square.[1411] I remember quite well
  When I even detested[1412] the very smell
  Of the accursed stuff. I sometimes think
  ’Twas the devil[1413] who tempted me to take the first drink.
  But why look back with remorse or regret?
  I mustn’t remember[1414]――I want to forget.
  [1415]Landlord, the bottle![1416] That’s pretty good stuff;
  Though I reckon I’ve seen and tasted enough.
  It’s a year since I’ve drawn a sober breath.
  The doctors all say I will go to my death
  If I do not leave off――you may laugh and scoff;
  But somehow or other, between me and you,
  I believe what the doctors tell me is true,
  For at night when I try to be closing my eyes,
  Such horrible visions[1417] before me arise
  That I cannot rest, and I walk[1418] the floor
  And long for the sleep that is mine no more.
  To-night it winds up. Laugh on,[1419] but you’ll see[1420]
  That this is the very last night of my spree.
  I’ve promised my Bessie, and further, I swore――
  She’s got the paper――to taste it no more
  After to-night. When I told her I’d sign,
  The look on her face made me think of the time
  When she stood at the altar,[1421] a beautiful bride,
  And I looked on my choice with a good deal of pride.
  Ah! many’s the time since I’ve been on this spree,
  I’ve seen this good woman get down[1422] on her knee
  And ask God, in His goodness, have mercy on me.
  To-night it ends up. Do you hear[1423] what I say?――
  I’m a man[1424] once again from the New Year’s Day.
  Take one with you? Why, I certainly will――[1425]
  To-night is my last, and I’ll be drinking my fill.
  “Good luck and good health!”――[1426] strange wishes to make
  O’er each glass of whiskey and gin that we take.
  Good luck! Well, now, fellows, be still,[1427] and we’ll see
  The good luck I’ve had since I started this spree.
  What with losing the job where I first learned my trade――
  I’ve had twenty since, and I’m much afraid
  The reason for losing them all is this glass.[1423]
  The story of shame and disgrace let us pass;[1429]
  I’ll sum up the whole. You all know[1430] it’s true
  I could own a nice home――now the rent’s overdue,
  Yet, during this time――it is true,[1431] what I say――
  I wished myself luck at least ten times a day,
  And as for good health! Now, do you think it right,[1432]
  When you know it’s destroying your appetite,
  To call it good health? Why, I’ve not tasted food
  For days at a time. Do you call my health good?
  One with the landlord?[1433] To be sure, ev’ry time――
  His till has held many a dollar of mine.
  Come! set up the poison! To-night is the last――
  Then I’ll look upon rum as a thing of the past[1434]
  Well, here’s to you,[1435] land―― Ah! you’d play me a trick![1436]
  Take off[1437] that red wig with the horns very quick,
  Or I’ll put down this glass and be leaving the place.
  Boys, look[1438] at the way he’s distorting his face!
  Look![1439] look![1440] it’s the devil――a good masquerade[1441]
  For those who engage in the rum-selling trade.
  Go on[1442] with the game!――you’ll find I’m not afraid――
  Ha, ha, ha, ha! at your by-play I scoff――
  Whose blood-hound is this?[1443] Keep him off![1444] Keep him
    off![1445]
  Get out,[1446] you big brute! Don’t you fellows see[1447]
  He’s wicked? Will bite? That he’s snapping at me?
  My God![1448] see his fangs! all reeking with gore――
  [1449]Help! landlord, help! fell[1450] this brute to the floor.
  Ah! he’s gone! Take another![1451] my nerves are unstrung,
  Quick! Give me the bottle[1452] ere the midnight is rung,
  [1453]Ah! whiskey’s[1454] the stuff that will make me feel gay,
  And I’ve said I’ve sworn off from the New Year’s Day――
  Quick! give me the bottle! Curse you![1455] don’t refuse,
  Or I’ll pull you apart,[1456] if my temper I lose――
  Now give me a glass! Come, boys, take a drink![1457]
  It’s the last you’ll be taking with me, so I think――
  O God! what is this?[1458] See, boys――it’s a snake!
  Look! the bottle is full――hear the hissing they make――
  They crawl[1459] from its neck. For God’s sake, a drink!
  Thanks! Boys, here’s luck![1460]
                                      (_Midnight hour strikes._)
                  ’Tis the New Year, I think.
  My oath[1461]――yes my oath! Is this sound I hear[1462]
  The hour of midnight? Aye, it is the New Year.
                                      (_Throws glass from him._)
  Begone from my sight, thou demon of hell!
  Boys, here they come![1463] there they go! Ah, the spell
  Is o’er. I’m afire![1464] See! It shoots[1465] from my eyes!
  I am burning within![1466] There[1467] the red demon lies.
  What angel is this?[1468] ’Tis my Bessie to see
  If my word has been kept about ending this spree――
  No, no, it is black![1469] ’Tis the devil’s device――
  He’s claiming a soul as a sacrifice.
  Great God! Is this death?[1470] The blood-hound again!
  Take him off![1471] Take him off![1472] Do I call you in vain?
  He clutches my throat[1473]――he chokes out my life![1474]
  Won’t some of you fellows go after my wife?
  Must I die here alone? See! they beckon to me.
  Oh! if Bessie, my heart-broken wife, could but see
  That I kept my word. Won’t――you――kindly――say
  I “swore off” for good on the New Year’s Day.[1475]

                                                 ――_J. N. Fort._


  GESTURES.
  [1409] Raise glass in left hand.
  [1410] Lean head on left hand.
  [1411] H. Sw.
  [1412] V. H. O.
  [1413] Ind. D. O.
  [1414] Rise and walk.
  [1415] Call to left and sit.
  [1416] Motion of pouring out liquor and drinking.
  [1417] V. H. F.
  [1418] H. Sw.
  [1419] H. O.
  [1420] Ind. H. O.
  [1421] H. F.
  [1422] D. F.
  [1423] H. O.
  [1424] Stand up, thumb in armhole.
  [1425] Sit.
  [1426] Raise glass in left hand.
  [1427] P. H. O.
  [1428] Point to left hand.
  [1429] P. Sw.
  [1430] H. O.
  [1431] H. O. emphatic.
  [1432] Hand on knee.
  [1433] To left.
  [1434] H. B.
  [1435] Raise left hand with glass.
  [1436] Half rise.
  [1437] V. Sp.
  [1438] Point to left.
  [1439] - [1440] Imps.
  [1441] Sit.
  [1442] H. Sw.
  [1443] Rise suddenly, get behind chair, and look down to right.
  [1444] B. V. to R.
  [1445] Imp.
  [1446] V. Sp.
  [1447] Ind. D. O.
  [1448] B. Cli. up.
  [1449] To left.
  [1450] Cli. D. O.
  [1451] Sit.
  [1452] Sp.
  [1453] Drink.
  [1454] Left Sp.
  [1455] Cli. Sp.
  [1456] B. Cli. Sp.
  [1457] Raise glass.
  [1458] Point to glass.
  [1459] Sp.
  [1460] Drink.
  [1461] Raise hand, palm front.
  [1462] Listen.
  [1463] Point here and there.
  [1464] B. to head.
  [1465] B. Sp.
  [1466] B. to breast.
  [1467] Ind. D. O.
  [1468] Look to left.
  [1469] Left V. H. O.
  [1470] B. on breast.
  [1471] B. V. H. Par. to R.
  [1472] Imp.
  [1473] B. to throat.
  [1474] Sit.
  [1475] Let head drop on left arm on table and the whole body relax.




The Unknown Speaker.


It is the Fourth Day of July, 1776.

In the old State-house[1476] in the city of Philadelphia are gathered
half a hundred men to strike[1477] from their limbs the shackles of
British despotism. There is silence[1478] in the hall――every face is
turned toward the door[1479] where the committee of three, who have
been out all night penning a parchment, are soon to enter. The door
opens, the committee appears.[1480] That tall man[1481] with the sharp
features, the bold brow, and the sand-hued hair, holding the parchment
in his hand, is a Virginia farmer, Thomas Jefferson. That stout-built
man[1482] with stern look and flashing eye, is a Boston man, one John
Adams. And that calm-faced man[1483] with hair drooping in thick curls
to his shoulders, that[1484] is the Philadelphia printer, Benjamin
Franklin.

The three advance to the table.[1485]

The parchment is laid[1486] there.

Shall it be signed or not? A fierce debate ensues. Jefferson[1487]
speaks a few bold words. Adams[1488] pours out his whole soul. The
deep-toned voice of Lee[1489] is heard, swelling[1490] in syllables of
thunder-like music. But still there is doubt, and one pale-faced man
whispers something about “axes,[1491] scaffolds, and gibbet.”

“Gibbet?” echoes a fierce, bold voice through the hall. “Gibbet? They
may stretch our necks on all[1492] the gibbets in the land; they may
turn every rock[1493] into a scaffold; every tree[1494] into a
gallows; every home[1495] into a grave, and yet the words of that
parchment[1496] there can never[1497] die! They may pour our
blood[1498] on a thousand scaffolds, and yet from every drop that dyes
the axe a new champion of freedom will spring[1499] into birth. The
British King may blot out[1500] the stars of God from the sky, but he
cannot blot out His words written on that parchment[1501] there. The
works[1502] of God may perish; His words, never![1503]

“The words of this declaration will live in the world long after our
bones are dust. To the mechanic[1504] in his workshop they will speak
hope; to the slave[1505] in the mines, freedom; but to the coward
kings,[1506] these words will speak in tones of warning[1507] they
cannot choose but hear.

“They will be terrible as the flaming syllables on Belshazzar’s
wall![1508] They will speak in language startling as the trump of the
Archangel[1509] saying: ‘You have trampled on mankind long enough! At
last the voice of human woe has pierced[1510] the ear of God, and
called His judgment down! You have waded[1511] to thrones through
rivers of blood; you have trampled[1512] on the necks of millions of
fellow-beings. Now kings, now purple hangmen, for you[1513] come the
days of axes and gibbets and scaffolds.’

“Such is the message of that declaration to mankind,[1514] to the
kings of the earth. And shall we falter now? And shall we start
back[1515] appalled when our feet touch the very threshold[1516] of
Freedom?

“Sign[1517] that parchment! Sign,[1518] if the next moment the
gibbet’s rope is about your neck! Sign,[1519] if the next minute this
hall rings[1520] with the clash of the falling axes! Sign[1521] by all
your hopes in life or death, as men, as husbands,[1522] as
fathers,[1523] brothers,[1524] sign your names to the parchment, or be
accursed[1525] forever!

“Sign, and not only for yourselves, but for all ages,[1526] for that
parchment will be the text-book of freedom,[1527] the Bible[1528] of
the rights of men forever. Nay,[1529] do not start and whisper with
surprise! It is truth,[1530] your own hearts witness it; God[1531]
proclaims it. Look at this strange history of a band[1532] of exiles
and outcasts, suddenly transformed into a people,[1533] a handful
of[1534] men, weak in arms, but mighty[1535] in God-like faith; nay,
look at your recent achievements, your Bunker Hill,[1536] your
Lexington,[1537] and then tell me, if you can,[1538] that God has not
given America to be free!

“It is not given to our poor human intellect to climb to the
skies,[1539] and to pierce[1540] the councils of the Almighty One. But
methinks I stand among the awful clouds[1541] which veil[1542] the
brightness of Jehovah’s throne.

“Methinks I see the recording angel[1543] come trembling up to that
throne to speak his dread message. ‘Father,[1544] the old world is
baptized[1545] in blood. Father, look with one glance of Thine eternal
eye, and behold evermore that terrible[1546] sight, man trodden
beneath the oppressor’s feet, nations lost in blood, murder and
superstition walking hand in hand over the graves of the victims, and
not a single voice[1547] to whisper hope to man!’

“He stands there,[1548] the angel, trembling with the record of human
guilt. But hark![1549] The voice of Jehovah speaks from out the awful
cloud: ‘Let there be light again! Tell my people, the poor and
oppressed, to go out from the old world, from oppression and blood,
and build my altar in the new!’

“As I live, my friends, I believe that to be His voice! Yes, were my
soul trembling on the verge[1550] of eternity, were this hand[1551]
freezing in death, were this voice choking[1552] in the last struggle,
I would still, with the last impulse of that soul, with the last
wave[1553] of that hand, with the last gasp of that voice,
implore[1554] you to remember this truth――God has given America to be
free![1555] Yes, as I sank[1556] into the gloomy shadows of the grave,
with my last faint whisper I would beg you to sign[1557] that
parchment for the sake of the millions whose very breath is now
hushed[1558] in intense expectation as they look up to you for the
awful words, ‘You are free!’”[1559]

The unknown speaker fell exhausted in his seat, but the work was done.
A wild murmur runs[1560] through the hall. “Sign!” There is no doubt
now. Look how they rush forward![1561] Stout-hearted John Hancock has
scarcely time to sign his bold name before the pen is grasped by
another,[1562] another,[1563] and another.[1564] Look how the names
blaze[1565] on the parchment! Adams and Lee, Jefferson and Carroll,
Franklin and Sherman!

And now the parchment is signed.

Now, old man[1566] in the steeple, now bare your arm and let the bell
speak![1567] Hark[1568] to the music of that bell! Is there not a
poetry in that sound, a poetry more sublime than that of
Shakespeare[1569] and Milton? Is there not a music in that sound that
reminds you of those sublime tones which broke from angel lips when
the news of the child Jesus burst on the hill-tops of Bethlehem?[1570]
For the tones of that bell now come pealing, pealing, pealing.[1571]
“Independence now[1572] and Independence forever.”[1573]


  GESTURES.
  [1476] H. O.
  [1477] B. D. L.
  [1478] P. H. O.
  [1479] Left H. O.
  [1480] Left H. O.
  [1481] Left Ind. H. O.
  [1482] Left Ind. H. O.
  [1483] Left H. O.
  [1484] Left Ind. H. O.
  [1485] Right hand sweep
  from left to H. F.
  [1486] P. H. F.
  [1487] H. O.
  [1488] Left H. O.
  [1489] H. F.
  [1490] H. Sw.
  [1491] Hand to mouth, sustained.
  [1492] B. H. O.
  [1493] D. O.
  [1494] H. O.
  [1495] Left H. O.
  [1496] Ind. H. F.
  [1497] Ind. D. F.
  [1498] B. D. F.
  [1499] Raise P.
  [1500] V. A. Sw.
  [1501] Ind. H. F.
  [1502] H. O.
  [1503] D. O.
  [1504] H. O.
  [1505] Left D. O.
  [1506] P. Ind. H. O.
  [1507] Ind. Impulses.
  [1508] Trace as though on wall.
  [1509] A. O.
  [1510] Ind. A. O.
  [1511] B. H. F., palms facing.
  [1512] B. P. D. O.
  [1513] H. O.
  [1514] H. Sw.
  [1515] Sp. body.
  [1516] D. F.
  [1517] - [1518] - [1519] Ind. H. F.
  [1520] A. Sw.
  [1521] Ind. H. F.
  [1522] H. O.
  [1523] - [1524] Impulses.
  [1525] Cli. D.
  [1526] B. H. O.
  [1527] A. O.
  [1528] H. O.
  [1529] V. H. F.
  [1530] H. F.
  [1531] A. O.
  [1532] H. F.
  [1533] H. O.
  [1534] H. F.
  [1535] Cli. raised.
  [1536] H. O.
  [1537] Imp.
  [1538] H. F.
  [1539] A. O.
  [1540] Ind. A. O.
  [1541] B. A. O.
  [1542] B. V. A. O.
  [1543] A. O.
  [1544] A. O., sustained to victims; eyes follow this gesture.
  [1545] Left P. D. L.
  [1546] Left V. D. L.
  [1547] B. D. L.
  [1548] A. O.
  [1549] Lis. to R. A., sustained during and to end of quotation.
  [1550] D. F.
  [1551] H. F.
  [1552] To throat.
  [1553] Sp.
  [1554] B. H. F.
  [1555] B. H. O.
  [1556] B. D. F.
  [1557] Ind. H. F.]
  [1558] B. P. H. O.
  [1559] B. H. O.
  [1560] H. Sw.
  [1561] H. F.
  [1562] - [1563] - [1564] Imps.
  [1565] Trace with finger.
  [1566] A. F.
  [1567] A. Sw.
  [1568] Lis.
  [1569] Left H. L.
  [1570] Left H. B.
  [1571] A. Sw.
  [1572] H. F.
  [1573] H. Sw.




JUVENILES.




  The Boy and the Boot.


  “Bother!” was all that John Clatterby said;
  His breath came quick and his cheeks were red,
  He flourished his elbows and looked absurd,
  While, over and over, his “Bother!” I heard.

  Harder and harder he tugged and worked;
  Vainly and savagely still he jerked;
  The boot, half on, would dawdle and flap,
  “Bother!” and then he burst the strap.

  Redder than ever his hot cheek flamed;
  Louder than ever he fumed and blamed;
  He wiggled his heel and he tugged at the leather
  Till his knees and his chin came bumping together.

  “My boy,” said I, in a voice like a flute,
  “Why not first try your troublesome boot
  On the other foot?” “I’m a goose!” laughed John,
  As he stood, in a flash, with his two boots on.

  In half the affairs of this every-day life
  (As that same day I said to my wife),
  Our troubles come from trying to put
  The _left-hand_ boot on the _right-hand_ foot.




Farewell Old Shoe.

To be addressed to an old shoe which the speaker holds in his hand.


        Adieu! adieu!
        My poor old shoe!
  What comfort I have had with you!
  My _sole_ companion day by day,
  You’ve cheered and soothed my weary way!

        A fond adieu,
        My dear old shoe!
  Most faithful friend I’ve found in you!
  Alike, midst fair or wintry weather,
  We’ve shared life’s pilgrimage together.

        Now rent and torn,
        And sadly worn,
  Of every trace of beauty shorn.
  ’Tis with an honest, heart-felt sigh
  I feel that I must throw you by.

        A sad adieu!
        Poor worn-out shoe!
  What sorry plights you’ve borne me through!
  And, oh! it tears my tender heart
  To think that you and I must part.

        Once more, adieu!
        My faithful shoe!
  I ne’er shall find the likes o’ you,
  And I will bless your memory
  For all the good you’ve been to me.

        No other boot
        Can ever suit
  As you have done my crippled feet!
  No other shoe can ever be
  The tried, true friend you’ve been to me.

        A last adieu,
        Dear cast-off shoe!
  Whatever may become of you,
  Accept, dear, easiest, best of shoes,
  This farewell offering of my muse.




  Tale of a Dog and a Bee.


  Great big dog,
    Head upon his toes;
  Tiny little bee
    Settles on his nose.

  Great big dog
    Thinks it is a fly,
  Never says a word,
    Winks mighty sly.

  Tiny little bee
    Tickles doggie’s nose――
  Thinks like as not
    ’Tis a blooming rose.

  Dog smiles a smile,
    Winks his other eye,
  Chuckles to himself
    How he’ll catch a fly.

  Then he makes a snap,
    Mighty quick and spry,
  Gets the little bug,
    But doesn’t catch the fly.

  Tiny little bee,
    Alive and looking well,
  Great big dog,
    Mostly gone to swell.

    MORAL.

  Dear friends and brothers all,
    Don’t be too fast and free,
  And when you catch a fly
    Be sure it ain’t a bee.




  Little Foxes.


  Among my tender vines I spy,
  A little fox named “By-and-By.”

  Then set upon him, quick, I say,
  The swift young hunter “Right Away.”

  Around each tender vine I plant,
  I find the little fox “I Can’t!”

  Then fast as ever hunter ran,
  Chase him with brave and bold “I Can.”

  “No Use in Trying!” lags and whines,
  This fox among my tender vines.

  Then drive him low and drive him high,
  With this good hunter, named “I’ll Try.”

  Among the vines in my small lot,
  Creeps in the fox “Oh, I Forgot.”

  Then hunt him out and to his den,
  With “I-Will-Not-Forget-Again.”

  A little fox is hidden there
  Among my vines, named “I Don’t Care.”

  Then let “I’m Sorry,” hunter true,
  Chase him far from vines and you.




  For a Little Girl.


  I love my papa, that I do,
  And mamma says she loves him too;
  And both of them love me, I know,
  A thousand ways their love they show.
  But papa says he fears some day
  With some mean scamp I’ll run away.




  An Oration for a Boy.


  I rise to make this short oration,
  Without the least equivocation,
  Or any false exaggeration,
  And hope to win your approbation――
  If not your warmest admiration.
  I want to make a revelation,
  Just for the sake of exultation,
  Without a long enumeration,
  In reference to education;
  For, since our school association
  We feel a high appreciation
  Of teachers’ kind administration.
  Whate’er may be our destination,
  We’ll have the pleasing consolation
  Of living in high estimation
  With all our teachers, in relation
  With every day’s assimilation.
  I hope you’ll have the penetration
  To see this is my own creation,
  And quite a novel adaptation.
  Please pardon the conglomeration,
  For I’m scared like all the nation,
  Therefore accept my resignation.


[Illustration: “Blessed mother, save my brain!”]




  “They Say.”


  The subject of my speech is one
    We hear of every day――
  ’Tis simply all about the fear
    We have of what “_they say_!”

  How happy all of us could be,
    If, as we go our way,
  We did not stop to think and care
    So much for what “_they say_.”

  We never dress to go outside,
    To church, to ball, or play,
  But everything we wear or do
    Is ruled by what “_they say_.”

  Half of the struggles we each make
    To keep up a display,
  Might be avoided, were it not
    For dread of what “_they say_.”

  The half of those who leave their homes
    For Long Branch and Cape May
  Would never go, if it were not
    For fear of what “_they say_.”

  One reason why I’m now so scared
    (Pardon the weakness, pray!)
  Is that I’m thinking all the while,
    “Of _me_ what will ‘_they say_?’”

  But so ’twill be, I judge, as long
    As on the earth folks stay――
  There’ll always be, with wise and fools,
    That dread of what “_they say_.”




  Nobody’s Dog.


  Only a dirty black and white dog!
    You can see him any day,
  Trotting meekly from street to street.
    He almost seems to say,
  As he looks in your face with wistful eye,
    “I don’t mean to be in your way.”

  His tail hangs drooping between his legs;
    His body is thin and spare;
  How he envies the sleek and well-fed dogs
    That thrive on their masters’ care!
  And he wonders what they must think of him,
    And grieves at his own hard fare.

  Sometimes he sees a friendly face――
    A face that he seems to know;
  And he thinks he may be the master
    That he lost so long ago;
  And even dares to follow him home,
    For he loved his master so.

  Poor Jack! He’s only mistaken again,
    And stoned and driven back;
  But he’s used to disappointments now,
    And takes up his beaten track;
  Nobody’s dog, for nobody cares
    For poor, unfortunate Jack.




  Johnny’s Soliloquy.


  It seems to be father’s greatest joy
  To tell what he did when he was a boy.
  Nothing very wonderful, so far’s I can see;
  And it seems pretty rough on a fellow like me,
  When I’ve worked like a man all the long summer day――
  And boys can get tired, I don’t care what they say――
  To have father declare, in his evening chat,
  “When I was a boy I did better than that.

  “I was bound out when I was a boy,
  Had never a play-day, a book, or a toy.
  I earned my first suit when I was of age,
  By working at odd hours for old Deacon Gage;
  I often went barefoot, having seldom a hat,
  And as for a coat, I was too poor for that.
  Of course I had extra clothes for cold weather,
  But the clothes were not broadcloth, nor the boots patent leather.”

  Then he talks of this and that wonderful feat,
  With little to wear and little to eat;
  How he never went either to church or to school,
  Just picked up his learning without guide or rule.
  And says: “John, to be sure, is easy to learn,
  And always stands first at the close of the term.
  But if I’d his chance at books in my day,
  I don’t think you’d have found me always at play.”

  Now I am just as willing as can be to work,
  Nobody can call me a bit of a shirk;
  I don’t ask for fine clothes or frequent play-days,
  For I know father’s money has plenty of ways:
  But when I’ve done as well as I can,
  They might treat me as though I’d some day be a man.
  I’m so tired of the song father always has sung:
  “I did better than that when I was young.”




  The Wind in a Frolic.


          The wind one morning sprang up from sleep,
          Saying, “Now for a frolic! now for a leap!
          Now for a mad-cap galloping chase!
          I’ll make a commotion in every place!”

  So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,
  Creaking the signs, and scattering down
  Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls,
  Old women’s bonnets and gingerbread stalls;
  There never was heard a much lustier shout,
  As the apples and oranges tumbled about;
  And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes
  Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize.
  Then away to the field it went blustering and humming,
  And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming;
  It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows,
  And tossed the colts’ manes all over their brows,
  Till, offended at such a familiar salute,
  They all turned their backs and stood sulkily mute.
  So on it went, capering, and playing its pranks,
  Whistling with reeds on the broad river’s banks,
  Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
  O’er the traveler’s grave on the king’s highway.
  It was not too nice to hustle the bags
  Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags;
  ’Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke
  With the doctor’s wig or the gentleman’s cloak.
  Through the forest it roared, and cried, gayly, “Now,
  You sturdy old oaks, I’ll make you bow!”
  And it made them bow without more ado,
  Or cracked their great branches through and through.
  Then it rushed like a monster, on cottage and farm,
  Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm,
  So they ran out like bees when threatened with harm.
  There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps,
  To see if their poultry were free from mishaps;
  The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,
  And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd;
  There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on,
  Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.
  But the wind it swept on, and met in a lane
  With a school-boy, who panted and struggled in vain:
  For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood
  With his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud.
  Then away went the wind in its holiday glee!
  And now it was far on the billowy sea;
  And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow,
  And the little boats darted to and fro:――
  But lo! night came, and it sank to rest
  On the sea-bird’s rock in the gleaming west,
  Laughing to think, in its fearful fun,
  How little of mischief it had done!

                                             ――_William Howitt._




  The Speckled Hen.


  Dear Brother Ben, I take my pen
  To tell you where, and how, and when,
  I found the nest of our speckled hen.
  She never would lay in a sensible way,
  Like other hens, in the barn on the hay;
  But here and there and everywhere,
  On the stable floor, and the wood-house stair,
  And once, on the ground her eggs I found.
  But yesterday I ran away,
  With mother’s leave, in the barn to play.
  The sun shone bright on the seedy floor,
  And the doves so white were a pretty sight
  As they walked in and out of the open door,
  With their little red feet and feathers neat.
  Cooing and cooing more and more.
  Well, I went out to look about
  On the platform wide, where, side by side,
  I could see the pig-pens in their pride;
  And beyond them both, on a narrow shelf,
  I saw the speckled hen hide herself
  Behind a pile of hoes and rakes
  And pieces of boards and broken stakes.
  “Ah, ha! old hen, I have found you now,
  But to reach your nest I don’t know how,
  Unless I could climb or creep or crawl
  Along the edge of the pig-pen wall.”
  And while I stood in a thoughtful mood,
  The speckled hen cackled as loud as she could,
  And flew away, as much as to say,
  “For once my treasure is out of your way.”
  I didn’t wait a moment then;
  I couldn’t be conquered by that old hen!
  But along the edge of the slippery ledge
  I carefully crept, for the great pigs slept,
  And I dared not even look to see
  If they were thinking of eating me.
  But all at once, oh! what a dunce!
  I dropped my basket into the pen,
  The one you gave me, Brother Ben;
  There were two eggs in it, by the way,
  That I found in the manger under the hay,
  Then the pigs got up and ran about
  With a noise between a grunt and a shout,
  And when I saw them rooting, rooting,
  Of course I slipped and lost my footing,
  And tripped, and jumped, and finally fell
  Right down among the pigs, pell-mell.
  For once in my life I was afraid,
  For the door that led out into the shed
  Was fastened tight with an iron hook,
  And father was down in the fields by the brook,
  Hoeing and weeding his rows of corn,
  And here was his Dolly, so scared and forlorn.
  But I called him, and called him, as loud as I could,
  I knew he would hear me――he must and he should――
  “O father! O father! (Get out, you old pig.)
  O father! oh! oh!” for their mouths were so big.
  Then I waited a minute and called him again,
  “O father! O father! I am in the pig-pen!”
  And father did hear, and he threw down his hoe,
  And scampered as fast as a father could go.
  The pigs had pushed me close to the wall,
  And munched my basket, eggs and all,
  And chewed my sun-bonnet into a ball.
  And one had rubbed his muddy nose
    All over my apron, clean and white;
  And they sniffed at me, and stepped on my toes,
    But hadn’t taken the smallest bite,
  When father opened the door at last,
  And oh! in his arms he held me fast.

                                           ――_E. W. Denison._




  The New Baby.


  Muzzer’s bought a baby――
    Ittle bits of zing;
  Zink I mos’ could put him
    Froo my rubber ring.

  Ain’t he awful ugly?
    Ain’t he awful pink?
  Just come down from Heaven!――
    Dat’s a fib, I zink.

  Doctor told annuzer
    Great big awful lie;
  Nose ain’t out of joyent――
    Dat ain’t why I cry.

  Zink I ought to love him?
    No, I won’t――so zere!
  Nassy, crying baby――
    Ain’t got any hair.

  Send me off wiz Biddy
    Every single day;
  “Be a good boy, Charley――
    Run away and play.”

  Dot all my nice kisses――
    Dot my place in bed;
  Mean to take my drumstick
    And hit him on ze head.




  Katie’s Wants.


  Me want Christmas tree,
    Yes, me do;
  Want an orange on it,
    Lots of candy, too.

  Want some new dishes,
    Want a red pail,
  Want a rocking-horse
    With a very long tail.

  Want a little watch
    That says, “Tick, tick!”
  Want a newer dolly,
    ’Cause Victoria’s sick.

  Want so many things
    Don’t know what to do;
  Want a little sister,
    Little brother, too.

  Won’t you buy ’em, mamma?
    Tell me why you won’t?
  Want to go to bed?
    No, me don’t.

                          ――_Eva M. Tappan._




  Queer Little Stitches.


  Oh! queer little stitches,
  You surely are witches,
    To bother me so!
  I’m trying to plant you:
  Do stay where I want you,
    All straight in a row.

  Now keep close together!
  I never know whether
    You’ll do as I say.
  Why can’t you be smaller?
  You really grow taller,
    Try hard as I may!

  There! now my thread’s knotted,
  My finger is dotted
    With sharp needle-pricks!
  I mean to stop trying;
  I cannot help crying;
    Oh! dear, what a fix!

  Yes, yes, little stitches,
  I _know_ you are witches――
    I’m sure of it now――
  Because you don’t bother
  Grown people like mother
    When _they_ try to sew.

  You love to bewilder
  Us poor little “childer”
    (As Bridget would say),
  By jumping and dancing,
  And leaping and prancing,
    And losing your way.

  Hear the bees in the clover!
  Sewing “over and over”
    They don’t understand.
  I wish I was out there
  And playing about there
    In that great heap of sand!

  The afternoon’s going;
  I _must_ do my sewing
    Before I can play.
  Now behave, little stitches,
  Like good-natured witches,
    The rest of the day.

  I’d almost forgotten
  About waxing my cotton,
    As good sewers do;
  And――oh! what a memory!――
  Here is my emery
    To help coax it through.

  I’m so nicely provided
  I’ve really decided
    To finish the things.
  There’s nothing like trying;
  My needle is flying
    As if it had wings.

  There, good-bye, little stitches!
  You obstinate witches,
    You’re punished, you know.
  You’ve been very ugly,
  And now you sit snugly
    Along in a row.




  The Nose Out of Joint.


  Oh! a comical thing is a nose out of joint!
          There is a wee chap
          Who met this mishap;
          He looked very glum,
          And grew almost dumb;
      Then he stood in a corner to pout,
              No doubt,
      Decidedly hurt and put out.

  Oh! the innocent cause of a nose out of joint!
          He tried to appear
          In excellent cheer.
          In one eye a smile,
          A tear all the while
      In the other, led one to believe,
              And grieve,
      That clearly he tried to deceive!

  Oh! the innocent cause of the nose out of joint!
          Ten pink little toes,
          A wee, funny nose,
          And eyes, bright and new,
          Of robin’s egg blue,
      And up-stairs in a soft cradle-nest,
              At rest,
      With tiniest hands on its breast!

  Oh! the wonderful cure of a nose out of joint!
          A mother’s fond call,
          A gentle footfall;
          A sweet word of joy,
          A kiss for her boy,
      And a shy little brotherly peep,
              And deep
      Spring, love for the baby asleep.

                                              ――_George Cooper._




  Valedictory.


  It now, kind friends, devolves on me
  To speak our Val-e-dic-to-ry;
  You’ve seen our Exhibition through,
  We’ve tried to please each one of you――
  And if we’ve failed in any part,
  Lay it to _head_, and not to _heart_;
  For we have striven, night and day,
  To study well both speech and play.
  We hope, within another year,
  Again before you to appear.
  But e’er we part――before you go――
  We wish you one and all to know
  We thank you for your presence here――
  Such kindness does our bosoms cheer,
  And causes every boy to feel
  He ought to study with more zeal;
  While all the girls it will inspire
  With an ambition to rise higher.
  We feel much more than words can tell――
  Accept our heart-felt thanks――farewell!




Presentation Speech.


DEAR TEACHER:

I have been requested by the young ladies of this school (or
institution) to offer you a slight token of our affection and regard.
I cannot tell you how delighted I am to be the means of conveying to
you the expression of our united love. What we offer you is a poor
symbol of our feelings, but we know you will receive it kindly, as a
simple indication of the attachment which each one of us cherishes for
you in her heart of hearts. You have made our lessons pleasant to
us――so pleasant that it would be ungrateful to call them tasks. We
know that we have often tried your temper and forbearance, but you
have dealt gently with us in our waywardness, teaching us, by example
as well as precept, the advantages of magnanimity and self-control. We
will never forget you. We shall look back to this school (or
institution) in after life, not as a place of penance, but as a scene
of mental enjoyment, where the paths of learning were strewn with
flowers; and whenever memory recalls our school-days, our hearts will
warm toward you as they do to-day. I have been requested by my
school-mates not to address you formally, but as a beloved and
respected friend. In that light, dear teacher, we all regard you.
Please accept, with our little present, our earnest good wishes. May
you always be as happy as you have endeavored to make your pupils, and
may they――nothing better could be wished for them――be always as
faithful to their duties to others as you have been in your duties to
them.




  Little Millie’s Declamation.


  See my pretty ruffled dress!
    See my tienty locket!
  ’Spects I’m most a lady now,
    ’Cause I got a pocket.
  Those down here are my blue shoes,
    That I walk my feet in;
  ’Cause it wouldn’t do to wear
    Copper toes to meetin’.

  See my pictured hanker_fust_
    Sunday days I has it!
  I can blow a noise in church
    Most like papa does it.
  Papa’s hitchin’ Jack and Gray,
    And they keep a prancin’;
  Horses don’t wear Sunday clothes――
    They don’t know they’re dancin’.

  Grandpa used to go with us――
    Now he’s gone to heaven;
  Guess he’s at the angel church,
    Up where God is livin’.
  I don’t take no cakes along――
    Never thing of eatin’;
  Don’t you want a nice clean kiss
    ’Fore we go to meetin’.




  The Only Child.


  Which is my nicest plaything?
    I really cannot tell;
  I have a china dolly,
    I have a silver bell.

    I have a string of beads;
  My mother often tells me
    I have all a baby needs.
  But if I had a brother
    As big as cousin Ben,
  Or if I had a sister
    Like little Lilly Fen,
  We should have _such_ times together,
    ’Twould drive the neighbors wild――
  Oh! it’s very lonesome
    To be an only child!




  Lulu’s Complaint.


  I’se a poor ’ittle sorrowful baby,
    For B’idget is ’way down stairs:
  My titten has scatched my fin’er,
    And Dolly won’t say her p’ayers.

  I hain’t seen my bootiful mamma
    Since ever so long ado;
  An’ I ain’t her tunninest baby
    No londer, for B’idget says so.

  Mamma dot anoder _new baby_,
    Dod dived it――He did――yes’erday;
  An’ it kies, it kies――oh! so defful!
    I wis’ He would take it away.

  I don’t want no “sweet ’ittle sister;”
    I want my dood mamma, I do;
  I want her to tiss me and tiss me,
    An’ tall me her p’ecious Lulu.

  I dess my dear papa will bin’ me
    A ’ittle dood titten some day;
  Here’s nurse wid my mamma’s new baby;
    I wis’ she would tate it away.

  Oh! oh! what tunnin’ red fin’ers!
    It sees me ’ite out of its eyes;
  I dess we will teep it and dive it
    Some can’y whenever it kies.

  I dess I will dive it my dolly
    To play wid ’mos’ every day;
  An’ I dess, I dess――Say, B’idget,
    Ask Dod not to tate it away.




Little Tommie’s First Smoke.


I’ve been sick.

Mamma said ’mokin’ was a nasty, dirty, disgraceful habit, and bad for
the window curtains.

Papa said it wasn’t. He said all wise men ’moked, and that it was good
for rheumatism, and that he didn’t care for the window curtains, not
a――that thing what busts and drowns people; I forgot its name. And he
said women didn’t know much anyway, and that they couldn’t reason like
men.

So next day papa wasn’t nice a bit――that day I frew over the
accawarium, and papa ’panked me――and I felt as if I had the rheumatism
ever’ time I went to sit down, and so I just got papa’s pipe and
loaded it and ’moked it, to cure rheumatism where papa ’panked me.

And they put mustard plaster on my tummick till they most burned a
hole in it, I guess.

I fink they fought I was going to die.

I fought so too.

Mamma said I was goin’ to be a little cherub, but I fought I was goin’
to be awful sick. Nurse said I was goin’ to be a cherub, too――then she
went to put a nuzzar mustard plaster on. I didn’t want her to, and she
called me somefing else. I guess that was ’cause I frew the mustard
plaster in her face.

I don’t want to be a cherub anyway; I’d rather be little Tommie for a
while yet.

But I wont ’moke any more.

I guess mamma was right. Maybe I’m sumfin’ like a window curtain.
’Mokin’ isn’t good for me.




  The Elf-Child.


  Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,
  An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, and brush the crumbs away,
  An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,
  An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board and keep;
  An’ all us other children, when the supper things is done,
  We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun
  A-list’nin’ to the witch tales ’at Annie tells about,
  An’ the gobble-uns ’at gits you
                        Ef you
                            Don’t
                                Watch
                                    Out!

  Once they was a little boy wouldn’t say his pray’rs--
  An’ when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
  His mammy heard him holler, an’ his daddy heard him bawl,
  An’ when they turn the kivvers down he wasn’t there at all!
  An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,
  An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ everywheres, I guess,
  But all they ever found was this--his pants an’ round-about--
  An’ the gobble-uns ’ll git you
                        Ef you
                            Don’t
                                Watch
                                    Out!

  An’ one time a little girl ’ud allus laugh an’ grin,
  An’ make fun of ever’ one an’ all her blood an’ kin.
  An’ onct, when they was “company,” an’ old folks was there,
  She mocked ’em, an’ shocked ’em, an’ said she didn’t care!
  An’ jist as she kicked her heels an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,
  They was two great Big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,
  An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’, ’fore she knowed what she’s
    about!
  An’ the gobble-uns ’ll git you
                        Ef you
                            Don’t
                                Watch
                                    Out!

  An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
  An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes Woo-oo!
  An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
  An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away--
  You better mind your parents and yer teachers fond an’ dear,
  An’ cherish them ’at loves you, and dry the orphant’s tear,
  An’ he’p the po’ an’ needy ones ’at clusters all about,
  Er the gobble-uns ’ll git you
                        Ef you
                            Don’t
                                Watch
                                    Out!




CONTENTS.

DRAMATIC.
                                                      PAGE
  Ballad of Breakneck, The,                            134
  Ben Hassan’s Dream,                                  234
  Ben-Hur’s Chariot Race,                              301
  Corsican, The,                                       277
  Dream of Aldarin, The,                               368
  Dream of Eugene Aram, The,                           337
  Dying to Win,                                         10
  Felon’s Wife, The,                                   127
  Fra Giacomo,                                         271
  Jingles,                                             158
  Lost in the Mountains,                               195
  Mad,                                                 358
  Nell,                                                292
  Nydia, the Blind Girl of Pompeii,                    333
  Old Actor’s Story, The,                              227
  Sir Rupert’s Wife,                                    22
  Spanish Mother, The,                                  59
  Swore Off,                                           376
  Uncle Ned’s Tale,                                    254
  Woman’s Vengeance, A,                                363

PATHETIC.

  Back to Griggsby’s,                                  154
  Crazy Nell,                                           21
  Dead Letter, The,                                      4
  Death of Uncle Tom, The,                             371
  Dog Story, A,                                        122
  Dolores,                                             308
  Dukite Snake, The,                                   354
  Enguerrande’s Child,                                 209
  Ivy-Clad Ruin,                                       265
  Mary, Queen of Scots,                                 73
  Moon, The,                                           125
  New Mother, A,                                       166
  Not in the Ranks,                                    225
  Old Spinster, The,                                   156
  One Day Solitary,                                    346
  Roderick Lee,                                         51
  Suicide, The,                                        126
  Tommy’s Death-Bed,                                    82
  Waiting for the Mail,                                300
  Wayward Life, A,                                     140
  Why She Didn’t Stay in the Poor-House,               144
  Yes, I’m Guilty,                                     266

HUMOROUS.

  Book-Agent Beats the Bandit, The,                    223
  Charlie’s Story,                                     237
  Chemist to His Love, The,                            138
  Engineer’s Ride on a Piano, The,                      64
  Experience with a Refractory Cow,                     70
  Going to Market,                                      85
  Holding a Baby,                                       57
  How “Ruby” Played,                                   327
  Humors of Elocution,                                  41
  I’m Getting Too Big to Kiss,                         299
  Lecture by One of the Sex,                           206
  Little Torment, The,                                 142
  Meeting at Wendletown, The,                          178
  Merry Mike,                                          220
  Pa,                                                    8
  Reason Why, The,                                      43
  Ruling Passion, The,                                 297
  Studying for the Contest,                             19
  Thora,                                               317
  Village Choir, The,                                  222
  Wanted, a Wife,                                      153
  Yankee Still Ahead, The,                              79

PATRIOTIC.

  Gallant Fifty-first, The,                              3
  Last Salute, The,                                     17
  Proud Flag of Freedom, The,                          194
  Soldier’s Offering, A,                               296
  Unknown Speaker, The,                                380
  Valley Forge,                                        325
  World’s Hero, The,                                    66

DIALOGUES AND DRAMAS.

  All Wrong,                                           283
  Civilization,                                         30
  Crowning of the Sunday-School Angel,                  88
  Dorothy Clyde,                                       102
  Getting Ready,                                        32
  Meg Merrilies,                                       350
  Merry Sunflower,                                      86
  Months, The,                                         238
  Petruchio’s Widow,                                   181
  Scene from “Merchant of Venice,”                     313

JUVENILES.

  Boy and The Boot, The,                               387
  Elf-Child, The,                                      411
  Farewell, Old Shoe,                                  388
  For a Little Girl,                                   391
  Johnny’s Soliloquy,                                  394
  Katie’s Wants,                                       401
  Little Foxes,                                        390
  Little Millie’s Declamation,                         407
  Little Tommie’s First Smoke,                         410
  Lulu’s Complaint,                                    409
  New Baby, The,                                       400
  Nobody’s Dog,                                        393
  Nose Out of Joint, The,                              404
  Only Child, The,                                     408
  Oration for a Boy, An,                               408
  Presentation Speech,                                 406
  Queer Little Stitches,                               402
  Richard Dingle’s Speech,                             175
  Speckled Hen, The,                                   397
  Tale of a Dog and a Bee,                             389
  They Say,                                            392
  Unfinished Prayer, The,                              412
  Valedictory,                                         405
  Wind in a Frolic, The,                               396

MISCELLANEOUS.

  Bill, the Engineer,                                  146
  Calls of The Bells, The,                              99
  Contrasts in Shakespeare,                            215
  Coquette, The,                                        67
  Echo and the Ferry,                                   46
  Enchanted Shirt, The,                                268
  Exercise in Pronunciation,                           124
  Go Fan Yourself,                                     291
  Grain of Truth, A,                                   276
  Hints on Expression,                                  87
  King’s Kiss, The,                                    214
  Legend of the Wissahickon,                           161
  Little Brown Eyes,                                    12
  Little Christel,                                     131
  Maiden Song,                                         201
  Notation of Gestures,                                  2
  Nothing to Wear,                                      44
  Read This if You Can,                                262
  Six O’Clock,                                         236
  Stars, The,                                          143
  True Remedy, The,                                    151
  Word Pictures,                                       176




Transcriber’s Note

This book was written in a period when many words had not become
standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling
variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been
left unchanged unless indicated below. Dialect and misspelled words
were not corrected, unless indicated below.

“The Unfinished Prayer,” listed in the Contents on page 412, was
not included in the original book.

Illustrations were moved to the nearest break between works. Obvious
printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, missing or partially
printed letters, were corrected. Apostrophes and diacriticals were
adjusted as needed. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and
abbreviations were added. Duplicate letters at line endings or page
breaks were removed.

Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the end of
the work to which they pertain. Anchors [1], [305], and [332] were not
printed in the original. There are two anchors [456] and [781].
Footnotes resolve to the first of each. Anchor [1151] was added to
title of “One Day Solitary” as the footnote applies to whole poem.
There are two footnotes numbered [356]; the second is noted [356a].
Duplicate of footnote [646] was deleted.

Spelling corrections:

  [whipers] whispers we spoke
  [fogotten] forgotten it.
  [he] she lingers
  [Wherfore] Wherefore should not we
  Our brave commander, [Jaques] Jacques
  [Elecution] Elocution and Languages
  [Their’s] Theirs not to reason why
  [nesttings] nestlings watching them
  [They’re] They’ve wrought their fill
  [couched] crouched beneath the arch