diff options
Diffstat (limited to '18909.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 18909.txt | 16002 |
1 files changed, 16002 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/18909.txt b/18909.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..60ceb37 --- /dev/null +++ b/18909.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16002 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems Teachers Ask For, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems Teachers Ask For + +Author: Various + +Release Date: July 26, 2006 [EBook #18909] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR + + +Selected by +READERS OF "NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS" + + +COMPRISING THE POEMS MOST FREQUENTLY REQUESTED FOR PUBLICATION IN THAT +MAGAZINE ON THE PAGE "POEMS OUR READERS HAVE ASKED FOR" + + + + +INDEX + + +Abou Ben Adhem _Hunt_ 30 +Abraham Lincoln _T. Taylor_ 16 +All Things Bright and Beautiful _Alexander_ 41 +American Flag, The _Drake_ 133 +Answer to "Rock Me to Sleep" 103 +Arrow and the Song, The _Longfellow_ 74 +Asleep at the Switch _Hoey_ 56 +At School-Close _Whittier_ 65 +Aunt Tabitha 45 +Autumn Woods _Bryant_ 48 + +Baby, The _Macdonald_ 22 +Barbara Frietchie _Whittier_ 71 +Barefoot Boy, The _Whittier_ 176 +Bay Billy _Gassaway_ 104 +Be Strong _Babcock_ 174 +Better Than Gold _Smart_ 143 +Bingen on the Rhine _Norton_ 121 +Blue and the Gray, The _Finch_ 183 +Bluebird's Song, The _E.H. Miller_ 73 +Bobby Shaftoe 8 +Boy and His Stomach, A 93 +Boy's Song, A _Hogg_ 172 +"Breathes There the Man" _Scott_ 185 +Brier-Rose _Boyesen_ 144 +Brook, The _Tennyson_ 162 +Brown Thrush, The _Larcom_ 181 +Bugle Song, The _Tennyson_ 183 +Builders, The _Longfellow_ 181 +Building of the Ship, The _Longfellow_ 63 +Burial of Sir John Moore, The _Wolfe_ 190 + +Calf Path, The _Foss_ 110 +Casey at the Bat _Thayer_ 100 +Casey's Revenge _Wilson_ 101 +Chambered Nautilus, The _Holmes_ 169 +Character of the Happy Warrior _Wordsworth_ 165 +Charge of the Light Brigade, The _Tennyson_ 166 +Children's Hour, The _Longfellow_ 70 +Children, The _Dickinson_ 53 +Child's Thought of God, A _E.B. Browning_ 183 +Christ in Flanders 18 +Christmas Everywhere _Brooks_ 158 +Cloud, The _Shelley_ 159 +College Oil Cans _McGuire_ 122 +Columbus _Joaquin Miller_ 83 +Concord Hymn, The _Emerson_ 99 +Corn Song, The _Whittier_ 171 +Crossing the Bar _Tennyson_ 186 +Curfew Must Not Ring To-night _Thorpe_ 24 +Custer's Last Charge _Whittaker_ 91 + +Daffodils _Wordsworth_ 179 +Darius Green and His Flying Machine _Trowbridge_ 153 +Day Well Spent, A 38 +Dead Pussy Cat, The _Short_ 64 +Diffidence 23 +Don't Give Up _P. Cary_ 182 +Driving Home the Cows _Osgood_ 88 +Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge 49 + +Each in His Own Tongue _Carruth_ 58 +Echo _Saxe_ 20 +Engineers Making Love _Burdette_ 21 +Eternal Goodness, The _Whittier_ 87 + +Fable, A _Emerson_ 177 +Face Upon the Floor, The _D'Arcy_ 108 +Fairies, The _Allingham_ 173 +Fence or an Ambulance, A _Malins_ 127 +First Settler's Story, The _Carleton_ 197 +First Snow-fall, The _Lowell_ 99 +Flag Goes By, The _Bennett_ 45 +Fountain, The _Lowell_ 186 +Four-leaf Clover, The _Higginson_ 134 +Frost, The _Gould_ 171 + +Give Us Men _Holland_ 33 +God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop _Southey_ 124 +Golden Keys 134 +Good Night and Good Morning _Houghton_ 184 +Gradatim _Holland_ 96 +Green Mountain Justice, The _Reeves_ 74 +Guilty or Not Guilty 22 + +Hand That Rules the World, The _Wallace_ 113 +House by the Side of the Road, The _Foss_ 56 +How Cyrus Laid the Cable _Saxe_ 58 +How He Saved St. Michael's _Stansbury_ 119 +Huskers, The _Whittier_ 152 + +If-- _Kipling_ 51 +I Like Little Pussy _J. Taylor_ 178 +Incident of the French Camp _R. Browning_ 182 +In Flanders Fields _McCrae_ 195 +In Flanders Fields: An Answer _Galbreath_ 195 +In School-Days _Whittier_ 31 +Inventor's Wife, An _Ewing_ 13 +Invictus _Henley_ 29 +Is It Worth While? _Joachim Miller_ 36 +I Want to Go to Morrow 72 + +Jane Conquest _Milne_ 76 +Jane Jones _King_ 59 +Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson _Waterman_ 62 +June _Lowell_ 163 + +Kate Ketchem _P. Cary_ 81 +Kate Shelly _Hall_ 25 +Katie Lee and Willie Grey 30 +Kentucky Belle _Woolson_ 10 +Kentucky Philosophy _Robertson_ 32 +Kid Has Gone to the Colors, The _Herschell_ 9 +King Robert of Sicily _Longfellow_ 147 + +Lady Moon _Houghton_ 185 +Landing of the Pilgrims, The _Hemans_ 8 +Lasca _Desprez_ 129 +Last Hymn, The _Faringham_ 126 +Leak in the Dike, The _P. Cary_ 187 +Leap for Life, A _Morris_ 74 +Leap of Roushan Beg, The _Longfellow_ 60 +Leedle Yawcob Strauss _Adams_ 35 +Legend of Bregenz, A _Procter_ 141 +Legend of the Organ-Builder, The _Dorr_ 106 +L'Envoi _Kipling_ 67 +Life's Mirror _Bridges_ 37 +Lips That Touch Liquor, The _Young_ 79 +Little Birdie _Tennyson_ 173 +Little Black-Eyed Rebel, The _Carleton_ 37 +Little Boy Blue _Field_ 195 +Little Brown Hands _Krout_ 71 +Little Plant, The _Brown_ 192 +Lost Chord, The _Procter_ 69 +Love of Country _Scott_ 185 + ("Breathes There the Man") + +Main Truck, The _Morris_ 74 +Mandalay _Kipling_ 82 +Man With the Hoe, The _Markham_ 115 +Maud Muller _Whittier_ 205 +Miller of the Dee, The _Mackay_ 39 +Moo Cow Moo, The _Cooke_ 40 +Mother's Fool 31 +Mothers of Men _Joaquin Miller_ 43 +Mount Vernon's Bells _Slade_ 95 +Mr. Finney's Turnip 96 +My Love Ship _Wilcox_ 114 +My Mother 138 + +Nathan Hale _Finch_ 78 +Never Trouble Trouble _Windsor_ 33 +Nobility _A. Cary_ 169 +"Not Understood" 136 +November _A. Cary_ 173 + +O Captain! My Captain _Whitman_ 7 +October's Bright Blue Weather _Jackson_ 144 +Old Clock on the Stairs, The _Longfellow_ 17 +Old Ironsides _Holmes_ 61 +Old Red Cradle, The _Grannies_ 39 +O Little Town of Bethlehem _Brooks_ 168 +On His Blindness _Milton_ 172 +On the Shores of Tennessee _Beers_ 93 +Opportunity _Ingalls_ 175 +Opportunity _Malone_ 175 +Order for a Picture, An _A. Cary_ 41 +Our Folks _Beers_ 107 +Out in the Fields _E.B. Browning_ 73 +Over the Hill to the Poorhouse _Carleton_ 131 +Overworked Elocutionist, The 9 +Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The _Lear_ 170 +Owl Critic, The _Fields_ 64 + +Paul Revere's Ride _Longfellow_ 193 +Penny Ye Mean to Gie, The 34 +Perfect Day, A _Bond_ 80 +Pippa's Song _R. Browning_ 185 +Plain Bob and a Job _Foley_ 44 +Planting of the Apple-Tree _Bryant_ 164 +Poet's Prophecy, A _Tennyson_ 7 +Polonius' Advice to Laertes _Shakespeare_ 177 +Poorhouse Nan _Blinn_ 116 +Psalm of Life, A _Longfellow_ 61 + +Quality of Mercy, The _Shakespeare_ 181 + +Raggedy Man, The _Riley_ 203 +Recessional, The _Kipling_ 86 +Ride of Jennie M'Neal, The _Carleton_ 111 +Riding on the Rail _Saxe_ 62 +Rivers of France, The 46 +Robert of Lincoln _Bryant_ 189 +Robert Reese (The Overworked Elocutionist) 9 +Rock Me to Sleep _Allen_ 102 + +Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth _Clough_ 39 +Second Table _Waterman_ 52 +Seein' Things _Field_ 203 +Seven Times One _Ingelow_ 46 +Seven Times Two _Ingelow_ 47 +Seven Times Three _Ingelow_ 47 +Seven Times Four _Ingelow_ 48 +Sheridan's Ride _Read_ 167 +She Walks in Beauty _Byron_ 180 +Sister and I 207 +Sister's Best Feller _Lincoln_ 84 +Sleep, Baby, Sleep _Elizabeth Prentiss_ 69 +Smack in School, The _Palmer_ 128 +Somebody's Mother _Brine_ 136 +Song of Our Flag, A _Nesbit_ 89 +Song of the Camp, The _B. Taylor_ 180 +Song of the Sea _Cornwall_ 23 +Song of the Shirt _Hood_ 157 +Song: The Owl _Tennyson_ 174 +So Was I _Smiley_ 36 +Suppose _P. Cary_ 178 +Sweet and Low _Tennyson_ 175 + +Tapestry Weavers, The _Chester_ 85 +Teacher's Dream, The _Venable_ 140 +Telling the Bees _Whittier_ 135 +Thanatopsis _Bryant_ 196 +Thanksgiving-Day _Child_ 178 +There's But One Pair of Stockings 27 +To a Butterfly _Wordsworth_ 179 +To a Skylark _Shelley_ 160 +To a Waterfowl _Bryant_ 137 +To-day _Carlyle_ 191 +To-day _Waterman_ 35 +To the Fringed Gentian _Bryant_ 179 +Tree, The _Bjornson_ 186 +Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star _J. Taylor_ 185 +Two Glasses, The _Wilcox_ 15 + +Village Blacksmith, The _Longfellow_ 97 +Visit from St. Nicholas, A _Moore_ 54 + +Walrus and the Carpenter, The _Carroll_ 138 +We Are Seven _Wordsworth_ 19 +What I Live For _Banks_ 114 +What is Good _O'Reilly_ 34 +When the Cows Come Home _Mitchell_ 90 +When the Minister Comes to Tea _Lincoln_ 89 +When the Teacher Gets Cross 86 +Where the West Begins _Chapman_ 85 +Whistling in Heaven 67 +White-Footed Deer, The _Bryant_ 94 +Who Won the War? _Pulsifer_ 43 +Why Should the Spirit of Mortal + Be Proud! _Knox_ 118 +Wild White Rose, The _Willis_ 66 +Wind and the Moon, The _Macdonald_ 191 +Wind, The _Rossetti_ 170 +Wishing _Allingham_ 190 +Woman's Question, A _Lathrop_ 129 +Wonderful World, The _Rands_ 174 +Woodman, Spare That Tree _Morris_ 70 + +You and You _Wharton_ 97 +Young Man Waited, The _Cooke_ 28 +Your Mission _Gates_ 55 + + + + +PREFACE + + +Seldom does a book of poems appear that is definitely a response to +demand and a reflection of readers' preferences. Of this collection that +can properly be claimed. For a decade NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS +has carried monthly a page entitled "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For." +The interest in this page has been, and is, phenomenal. Occasionally +space considerations or copyright restrictions have prevented compliance +with requests, but so far as practicable poems asked for have been +printed. Because it has become impossible to furnish many of the earlier +issues of the magazine, the publishers decided to select the poems most +often requested and, carefully revising these for possible errors, to +include them in the present collection. In some cases the desired poems +are old favorite dramatic recitations, but many of them are poems that +are required or recommended for memorizing in state courses of study. +This latter feature will of itself make the book extremely valuable to +teachers throughout the country. We are glad to offer here certain +poems, often requested, but too long for insertion on our magazine +Poetry Page. We are pleased also to be able to include a number of +popular copyright poems. Special permission to use these has been +granted through arrangement with the authorized publishers, whose +courtesy is acknowledged below in detail: + +THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY--_The Raggedy Man_, from "The Biographical +Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley," copyright 1918. + +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS--_Seein' Things_ and _Little Boy Blue_, by +Eugene Field; _Gradatim_ and _Give Us Men_, from "The Poetical Works of +J.G. Holland"; and _You and You_, by Edith Wharton, copyright 1919. + +HARPER AND BROTHERS--_Over the Hill to the Poor-House_, _The Ride of +Jennie M'Neal_, _The Little Black-Eyed Rebel_, and _The First Settler's +Story_, by Will Carleton. + +THE DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY--_The Moo Cow Moo_ and _The Young Man +Waited_, by Edmund Vance Cooke. + +LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY--_The House by the Side of the Road_ +and _The Calf Path_, by Sam Walter Foss. + +LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY--_October's Bright Blue Weather_, by Helen +Hunt Jackson. + +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY--Poems by John G. Whittier, Alice Cary, Phoebe +Cary, James T. Fields, and Lucy Larcom. + + +THE PUBLISHERS. + + + + + +POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR + + * * * * * + +O Captain! My Captain! + +(_This poem was written in memory of Abraham Lincoln._) + + +O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done, +The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; +The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, +While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; + But, O heart! heart! heart! + O the bleeding drops of red, + Where on the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen, cold and dead. + +O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells; +Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, +For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding, +For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; + Here Captain! dear father! + This arm beneath your head! + It is some dream that on the deck + You've fallen cold and dead. + +My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; +My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will; +The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; +From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; + Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! + But I, with mournful tread, + Walk the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen, cold and dead. + + _Walt Whitman._ + + + + +A Poet's Prophecy + + +For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, +Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; +Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, +Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; +Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew +From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; +Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, +With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunderstorm; +Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battleflags were furl'd +In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. +There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, +And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. + + _Tennyson, "Locksley Hall," 1842._ + + + + +The Landing of the Pilgrims + + +The breaking waves dashed high + On a stern and rock-bound coast, +And the woods against a stormy sky + Their giant branches tossed; + +And the heavy night hung dark + The hills and waters o'er, +When a band of exiles moored their bark + On the wild New England shore. + +Not as the conqueror comes, + They, the true-hearted, came,-- +Not with the roll of the stirring drums, + And the trumpet that sings of fame; + +Not as the flying come, + In silence and in fear; +They shook the depths of the desert's gloom + With their hymns of lofty cheer. + +Amidst the storms they sang; + And the stars heard, and the sea; +And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang + To the anthem of the free. + +The ocean eagle soared + From his nest by the white wave's foam; +And the rocking pines of the forest roared-- + This was their welcome home! + +There were men with hoary hair + Amidst that pilgrim band: +Why had they come to wither there + Away from their childhood's land? + +There was woman's fearless eye, + Lit by her deep love's truth; +There was manhood's brow serenely high, + And the fiery heart of youth. + +What sought they thus afar? + Bright jewels of the mine? +The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- + They sought a faith's pure shrine. + +Ay, call it holy ground,-- + The soil where first they trod! +They have left unstained what there they found-- + Freedom to worship God! + + _Felicia Hemans._ + + + + +Bobby Shaftoe + + +"Marie, will you marry me? +For you know how I love thee! +Tell me, darling, will you be + The wife of Bobby Shaftoe?" + +"Bobby, pray don't ask me more, +For you've asked me twice before; +Let us be good friends, no more, + No more, Bobby Shaftoe." + +"If you will not marry me, +I will go away to sea; +And you ne'er again shall be + A friend of Bobby Shaftoe." + +"Oh, you will not go away +For you've said so twice to-day. +Stop! He's gone! Dear Bobby, stay! + Dearest Bobby Shaftoe! + +"Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea, +Silver buckles on his knee, +But he'll come back and marry me, + Pretty Bobby Shaftoe. + +"He will soon come back to me, +And how happy I shall be, +He'll come back and marry me, + Dearest Bobby Shaftoe." + +"Bobby Shaftoe's lost at sea, +He cannot come back to thee. +And you ne'er again will see + Your dear Bobby Shaftoe. + +"Oh, we sadly mourn for thee, +And regret we ne'er shall see +Our friend Bobby, true and free, + Dearest Bobby Shaftoe." + +"Bobby Shaftoe's lost at sea. +And can ne'er come back to me, +But I'll ever faithful be, + True to Bobby Shaftoe." + +"Darling, I've come home from sea, +I've come back to marry thee, +For I know you're true to me, + True to Bobby Shaftoe." + +"Yes, I always cared for thee, +And now you've come back to me, +And we will always happy be, + Dearest Bobby Shaftoe." + +"Bobby Shaftoe's come from sea, +And we will united be, +Heart and hand in unity, + Mr. and Mrs. Shaftoe." + + + + +The Overworked Elocutionist + +(Or "ROBERT REESE") + + +Once there was a little boy + Whose name was Robert Reese, +And every Friday afternoon + He had to speak a piece. + +So many poems thus he learned + That soon he had a store +Of recitations in his head + And still kept learning more. + +Now this it is what happened: + He was called upon one week +And totally forgot the piece + He was about to speak. + +His brain he vainly cudgeled + But no word was in his head, +And so he spoke at random, + And this is what he said; + +My beautiful, my beautiful, + Who standest proudly by, +It was the schooner Hesperus + The breaking waves dashed high. + +Why is the Forum crowded? + What means this stir in Rome? +Under a spreading chestnut tree + There is no place like home. + +When Freedom from her mountain height + Cried, "Twinkle, little star," +Shoot if you must this old gray head, + King Henry of Navarre. + +If you're waking, call me early + To be or not to be, +Curfew must not ring to-night, + Oh, woodman, spare that tree. + +Charge, Chester, Charge! On, Stanley, on! + And let who will be clever, +The boy stood on the burning deck + But I go on for ever. + + + + +The Kid Has Gone to the Colors + + +The Kid has gone to the Colors + And we don't know what to say; +The Kid we have loved and cuddled + Stepped out for the Flag to-day. +We thought him a child, a baby + With never a care at all, +But his country called him man-size + And the Kid has heard the call. + +He paused to watch the recruiting, + Where, fired by the fife and drum, +He bowed his head to Old Glory + And thought that it whispered: "Come!" +The Kid, not being a slacker, + Stood forth with patriot-joy +To add his name to the roster-- + And God, we're proud of the boy! + +The Kid has gone to the Colors; + It seems but a little while +Since he drilled a schoolboy army + In a truly martial style, +But now he's a man, a soldier, + And we lend him a listening ear, +For his heart is a heart all loyal, + Unscourged by the curse of fear. + +His dad, when he told him, shuddered, + His mother--God bless her!--cried; +Yet, blest with a mother-nature, + She wept with a mother-pride, +But he whose old shoulders straightened + Was Granddad--for memory ran +To years when he, too, a youngster, + Was changed by the Flag to a man! + + _W.M. Herschell._ + + + + +Kentucky Belle + + +Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away-- +Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay-- +We lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've seen; +Roschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen. + +Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle. +How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell-- +Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to me +When I rode north with Conrad, away from the Tennessee. + +Conrad lived in Ohio--a German he is, you know-- +The house stood in broad cornfields, stretching on, row after row. +The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be; +But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of the Tennessee. + +Oh, for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill! +Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still! +But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky-- +Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye! + +From east to west, no river to shine out under the moon, +Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon: +Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn; +Only the rustle, rustle, as I walked among the corn. + +When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more, +But moved away from the cornlands, out to this river shore-- +The Tuscarawas it's called, sir--off there's a hill, you see-- +And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee. + +I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like mad +Over the bridge and up the road--Farmer Rouf's little lad. +Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say, +"Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way. + +"I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind; +He sweeps up all the horses--every horse that he can find. +Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men, +With bowie knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!" + +The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door; +The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor; +Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone. +Nearer, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on! + +Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture bar. +"Kentuck!" I called--"Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far! +I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right, +And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight. + +As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound-- +The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground-- +Coming into the turnpike out from the White Woman Glen-- +Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men. + +As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm; +But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my arm. +They came, they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along-- +Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong. + +Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day; +Pushing on east to the river, many long miles away, +To the border strip where Virginia runs up into the West, +And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest. + +On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance; +Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance. +And I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain, +When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein. + +Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face, +As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place. +I gave him a cup, and he smiled--'twas only a boy, you see; +Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Tennessee. + +Only sixteen he was, sir--a fond mother's only son-- +Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun! +The damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boyish mouth; +And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South. + +Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through; +Boasted and bragged like a trooper; but the big words wouldn't do;-- +The boy was dying, sir, dying as plain as plain could be, +Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee. + +But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South, +Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth. +"Do you know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistful began to say; +Then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted dead away. + +I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to; +I fed him, and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do; +And when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was gone, +Morgan's men--were miles; away, galloping, galloping on. + +"Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away! +Morgan--Morgan is waiting for me; Oh, what will Morgan say?" +But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door-- +The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before. + +And on, on, came the soldiers--the Michigan cavalry-- +And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,-- +They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night; +But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight. + +And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days; +For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways-- +Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west, +Through river-valleys and cornland farms, sweeping away her best. + +A bold ride and a long ride; but they were taken at last. +They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast; +But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford, +And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword. + +Well, I kept the boy till evening--kept him against his will-- +But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still. +When it was cool and dusky--you'll wonder to hear me tell-- +But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle. + +I kissed the star on her forehead--my pretty gentle lass-- +But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue-Grass. +A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had, +And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad. + +I guided him to the southward as well as I know how; +The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow; +And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell, +As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle! + +When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high; +Baby and I were both crying--I couldn't tell him why-- +But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall, +And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall. + +Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me; +He knew I couldn't help it--'twas all for the Tennessee, +But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass-- +A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue-Grass. + +The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle; +And Kentuck, she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well; +He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur. +Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her! + + _Constance F. Woolson._ + + + + +An Inventor's Wife + + +I remember it all so very well, the first of my married life, + That I can't believe it was years ago--it doesn't seem true at all; +Why, I just can see the little church where they made us man and wife, + And the merry glow of the first wood-fire that danced on our cottage + wall. + +_We were happy?_ Yes; and we prospered, too; the house belonged + to Joe, + And then, he worked in the planing mill, and drew the best of pay; +And our cup was full when Joey came,--our baby-boy, you know; + So, all went well till that mill burned down and the owner moved away. + +It wasn't long till Joe found work, but 'twas never quite the same,-- + Never steady, with smaller pay; so to make the two ends meet +He fell to inventin' some machine--I don't recall the name, + But he'd sit for hours in his little shop that opens toward the + street,-- + +Sit for hours, bent over his work, his tools all strewn about. + I used to want to go in there to dust and sweep the floor, +But 'twas just as if 'twas the parson there, writing his sermon out; + Even the baby--bless the child!--learned never to slam that door! + +People called him a clever man, and folks from the city came + To look at his new invention and wish my Joe success; +And Joe would say, "Little woman,"--for that was my old pet-name,-- + "If my plan succeeds, you shall have a coach and pair, and a fine silk + dress!" + +I didn't want 'em, the grand new things, but it made the big tears start + To see my Joe with his restless eyes, his fingers worn away +To the skin and bone, for he wouldn't eat; and it almost broke my heart + When he tossed at night from side to side, till the dawning of the day. + +Of course, with it all he lost his place. I couldn't blame the man, + The foreman there at the factory, for losing faith in Joe, +For his mind was never upon his work, but on some invention-plan, + As with folded arms and his head bent down he wandered to and fro. + +Yet, he kept on workin' at various things, till our little money went + For wheels and screws and metal casts and things I had never seen; +And I ceased to ask, "Any pay, my dear?" with the answer, "Not a cent!" + When his lock and his patent-saw had failed, he clung to that great + machine. + +I remember one special thing that year. He had bought some costly tool, + When we wanted our boy to learn to read--he was five years old, you + know; +He went to his class with cold, bare feet, till at last he came from + school + And gravely said, "Don't send me back; the children tease me so!" + +I hadn't the heart to cross the child, so, while I sat and sewed + He would rock his little sister in the cradle at my side; +And when the struggle was hardest and I felt keen hunger's goad + Driving me almost to despair--the little baby died. + +Her father came to the cradle-side, as she lay, so small and white; + "Maggie," he said, "I have killed this child, and now I am killing you! +I swear by heaven, I will give it up!" Yet, like a thief, that night + He stole to the shop and worked; his brow all wet with a clammy dew. + +I cannot tell how I lived that week, my little boy and I, + Too proud to beg; too weak to work; and the weather cold and wild. +I can only think of one dark night when the rain poured from the sky, + And the wind went wailing round the house, like the ghost of my buried + child. + +Joe still toiled in the little shop. Somebody clicked the gate; + A neighbor-lad brought in the mail and laid it on the floor, +But I sat half-stunned by my heavy grief crouched over the empty grate, + Till I heard--the crack of a pistol-shot; and I sprang to the workshop + door. + +That door was locked and the bolt shut fast. I could not cry, nor speak, + But I snatched my boy from the corner there, sick with a sudden dread, +And carried him out through the garden plot, forgetting my arms were weak, + Forgetting the rainy torrent that beat on my bare young head; + +The front door yielded to my touch. I staggered faintly in, + Fearing--_what_? He stood unharmed, though the wall showed a + jagged hole. +In his trembling hand, his aim had failed, and the great and deadly sin + Of his own life's blood was not yet laid on the poor man's tortured soul. + +But the pistol held another charge, I knew; and like something mad + I shook my fist in my poor man's face, and shrieked at him, fierce and + wild, +"How can you dare to rob us so?"--and I seized the little lad; + "How can you dare to rob your wife and your little helpless child?" + +All of a sudden, he bowed his head, while from his nerveless hand + That hung so limp, I almost feared to see the pistol fall. +"Maggie," he said in a low, low voice, "you see me as I stand + A hopeless man. My plan has failed. That letter tells you all." + +Then for a moment the house was still as ever the house of death; + Only the drip of the rain outside, for the storm was almost o'er; +But no;--there followed another sound, and I started, caught my breath; + As a stalwart man with a heavy step came in at the open door. + +I shall always think him an angel sent from heaven in a human guise; + He must have guessed our awful state; he couldn't help but see +There was something wrong; but never a word, never a look in his eyes + Told what he thought, as in kindly way he talked to Joe and me. + +He was come from a thriving city firm, and they'd sent him here to say + That _one_ of Joe's inventions was a great, successful thing; +And which do you think? His window-catch that he'd tinkered up one day; + And we were to have a good per cent on the sum that each would bring. + +And then the pleasant stranger went, and we wakened as from a dream. + My man bent down his head and said, "Little woman, you've saved my life!" +The worn look gone from his dear gray eyes, and in its place, a gleam + From the sun that has shone so brightly since, on Joe and his happy + wife! + + _Jeannie Pendleton Ewing._ + + + + +The Two Glasses + + +There sat two glasses filled to the brim +On a rich man's table, rim to rim, +One was ruddy and red as blood, +And one was clear as the crystal flood. + +Said the Glass of Wine to his paler brother: +"Let us tell tales of the past to each other; +I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth, +Where I was king, for I ruled in might; +For the proudest and grandest souls of earth +Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight. +From the heads of kings I have torn the crown; +From the heights of fame I have hurled men down. +I have blasted many an honored name; +I have taken virtue and given shame; +I have tempted youth with a sip, a taste, +That has made his future a barren waste. +Far greater than any king am I, +Or than any army beneath the sky. +I have made the arm of the driver fail, +And sent the train from the iron rail. +I have made good ships go down at sea. +And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me. +Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall; +And my might and power are over all! +Ho, ho, pale brother," said the Wine, +"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?" + +Said the Water Glass: "I cannot boast +Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host; +But I can tell of hearts that were sad, +By my crystal drops made bright and glad; +Of thirsts I have quenched and brows I have laved, +Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved. +I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain, +Slipped from the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain, +I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky, +And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye; +I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, +I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain. +I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, +That ground out the flour, and turned at my will. +I can tell of manhood debased by you +That I have uplifted and crowned anew; +I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid, +I gladden the heart of man and maid; +I set the wine-chained captive free, +And all are better for knowing me." + +These are the tales they told each other, +The Glass of Wine, and its paler brother, +As they sat together, filled to the brim, +On a rich man's table, rim to rim. + + _Ella Wheeler Wilcox._ + + + + + +Abraham Lincoln + +(_Written after Lincoln's death by Tom Taylor, famous cartoonist of the +London "Punch."_) + + +_You_ lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier! + _You_, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, +Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, + His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, + +His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, + His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, +His lack of all we prize as debonair, + Of power or will to shine, of art to please! + +_You_, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, + Judging each step, as though the way were plain; +Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, + Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain! + +Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet + The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, +Between the mourners at his head and feet-- + Say, scurril jester, is there room for you? + +Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer-- + To lame my pencil and confute my pen-- +To make me own this hind, of princes peer, + This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men. + +My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, + Noting how to occasion's height he rose; +How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, + How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows; + +How humble, yet how hopeful he could be; + How in good fortune and in ill the same; +Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, + Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. + +He went about his work--such work as few + Ever had laid on head, and heart, and hand-- +As one who knows where there's a task to do, + Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command; + +Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, + That God makes instruments to work His will, +If but that will we can arrive to know, + Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. + +So he went forth to battle, on the side + That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, +As in his peasant boyhood he had plied + His warfare with rude nature's thwarting mights;-- + +The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, + The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, +The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil, + The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, + +The ambushed Indian and the prowling bear-- + Such were the needs that helped his youth to train: +Rough culture--but such trees large fruit may bear, + If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. + +So he grew up, a destined work to do, + And lived to do it: four long, suffering years +Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, + And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, + +The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, + And took both with the same unwavering mood; +Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, + And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, + +A felon hand, between the goal and him, + Beached from behind his back, a trigger prest-- +And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, + Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest! + +The words of mercy were upon his lips, + Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, +When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse + To thoughts of peace on earth, goodwill to men. + +The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, + Utter one voice of sympathy and shame! +Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high; + Sad life, cut short as its triumph came! + + + + +The Old Clock on the Stairs + + +Somewhat back from the village street +Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; +Across its antique portico +Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; +And, from its station in the hall, +An ancient timepiece says to all, + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +Half-way up the stairs it stands, +And points and beckons with its hands, +From its case of massive oak, +Like a monk who, under his cloak, +Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! +With sorrowful voice to all who pass, + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +By day its voice is low and light; +But in the silent dead of night, +Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, +It echoes along the vacant hall, +Along the ceiling, along the floor, +And seems to say at each chamber door, + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +Through days of sorrow and of mirth, +Through days of death and days of birth, +Through every swift vicissitude +Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, +And as if, like God, it all things saw, +It calmly repeats those words of awe, + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +In that mansion used to be +Free-hearted Hospitality; +His great fires up the chimney roared; +The stranger feasted at his board; +But, like the skeleton at the feast, +That warning timepiece never ceased,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +There groups of merry children played; +There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; +Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime +And affluence of love and time! +Even as a miser counts his gold, +Those hours the ancient timepiece told,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +From that chamber, clothed in white, +The bride came forth on her wedding night; +There, in that silent room below, +The dead lay, in his shroud of snow; +And, in the hush that followed the prayer, +Was heard the old clock on the stair,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +All are scattered, now, and fled,-- +Some are married, some are dead; +And when I ask, with throbs of pain, +"Ah! when shall they all meet again?" +As in the days long since gone by, +The ancient timepiece makes reply,-- + "Forever--never! + Never-forever!" + +Never here, forever there, +Where all parting, pain, and care, +And death, and time, shall disappear,-- +Forever there, but never here! +The horologe of Eternity +Sayeth this incessantly,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + + _H.W. Longfellow._ + + + + +Christ in Flanders + + +We had forgotten You, or very nearly-- +You did not seem to touch us very nearly-- + Of course we thought about You now and then; +Especially in any time of trouble-- +We knew that you were good in time of trouble-- + But we were very ordinary men. + +And there were always other things to think of-- +There's lots of things a man has got to think of-- + His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife; +And so we only thought of You on Sunday-- +Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday-- + Because there's always lots to fill one's life. + +And, all the while, in street or lane or byway-- +In country lane, in city street, or byway-- + You walked among us, and we did not see. +Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements-- +How did we miss Your footprints on our pavements?-- + Can there be other folk as blind as we? + +Now we remember; over here in Flanders-- +(It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders)-- + This hideous warfare seems to make things clear. +We never thought about You much in England-- +But now that we are far away from England-- + We have no doubts, we know that You are here. + +You helped us pass the jest along the trenches-- +Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches-- + You touched its ribaldry and made it fine. +You stood beside us in our pain and weakness-- +We're glad to think You understand our weakness-- + Somehow it seems to help us not to whine. + +We think about You kneeling in the Garden-- +Ah, God, the agony of that dread Garden-- + We know You prayed for us upon the cross. +If anything could make us glad to bear it-- +'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it-- + Pain--death--the uttermost of human loss. + +Though we forgot You--You will not forget us-- +We feel so sure that You will not forget us-- + But stay with us until this dream is past. +And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon-- +Especially, I think, we ask for pardon-- + And that You'll stand beside us to the last. + + _L.W. in London "Spectator."_ + + + + +We Are Seven + + + --A simple Child, +That lightly draws its breath, +And feels its life in every limb, +What should it know of death? + +I met a little cottage Girl: +She was eight years old, she said; +Her hair was thick with many a curl +That clustered round her head. + +She had a rustic, woodland air, +And she was wildly clad: +Her eyes were fair, and very fair; +--Her beauty made me glad. + +"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, +How many may you be?" +"How many? Seven in all," she said, +And wondering looked at me. + +"And where are they? I pray you tell." +She answered, "Seven are we; +And two of us at Conway dwell, +And two are gone to sea. + +"Two of us in the church-yard lie, +My sister and my brother; +And, in the church-yard cottage, I +Dwell near them with my mother." + +"You say that two at Conway dwell, +And two are gone to sea, +Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell, +Sweet Maid, how this may be." + +Then did the little Maid reply, +"Seven boys and girls are we; +Two of us in the church-yard lie, +Beneath the church-yard tree." + +"You run about, my little Maid, +Your limbs they are alive; +If two are in the church-yard laid, +Then ye are only five." + +"Their graves are green, they may be seen," +The little Maid replied, +"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, +And they are side by side. + +"My stockings there I often knit, +My kerchief there I hem; +And there upon the ground I sit, +And sing a song to them. + +"And often after sunset, Sir, +When it is light and fair, +I take my little porringer, +And eat my supper there. + +"The first that died was sister Jane; +In bed she moaning lay, +Till God released her of her pain; +And then she went away. + +"So in the church-yard she was laid; +And, when the grass was dry, +Together round her grave we played, +My brother John and I. + +"And when the ground was white with snow, +And I could run and slide, +My brother John was forced to go, +And he lies by her side." + +"How many are you, then," said I, +"If they two are in heaven?" +Quick was the little Maid's reply, +"O Master! we are seven." + +"But they are dead; those two are dead! +Their spirits are in heaven!" +'T was throwing words away; for still +The little Maid would have her will, +And said, "Nay, we are seven!" + + _William Wordsworth._ + + + + +Echo + + +"I asked of Echo, t'other day + (Whose words are often few and funny), +What to a novice she could say + Of courtship, love and matrimony. + Quoth Echo plainly,--'Matter-o'-money!' + +"Whom should I marry? Should it be + A dashing damsel, gay and pert, +A pattern of inconstancy; + Or selfish, mercenary flirt? + Quoth Echo, sharply,--'Nary flirt!' + +"What if, aweary of the strife + That long has lured the dear deceiver, +She promise to amend her life, + And sin no more; can I believe her? + Quoth Echo, very promptly,--'Leave her!' + +"But if some maiden with a heart + On me should venture to bestow it, +Pray should I act the wiser part + To take the treasure or forego it? + Quoth Echo, with decision,--'Go it!' + +"But what if, seemingly afraid + To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter, +She vow she means to die a maid, + In answer to my loving letter? + Quoth Echo, rather coolly,-'Let her!' + +"What if, in spite of her disdain, + I find my heart entwined about +With Cupid's dear, delicious chain + So closely that I can't get out? + Quoth Echo, laughingly,--'Get out!' + +"But if some maid with beauty blest, + As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, +Will share my labor and my rest + Till envious Death shall overtake her? + Quoth Echo (sotto voce),--'Take her!'" + + _John G. Saxe._ + + + + +Engineers Making Love + + +It's noon when Thirty-five is due, +An' she comes on time like a flash of light, +An' you hear her whistle "Too-tee-too!" +Long 'fore the pilot swings in sight. +Bill Madden's drivin' her in to-day, +An' he's calling his sweetheart far away-- +Gertrude Hurd lives down by the mill; +You might see her blushin'; she knows it's Bill. +"Tudie, tudie! Toot-ee! Tudie, tudie! Tu!" + +Six-five, A.M. there's a local comes, +Makes up at Bristol, runnin' east; +An' the way her whistle sings and hums +Is a livin' caution to man and beast. +Every one knows who Jack White calls,-- +Little Lou Woodbury, down by the falls; +Summer or Winter, always the same, +She hears her lover callin' her name-- +"Lou-ie! Lou-ie! Lou-iee!" + +But at one fifty-one, old Sixty-four-- +Boston express, runs east, clear through-- +Drowns her rattle and rumble and roar +With the softest whistle that ever blew. +An' away on the furthest edge of town +Sweet Sue Winthrop's eyes of brown +Shine like the starlight, bright and clear, +When she hears the whistle of Abel Gear, +"You-oo! Su-u-u-u-u-e!" + +Along at midnight a freight comes in, +Leaves Berlin sometime--I don't know when; +But it rumbles along with a fearful din +Till it reaches the Y-switch there and then +The clearest notes of the softest bell +That out of a brazen goblet fell +Wake Nellie Minton out of her dreams; +To her like a wedding-bell it seems-- +"Nell, Nell, Nell! Nell, Nell, Nell!" + +Tom Willson rides on the right-hand side, +Givin' her steam at every stride; +An' he touches the whistle, low an' clear, +For Lulu Gray on the hill, to hear-- +"Lu-Lu! Loo-Loo! Loo-oo!" + +So it goes all day an' all night +Till the old folks have voted the thing a bore; +Old maids and bachelors say it ain't right +For folks to do courtin' with such a roar. +But the engineers their kisses will blow +From a whistle valve to the girls they know, +An' stokers the name of their sweethearts tell; +With the "Too-too-too" and the swinging bell. + + + _R.J. Burdette._ + + + + +Guilty or Not Guilty + + +She stood at the bar of justice, + A creature wan and wild, +In form too small for a woman, + In features too old for a child; +For a look so worn and pathetic + Was stamped on her pale young face, +It seemed long years of suffering + Must have left that silent trace. + +"Your name?" said the judge, as he eyed her + With kindly look yet keen,-- +"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir." + And your age?"--"I am turned fifteen." +"Well, Mary," and then from a paper + He slowly and gravely read, +"You are charged here--I'm sorry to say it-- + With stealing three loaves of bread. + +"You look not like an offender, + And I hope that you can show +The charge to be false. Now, tell me, + Are you guilty of this, or no?" +A passionate burst of weeping + Was at first her sole reply. +But she dried her eyes in a moment, + And looked in the judge's eye. + +"I will tell you just how it was, sir: + My father and mother are dead, +And my little brothers and sisters + Were hungry and asked me for bread. +At first I earned it for them + By working hard all day, +But somehow, times were bad, sir, + And the work all fell away. + +"I could get no more employment. + The weather was bitter cold, +The young ones cried and shivered-- + (Little Johnny's but four years old)-- +So what was I to do, sir? + I am guilty, but do not condemn. +I _took_--oh, was it _stealing?_-- + The bread to give to them." + +Every man in the court-room-- + Gray-beard and thoughtless youth-- +Knew, as he looked upon her, + That the prisoner spake the truth; +Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, + Out from their eyes sprung tears, +And out from their old faded wallets + Treasures hoarded for years. + +The judge's face was a study, + The strangest you ever saw, +As he cleared his throat and murmured + _Something_ about the _law_; +For one so learned in such matters, + So wise in dealing with men, +He seemed, on a simple question, + Sorely puzzled, just then. + +But no one blamed him or wondered, + When at last these words he heard, +"The sentence of this young prisoner + Is, for the present, deferred." +And no one blamed him or wondered + When he went to her and smiled +And tenderly led from the court-room, + Himself, the "guilty" child. + + + + +The Baby + + +Where did you come from, baby dear? +_Out of the everywhere into the here._ + +Where did you get your eyes so blue? +_Out of the sky as I came through._ + +What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? +_Some of the starry spikes left in._ + +Where did you get that little tear? +_I found it waiting when I got here._ + +What makes your forehead so smooth and high? +_A soft hand stroked it as I went by._ + +What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? +_Something better than anyone knows._ + +Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? +_Three angels gave me at once a kiss._ + +Where did you get that pearly ear? +_God spoke, and it came out to hear._ + +Where did you get those arms and hands? +_Love made itself into hooks and bands._ + +Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? +_From the same box as the cherubs' wings._ + +How did they all just come to be you? +_God thought about me, and so I grew._ + +But how did you come to us, you dear? +_God thought of you, and so I am here._ + + _George Macdonald._ + + + + +Song of the Sea + + +The sea! the sea! the open sea! +The blue, the fresh, the ever free! +Without a mark, without a bound, +It runneth the earth's wide regions round; +It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies, +Or like a cradled creature lies. + +I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! +I am where I would ever be; +With the blue above and the blue below, +And silence wheresoe'er I go. +If a storm should come and awake the deep +What matter? _I_ shall ride and sleep. + +I love, oh, how I love to ride +On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, +When every mad wave drowns the moon, +Or whistles aloud his tempest tune, +And tells how goeth the world below, +And why the southwest blasts do blow. + +I never was on the dull, tame shore, +But I loved the great sea more and more, +And back I flew to her billowy breast, +Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; +And a mother she _was_, and _is_, to me, +For I was born on the open sea! + +I've lived, since then, in calm and strife, +Full fifty summers a sailor's life, +With wealth to spend and a power to range, +But never have sought nor sighed for change; +And Death, whenever he comes to me, +Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea. + + _Barry Cornwall._ + + + + +Diffidence + + +"I'm after axin', Biddy dear--" + And here he paused a while +To fringe his words the merest mite + With something of a smile-- +A smile that found its image + In a face of beauteous mold, +Whose liquid eyes were peeping + From a broidery of gold. + +"I've come to ax ye, Biddy dear, + If--" then he stopped again, +As if his heart had bubbled o'er + And overflowed his brain. +His lips were twitching nervously + O'er what they had to tell, +And timed the quavers with the eyes + That gently rose and fell. + +"I've come--" and then he took her hands + And held them in his own, +"To ax--" and then he watched the buds + That on her cheeks had blown,-- +"Me purty dear--" and then he heard + The throbbing of her heart, +That told how love had entered in + And claimed its every part. + +"Och! don't be tazin' me," said she, + With just the faintest sigh, +"I've sinse enough to see you've come, + But what's the reason why?" +"To ax--" and once again the tongue + Forbore its sweets to tell, +"To ax--_if Mrs. Mulligan, + Has any pigs to sell_." + + + + +Curfew Must Not Ring To-night + + +Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away, +Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day, +And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,-- +He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny floating hair; +He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white, +Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night." + +"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, +With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp and cold, +"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die +At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh; +Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white +As she breathed the husky whisper: "Curfew must not ring to-night." + +"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton--every word pierced her young heart +Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart,-- +"Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower; +Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; +I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right; +Now I'm old I will not falter,--curfew, it must ring to-night." + +Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow. +As within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow. +She had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh: +"At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die." +And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright; +In an undertone she murmured, "Curfew must not ring to-night." + +With quick step she bounded forward, sprung within the old church door, +Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before; +Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow +Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro,-- +As she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light, +Up and up,--her white lips saying: "Curfew must not ring to-night." + +She has reached the topmost ladder; o'er her hangs the great, dark bell; +Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell. +Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging--'tis the hour of curfew now, +And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow. +Shall she let it ring? No, never! flash her eyes with sudden light, +As she springs and grasps it firmly--"Curfew shall not ring to-night!" + +Out she swung--far out; the city seemed a speck of light below, +There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro; +And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, +Sadly thought, "That twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell." +Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips so white, +Said, to hush her heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring to-night." + +It was o'er; the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more +Firmly on the dark old ladder where, for hundred years before +Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done +Should be told long ages after; as the rays of setting sun +Crimson all the sky with beauty, aged sires with heads of white, +Tell the eager, listening children, "Curfew did not ring that night." + +O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow, +Lately white with fear and anguish, has no anxious traces now. +At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn; +And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn, +Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light: +"Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell, "Curfew shall not ring to-night." + +Wide they flung the massive portal; led the prisoner forth to die,-- +All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the darkening English sky +Bessie comes with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet; +Kneeling on the turf beside him, lays his pardon at his feet. +In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned + and white, +Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me--curfew will not ring to-night." + + _Rose Hartwick Thorpe._ + + + + +Kate Shelly + + +Have you heard how a girl saved the lightning express-- + Of Kate Shelly, whose father was killed on the road? +Were he living to-day, he'd be proud to possess + Such a daughter as Kate. Ah! 'twas grit that she showed +On that terrible evening when Donahue's train +Jumped the bridge and went down, in the darkness and rain. + +She was only eighteen, but a woman in size, + With a figure as graceful and lithe as a doe, +With peach-blossom cheeks, and with violet eyes, + And teeth and complexion like new-fallen snow; +With a nature unspoiled and unblemished by art-- +With a generous soul, and a warm, noble heart! + +'Tis evening--the darkness is dense and profound; + Men linger at home by their bright-blazing fires; +The wind wildly howls with a horrible sound, + And shrieks through the vibrating telegraph wires; +The fierce lightning flashes along the dark sky; +The rain falls in torrents; the river rolls by. + +The scream of a whistle; the rush of a train! + The sound of a bell! a mysterious light +That flashes and flares through the fast falling rain! + A rumble! a roar! shrieks of human affright! +The falling of timbers! the space of a breath! +A splash in the river; then darkness and death! + +Kate Shelly recoils at the terrible crash; + The sounds of destruction she happens to hear; +She springs to the window--she throws up the sash, + And listens and looks with a feeling of fear. +The tall tree-tops groan, and she hears the faint cry +Of a drowning man down in the river near by. + +Her heart feebly flutters, her features grow wan, + And then through her soul in a moment there flies +A forethought that gives her the strength of a man-- + She turns to her trembling old mother and cries: +"I must save the express--'twill be here in an hour!" +Then out through the door disappears in the shower. + +She flies down the track through the pitiless rain; + She reaches the river--the water below +Whirls and seethes through the timbers. She shudders again; + "The bridge! To Moingona, God help me to go!" +Then closely about her she gathers her gown +And on the wet ties with a shiver sinks down. + +Then carefully over the timbers she creeps + On her hands and knees, almost holding her breath. +The loud thunder peals and the wind wildly sweeps, + And struggles to hurry her downward to death; +But the thought of the train to destruction so near +Removes from her soul every feeling of fear. + +With the blood dripping down from each torn, bleeding limb, + Slowly over the timbers her dark way she feels; +Her fingers grow numb and her head seems to swim; + Her strength is fast failing--she staggers! she reels! +She falls--Ah! the danger is over at last, +Her feet touch the earth, and the long bridge is passed! + +In an instant new life seems to come to her form; + She springs to her feet and forgets her despair. +On, on to Moingona! she faces the storm, + She reaches the station--the keeper is there, +"Save the lightning express! No--hang out the red light! +There's death on the bridge at the river to-night!" + +Out flashes the signal-light, rosy and red; + Then sounds the loud roar of the swift-coming train, +The hissing of steam, and there, brightly ahead, + The gleam of a headlight illumines the rain. +"Down brakes!" shrieks the whistle, defiant and shrill; +She heeds the red signal--she slackens, she's still! + +Ah! noble Kate Shelly, your mission is done; + Your deed that dark night will not fade from our gaze; +An endless renown you have worthily won; + Let the nation be just, and accord you its praise, +Let your name, let your fame, and your courage declare + What a _woman_ can do, and a _woman_ can dare! + + _Eugene J. Hall._ + + + + +There's But One Pair of Stockings to Mend To-Night + + +An old wife sat by her bright fireside, + Swaying thoughtfully to and fro +In an easy chair, whose creaky craw + Told a tale of long ago; +While down by her side, on the kitchen floor, +Stood a basket of worsted balls--a score. + +The good man dozed o'er the latest news + Till the light in his pipe went out; +And, unheeded, the kitten with cunning paws + Rolled and tangled the balls about; +Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair, +Swaying to and fro in the fire-light glare. + +But anon, a misty teardrop came + In her eyes of faded blue, +Then trickled down in a furrow deep + Like a single drop of dew; +So deep was the channel--so silent the stream-- +That the good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam. + +Yet marveled he much that the cheerful light + Of her eye had heavy grown, +And marveled he more at the tangled balls, + So he said in a gentle tone: +"I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow, +Conceal not from me thy sorrows now." + +Then she spoke of the time when the basket there + Was filled to the very brim; +And now, there remained of the goodly pile + But a single pair--for him; +"Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, +There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night. + +"I cannot but think of the busy feet + Whose wrappings were wont to lay +In the basket, awaiting the needle's time-- + Now wandering so far away; +How the sprightly steps to a mother dear, +Unheeded fell on the careless ear. + +"For each empty nook in the basket old + By the hearth there's a vacant seat; +And I miss the shadows from off the wall, + And the patter of many feet; +'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight, +At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night. + +"'Twas said that far through the forest wild, + And over the mountains bold, +Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves + Were gemmed with the rarest gold; +Then my first-born turned from the oaken door-- +And I knew the shadows were only four. + +"Another went forth on the foaming wave, + And diminished the basket's store; +But his feet grew cold--so weary and cold, + They'll never be warm any more. +And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me +To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea. + +"Two others have gone toward the setting sun, + And made them a home in its light, +And fairy fingers have taken their share, + To mend by the fireside bright; +Some other baskets their garments will fill-- +But mine, ah, mine is emptier still. + +"Another--the dearest, the fairest, the best-- + Was taken by angels away, +And clad in a garment that waxeth not old, + In a land of continual day; +Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light, +When I mend the one pair of stockings to-night." + + + + +The Young Man Waited + + +In the room below the young man sat, +With an anxious face and a white cravat, +A throbbing heart and a silken hat, +And various other things like that + Which he had accumulated. +And the maid of his heart was up above +Surrounded by hat and gown and glove, +And a thousand things which women love, +But no man knoweth the names thereof-- + And the young man sat and--waited. + +You will scarce believe the things I tell, +But the truth thereof I know full well, + Though how may not be stated; +But I swear to you that the maiden took +A sort of half-breed, thin stove-hook, +And heated it well in the gaslight there. +And thrust it into her head, or hair. +Then she took something off the bed, +And hooked it onto her hair, or head, +And piled it high, and piled it higher, +And drove it home with staples of wire! + And the young man anxiously--waited. + +Then she took a thing she called a "puff" +And some very peculiar whitish stuff, +And using about a half a peck, +She spread it over her face and neck, + (Deceit was a thing she hated!) +And she looked as fair as a lilied bower, +Or a pound of lard or a sack of flour;-- + And the young man wearily--waited. + +Then she took a garment of awful shape +And it wasn't a waist, nor yet a cape, +But it looked like a piece of ancient mail, +Or an instrument from a Russian jail, +And then with a fearful groan and gasp, +She squeezed herself in its deathly clasp-- + So fair and yet so fated! +And then with a move like I don't know what, +She tied it on with a double knot;-- + And the young man wofully--waited. + +Then she put on a dozen different things, +A mixture of buttons and hooks and strings, +Till she strongly resembled a notion store; +Then, taking some seventeen pins or more, +She thrust them into her ruby lips, +Then stuck them around from waist to hips, + And never once hesitated. +And the maiden didn't know, perhaps, +That the man below had had seven naps, + And that now he sleepily--waited. + +And then she tried to put on her hat, +Ah me, a trying ordeal was that! +She tipped it high and she tried it low, +But every way that the thing would go + Only made her more agitated. +It wouldn't go straight and it caught her hair, +And she wished she could hire a man to swear, +But alas, the only man lingering there + Was the one who wildly--waited. + +And then before she could take her leave, +She had to puff up her monstrous sleeve. +Then a little dab here and a wee pat there. +And a touch or two to her hindmost hair, +Then around the room with the utmost care + She thoughtfully circulated. +Then she seized her gloves and a chamoiskin, +Some breath perfume and a long stickpin, +A bonbon box and a cloak and some +Eau-de-cologne and chewing-gum, +Her opera glass and sealskin muff, +A fan and a heap of other stuff; +Then she hurried down, but ere she spoke, +Something about the maiden broke. +So she scurried back to the winding stair, +And the young man looked in wild despair, + And then he--evaporated. + + _Edmund Vance Cooke._ + + + + +Invictus + + +Out of the night that covers me, + Black as the Pit from pole to pole, +I thank whatever gods may be + For my unconquerable soul. + +In the fell clutch of circumstance + I have not winced nor cried aloud. +Under the bludgeonings of chance + My head is bloody, but unbowed. + +Beyond this place of wrath and tears + Looms but the Horror of the shade, +And yet the menace of the years + Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. + +It matters not how strait the gate, + How charged with punishments the scroll, +I am the master of my fate; + I am the captain of my soul. + + _William E. Henley._ + + + + +Katie Lee and Willie Grey + + +Two brown heads with tossing curls, +Red lips shutting over pearls, +Bare feet, white and wet with dew, +Two eyes black, and two eyes blue; +Little girl and boy were they, +Katie Lee and Willie Grey. + +They were standing where a brook, +Bending like a shepherd's crook, +Flashed its silver, and thick ranks +Of willow fringed its mossy banks; +Half in thought, and half in play, +Katie Lee and Willie Grey. + +They had cheeks like cherries red; +He was taller--'most a head; +She, with arms like wreaths of snow, +Swung a basket to and fro +As she loitered, half in play, +Chattering to Willie Grey. + +"Pretty Katie," Willie said-- +And there came a dash of red +Through the brownness of his cheek-- +"Boys are strong and girls are weak, +And I'll carry, so I will, +Katie's basket up the hill." + +Katie answered with a laugh, +"You shall carry only half"; +And then, tossing back her curls, +"Boys are weak as well as girls." +Do you think that Katie guessed +Half the wisdom she expressed? + +Men are only boys grown tall; +Hearts don't change much, after all; +And when, long years from that day, +Katie Lee and Willie Grey +Stood again beside the brook, +Bending like a shepherd's crook,-- + +Is it strange that Willie said, +While again a dash of red +Crossed the brownness of his cheek, +"I am strong and you are weak; +Life is but a slippery steep, +Hung with shadows cold and deep. + +"Will you trust me, Katie dear,-- +Walk beside me without fear? +May I carry, if I will, +All your burdens up the hill?" +And she answered, with a laugh, +"No, but you may carry half." + +Close beside the little brook, +Bending like a shepherd's crook, +Washing with its silver hands +Late and early at the sands, +Is a cottage, where to-day +Katie lives with Willie Grey. + +In a porch she sits, and lo! +Swings a basket to and fro-- +Vastly different from the one +That she swung in years agone, +_This_ is long and deep and wide, +And has--_rockers at the side_. + + + + + +Abou Ben Adhem + + +Abou Ben Adhem--may his tribe increase!-- +Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, +And saw, within the moonlight in his room, +Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, +An angel, writing in a book of gold. +Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, +And to the Presence in the room he said, +"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, +And, with a look made all of sweet accord, +Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." +"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," +Replied the angel.--Abou spoke more low, +But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then, +Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." + +The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night +It came again, with a great wakening light, +And showed the names whom love of God had blessed: +And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. + + _Leigh Hunt._ + + + + +In School-Days + + +Still sits the school-house by the road, + A ragged beggar sunning; +Around it still the sumachs grow, + And blackberry vines are running. + +Within, the master's desk is seen, + Deep scarred by raps official; +The warping floor, the battered seats, + The jack-knife's carved initial; + +The charcoal frescoes on its wall; + Its door's worn sill, betraying +The feet that, creeping slow to school, + Went storming out to playing! + +Long years ago a winter sun + Shone over it at setting; +Lit up its western window-panes, + And low eaves' icy fretting. + +It touched the tangled golden curls, + And brown eyes full of grieving, +Of one who still her steps delayed + When all the school were leaving. + +For near her stood the little boy + Her childish favor singled: +His cap pulled low upon a face + Where pride and shame were mingled. + +Pushing with restless feet the snow + To right and left, he lingered;-- +As restlessly her tiny hands + The blue-checked apron fingered. + +He saw her lift her eyes; he felt + The soft hand's light caressing, +And heard the tremble of her voice, + As if a fault confessing. + +"I'm sorry that I spelt the word: + I hate to go above you, +Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,-- + "Because, you see, I love you!" + +Still memory to a gray-haired man + That sweet child-face is showing. +Dear girl: the grasses on her grave + Have forty years been growing! + +He lives to learn, in life's hard school, + How few who pass above him +Lament their triumph and his loss, + Like her,--because they love him. + + _John Greenleaf Whittier._ + + + + +Mother's Fool + + +"Tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife, +"These boys will make their mark in life; +They were never made to handle a hoe, +And at once to a college ought to go; +There's Fred, he's little better than a fool, +But John and Henry must go to school." + +"Well, really, wife," quoth Farmer Brown, +As he set his mug of cider down, +"Fred does more work in a day for me +Than both his brothers do in three. +Book larnin' will never plant one's corn, +Nor hoe potatoes, sure's you're born; +Nor mend a rod of broken fence-- +For my part, give me common sense." + +But his wife was bound the roost to rule, +And John and Henry were sent to school, +While Fred, of course, was left behind, +Because his mother said he had no mind. + +Five years at school the students spent; +Then into business each one went. +John learned to play the flute and fiddle, +And parted his hair, of course, in the middle; +While his brother looked rather higher than he, +And hung out a sign, "H. Brown, M.D." + +Meanwhile, at home, their brother Fred +Had taken a notion into his head; +But he quietly trimmed his apple trees, +And weeded onions and planted peas, +While somehow or other, by hook or crook, +He managed to read full many a book; +Until at last his father said +He was getting "book larnin'" into his head; +"But for all that," added Farmer Brown, +"He's the smartest boy there is in town." + +The war broke out, and Captain Fred +A hundred men to battle led, +And when the rebel flag came down, +Went marching home as General Brown. +But he went to work on the farm again, +And planted corn and sowed his grain; +He shingled the barn and mended the fence, +Till people declared he had common sense. + +Now common sense was very rare, +And the State House needed a portion there; +So the "family dunce" moved into town-- +The people called him Governor Brown; +And the brothers who went to the city school +Came home to live with "mother's fool." + + + + +Kentucky Philosophy + + +You Wi'yam, cum 'ere, suh, dis instunce. + Wu' dat you got under dat box? +I do' want no foolin'--you hear me? + Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n but _rocks_? +'Peah ter me you's owdashus p'ticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine. +I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline? + +_I_ calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it + growed; +It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road. +You stole it, you rascal--you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot. +En time I gets th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease spot! + +I'll fix you. Mirandy! Mir_an_dy! go cut me a hick'ry--make 'ase! +En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place. +I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yam Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young + sinner, +Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner! + +Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'lf sur? I is, I's 'shamed you's my son! +En de holy accorjan angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done; +En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters-- +"One water-million stoled by Wi'yam Josephus Vetters." + +En wut you s'posen Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school, +'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule? +Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black + villiun? +I's s'prised dat a chile er yo mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million. + +En I's now gwinter cut it right open, en you shain't have nary bite, +Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions--en dat in de day's broad light-- +Ain't--_Lawdy!_ it's _green!_ Mirandy! +Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch! +Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yeered tell er des + sich? + +Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey + is green; +But w'en dey go _punk_, now you mine me, dey's ripe--en dat's des wut + I mean. +En nex' time you hook water-millions--_you_ heered me, you ign'ant, you + hunk, +Ef you do' want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"! + + _Harrison Robertson._ + + + + +Give Us Men + + +God give us men; a time like this demands +Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands. +Men whom the lust of office cannot kill; +Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy; +Men who possess opinions and a will; +Men who have honor; men who will not lie; +Men who can stand before a demagogue, +And brave his treacherous flatteries without winking; +Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog, +In public duty and in private thinking; +For while the rabble, with its thumb-worn creeds, +Its large professions, and its little deeds, +Mingle in selfish strife--lo! Freedom weeps, +Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps. + + _J.G. Holland._ + + + + +Never Trouble Trouble + + +My good man is a clever man, which no one will gainsay; +He lies awake to plot and plan 'gainst lions in the way, +While I, without a thought of ill, sleep sound enough for three, +For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me. + +A holiday we never fix but he is sure 'twill rain; +And when the sky is clear at six he knows it won't remain. +He is always prophesying ill to which I won't agree, +For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me. + +The wheat will never show a top--but soon how green the field! +We will not harvest half a crop--yet have a famous yield! +It will not sell, it never will! but I will wait and see, +For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me. + +We have a good share of worldly gear, and fortune seems secure, +Yet my good man is full of fear--misfortune's coming sure! +He points me out the almshouse hill, but cannot make me see, +For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me. + +He has a sort of second sights and when the fit is strong, +He sees beyond the good and right the evil and the wrong. +Heaven's cop of joy he'll surely spill unless I with him be, +For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me. + + _Fannie Windsor._ + + + + +What is Good + + +"What is the real good?" I asked in musing mood. +Order, said the law court; +Knowledge, said the school; +Truth, said the wise man; +Pleasure, said the fool; +Love, said the maiden; +Beauty, said the page; +Freedom, said the dreamer; +Home, said the sage; +Fame, said the soldier; +Equity, the seer. +Spake my heart full sadly: +"The answer is not here." +Then within my bosom +Softly this I heard: +"Each heart holds the secret: +Kindness is the word." + + _John Boyle O'Reilly._ + + + + +The Penny Ye Mean to Gie + + +There's a funny tale 'of a stingy man, + Who was none too good but might have been worse, +Who went to his church, on a Sunday night + And carried along his well-filled purse. + +When the sexton came with the begging plate, + The church was but dim with the candle's light; +The stingy man fumbled all thro' his purse, + And chose a coin by touch and not by sight. + +It's an odd thing now that guineas should be + So like unto pennies in shape and size. +"I'll gie a penny," the stingy man said: + "The poor must not gifts of pennies despise." + +The penny fell down with a clatter and ring! + And back in his seat leaned the stingy man. +"The world is full of the poor," he thought, + "I can't help them all--I give what I can." + +Ha! ha! how the sexton smiled, to be sure, + To see the gold guinea fall in the plate; +Ha! ha! how the stingy man's heart was wrung, + Perceiving his blunder--but just too late! + +"No matter," he said; "in the Lord's account + That guinea of gold is set down to me-- +They lend to him who give to the poor; + It will not so bad an investment be." + +"Na, na, mon," the chuckling sexton cried out, + "The Lord is na cheated--he kens thee well; +He knew it was only by accident + That out o' thy fingers the guinea fell! + +"He keeps an account, na doubt, for the puir; + But in that account He'll set down to thee +Na mair o' that golden guinea, my mon, + Than the one bare penny ye mean to gie!" + +There's comfort, too, in the little tale-- + A serious side as well as a joke-- +A comfort for all the generous poor + In the comical words the sexton spoke; + +A comfort to think that the good Lord knows + How generous we really desire to be, +And will give us credit in his account, + For all the pennies we long "to gie." + + + + +Leedle Yawcob Strauss + + +I haf von funny leedle poy + Vot gomes shust to my knee,-- +Der queerest schap, der createst rogue + As efer you dit see. +He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings + In all barts off der house. +But vot off dot? He vas mine son, + Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. + +He gets der measels und der mumbs, + Und eferyding dot's oudt; +He sbills mine glass off lager bier, + Poots schnuff indo mine kraut; +He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese-- + Dot vas der roughest chouse; +I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy + But leedle Yawcob Strauss. + +He dakes der milkban for a dhrum, + Und cuts mine cane in dwo +To make der schticks to beat it mit-- + Mine cracious, dot vas drue! +I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart + He kicks oup sooch a touse; +But nefer mind der poys vas few + Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. + +He asks me questions sooch as dese: + Who baints mine nose so red? +Who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt + Vrom der hair ubon mine hed? +Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp + Vene'er der glim I douse? +How gan I all dese dings eggsblain + To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss? + +I somedimes dink I schall go vild + Mit sooch a grazy poy, +Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest + Und beaceful dimes enshoy. +But ven he vas asleep in ped, + So quiet as a mouse, +I prays der Lord, "Dake any dings, + But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." + + _Charles F. Adams._ + + + + +To-day + + +We shall do so much in the years to come, + But what have we done to-day? +We shall give out gold in princely sum, + But what did we give to-day? +We shall lift the heart and dry the tear, +We shall plant a hope in the place of fear, +We shall speak with words of love and cheer, + But what have we done to-day? +We shall be so kind in the after while, + But what have we been to-day? +We shall bring to each lonely life a smile, + But what have we brought to-day? +We shall give to truth a grander birth, +And to steadfast faith a deeper worth, +We shall feed the hungering souls of earth, + But whom have we fed to-day? + + _Nixon Waterman._ + + + + +So Was I + + +My name is Tommy, an' I hates +That feller of my sister Kate's, +He's bigger'n I am an' you see +He's sorter lookin' down on me, +An' I resents it with a vim; +I think I am just as good as him. +He's older, an' he's mighty fly, +But's he's a kid, an' so am I. + +One time he came,--down by the gate, +I guess it must have been awful late,-- +An' Katie, she was there, an' they +Was feelin' very nice and gay, +An' he was talkin' all the while +About her sweet an' lovin' smile, +An' everythin' was as nice as pie, +An' they was there, an' so was I. + +They didn't see me, 'cause I slid +Down underneath a bush, an' hid, +An' he was sayin' that his love +Was greater'n all the stars above +Up in the glorious heavens placed; +An' then His arms got 'round her waist, +An' clouds were floatin' in the sky, +And they was there, an' so was I. + +I didn't hear just all they said, +But by an' by my sister's head +Was droopin' on his shoulder, an' +I seen him holdin' Katie's hand, +An' then he hugged her closer, some, +An' then I heerd a kiss--yum, yum; +An' Katie blushed an' drew a sigh, +An' sorter coughed,--an' so did I. + +An' then that feller looked around +An' seed me there, down on the ground, +An'--was he mad? well, betcher boots +I gets right out of there an' scoots. +An' he just left my sister Kate +A-standin' right there by the gate; +An' I seen blood was in his eye, +An' he runned fast--an' so did I. + +I runned the very best I could, +But he cotched up--I's 'fraid he would-- +An' then he said he'd teach me how +To know my manners, he'd allow; +An' then he shaked me awful. Gee! +He jest--he frashed the ground with me. +An' then he stopped it by and by, +'Cause he was tired--an' so was I, + +An' then he went back to the gate +An' couldn't find my sister Kate +'Cause she went in to bed, while he +Was runnin' 'round an' thumpin' me. +I got round in a shadder dim, +An' made a face, an' guffed at him; +An' then the moon larfed, in the sky, +'Cause he was there, an' so was I. + + _Joseph Bert Smiley._ + + + + +Is It Worth While? + + +Is it worth while that we jostle a brother. + Bearing his load on the rough road of life? +Is it worth while that we jeer at each other + In blackness of heart that we war to the knife? + God pity us all in our pitiful strife. + +God pity as all as we jostle each other; + God pardon us all for the triumph we feel +When a fellow goes down 'neath his load on the heather, + Pierced to the heart: Words are keener than steel, + And mightier far for woe than for weal, + +Were it not well, in this brief little journey + On over the isthmus, down into the tide, +We give him a fish instead of a serpent, + Ere folding the hands to be and abide + Forever and aye in dust at his side? + +Look at the roses saluting each other; + Look at the herds all at peace on the plain; +Man, and man only, makes war on his brother, + And laughs in his heart at his peril and pain, + Shamed by the beasts that go down on the plain. + +Is it worth while that we battle to humble + Some poor fellow down into the dust? +God pity us all! Time too soon will tumble + All of us together, like leaves in a gust, + Humbled, indeed, down into the dust. + + _Joaquin Miller._ + + + + +Life's Mirror + + +There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave, + There are souls that are pure and true; +Then give to the world the best you have, + And the best will come back to you. + +Give love, and love to your life will flow, + A strength in your utmost need; +Have faith, and a score of hearts will show + Their faith in your work and deed. + +Give truth, and your gift will be paid in kind; + And honor will honor meet, +And the smile which is sweet will surely find + A smile that is just as sweet. + +Give pity and sorrow to those who mourn; + You will gather in flowers again +The scattered seeds from your thought outborne, + Though the sowing seemed in vain. + +For life is the mirror of king and slave; + 'Tis just what we are and do; +Then give to the world the best you have, + And the best will come back to you. + + _Madeline S. Bridges._ + + + + +The Little Black-Eyed Rebel + + +A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down +With food to feed the people of the British-governed town; +And the little black-eyed rebel, so cunning and so sly, +Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye. + +His face was broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough, +The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough; +But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh, +And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye. + +He drove up to the market, he waited in the line-- +His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine. +But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, +Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye. + +"Now, who will buy my apples?" he shouted, long and loud; +And, "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd. +But from all the people round him came no word of reply, +Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye. + +For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day +Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away, +Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain, or die; +And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye. + +But the treasures--how to get them? crept the question through her mind, +Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find; +And she paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh, +Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye. + +So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red-- +"May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said; +And the brown face flushed to scarlet, for the boy was somewhat shy, +And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye. + +"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he. +"I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she. +And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, +With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye. + +Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small, +And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl! +Carry back again _this_ package, and be sure that you are spry!" +And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye. + +Loud the motley crowd was laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak; +And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak. +And "Miss, I have good apples," a bolder lad did cry; +But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye. + +With the news from loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet, +Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street. +"There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try," +Thought the little black-eyed rebel with a twinkle in her eye. + + _Will Carleton._ + + + + +A Day Well Spent + + +If you sit down at set of sun +And count the deeds that you have done, +And, counting, find +One self-denying act, one word that eased the heart of him that heard; +One glance most kind, which felt like sunshine where it went, +Then you may count that day well spent. + +But if through, all the livelong day +You've eased no heart by yea or nay, +If through it all you've nothing done that you can trace +That brought the sunshine to one face, +No act most small that helped some soul and nothing cost, +Then count that day as worse than lost. + + + +Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth + + +Say not the struggle nought availeth, + The labor and the wounds are vain, +The enemy faints not, nor faileth, + And as things have been they remain. + +If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; + It may be, in yon smoke concealed, +Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, + And, but for you, possess the field. + +For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, + Seem here no painful inch to gain, +Far back, through creeks and inlets making, + Comes silent, flooding in, the main, + +And not by eastern windows only, + When daylight comes, comes in the light, +In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, + But westward, look, the land is bright. + + _A.H. Clough._ + + + + +The Miller of the Dee + + +There dwelt a miller, hale and bold, + Beside the river Dee; +He worked and sang from morn till night-- + No lark more blithe than he; +And this the burden of his song + Forever used to be: +"I envy nobody--no, not I-- + And nobody envies me!" + +"Thou'rt wrong, my friend," said good King Hal, + "As wrong as wrong can be; +For could my heart be light as thine, + I'd gladly change with thee. +And tell me now, what makes thee sing, + With voice so loud and free, +While I am sad, though I'm a king, + Beside the river Dee?" + +The miller smiled and doffed his cap, + "I earn my bread," quoth he; +"I love my wife, I love my friend, + I love my children three; +I owe no penny I cannot pay, + I thank the river Dee +That turns the mill that grinds the corn + That feeds my babes and me." + +"Good friend," said Hal, and sighed the while, + "Farewell, and happy be; +But say no more, if thou'dst be true + That no one envies thee; +Thy mealy cap is worth my crown, + Thy mill my kingdom's fee; +Such men as thou art England's boast, + O miller of the Dee!" + + _Charles Mackay._ + + + + +The Old Red Cradle + + +Take me back to the days when the old red cradle rocked, + In the sunshine of the years that are gone; +To the good old trusty days, when the door was never locked, + And we slumbered unmolested till the dawn. + +I remember of my years I had numbered almost seven, + And the old cradle stood against the wall-- +I was youngest of the five, and two were gone to heaven, + But the old red cradle rocked us all. + +And if ever came a day when my cheeks were flushed and hot, + When I did not mind my porridge or my play, +I would clamber up its side and the pain would be forgot, + When the old red cradle rocked away. + +It has been a hallowed spot where I've turned through all the years, + Which have brought me the evil with the good, +And I turn again to-night, aye, and see it through my tears, + The place where the dear old cradle stood. + +By its side my father paused with a little time to spare. + And the care-lines would soften on his brow, +Ah! 't was but a little while that I knew a father's care, + But I fancy in my dreams I see him now. + +By my mother it was rocked when the evening meal was laid, + And again I seem to see her as she smiled; +When the rest were all in bed, 'twas there she knelt and prayed, + By the old red cradle and her child. + +Aye, it cradled one and all, brothers, sisters in it lay, + And it gave me the sweetest rest I've known; +But to-night the tears will flow, and I let them have their way, + For the passing years are leaving me alone. + +And it seems of those to come, I would gladly give them all + For a slumber as free from care as then, +Just to wake to-morrow morn where the rising sun would fall + Round the old red cradle once again. + +But the cradle long has gone and the burdens that it bore, + One by one, have been gathered to the fold; +Still the flock is incomplete, for it numbers only four, + With one left out straying in the cold. + +Heaven grant again we may in each other's arms be locked, + Where no sad tears of parting ever fall; +God forbid that one be lost that the old red cradle rocked; + And the dear old cradle rocked us all. + + _Annie J. Granniss._ + + + + +The Moo Cow Moo + + +My papa held me up to the Moo Cow Moo + So close I could almost touch, +And I fed him a couple of times or so, + And I wasn't a fraid-cat, much. + +But if my papa goes in the house, + And my mamma she goes in too, +I keep still like a little mouse + For the Moo Cow Moo might Moo. + +The Moo Cow's tail is a piece of rope + All raveled out where it grows; +And it's just like feeling a piece of soap + All over the Moo Cow's nose. + +And the Moo Cow Moo has lots of fun + Just switching his tail about, +But if he opens his mouth, why then I run, + For that's where the Moo comes out. + +The Moo Cow Moo has deers on his head, + And his eyes stick out of their place, +And the nose of the Moo Cow Moo is spread + All over the Moo Cow's face. + +And his feet are nothing but fingernails, + And his mamma don't keep them cut, +And he gives folks milk in water pails, + When he don't keep his handles shut. + +But if you or I pull his handles, why + The Moo Cow Moo says it hurts, +But the hired man sits down close by + And squirts, and squirts, and squirts. + + _Edmund Vance Cooke._ + + + + +All Things Bright and Beautiful + + +All things bright and beautiful, + All creatures great and small, +All things wise and wonderful,-- + The Lord God made them all. + +Each little flower that opens, + Each little bird that sings,-- +He made their glowing colors, + He made their tiny wings. + +The rich man in his castle, + The poor man at his gate, +God made them, high or lowly, + And ordered their estate. + +The purple-headed mountain, + The river running by, +The morning, and the sunset + That lighteth up the sky, + +The cold wind in the winter, + The pleasant summer sun, +The ripe fruits in the garden,-- + He made them, every one. + +The tall trees in the greenwood, + The meadows where we play, +The rushes by the water + We gather every day,-- + +He gave us eyes to see them, + And lips that we might tell +How great is God Almighty, + Who hath made all things well. + + _Cecil Frances Alexander._ + + + + +An Order for a Picture + + +Oh, good painter, tell me true, + Has your hand the cunning to draw + Shapes of things that you never saw? +Aye? Well, here is an order for you. + +Woods and cornfields, a little brown,-- + The picture must not be over-bright,-- + Yet all in the golden and gracious light +Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. + Alway and alway, night and morn, + Woods upon woods, with fields of corn + Lying between them, not quite sere, +And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, +When the wind can hardly find breathing-room, + Under their tassels,--cattle near, +Biting shorter the short green grass, +And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, +With bluebirds twittering all around,-- +(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)-- + These, and the little house where I was born, +Low and little, and black and old, +With children, many as it can hold, +All at the windows, open wide,-- +Heads and shoulders clear outside, +And fair young faces all ablush: + Perhaps you have seen, some day, + Roses crowding the self-same way, +Out of a wilding, wayside bush. + +Listen closer. When you have done + With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, +A lady, the loveliest ever the sun +Looked down upon you must paint for me: +Oh, if I could only make you see + The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, +The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, +The woman's soul, and the angel's face + That are beaming on me all the while, + I need not speak these foolish words: + Yet one word tells you all I would say,-- +She is my mother: you will agree + That all the rest may be thrown away. + +Two little urchins at her knee +You must paint, sir: one like me,-- + The other with a clearer brow, + And the light of his adventurous eyes + Flashing with boldest enterprise: +At ten years old he went to sea,-- + God knoweth if he be living now; + He sailed in the good ship "Commodore,"-- +Nobody ever crossed her track +To bring us news, and she never came back. + Ah, it is twenty long years and more +Since that old ship went out of the bay + With my great-hearted brother on her deck: + I watched him till he shrank to a speck, +And his face was toward me all the way. +Bright his hair was, a golden brown, + The time we stood at our mother's knee: +That beauteous head, if it did go down, + Carried sunshine into the sea! + +Out in the fields one summer night + We were together, half afraid + Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade + Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,-- +Loitering till after the low little light + Of the candle shone through the open door, +And over the hay-stack's pointed top, +All of a tremble and ready to drop, + The first half-hoar, the great yellow star, + That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, +Had often and often watched to see + Propped and held in its place in the skies +By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree, + Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,-- +Dead at the top, just one branch full +Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, + From which it tenderly shook the dew +Over our heads, when we came to play +In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day. + Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore +A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,-- +The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, +Not so big as a straw of wheat: +The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, +But cried and cried, till we held her bill, +So slim and shining, to keep her still. + +At last we stood at our mother's knee. + Do you think, sir, if you try, + You can paint the look of a lie? + If you can, pray have the grace + To put it solely in the face +Of the urchin that is likest me: + I think 'twas solely mine, indeed: + But that's no matter,--paint it so; + The eyes of our mother--(take good heed)-- +Looking not on the nestful of eggs, +Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, +But straight through our faces down to our lies, +And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise! +I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though +A sharp blade struck through it. + +You, sir, know +That you on the canvas are to repeat +Things that are fairest, things most sweet,-- +Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree,-- +The mother,--the lads, with their bird at her knee: + But, oh, that look of reproachful woe! +High as the heavens your name I'll shout, +If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. + + _Alice Cary._ + + + + +Who Won the War? + + + Who won the war? +'T was little Belgium stemmed the tide +Of ruthless hordes who thought to ride +Her borders through and prostrate France +Ere yet she'd time to raise her lance. + 'T was plucky Belgium. + + Who won the war? +Italia broke the galling chain +Which bound her to the guilty twain; +Then fought 'gainst odds till one of these +Lay prone and shattered at her knees. + 'T was gallant Italy. + + Who won the war? +Old England's watch dogs of the main +Their vigil kept, and not in vain; +For not a ship their wrath dared brave +Save those which skulked beneath the wave. + 'T was mighty England. + + Who won the war? +'T was France who wrote in noble rage +The grandest words on history's page, +"They shall not pass"--the devilish Hun; +And he could never pass Verdun. + 'T was sturdy France. + + Who won the war? +In darkest hour there rose a cry, +"Liberty, sweet Liberty, thou shalt not die!" +Thank God! they came across the sea, +Two million men and victory! + 'T was glorious America. + + Who won the war? +No one of these; not one, but all +Who answered Freedom's clarion call. +Each humble man who did his bit +In God's own book of fame is writ. + These won the war. + + _Woodbury Pulsifer._ + + + + +Mothers of Men + + +The bravest battle that ever was fought! + Shall I tell you where and when? +On the map of the world you will find it not, + 'Twas fought by the mothers of men. + +Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, + With sword or nobler pen, +Nay, not with eloquent words or thought + From mouths of wonderful men; + +But deep in the walled-up woman's heart-- + Of woman that would not yield, +But bravely, silently, bore her part-- + Lo, there is the battle field! + +No marshaling troup, no bivouac song, + No banner to gleam or wave, +But oh, these battles, they last so long-- + From babyhood to the grave. + +Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars, + She fights in her walled-up town-- +Fights on and on in the endless wars, + Then, silent, unseen, goes down. + +Oh, ye with banner and battle shot, + And soldiers to shout and praises +I tell you the kingliest victories fought + Were fought in those silent ways. + +Oh, spotless in a world of shame, + With splendid and silent scorn, +Go back to God as white as you came-- + The kingliest warrior born! + + _Joaquin Miller._ + + + + +Plain Bob and a Job + + +Bob went lookin' for a job-- +Didn't want a situation; didn't ask a lofty station: +Didn't have a special mission for a topnotcher's position; +Didn't have such fine credentials--but he had the real essentials-- +Had a head that kept on workin' and two hands that were not shirkin'; +Wasn't either shirk or snob; +Wasn't Mister--just plain Bob, +Who was lookin' for a job. + +Bob went lookin' for a job; +And he wasn't scared or daunted when he saw a sign--"Men Wanted," +Walked right in with manner fittin' up to where the Boss was sittin', +And he said: "My name is Bob, and I'm lookin' for a job; +And if you're the Boss that hires 'em, starts 'em working and that + fires 'em, +Put my name right down here, Neighbor, as a candidate for labor; +For my name is just plain 'Bob, +And my pulses sort o' throb +For that thing they call a job." +Bob kept askin' for a job, +And the Boss, he says: "What kind?" And Bob answered: "Never mind; +For I am not a bit partic'ler and I never was a stickler +For proprieties in workin'--if you got some labor lurkin' +Anywhere around about kindly go and trot it out. +It's, a job I want, you see-- +Any kind that there may be +Will be good enough for me." + +Well, sir, Bob he got a job. +But the Boss went 'round all day in a dreamy sort of way; +And he says to me: "By thunder, we have got the world's Eighth Wonder! +Got a feller name of Bob who just asked me for a job-- +Never asks when he engages about overtime in wages; +Never asked if he'd get pay by the hour or by the day; +Never asked me if it's airy work and light and sanitary; +Never asked me for my notion of the chances of promotion; +Never asked for the duration of his annual vacation; +Never asked for Saturday half-a-holiday with pay; +Never took me on probation till he tried the situation; +Never asked me if it's sittin' work or standin', or befittin' +Of his birth and inclination--he just filed his application, +Hung his coat up on a knob, +Said his name was just plain Bob-- +And went workin' at a job!" + + _James W. Foley._ + + + + +Aunt Tabitha + + +Whatever I do and whatever I say, +Aunt Tabitha tells me it isn't the way +When _she_ was a girl (forty summers ago); +Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so. + +Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice! +But I like my own way, and I find it _so_ nice! +And besides, I forget half the things I am told; +But they all will come back to me--when I am old. + +If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, +He may chance to look in as I chance to look out; +_She_ would never endure an impertinent stare-- +It is _horrid_, she says, and I mustn't sit there. + +A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own, +But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone; +So I take a lad's arm--just for safety you know-- +But Aunt Tabitha tells me _they_ didn't do so. + +How wicked we are, and how good they were then! +They kept at arm's length those detestable men; +What an era of virtue she lived in!--But stay-- +Were the _men_ all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day? + +If the men _were_ so wicked, I'll ask my papa +How he dared to propose to my darling mamma; +Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows? +And what shall _I_ say, if a wretch should propose? + +I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, +What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been! +And her grand-aunt--it scares me--how shockingly sad +That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad! + +A martyr will save us, and nothing else can, +Let _me perish_--to rescue some wretched young man! +Though when to the altar a victim I go, +Aunt Tabitha'll tell me _she_ never did so! + + + + +The Flag Goes By + + +Hats off! +Along the street there comes +A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, + A flash of color beneath the sky: +Hats off! + The flag is passing by! + +Blue and crimson and white it shines, +Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. +Hats off! +The colors before us fly; +But more than the flag is passing by. + +Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, +Fought to make and to save the State; +Weary marches and sinking ships; +Cheers of victory on dying lips; + +Days of plenty and years of peace, +March of a strong land's swift increase: +Equal justice, right and law, +Stately honor and reverent awe; + +Sign of a nation, great and strong, +To ward her people from foreign wrong; +Pride and glory and honor, all +Live in the colors to stand or fall. + +Hats off! +Along the street there comes +A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, + And loyal hearts are beating high: +Hats off! + The flag is passing by! + + _H.H. Bennett._ + + + + +The Rivers of France + + +The rivers of France are ten score and twain, + But five are the names that we know: +The Marne, the Vesle, the Oureq and the Aisne, + And the Somme of the swampy flow. + +The rivers of France, from source to sea, + Are nourished by many a rill, +But these five, if ever a drouth there be + The fountains of sorrow would fill. + +The rivers of France shine silver white, + But the waters of five are red +With the richest blood, in the fiercest fight + For freedom that ever was shed. + +The rivers of France sing soft as they run, + But five have a song of their own, +That hymns the fall of the arrogant one + And the proud cast down from his throne. + +The rivers of France all quietly take + To sleep in the house of their birth, +But the carnadined wave of five shall break + On the uttermost strands of earth. + +Five rivers of France--see! their names are writ + On a banner of crimson and gold, +And the glory of those who fashioned it + Shall nevermore cease to be told. + + _H.J.M., in London "Times."_ + + + + +Seven Times One + + +There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, + There's no rain left in heaven; +I've said my "seven times" over and over: + Seven times one are seven. + +I am old, so old I can write a letter; + My birthday lessons are done; +The lambs play always, they know no better, + They are only one times one. + +O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing + And shining so round and low; +You were bright! but your light is failing, + You are nothing now but a bow. + +You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, + That God has hidden your face? +I hope if you have, you'll soon be forgiven, + And shine again in your place. + +O velvet Bee, you're a dusty fellow; + You've powdered your legs with gold! +O brave Marshmary buds, rich and yellow, + Give me your money to hold! + +O Columbine, open your folded wrapper + Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! +O Cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper + That hangs in your clear green bell! + +And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, + I will not steal them away; +I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, + I am seven times one to-day. + + _Jean Ingelow._ + + + + +Seven Times Two + + +You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, + How many soever they be, +And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges, + Come over, come over to me. + +Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling + No magical sense conveys, +And bells have forgotten their old art of telling + The fortune of future days. + +"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily. + While a boy listened alone; +Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily + All by himself on a stone. + +Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, + And mine, they are yet to be; +No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: + You leave the story to me. + +The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, + Preparing her hoods of snow: +She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: + Oh, children take long to grow. + +I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, + Nor long summer bide so late; +And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, + For some things are ill to wait. + +I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, + While dear hands are laid on my head: +"The child is a woman, the book may close over, + For all the lessons are said." + +I wait for my story--the birds cannot sing it, + Not one, as he sits on the tree; +The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it! + Such as I wish it to be. + + _Jean Ingelow._ + + + + +Seven Times Three + +LOVE + + +I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, + Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; +"Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover-- + Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait + Till I listen and hear + If a step draweth near, + For my love he is late! + +"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, + A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, +The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: + To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? + Let the star-clusters grow, + Let the sweet waters flow. + And cross quickly to me. + +"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over + From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; +You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover + To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. + Ah, my sailor, make haste, + For the time runs to waste, + And my love lieth deep, + +"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, + I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." +By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover; + Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; + But I'll love him more, more + Than e'er wife loved before, + Be the days dark or bright. + + _Jean Ingelow._ + + + + +Seven Times Four + +MATERNITY + + +Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, + Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! +When the wind wakes, how they rock in the grasses, + And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! +Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses + Eager to gather them all. + +Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! + Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; +Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, + That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; +Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow,"-- + Sing once, and sing it again. + +Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, + Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; +A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, + And haply one musing doth stand at her prow, +O bonny brown son, and O sweet little daughters, + Maybe he thinks on you now! + +Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, + Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! +A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, + And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall! +Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, + God that is over us all! + + _Jean Ingelow._ + + + + +Autumn Woods + + +Ere, in the northern gale, + The summer tresses of the trees are gone, +The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, + Have put their glory on. + +The mountains that infold, + In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, +Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, + That guard the enchanted ground. + +I roam the woods that crown + The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, +Where the gay company of trees look down + On the green fields below. + +My steps are not alone + In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, +Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown + Along the winding way. + +And far in heaven, the while, + The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, +Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-- + The sweetest of the year. + +Where now the solemn shade, + Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; +So grateful, when the noon of summer made + The valleys sick with heat? + +Let in through all the trees + Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; +Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze, + Twinkles, like beams of light. + +The rivulet, late unseen, + Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, +Shines with the image of its golden screen + And glimmerings of the sun. + +But 'neath yon crimson tree, + Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, +Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, + Her blush of maiden shame. + +Oh, Autumn! why so soon + Depart the hues that make thy forests glad; +Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, + And leave thee wild and sad? + +Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed + Forever in thy colored shades to stray; +Amid the kisses of the soft southwest + To rove and dream for aye; + +And leave the vain low strife + That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power, +The passions and the cares that wither life, + And waste its little hour. + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + + + +The Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge + + +Did you ever hear of the Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge, who lay +With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of + that terrible day? +They were firing above him and firing below, and the tempest of shot + and shell +Was raging like death, as he moaned in his pain, by the breastworks + where he fell. + +"Go back with your corps," our colonel had said, but he waited the + moment when +He might follow the ranks and shoulder a gun with the best of us + bearded men; +And so when the signals from old Fort Wood set an army of veterans wild, +He flung down his drum, which spun down the hill like the ball of a + wayward child. + +And then he fell in with the foremost ranks of brave old company G, +As we charged by the flank, with our colors ahead, and our columns + closed up like a V, +In the long, swinging lines of that splendid advance, when the flags + of our corps floated out, +Like the ribbons that dance in the jubilant lines of the march of a + gala day rout. + +He charged with the ranks, though he carried no gun, for the colonel + had said him nay, +And he breasted the blast of the bristling guns, and the shock of the + sickening fray; +And when by his side they were falling like hail he sprang to a comrade + slain, +And shouldered his musket and bore it as true as the hand that was dead + in pain. + +'Twas dearly we loved him, our Drummer Boy, with a fire in his bright, + black eye, +That flashed forth a spirit too great for his form--he only was just so + high, +As tall, perhaps, as your little lad who scarcely reaches your shoulder-- +Though his heart was the heart of a veteran then, a trifle, it may be, + bolder. + +He pressed to the front, our lad so leal, and the works were almost won, +A moment more and our flags had swung o'er the muzzle of murderous gun; +But a raking fire swept the van, and he fell 'mid the wounded and slain, +With his wee wan face turned up to Him who feeleth His children's pain. + +Again and again our lines fell back, and again with shivering shocks +They flung themselves on the rebels' works as ships are tossed on rocks; +To be crushed and broken and scattered amain, as the wrecks of the + surging storm. +Where none may rue and none may reck of aught that has human form. + +So under the ridge we were lying for the order to charge again, +And we counted our comrades missing, and we counted our comrades slain; +And one said, "Johnny, our Drummer Boy, is grievously shot and lies +Just under the enemy's breastwork; if left on the field he dies." + +Then all the blood that was in me surged up to my aching brow, +And my heart leaped up like a ball in my throat--I can feel it even now, +And I said I would bring that boy from the field, if God would spare my + breath, +If all the guns in Mission Ridge should thunder the threat of death. + +I crept and crept up the ghastly ridge, by the wounded and the dead, +With the moans of my comrades right and left, behind me and yet ahead, +Till I came to the form of our Drummer Boy, in his blouse of dusty blue, +With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, where the blast of + the battle blew. + +And his gaze as he met my own just there would have melted a heart of + stone, +As he tried like a wounded bird to rise, and placed his hand in my own; +And he said in a voice half smothered, though its whispering thrills + me yet, +"I think in a moment more that I would have stood on that parapet. + +"But now I nevermore will climb, and, Sergeant, when you see +The men go up those breastworks there, just stop and waken me; +For though I cannot make the charge and join the cheers that rise, +I may forget my pain to see the old flag kiss the skies." + +Well, it was hard to treat him so, his poor limb shattered sore, +But I raised him on my shoulder and to the surgeon bore; +And the boys who saw us coming each gave a shout of joy, +And uttered fervent prayers for him, our valiant Drummer Boy. + +When sped the news that "Fighting Joe" had saved the Union right, +With his legions fresh from Lookout; and that Thomas massed his might +And forced the rebel center; and our cheering ran like wild; +And Sherman's heart was happy as the heart of a little child; + +When Grant from his lofty outlook saw our flags by the hundred fly +Along the slopes of Mission Ridge, where'er he cast his eye; +And when we heard the thrilling news of the mighty battle done, +The fearful contest ended, and the glorious victory won; + +Then his bright black eyes so yearning grew strangely rapt and wide, +And in that hour of conquest our little hero died. +But ever in our hearts he dwells, with a grace that ne'er is old, +For him the heart to duty wed can nevermore grow cold! + +And when they tell of heroes, and the laurels they have won, +Of the scars they are doomed to carry, of the deeds that they have done; +Of the horror to be biding among the ghastly dead, +The gory sod beneath them, the bursting shell o'erhead, + +My heart goes back to Mission Ridge and the Drummer Boy who lay +With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of + that terrible day; +And I say that the land that bears such sons is crowned and dowered + with all +The dear God giveth nations to stay them lest they fall. + +Oh, glory of Mission Ridge, stream on, like the roseate light of morn, +On the sons that now are living, on the sons that are yet unborn! +And cheers for our comrades living, and tears as they pass away! +And three times three for the Drummer Boy who fought at the front that + day! + + + + +If-- + + +If you can keep your head when all about you + Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; +If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, + But make allowance for their doubting too; +If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, + Or being lied about don't deal in lies, +Or being hated don't give way to hating, + And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; + +If you can dream and not make dreams your master; + If you can think and not make thoughts your aim; +If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster + And treat those two impostors just the same; +If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken + Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, +Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, + And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools; + +If you can make one heap of all your winnings + And risk it on one turn of pitch and toss. +And lose, and start again at your beginnings + And never breathe a word about your loss; +If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew + To serve your turn long after they are gone, +And so hold on when there is nothing in you + Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" + +If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, + Or walk with Kings nor lose the common touch; +If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; + If all men count with you, but none too much; +If you can fill the unforgiving minute + With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, +Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, + And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son! + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + + + + +Second Table + + +Some boys are mad when comp'ny comes to stay for meals. They hate +To have the other people eat while boys must wait and wait, +But I've about made up my mind I'm different from the rest, +For as for me, I b'lieve I like the second table best. + +To eat along with comp'ny is so trying, for it's tough +To sit and watch the victuals when you dassent touch the stuff. +You see your father serving out the dark meat and the light +Until a boy is sure he'll starve before he gets a bite. + +And when, he asks you what you'll have,--you've heard it all before,-- +You know you'll get just what you get and won't get nothing more; +For, when you want another piece, your mother winks her eye, +And so you say, "I've plenty, thanks!" and tell a whopping lie. + +When comp'ny is a-watching you, you've got to be polite, +And eat your victuals with a fork and take a little bite. +You can't have nothing till you're asked and, 'cause a boy is small, +Folks think he isn't hungry, and he's never asked at all. + +Since I can first remember I've been told that when the cake +Is passed around, the proper thing is for a boy to take +The piece that's nearest to him, and so all I ever got, +When comp'ny's been to our house, was the smallest in the lot. + +It worries boys like everything to have the comp'ny stay +A-setting round the table, like they couldn't get away. +But when they've gone, and left the whole big shooting match to me, +Say! ain't it fun to just wade in and help myself? Oh, gee! + +With no one round to notice what you're doing--bet your life!-- +Boys don't use forks to eat with when they'd rather use a knife, +Nor take such little bites as when they're eating with the rest +And so, for lots of things, I like the second table best + + _Nixon Waterman._ + + + + +The Children + + +When the lessons and tasks are all ended, + And the school for the day is dismissed, +And the little ones gather around me, + To bid me good night and be kissed; +Oh, the little white arms that encircle + My neck in their tender embrace! +Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, + Shedding sunshine of love on my face! + +And when they are gone, I sit dreaming + Of my childhood, too lovely to last; +Of love that my heart will remember + When it wakes to the pulse of the past, +Ere the world and its wickedness made me + A partner of sorrow and sin,-- +When the glory of God was about me, + And the glory of gladness within. + +All my heart grows weak as a woman's + And the fountains of feeling will flow, +When I think of the paths steep and stony, + Where the feet of the dear ones must go; +Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, + Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; +Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy + As the innocent heart of a child! + +They are idols of hearts and of households; + They are angels of God in disguise; +His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, + His glory still gleams in their eyes; +Oh, these truants from home and from heaven,-- + They have made me more manly and mild; +And I know now how Jesus could liken + The kingdom of God to a child! + +I ask not a life for the dear ones + All radiant, as others have done, +But that life may have just enough shadow + To temper the glare of the sun; +I would pray God to guard them from evil, + But my prayer would bound back to myself; +Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner, + But a sinner must pray for himself. + +The twig is so easily bended, + I have banished the rule and the rod; +I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, + They have taught me the goodness of God. +My heart is the dungeon of darkness, + Where I shut them for breaking a rule; +My frown is sufficient correction; + My love is the law of the school. + +I shall leave the old house in the autumn, + To traverse its threshold no more; +Ah! how shall I sigh for the dear ones + That meet me each morn at the door! +I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, + And the gush of their innocent glee. +The group on its green, and the flowers + That are brought every morning to me. + +I shall miss them at morn and at even, + Their song in the school and the street; +I shall miss the low hum of their voices, + And the tread of their delicate feet. +When the lessons of life are all ended, + And death says, "The school is dismissed!" +May the little ones gather around me + To bid me good night and be kissed! + + _Charles M. Dickinson._ + + + + +A Visit from St. Nicholas + + +'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house +Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; +The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, +In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; +The children were nestled all snug in their beds, +While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; +And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, +Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,-- +When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, +I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. +Away to the window I flew like a flash, +Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. +The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, +Gave a luster of midday to objects below: +When what to my wondering eyes should appear, +But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, +With a little old driver, so lively and quick, +I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. +More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, +And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name: +"Now, Dasher! now Dancer! now, Prancer! now Vixen! +On, Comet, on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!-- +To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! +Now, dash away, dash sway, dash away all!" +As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, +When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, +So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew, +With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too, +And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof +The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. +As I drew in my head, and was turning around, +Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. +He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, +And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; +A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, +And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. +His eyes how they twinkled; his dimples how merry! +His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; +His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, +And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. +The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, +And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. +He had a broad face and a little round belly +That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. +He was chubby and plump--a right jolly old elf-- +And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. +A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, +Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. +He spake not a word, but went straight to his work, +And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, +And laying his finger aside of his nose +And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. +He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, +And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; +But I heard him exclaim, ere they drove out of sight, +"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" + + _Clement C. Moore._ + + + + +Your Mission + + +If you cannot on the ocean + Sail among the swiftest fleet, +Rocking on the highest billows, + Laughing at the storms you meet, +You can stand among the sailors, + Anchored yet within the bay, +You can lend a hand to help them, + As they launch their boats away. + +If you are too weak to journey + Up the mountain steep and high, +You can stand within the valley, + While the multitudes go by; +You can chant in happy measure, + As they slowly pass along; +Though they may forget the singer, + They will not forget the song. + +If you have not gold and silver + Ever ready to command, +If you cannot towards the needy + Reach an ever-open hand, +You can visit the afflicted, + O'er the erring you can weep, +You can be a true disciple, + Sitting at the Savior's feet. + +If you cannot in the conflict, + Prove yourself a soldier true, +If where fire and smoke are thickest, + There's no work for you to do, +When the battle-field is silent, + You can go with careful tread, +You can bear away the wounded, + You can cover up the dead. + +Do not then stand idly waiting + For some greater work to do, +Fortune is a lazy goddess, + She will never come to you. +Go and toil in any vineyard, + Do not fear to do or dare, +If you want a field of labor, + You can find it anywhere. + + _Ellen H. Gates._ + + + + +The House by the Side of the Road + + +There are hermit souls that live withdrawn + In the peace of their self-content; +There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart, + In a fellowless firmament; +There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths + Where highways never ran; +But let me live by the side of the road + And be a friend to man. + +Let me live in a house by the side of the road, + Where the race of men go by, +The men who are good and the men who are bad, + As good and as bad as I. +I would not sit in the scorner's seat, + Or hurl the cynic's ban; +Let me live in a house by the side of the road + And be a friend to man. + +I see from my house by the side of the road, + By the side of the highway of life, +The men who press with the ardor of hope, + The men who are faint with the strife. +But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears, + Both parts of an infinite plan; +Let me live in my house by the side of the road + And be a friend to man. + +I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead + And mountains of wearisome height; +That the road passes on through the long afternoon + And stretches away to the night. +But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice, + And weep with the strangers that moan. +Nor live in my house by the side of the road + Like a man who dwells alone. + +Let me live in my house by the side of the road + Where the race of men go by; +They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, + Wise, foolish--so am I. +Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat, + Or hurl the cynic's ban? +Let me live in my house by the side of the road + And be a friend to man. + + _Sam Walter Foss._ + + + + +Asleep at the Switch + + +The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away, +With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as much as to + say: +"Come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now depend upon you. +Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you are sending + them to. +Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of the father and + son, +Think of the lover and the loved one too, think of them doomed every one +To fall (as it were by your very hand) into yon fathomless ditch, +Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now lies asleep at + the switch." + +I sprang up amazed--scarce knew where I stood, sleep had o'ermastered + me so; +I could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep river dashing below, +I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the tempest were + fanned, +But what was that noise in the distance? That, I could not understand. +I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some muffled drum, +Then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my very ears hum; +What is this light that surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain? +What whistle's that, yelling so shrill? Ah! I know now; it's the train. + +We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to the place; +So I stood--with this demon before me, its heated breath scorching my + face; +Its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like the eyes of + some witch,-- +The train was almost upon me before I remembered the switch. +I sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast down the track; +The switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed holding it back; +On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like a flash; +I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing after the crash. + +How long I lay there unconscious 'twas impossible for me to tell; +My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a hell,-- +For then I heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of husbands and wives, +And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I must account for + their lives; +Mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes glaring madly and wild; +Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like a child; +Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they sped, +And lips, that could form naught but "Mamma," were calling for one + perhaps dead. + +My mind was made up in a moment, the river should hide me away, +When, under the still burning rafters I suddenly noticed there lay +A little white hand; she who owned it was doubtless an object of love +To one whom her loss would drive frantic, though she guarded him now + from above; +I tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one side; +How little she thought of her journey when she left for this dark, fatal + ride! +I lifted the last log from off her, and while searching for some spark + of life, +Turned her little face up in the starlight, and recognized--Maggie, my + wife! + +O Lord! my scourge is a hard one, at a blow thou hast shattered my pride; +My life will be one endless nightmare, with Maggie away from my side. +How often I'd sat down and pictured the scenes in our long, happy life; +How I'd strive through all my lifetime, to build up a home for my wife; +How people would envy us always in our cozy and neat little nest; +How I should do all the labor, and Maggie should all the day rest; +How one of God's blessings might cheer us, how some day I perhaps should + be rich:-- +But all of my dreams had been shattered, while I lay there asleep at the + switch! + +I fancied I stood on my trial, the jury and judge I could see; +And every eye in the court room was steadily fixed upon me; +And fingers were pointed in scorn, till I felt my face blushing blood-red, +And the next thing I heard were the words, "Hanged by the neck until + dead." +Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my hand caught tight hold of a + dress, +And I heard, "What's the matter, dear Jim? You've had a bad nightmare, I + guess!" +And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a scar from the ditch, +I'd been taking a nap in my bed, and had not been "asleep at the switch." + + _George Hoey._ + + + + +Each in His Own Tongue + + +A fire-mist and a planet, + A crystal and a cell, +A jellyfish and a saurian, + And caves where the cavemen dwell; +Then a sense of law and beauty, + And a face turned from the clod,-- +Some call it Evolution, + And others call it God. + +A haze in the far horizon, + The infinite, tender sky; +The ripe, rich tints of the cornfields, + And the wild geese sailing high; +And all over upland and lowland + The charm of the goldenrod,-- +Some of us call it Nature, + And others call it God. + +Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, + When the moon is new and thin, +Into our hearts high yearnings + Come welling and surging in,-- +Come from the mystic ocean. + Whose rim no foot has trod,-- +Some of us call it Longing, + And others call it God. + +A picket frozen on duty, + A mother starved for her brood, +Socrates drinking the hemlock, + And Jesus on the rood; +The millions who, humble and nameless, + The straight, hard pathway trod,-- +Some call it Consecration, + And others call it God. + + _William Herbert Carruth._ + + + + +How Cyrus Laid the Cable + + +Come, listen all unto my song; + It is no silly fable; +'Tis all about the mighty cord + They call the Atlantic Cable. + +Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he, + I have a pretty notion +That I can run the telegraph + Across the Atlantic Ocean. + +Then all the people laughed, and said + They'd like to see him do it; +He might get half-seas over, but + He never could go through it; + +To carry out his foolish plan + He never would be able; +He might as well go hang himself + With his Atlantic Cable. + +But Cyrus was a valiant man, + A fellow of decision; +And heeded not their mocking words, + Their laughter and derision. + +Twice did his bravest efforts fail, + And yet his mind was stable; +He wa'n't the man to break his heart + Because he broke his cable. + +"Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried; + "_Three times!_--you know the fable,-- +(_I'll make it thirty_," muttered he, + "But I will lay this cable!") + +Once more they tried--hurrah! hurrah! + What means this great commotion? +The Lord be praised! the cable's laid + Across the Atlantic Ocean. + +Loud ring the bells,--for, flashing through + Six hundred leagues of water, +Old Mother England's benison + Salutes her eldest daughter. + +O'er all the land the tidings speed, + And soon, in every nation, +They'll hear about the cable with + Profoundest admiration! + + * * * * * + +And may we honor evermore + The manly, bold, and stable; +And tell our sons, to make them brave, + How Cyrus laid the cable. + + _John G. Saxe._ + + + + +Jane Jones + + +Jane Jones keeps talkin' to me all the time, + An' says you must make it a rule +To study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd learn, + An' never be absent from school. +Remember the story of Elihu Burritt, + An' how he clum up to the top, +Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had + Down in a blacksmithing shop? +Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! + Mebbe he did-- + I dunno! +O' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top, +Is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop. + +She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, + But full of ambition an' brains; +An' studied philosophy all his hull life, + An' see what he got for his pains! +He brought electricity out of the sky, + With a kite an' a bottle an' key, +An' we're owing him more'n any one else + For all the bright lights 'at we see. +Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! + Mebbe he did-- + I dunno! +O' course what's allers been hinderin' me +Is not havin' any kite, lightning er key. + +Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all, + An' used to split rails when a boy; +An' General Grant was a tanner by trade + An' lived 'way out in Illinois. +So when the great war in the South first broke out + He stood on the side o' the right, +An' when Lincoln called him to take charge o' things, + He won nearly every blamed fight. +Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! + Mebbe he did-- + I dunno! +Still I ain't to blame, not by a big sight, +For I ain't never had any battles to fight. + +She said 'at Columbus was out at the knees + When he first thought up his big scheme, +An' told all the Spaniards 'nd Italians, too, + An' all of 'em said 'twas a dream. +But Queen Isabella jest listened to him, + 'Nd pawned all her jewels o' worth, +'Nd bought him the Santa Maria 'nd said, + "Go hunt up the rest o' the earth!" + Mebbe he did-- + I dunno! +O' course that may be, but then you must allow +They ain't no land to discover jest now! + + _Ben King._ + + + + +The Leap of Roushan Beg + + +Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, +His chestnut steed with four white feet, + Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, +Son of the road and bandit chief, +Seeking refuge and relief, + Up the mountain pathway flew. + +Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed, +Never yet could any steed + Reach the dust-cloud in his course. +More than maiden, more than wife, +More than gold and next to life + Roushan the Robber loved his horse. + +In the land that lies beyond +Erzeroum and Trebizond, + Garden-girt his fortress stood; +Plundered khan, or caravan +Journeying north from Koordistan, + Gave him wealth and wine and food. + +Seven hundred and fourscore +Men at arms his livery wore, + Did his bidding night and day, +Now, through regions all unknown, +He was wandering, lost, alone, + Seeking without guide his way. + +Suddenly the pathway ends, +Sheer the precipice descends, + Loud the torrent roars unseen; +Thirty feet from side to side +Yawns the chasm; on air must ride + He who crosses this ravine, + +Following close in his pursuit, +At the precipice's foot + Reyhan the Arab of Orfah +Halted with his hundred men, +Shouting upward from the glen, + "La Illah illa Allah!" + +Gently Roushan Beg caressed +Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast, + Kissed him upon both his eyes; +Sang to him in his wild way, +As upon the topmost spray + Sings a bird before it flies. + +"O my Kyrat, O my steed, +Round and slender as a reed, + Carry me this peril through! +Satin housings shall be thine, +Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, + O thou soul of Kurroglou! + +"Soft thy skin as silken skein, +Soft as woman's hair thy mane, + Tender are thine eyes and true; +All thy hoofs like ivory shine, +Polished bright; O life of mine, + Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!" + +Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, +Drew together his four white feet, + Paused a moment on the verge, +Measured with his eye the space, +And into the air's embrace + Leaped, as leaps the ocean surge. + +As the ocean surge o'er sand +Bears a swimmer safe to land, + Kyrat safe his rider bore; +Rattling down the deep abyss, +Fragments of the precipice + Rolled like pebbles on a shore. + +Roushan's tasseled cap of red +Trembled not upon his head, + Careless sat he and upright; +Neither hand nor bridle shook, +Nor his head he turned to look, + As he galloped out of sight. + +Flash of harness in the air, +Seen a moment like the glare + Of a sword drawn from its sheath; +Thus the phantom horseman passed, +And the shadow that he cast + Leaped the cataract underneath. + +Reyhan the Arab held his breath +While this vision of life and death + Passed above him. "Allahu!" +Cried he. "In all Koordistan +Lives there not so brave a man + As this Robber Kurroglou!" + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +Old Ironsides + + +Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! + Long has it waved on high, +And many an eye has danced to see + That banner in the sky; +Beneath it rung the battle shout, + And burst the cannon's roar;-- +The meteor of the ocean air + Shall sweep the clouds no more! + +Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, + Where knelt the vanquished foe, +When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, + And waves were white below, +No more shall feel the victor's tread, + Or know the conquered knee;-- +The harpies of the shore shall pluck + The eagle of the sea! + +Oh, better that her shattered hulk + Should sink beneath the wave! +Her thunders shook the mighty deep, + And there should be her grave; +Nail to the mast her holy flag, + Set every threadbare sail, +And give her to the god of storms, + The lightning and the gale! + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +A Psalm of Life + + +Tell me not, in mournful numbers, + "Life is but an empty dream!" +For the soul is dead that slumbers, + And things are not what they seem. + +Life is real! Life is earnest! + And the grave is not its goal; +"Dust thou art, to dust returnest," + Was not spoken of the soul. + +Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, + Is our destined end or way; +But to act that each to-morrow + Finds us farther than to-day. + +Art is long, and Time is fleeting, + And our hearts, though stout and brave, +Still, like muffled drums, are beating + Funeral marches to the grave. + +In the world's broad field of battle, + In the bivouac of Life, +Be not like dumb, driven cattle! + Be a hero in the strife! + +Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! + Let the dead Past bury its dead! +Act, act in the living Present! + Heart within, and God o'erhead! + +Lives of great men all remind us + We can make our lives sublime, +And, departing, leave behind us + Footprints on the sands of time; + +Footprints, that perhaps another, + Sailing o'er life's solemn main, +A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, + Seeing, shall take heart again. + +Let us, then, be up and doing, + With a heart for any fate; +Still achieving, still pursuing, + Learn to labor and to wait. + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson + + +I think, of all the things at school + A boy has got to do, +That studyin' hist'ry, as a rule, + Is worst of all, don't you? +Of dates there are an awful sight, +An' though I study day an' night, +There's only one I've got just right-- + That's fourteen ninety-two. + +Columbus crossed the Delaware + In fourteen ninety-two; +We whipped the British, fair an' square, + In fourteen ninety-two. +At Concord an' at Lexington. +We kept the redcoats on the run, +While the band played Johnny Get Your Gun, + In fourteen ninety-two. + +Pat Henry, with his dyin' breath-- + In fourteen ninety-two-- +Said, "Gimme liberty or death!" + In fourteen ninety-two. +An' Barbara Frietchie, so 'tis said, +Cried, "Shoot if you must this old, gray head, +But I'd rather 'twould be your own instead!" + In fourteen ninety-two. + +The Pilgrims came to Plymouth Rock + In fourteen ninety-two, +An' the Indians standin' on the dock + Asked, "What are you goin' to do?" +An' they said, "We seek your harbor drear +That our children's children's children dear +May boast that their forefathers landed here + In fourteen ninety-two." + +Miss Pocahontas saved the life-- + In fourteen ninety-two-- +Of John Smith, an' became his wife + In fourteen ninety-two. +An' the Smith tribe started then an' there, +An' now there are John Smiths ev'rywhere, +But they didn't have any Smiths to spare + In fourteen ninety-two. + +Kentucky was settled by Daniel Boone + In fourteen ninety-two, +An' I think the cow jumped over the moon + In fourteen ninety-two. +Ben Franklin flew his kite so high +He drew the lightnin' from the sky, +An' Washington couldn't tell a lie, + In fourteen ninety-two. + + _Nixon Waterman._ + + + + +Riding on the Rail + + +Singing through the forests, rattling over ridges, +Shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges, +Whizzing through the mountains, buzzing o'er the vale,-- +Bless me! this is pleasant, riding on the rail! + +Men of different stations in the eye of Fame, +Here are very quickly coming to the same; +High and lowly people, birds of every feather, +On a common level, traveling together! + +Gentlemen in shorts, blooming very tall; +Gentlemen at large, talking very small; +Gentlemen in tights, with a loosish mien; +Gentlemen in gray, looking very green! + +Gentlemen quite old, asking for the news; +Gentlemen in black, with a fit of blues; +Gentlemen in claret, sober as a vicar; +Gentlemen in tweed, dreadfully in liquor! + +Stranger on the right looking very sunny, +Obviously reading something very funny. +Now the smiles are thicker--wonder what they mean? +Faith, he's got the Knickerbocker Magazine! + +Stranger on the left, closing up his peepers; +Now he snores again, like the Seven Sleepers; +At his feet a volume gives the explanation, +How the man grew stupid from "association"! + +Ancient maiden lady anxiously remarks +That there must be peril 'mong so many sparks; +Roguish-looking fellow, turning to the stranger, +Says 'tis his opinion _she_ is out of danger! + +Woman with her baby, sitting _vis a vis_; +Baby keeps a-squalling, woman looks at me; +Asks about the distance--says 'tis tiresome talking, +Noises of the cars are so very shocking! + +Market woman, careful of the precious casket, +Knowing eggs are eggs, tightly holds her basket; +Feeling that a smash, if it came, would surely +Send her eggs to pot rather prematurely. + +Singing through the forests, rattling over ridges, +Shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges, +Whizzing through the mountains, buzzing o'er the vale,-- +Bless me! this is pleasant, riding on the rail! + + _J.G. Saxe._ + + + + +The Building of the Ship + +EXTRACT + + +Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! +Sail on, O Union, strong and great! +Humanity with all its fears, +With all the hopes of future years, +Is hanging breathless on thy fate! +We know what Master laid thy keel, +What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, +Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, +What anvils rang, what hammers beat, +In what a forge and what a heat +Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! +Fear not each sudden sound and shock, +'Tis of the wave and not the rock; +'Tis but the flapping of the sail, +And not a rent made by the gale! +In spite of rock and tempest's roar, +In spite of false lights on the shore, +Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! +Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, +Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, +Our faith truiumphant o'er our fears, +Are all with thee,--are all with thee! + + _H.W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Dead Pussy Cat + + +You's as stiff an' as cold as a stone, + Little cat! +Dey's done frowed you out an' left you alone, + Little cat! +I's a-strokin' you's fur, +But you don't never purr +Nor hump up anywhere, + Little cat. + W'y is dat? +Is you's purrin' an' humpin'-up done? + +An' w'y fer is you's little foot tied, + Little cat? +Did dey pisen you's tummick inside, + Little cat? +Did dey pound you wif bricks, +Or wif big nasty sticks, +Or abuse you wif kicks, + Little cat? + Tell me dat, +Did dey holler at all when you cwied? + +Did it hurt werry bad w'en you died, + Little cat? +Oh, w'y didn't yo wun off and hide, + Little cat? +I is wet in my eyes, +'Cause I most always cwies +W'en a pussy cat dies, + Little cat, + Tink of dat, +An' I's awfully solly besides! + +Dest lay still dere in de sof gwown', + Little cat, +W'ile I tucks de gween gwass all awoun', + Little cat. +Dey can't hurt you no more +W'en you's tired an' so sore, +Dest sleep twiet, you pore + Little cat, + Wif a pat, +An' fordet all de kicks of de town. + + _Marion Short._ + + + + +The Owl Critic + + +"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop; +The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; +The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading +The _Daily_, the _Herald_, the _Post_, little heeding +The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; +Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion; + And the barber kept on shaving. + +"Don't you see, Mister Brown," +Cried the youth, with a frown, +"How wrong the whole thing is, +How preposterous each wing is. +How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-- +In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis! +I make no apology; I've learned owleology. +I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, +And cannot be blinded to any deflections +Arising from unskilful fingers that fail +To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. +Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, +Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" + And the barber kept on shaving. + +"I've _studied_ owls, +And other night fowls, +And I tell you +What I know to be true: +An owl cannot roost +With his limbs so unloosed; +No owl in this world +Ever had his claws curled, +Ever had his legs slanted, +Ever had his bill canted, +Ever had his neck screwed +Into that attitude. +He can't _do_ it, because +'Tis against all bird laws. +Anatomy teaches, +Ornithology preaches, +An owl has a toe +That _can't_ turn out so! +I've made the white owl my study for years, +And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! +Mister Brown, I'm amazed +You should be so gone crazed +As to put up a bird +In that posture absurd! +To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness; +The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!" + And the barber kept on shaving. + +"Examine those eyes. +I'm filled with surprise +Taxidermists should pass +Off on you such poor glass; +So unnatural they seem +They'd make Audubon scream, +And John Burroughs laugh +To encounter such chaff. +Do take that bird down; +Have him stuffed again, Brown!" + And the barber kept on shaving. + +"With some sawdust and bark +I could stuff in the dark +An owl better than that. +I could make an old hat +Look more like an owl +Than that horrid fowl, +Stuck up here so stiff like a side of coarse leather. +In fact, about _him _there's not one natural feather." +Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, +The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, +Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic +(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic, +And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: +"Your learning's at fault this time, anyway; +Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. +I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!" + And the barber kept on shaving. + + _James T. Fields._ + + + + +At School-Close + + +The end has come, as come it must + To all things; in these sweet June days +The teacher and the scholar trust + Their parting feet to separate ways. + +They part: but in the years to be + Shall pleasant memories cling to each, +As shells bear inland from the sea + The murmur of the rhythmic beach. + +One knew the joys the sculptor knows + When, plastic to his lightest touch, +His clay-wrought model slowly grows + To that fine grace desired so much. + +So daily grew before her eyes + The living shapes whereon she wrought, +Strong, tender, innocently wise, + The child's heart with the woman's thought. + +And one shall never quite forget + The voice that called from dream and play, +The firm but kindly hand that set + Her feet in learning's pleasant way,-- + +The joy of Undine soul-possessed, + The wakening sense, the strange delight +That swelled the fabled statue's breast + And filled its clouded eyes with sight! + +O Youth and Beauty, loved of all! + Ye pass from girlhood's gate of dreams; +In broader ways your footsteps fall, + Ye test the truth of all that seems. + +Her little realm the teacher leaves, + She breaks her wand of power apart, +While, for your love and trust, she gives + The warm thanks of a grateful heart. + +Hers is the sober summer noon + Contrasted with your morn of spring; +The waning with the waxing moon, + The folded with the outspread wing. + +Across the distance of the years + She sends her God-speed back to you; +She has no thought of doubts or fears; + Be but yourselves, be pure, be true, + +And prompt in duty; heed the deep, + Low voice of conscience; through the ill +And discord round about you, keep + Your faith in human nature still. + +Be gentle: unto griefs and needs + Be pitiful as woman should, +And, spite of all the lies of creeds, + Hold fast the truth that God is good. + +Give and receive; go forth and bless + The world that needs the hand and heart +Of Martha's helpful carefulness + No less than Mary's better part. + +So shall the stream of time flow by + And leave each year a richer good, +And matron loveliness outvie + The nameless charm of maidenhood. + +And, when the world shall link your names + With gracious lives and manners fine, +The teacher shall assert her claims, + And proudly whisper, "These were mine!" + + _John G. Whittier._ + + + + +The Wild White Rose + +Oh, that I might have my request, and that God would grant me the thing +that I long for.--_Job 6:8._ + + +It was peeping through the brambles, that little wild white rose, +Where the hawthorn hedge was planted, my garden to enclose. +All beyond was fern and heather, on the breezy, open moor; +All within was sun and shelter, and the wealth of beauty's store. +But I did not heed the fragrance of flow'ret or of tree, +For my eyes were on that rosebud, and it grew too high for me. +In vain I strove to reach it through the tangled mass of green, +It only smiled and nodded behind its thorny screen. +Yet through that summer morning I lingered near the spot: +Oh, why do things seem sweeter if we possess them not? +My garden buds were blooming, but all that I could see +Was that little mocking wild rose, hanging just too high for me. + +So in life's wider garden there are buds of promise, too, +Beyond our reach to gather, but not beyond our view; +And like the little charmer that tempted me astray, +They steal out half the brightness of many a summer's day. +Oh, hearts that fail with longing for some forbidden tree, +Look up and learn a lesson from my white rose and me. +'Tis wiser far to number the blessings at my feet, +Than ever to be sighing for just one bud more sweet. +My sunbeams and my shadows fall from a pierced Hand, +I can surely trust His wisdom since His heart I understand; +And maybe in the morning, when His blessed face I see, +He will tell me why my white rose grew just too high for me. + + _Ellen H. Willis._ + + + + +L'Envoi + + +When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried, +When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died, +We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it--lie down for an aeon or two, +Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew! + +And those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; +They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair; +They shall find real saints to draw from--Magdalene, Peter and Paul; +They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all. + +And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; +And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame; +But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, +Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are! + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + + + + +Whistling in Heaven + + +You're surprised that I ever should say so? + Just wait till the reason I've given +Why I say I sha'n't care for the music, + Unless there is whistling in heaven. +Then you'll think it no very great wonder, + Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit, +That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, + Its music will not be complete. + +It was late in the autumn of '40; + We had come from our far Eastern home +Just in season to build us a cabin, + Ere the cold of the winter should come; +And we lived all the while in our wagon + That husband was clearing the place +Where the house was to stand; and the clearing + And building it took many days. + +So that our heads were scarce sheltered + In under its roof when our store +Of provisions was almost exhausted, + And husband must journey for more; +And the nearest place where he could get them + Was yet such a distance away, +That it forced him from home to be absent + At least a whole night and a day. + +You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, + And the nearest was more than a mile; +And we hadn't found time yet to know them, + For we had been busy the while. +And the man who had helped at the raising + Just staid till the job was well done; +And as soon as his money was paid him + Had shouldered his axe and had gone. + +Well, husband just kissed me and started-- + I could scarcely suppress a deep groan +At the thought of remaining with baby + So long in the house alone; +For, my dear, I was childish and timid, + And braver ones might well have feared, +For the wild wolf was often heard howling. + And savages sometimes appeared. + +But I smothered my grief and my terror + Till husband was off on his ride, +And then in my arms I took Josey, + And all the day long sat and cried, +As I thought of the long, dreary hours + When the darkness of night should fall, +And I was so utterly helpless, + With no one in reach of my call. + +And when the night came with its terrors, + To hide ev'ry ray of light, +I hung up a quilt by the window, + And, almost dead with affright, +I kneeled by the side of the cradle, + Scarce daring to draw a full breath, +Lest the baby should wake, and its crying + Should bring us a horrible death. + +There I knelt until late in the evening + And scarcely an inch had I stirred, +When suddenly, far in the distance, + A sound as of whistling I heard. +I started up dreadfully frightened, + For fear 'twas an Indian's call; +And then very soon I remembered + The red man ne'er whistles at all. + +And when I was sure 'twas a white man, + I thought, were he coming for ill, +He'd surely approach with more caution-- + Would come without warning, and still. +Then the sound, coming nearer and nearer, + Took the form of a tune light and gay, +And I knew I needn't fear evil + From one who could whistle that way. + +Very soon I heard footsteps approaching, + Then came a peculiar dull thump, +As if some one was heavily striking + An ax in the top of a stump; +And then, in another brief moment, + There came a light tap on the door, +When quickly I undid the fast'ning, + And in stepped a boy, and before + +There was either a question or answer + Or either had time to speak, +I just threw my glad arms around him, + And gave him a kiss on the cheek. +Then I started back, scared at my boldness. + But he only smiled at my fright, +As he said, "I'm your neighbor's boy, Ellick, + Come to tarry with you through the night. + +"We saw your husband go eastward, + And made up our minds where he'd gone, +And I said to the rest of our people, + 'That woman is there all alone, +And I venture she's awfully lonesome, + And though she may have no great fear, +I think she would feel a bit safer + If only a boy were but near.' + +"So, taking my axe on my shoulder, + For fear that a savage might stray +Across my path and need scalping, + I started right down this way; +And coming in sight of the cabin, + And thinking to save you alarm, +I whistled a tune, just to show you + I didn't intend any harm. + +"And so here I am, at your service; + But if you don't want me to stay, +Why, all you need do is to say so, + And should'ring my axe, I'll away." +I dropped in a chair and near fainted, + Just at thought of his leaving me then, +And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle + As he said, "I guess I'll remain." + +And then I just sat there and told him + How terribly frightened I'd been, +How his face was to me the most welcome + Of any I ever had seen; +And then I lay down with the baby, + And slept all the blessed night through, +For I felt I was safe from all danger + Near so brave a young fellow, and true. + +So now, my dear friend, do you wonder, + Since such a good reason I've given, +Why I say I sha'n't care for the music, + Unless there is whistling in heaven? +Yes, often I've said so in earnest, + And now what I've said I repeat, +That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, + Its music will not be complete. + + + + +Sleep, Baby, Sleep + + + Sleep, baby, sleep! +Thy father's watching the sheep, +Thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree, +And down drops a little dream for thee. + Sleep, baby, sleep! + + Sleep, baby, sleep! +The large stars are the sheep, +The little stars are the lambs, I guess, +The bright moon is the shepherdess. + Sleep, baby, sleep! + + Sleep, baby, sleep! +Thy Savior loves His sheep; +He is the Lamb of God on high +Who for our sakes came down to die. + Sleep, baby, sleep! + + _Elizabeth Prentiss._ + + + + +The Lost Chord + + +Seated one day at the organ, + I was weary and ill at ease, +And my fingers wandered idly + Over the noisy keys. + +I do not know what I was playing, + Or what I was dreaming then; +But I struck one chord of music, + Like the sound of a great Amen. + +It flooded the crimson twilight, + Like the close of an angel's psalm; +And it lay on my fevered spirit + With a touch of infinite calm. + +It quieted pain and sorrow, + Like love overcoming strife; +It seemed the harmonious echo + From our discordant life. + +It linked all perplexing meanings + Into one perfect peace, +And trembled away into silence + As if it were loth to cease. + +I have sought, but I seek it vainly, + That one lost chord divine, +That came from the soul of the organ, + And entered into mine. + +It may be that Death's bright angel + Will speak in that chord again; +It may be that only in Heaven + I shall hear that grand Amen. + + _Adelaide A. Procter._ + + + + +The Children's Hour + + +Between the dark and the daylight, + When the night is beginning to lower, +Comes a pause in the day's occupations, + That is known as the Children's Hour. + +I hear in the chamber above me + The patter of little feet, +The sound of a door that is opened, + And voices soft and sweet. + +From my study I see in the lamplight, + Descending the broad hall stair, +Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, + And Edith with golden hair. + +A whisper, and then a silence: + Yet I know by their merry eyes +They are plotting and planning together + To take me by surprise. + +A sudden rush from the stairway, + A sudden raid from the hall! +By three doors left unguarded + They enter my castle wall! + +They climb up into my turret + O'er the arms and back of my chair; +If I try to escape, they surround me; + They seem to be everywhere. + +They almost devour me with kisses, + Their arms about me entwine, +Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen + In his Mouse-tower on the Rhine! + +Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, + Because you have scaled the wall, +Such an old mustache as I am + Is not a match for you all! + +I have you fast in my fortress, + And will not let you depart, +But put you down into the dungeon + In the round-tower of my heart. + +And there will I keep you forever, + Yes, forever and a day, +Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, + And moulder in dust away! + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +Woodman, Spare That Tree! + + +Woodman, spare that tree! + Touch not a single bough! +In youth it sheltered me, + And I'll protect it now. +'T was my forefather's hand + That placed it near his cot; +There, woodman, let it stand. + Thy ax shall harm it not! + +That old familiar tree, + Whose glory and renown +Are spread o'er land and sea-- + And wouldst thou hew it down? +Woodman, forbear thy stroke! + Cut not its earth-bound ties; +Oh, spare that aged oak, + Now towering to the skies! + +When but an idle boy, + I sought its grateful shade; +In all their gushing joy + Here, too, my sisters played. +My mother kissed me here; + My father pressed my hand-- +Forgive this foolish tear, + But let that old oak stand! + +My heart-strings round thee cling, + Close as thy bark, old friend! +Here shall the wild-bird sing, + And still thy branches bend. +Old tree! the storm still brave! + And, woodman, leave the spot; +While I've a hand to save, + Thy ax shall harm it not! + + _George Pope Morris_. + + + + +Little Brown Hands + + +They drive home the cows from the pasture, + Up through the long shady lane, +Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, + That are yellow with ripening grain. +They find, in the thick waving grasses, + Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows. +They gather the earliest snowdrops, + And the first crimson buds of the rose. + +They toss the new hay in the meadow, + They gather the elder-bloom white, +They find where the dusky grapes purple + In the soft-tinted October light. +They know where the apples hang ripest, + And are sweeter than Italy's wines; +They know where the fruit hangs the thickest + On the long, thorny blackberry vines. + +They gather the delicate sea-weeds, + And build tiny castles of sand; +They pick up the beautiful sea shells-- + Fairy barks that have drifted to land. +They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops, + Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings, +And at night time are folded in slumber + By a song that a fond mother sings. + +Those who toil bravely are strongest; + The humble and poor become great; +And so from these brown-handed children + Shall grow mighty rulers of state. +The pen of the author and statesman,-- + The noble and wise of the land,-- +The sword, and the chisel, and palette, + Shall be held in the little brown hand. + + _Mary H. Krout._ + + + + +Barbara Frietchie + + +Up from the meadows rich with corn +Clear in the cool September morn, + +The clustered spires of Frederick stand +Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. + +Round about them orchards sweep, +Apple and peach tree fruited deep, + +Fair as the garden of the Lord +To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, + +On that pleasant morn of the early fall +When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,-- + +Over the mountains winding down, +Horse and foot, into Frederick town. + +Forty flags with their silver stars, +Forty flags with their crimson bars, + +Flapped in the morning wind; the sun +Of noon looked down, and saw not one. + +Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, +Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; + +Bravest of all in Frederick town, +She took up the flag the men hauled down; + +In her attic window the staff she set, +To show that one heart was loyal yet. + +Up the street came the rebel tread, +Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. + +Under his slouched hat left and right +He glanced; the old flag met his sight. + +"Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. +"Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast. + +It shivered the window, pane and sash; +It rent the banner with seam and gash. + +Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff +Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; + +She leaned far out on the window-sill, +And shook it forth with a royal will. + +"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, +But spare your country's flag," she said. + +A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, +Over the face of the leader came; + +The nobler nature within him stirred +To life at that woman's deed and word: + +"Who touches a hair of yon gray head +Dies like a dog; march on!" he said. + +All day long through Frederick street +Sounded the tread of marching feet; + +All day long that free flag tost +Over the heads of the rebel host. + +Ever its torn folds rose and fell +On the loyal winds that loved it well; + +And through the hill-gaps sunset light +Shone over it a warm good night. + +Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. +And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. + +Honor to her! and let a tear +Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. + +Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, +Flag of freedom and Union wave! + +Peace and order and beauty draw +Round thy symbol of light and law; + +And ever the stars above look down +On thy stars below in Frederick town. + + _John G. Whittier._ + + + + +I Want to Go to Morrow + + +I started on a journey just about a week ago, +For the little town of Morrow, in the State of Ohio. +I never was a traveler, and really didn't know +That Morrow had been ridiculed a century or so. +I went down to the depot for my ticket and applied +For the tips regarding Morrow, not expecting to be guyed. +Said I, "My friend, I want to go to Morrow and return +Not later than to-morrow, for I haven't time to burn." + +Said he to me, "Now let me see if I have heard you right, +You want to go to Morrow and come back to-morrow night. +You should have gone to Morrow yesterday and back to-day, +For if you started yesterday to Morrow, don't you see, +You could have got to Morrow and returned to-day at three. +The train that started yesterday--now understand me right-- +To-day it gets to Morrow, and returns to-morrow night." + +Said I, "My boy, it seems to me you're talking through your hat, +Is there a town named Morrow on your line? Now tell me that." +"There is," said he, "and take from me a quiet little tip-- +To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour trip. +The train that goes to Morrow leaves to-day eight-thirty-five; +Half after ten to-morrow is the time it should arrive. +Now if from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour jump, +Can you go to-day to Morrow and come back to-day, you chump?" + +Said I, "I want to go to Morrow; can I go to-day +And get to Morrow by to-night, if there is no delay?" +"Well, well," said he, "explain to me and I've no more to say; +Can you go anywhere to-morrow and come back from there to-day?" +For if to-day you'd get to Morrow, surely you'll agree +You should have started not to-day, but yesterday, you see. +So if you start to Morrow, leaving here to-day, you're flat, +You won't get to Morrow till the day that follows that. + +"Now if you start to-day to Morrow, it's a cinch you'll land +To-morrow into Morrow, not to-day, you understand. +For the train to-day to Morrow, if the schedule is right, +Will get you into Morrow by about to-morrow night." +Said I, "I guess you know it all, but kindly let me say, +How can I go to Morrow, if I leave the town to-day?" +Said he, "You cannot go to Morrow any more to-day, +For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way." + + +FINALE + +I was so disappointed I was mad enough to swear; +The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there. +The man was right in telling me I was a howling jay; +I didn't go to Morrow, so I guess I'll go to-day. + + + + +Out in the Fields + + +The little cares that fretted me, + I lost them yesterday +Among the fields above the seas, + Among the winds at play; +Among the lowing of the herds, + The rustling of the trees, +Among the singing of the birds, + The humming of the bees. + +The foolish fears of what might happen,-- + I cast them all away +Among the clover-scented grass, + Among the new-mown hay; +Among the husking of the corn, + Where drowsy poppies nod, +Where ill thoughts die and good are born, + Out in the fields with God. + + _Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ + + + + +The Bluebird's Song + + +I know the song that the bluebird is singing, +Out in the apple tree where he is swinging. +Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary-- +Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. + +Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat! +Hark! was there ever so merry a note? +Listen a while, and you'll hear what he's saying, +Up in the apple tree swinging and swaying. + +"Dear little blossoms down under the snow, +You must be weary of winter I know. +Listen, I'll sing you a message of cheer! +Summer is coming! and springtime is here! + +"Little white snowdrop! I pray you arise; +Bright yellow crocus! please open your eyes; +Sweet little violets, hid from the cold, +Put on your mantles of purple and gold; +Daffodils! Daffodils! say, do you hear?-- +Summer is coming, and springtime is here!" + + _Emily Huntington Miller._ + + + + +The Main Truck, or a Leap for Life + + +Old Ironsides at anchor lay, + In the harbor of Mahon; +A dead calm rested on the bay,-- + The waves to sleep had gone; +When little Hal, the Captain's son, + A lad both brave and good, +In sport, up shroud and rigging ran, + And on the main truck stood! + +A shudder shot through every vein,-- + All eyes were turned on high! +There stood the boy, with dizzy brain, + Between the sea and sky; +No hold had he above, below; + Alone he stood in air: +To that far height none dared to go,-- + No aid could reach him there. + +We gazed, but not a man could speak,-- + With horror all aghast,-- +In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,-- + We watched the quivering mast. +The atmosphere grew thick and hot, + And of a lurid hue;-- +As riveted unto the spot, + Stood officers and crew. + +The father came on deck:--he gasped, + "Oh, God; thy will be done!" +Then suddenly a rifle grasped, + And aimed it at his son. +"Jump, far out, boy, into the wave! + Jump, or I fire," he said; +"That only chance your life can save; + Jump, jump, boy!" He obeyed. + +He sunk,--he rose,--he lived,--he moved,-- + And for the ship struck out. +On board we hailed the lad beloved, + With many a manly shout. +His father drew, in silent joy, + Those wet arms round his neck, +And folded to his heart his boy,-- + Then fainted on the deck. + + _Morris._ + + + + +The Arrow and the Song + + +I shot an arrow into the air, +It fell to earth, I knew not where; +For, so swiftly it flew, the sight +Could not follow it in its flight. + +I breathed a song into the air, +It fell to earth, I knew not where; +For who has sight so keen and strong, +That it can follow the flight of song? + +Long, long afterward, in an oak +I found the arrow, still unbroke; +And the song, from beginning to end, +I found again in the heart of a friend. + + _H.W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Green Mountain Justice + + +"The snow is deep," the Justice said; +"There's mighty mischief overhead." +"High talk, indeed!" his wife exclaimed; +"What, sir! shall Providence be blamed?" +The Justice, laughing, said, "Oh no! +I only meant the loads of snow +Upon the roofs. The barn is weak; +I greatly fear the roof will break. +So hand me up the spade, my dear, +I'll mount the barn, the roof to clear." +"No!" said the wife; "the barn is high, +And if you slip, and fall, and die, +How will my living be secured?-- +Stephen, your life is not insured. +But tie a rope your waist around, +And it will hold you safe and sound." +"I will," said he. "Now for the roof-- +All snugly tied, and danger-proof! +Excelsior! Excel--But no! +The rope is not secured below!" +Said Rachel, "Climb, the end to throw +Across the top, and I will go +And tie that end around my waist." +"Well, every woman to her taste; +You always would be tightly laced. +Rachel, when you became my bride, +I thought the knot securely tied; +But lest the bond should break in twain, +I'll have it fastened once again." +Below the arm-pits tied around, +She takes her station on the ground, +While on the roof, beyond the ridge, +He shovels clear the lower edge. +But, sad mischance! the loosened snow +Comes sliding down, to plunge below. +And as he tumbles with the slide, +Up Rachel goes on t'other side. +Just half-way down the Justice hung; +Just half-way up the woman swung. +"Good land o' Goshen!" shouted she; +"Why, do you see it?" answered he. + +The couple, dangling in the breeze, +Like turkeys hung outside to freeze, +At their rope's end and wits' end, too, +Shout back and forth what best to do. +Cried Stephen, "Take it coolly, wife; +All have their ups and downs in life." +Quoth Rachel, "What a pity 'tis +To joke at such a thing as this! +A man whose wife is being hung +Should know enough to hold his tongue." +"Now, Rachel, as I look below, +I see a tempting heap of snow. +Suppose, my dear, I take my knife, +And cut the rope to save my life?" +She shouted, "Don't! 'twould be my death-- +I see some pointed stones beneath. +A better way would be to call, +With all our might, for Phebe Hall." +"Agreed!" he roared. First he, then she +Gave tongue; "O Phebe! Phebe! _Phe-e-be_ Hall!" in tones both fine + and coarse. +Enough to make a drover hoarse. + +Now Phebe, over at the farm, +Was sitting, sewing, snug and warm; +But hearing, as she thought, her name, +Sprang up, and to the rescue came; +Beheld the scene, and thus she thought: +"If now a kitchen chair were brought, +And I could reach the lady's foot, +I'd draw her downward by the boot, +Then cut the rope, and let him go; +He cannot miss the pile of snow." +He sees her moving toward his wife. +Armed with a chair and carving-knife, +And, ere he is aware, perceives +His head ascending to the eaves; +And, guessing what the two are at, +Screams from beneath the roof, "Stop that! +You make me fall too far, by half!" +But Phebe answers, with a laugh, +"Please tell a body by what right +You've brought your wife to such a plight!" +And then, with well-directed blows, +She cuts the rope and down he goes. +The wife untied, they walk around +When lo! no Stephen can be found. +They call in vain, run to and fro; +They look around, above, below; +No trace or token can they see, +And deeper grows the mystery. +Then Rachel's heart within her sank; +But, glancing at the snowy bank, +She caught a little gleam of hope,-- +A gentle movement of the rope. +They scrape away a little snow; +What's this? A hat! Ah! he's below; +Then upward heaves the snowy pile, +And forth he stalks in tragic style, +Unhurt, and with a roguish smile; +And Rachel sees, with glad surprise, +The missing found, the fallen rise. + + _Rev. Henry Reeves._ + + + + +Jane Conquest + + +About the time of Christmas + (Not many months ago), + When the sky was black + With wrath and rack, + And the earth was white with snow, +When loudly rang the tumult + Of winds and waves of strife, + In her home by the sea, + With her babe on her knee, + Sat Harry Conquest's wife. + +And he was on the ocean, + Although she knew not where, + For never a lip + Could tell of the ship, + To lighten her heart's despair. +And her babe was fading and dying; + The pulse in the tiny wrist + Was all but still, + And the brow was chill, + And pale as the white sea mist. + +Jane Conquest's heart was hopeless; + She could only weep and pray + That the Shepherd mild + Would take her child + Without a pain away. +The night was dark and darker, + And the storm grew stronger still, + And buried in deep + And dreamless sleep + Lay the hamlet under the hill. + +The fire was dead on the hearthstone + Within Jane Conquest's room, + And still sat she, + With her babe on her knee, + At prayer amid the gloom. +When, borne above the tempest, + A sound fell on her ear, + Thrilling her through, + For well she knew + 'Twas the voice of mortal fear. + +And a light leaped in at the lattice, + Sudden and swift and red; + Crimsoning all, + The whited wall, + And the floor, and the roof o'erhead. +For one brief moment, heedless + Of the babe upon her knee, + With the frenzied start + Of a frightened heart, + Upon her feet rose she. + +And through the quaint old casement + She looks upon the sea; + Thank God that the sight + She saw that night + So rare a sight should be! +Hemmed in by many a billow + With mad and foaming lip, + A mile from shore, + Or hardly more, + She saw a gallant ship. + +And to her horror she beheld it + Aflame from stem to stern; + For there seemed no speck + On all that wreck + Where the fierce fire did not burn; +Till the night was like a sunset, + And the sea like a sea of blood, + And the rocks and shore + Were bathed all o'er + And drenched with the gory flood. + +She looked and looked, till the terror + Went creeping through every limb; + And her breath came quick, + And her heart grew sick, + And her sight grew dizzy and dim; +And her lips had lost their utterance, + For she tried but could not speak; + And her feelings found + No channel of sound + In prayer, or sob, or shriek. + +Once more that cry of anguish + Thrilled through the tempest's strife, + And it stirred again + In heart and brain + The active thinking life; +And the light of an inspiration + Leaped to her brightened eye, + And on lip and brow + Was written now + A purpose pure and high. + +Swiftly she turns, and softly + She crosses the chamber floor, + And faltering not, + In his tiny cot + She laid the babe she bore. +And then with a holy impulse, + She sank to her knees, and made + A lowly prayer, + In the silence there, + And this was the prayer she prayed: + +"O Christ, who didst bear the scourging, + And who now dost wear the crown, + I at Thy feet, + O True and Sweet, + Would lay my burden down. +Thou bad'st me love and cherish + The babe Thou gavest me, + And I have kept + Thy word, nor stept + Aside from following Thee. + +"And lo! my boy is dying! + And vain is all my care; + And my burden's weight + Is very great, + Yea, greater than I can bear! +O Lord, Thou know'st what peril + Doth threat these poor men's lives, + And I, a woman, + Most weak and human, + Do plead for their waiting wives. + +"Thou canst not let them perish; + Up, Lord, in Thy strength, and save + From the scorching breath + Of this terrible death + On this cruel winter wave. +Take Thou my babe and watch it, + No care is like to Thine; + And let Thy power + In this perilous hour + Supply what lack is mine." + +And so her prayer she ended, + And rising to her feet, + Gave one long look + At the cradle nook + Where the child's faint pulses beat; +And then with softest footsteps + Retrod the chamber floor, + And noiselessly groped + For the latch, and oped, + And crossed the cottage door. + +And through the tempest bravely + Jane Conquest fought her way, + By snowy deep + And slippery steep + To where her duty lay. +And she journeyed onward, breathless, + And weary and sore and faint, + Yet forward pressed + With the strength, and the zest, + And the ardor of a saint. + +Solemn, and weird, and lonely + Amid its countless graves, + Stood the old gray church + On its tall rock perch, + Secure from the sea and its waves; +And beneath its sacred shadow + Lay the hamlet safe and still; + For however the sea + And the wind might be, + There was quiet under the hill. + +Jane Conquest reached the churchyard, + And stood by the old church door, + But the oak was tough + And had bolts enough, + And her strength was frail and poor; +So she crept through a narrow window, + And climbed the belfry stair, + And grasped the rope, + Sole cord of hope, + For the mariners in despair. + +And the wild wind helped her bravely, + And she wrought with an earnest will, + And the clamorous bell + Spoke out right well + To the hamlet under the hill. +And it roused the slumbering fishers, + Nor its warning task gave o'er + Till a hundred fleet + And eager feet + Were hurrying to the shore. + +And then it ceased its ringing, + For the woman's work was done, + And many a boat + That was now afloat + Showed man's work had begun. +But the ringer in the belfry + Lay motionless and cold, + With the cord of hope. + The church-bell rope, + Still in her frozen hold. + +How long she lay it boots not, + But she woke from her swoon at last + In her own bright room. + To find the gloom, + And the grief, and the peril past, +With the sense of joy within her, + And the Christ's sweet presence near; + And friends around, + And the cooing sound + Of her babe's voice in her ear. + +And they told her all the story, + How a brave and gallant few + O'ercame each check, + And reached the wreck, + And saved the hopeless crew. +And how the curious sexton + Had climbed the belfry stair, + And of his fright + When, cold and white, + He found her lying there; + +And how, when they had borne her + Back to her home again, + The child she left + With a heart bereft + Of hope, and weary with pain, +Was found within his cradle + In a quiet slumber laid; + With a peaceful smile + On his lips the while, + And the wasting sickness stayed. + +And she said "Twas the Christ who watched it, + And brought it safely through"; + And she praised His truth + And His tender ruth + Who had saved her darling too. + + + + +Nathan Hale + + +To drum beat and heart beat, + A soldier marches by, +There is color in his cheek, + There is courage in his eye; +Yet to drum beat and heart beat, + In a moment he must die. + +By starlight and moonlight, + He seeks the Britons' camp; +He hears the rustling flag, + And the armed sentry's tramp; +And the starlight and moonlight + His silent wanderings lamp. + +With a slow tread and still tread, + He scans the tented line, +And he counts the battery guns + By the gaunt and shadowy pine, +And his slow tread and still tread + Gives no warning sign. + +The dark wave, the plumed wave, + It meets his eager glance; +And it sparkles 'neath the stars, + Like the glimmer of a lance-- +A dark wave, a plumed wave, + On an emerald expanse. + +A sharp clang, a steel clang, + And terror in the sound! +For the sentry, falcon-eyed, + In the camp a spy has found; +With a sharp clang, a steel clang, + The patriot is bound. + +With calm brow, steady brow, + He listens to his doom. +In his look there is no fear, + Nor a shadow trace of gloom, +But with calm brow, steady brow, + He robes him for the tomb. + +In the long night, the still night, + He kneels upon the sod; +And the brutal guards withhold + E'en the solemn word of God! +In the long night, the still night, + He walks where Christ hath trod. + +'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, + He dies upon the tree; +And he mourns that he can give + But one life for liberty; +And in the blue morn, the sunny morn + His spent wings are free. + +But his last words, his message words, + They burn, lest friendly eye +Should read how proud and calm + A patriot could die. +With his last words, his dying words, + A soldier's battle cry. + +From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, + From monument and urn, +The sad of earth, the glad of Heaven, + His tragic fate shall learn; +And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, + The name of Hale shall burn. + + _Francis M. Finch._ + + + + +The Lips That Touch Liquor Must Never Touch Mine + + +You are coming to woo me, but not as of yore, +When I hastened to welcome your ring at the door; +For I trusted that he who stood waiting me then, +Was the brightest, the truest, the noblest of men. +Your lips on my own when they printed "Farewell," +Had never been soiled by "the beverage of hell"; +But they come to me now with the bacchanal sign, +And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine. + +I think of that night in the garden alone, +When in whispers you told me your heart was my own, +That your love in the future should faithfully be +Unshared by another, kept only for me. +Oh, sweet to my soul is the memory still +Of the lips which met mine, when they murmured "I will"; +But now to their pressure no more they incline, +For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine! + +O John! how it crushed me, when first in your face +The pen of the "Rum Fiend" had written "disgrace"; +And turned me in silence and tears from that breath +All poisoned and foul from the chalice of death. +It scattered the hopes I had treasured to last; +It darkened the future and clouded the past; +It shattered my idol, and ruined the shrine, +For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine. + +I loved you--Oh, dearer than language can tell, +And you saw it, you proved it, you knew it too well! +But the man of my love was far other than he +Who now from the "Tap-room" comes reeling to me; +In manhood and honor so noble and right-- +His heart was so true, and his genius so bright-- +And his soul was unstained, unpolluted by wine; +But the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine. + +You promised reform, but I trusted in vain; +Your pledge was but made to be broken again: +And the lover so false to his promises now, +Will not, as a husband, be true to his vow. +The word must be spoken that bids you depart-- +Though the effort to speak it should shatter my heart-- +Though in silence, with blighted affection, I pine, +Yet the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine! + +If one spark in your bosom of virtue remain, +Go fan it with prayer till it kindle again; +Resolved, with "God helping," in future to be +From wine and its follies unshackled and free! +And when you have conquered this foe of your soul,-- +In manhood and honor beyond his control-- +This heart will again beat responsive to thine, +And the lips free from liquor be welcome to mine. + + _George W. Young._ + + + + +A Perfect Day + + +When you come to the end of a perfect day + And you sit alone with your thought +While the chimes ring out with a carol gay + For the joy that the day has brought, +Do you think what the end of a perfect day + Can mean to a tired heart? +When the sun goes down with a flaming ray + And the dear friends have to part? + +Well, this is the end of a perfect day, + Near the end of a journey, too; +But it leaves a thought that is big and strong, + With a wish that is kind and true; +For mem'ry has painted this perfect day + With colors that never fade, +And we find, at the end of a perfect day, + The soul of a friend we've made. + + _Carrie Jacobs Bond._ + + + + +_Kate Ketchem_ + + +Kate Ketchem on a winter's night +Went to a party dressed in white. +Her chignon in a net of gold, +Was about as large as they ever sold. +Gayly she went, because her "pap" +Was supposed to be a rich old chap. + +But when by chance her glances fell +On a friend who had lately married well, +Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest +And a nameless longing filled her breast-- +A wish she wouldn't have had made known, +To have an establishment of her own. + +Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng, +With chestnut hair, worn pretty long. +He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd, +And knowing her slightly, stopped and bowed; +Then asked her to give him a single flower, +Saying he'd think it a priceless dower. + +Out from those with which she was decked, +She took the poorest she could select. +And blushed as she gave it, looking down +To call attention to her gown. +"Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought how dear +Flowers must be at that time of year. + +Then several charming remarks he made, +Asked if she sang, or danced, or played; +And being exhausted, inquired whether +She thought it was going to be pleasant weather. +And Kate displayed her "jewelry," +And dropped her lashes becomingly; +And listened, with no attempt to disguise +The admiration in her eyes. +At last, like one who has nothing to say, +He turned around and walked away. + +Kate Ketchem smiled, and said, "You bet. +I'll catch that Fudge and his money yet. +He's rich enough to keep me in clothes, +And I think I could manage him as I chose. +He could aid my father as well as not, +And buy my brother a splendid yacht. +My mother for money should never fret, +And all it cried for the baby should get; +And after that, with what he could spare, +I'd make a show at a charity fair." + +Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill, +And saw Kate Ketchem standing still. +"A girl more suited to my mind +It isn't an easy thing to find; +And every thing that she has to wear +Proves her as rich as she is fair. +Would she were mine, and I to-day +Had the old man's cash my debts to pay! +No creditors with a long account, +No tradesmen wanting 'that little amount'; +But all my scores paid up when due +By a father-in-law as rich as a Jew!" + +But he thought of her brother, not worth a straw, +And her mother, that would be his, in law; +So, undecided, he walked along, +And Kate was left alone in the throng. +But a lawyer smiled, whom he sought by stealth, +To ascertain old Ketchem's wealth; +And as for Kate, she schemed and planned +Till one of the dancers claimed her hand. + +He married her for her father's cash; +She married him to cut a dash, +But as to paying his debts, do you know, +The father couldn't see it so; +And at hints for help, Kate's hazel eyes +Looked out in their innocent surprise. +And when Tom thought of the way he had wed +He longed for a single life instead, +And closed his eyes in a sulky mood, +Regretting the days of his bachelorhood; +And said, in a sort of reckless vein, +"I'd like to see her catch me again, +If I were free, as on that night +When I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white!" + +She wedded him to be rich and gay; +But husband and children didn't pay, +He wasn't the prize she hoped to draw, +And wouldn't live with his mother-in-law. +And oft when she had to coax and pout +In order to get him to take her out, +She thought how very attentive and bright +He seemed at the party that winter's night; +Of his laugh, as soft as a breeze of the south, +('Twas now on the other side of his mouth); +How he praised her dress and gems in his talk, +As he took a careful account of stock. + +Sometimes she hated the very walls-- +Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls; +Till her weak affection, to hatred turned, +Like a dying tallow-candle burned. +And for him who sat there, her peace to mar, +Smoking his everlasting cigar-- +He wasn't the man she thought she saw, +And grief was duty, and hate was law. +So she took up her burden with a groan, +Saying only, "I might have known!" + +Alas for Kate! and alas for Fudge! +Though I do not owe them any grudge; +And alas for any who find to their shame +That two can play at their little game! +For of all hard things to bear and grin, +The hardest is knowing you're taken in. +Ah, well! as a general thing, we fret +About the one we didn't get; +But I think we needn't make a fuss, +If the one we don't want didn't get us. + + _Phoebe Cary._ + + + + +Mandalay + + +By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, +There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me; +For the wind is in the palm-trees, an' the temple-bells they say: +"Come you back, you British soldier: come you back to Mandalay!" + Come you back to Mandalay, + Where the old flotilla lay: + Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? + On the road to Mandalay, + Where the flyin'-fishes play, + An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! + +'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, +An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, +An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, +An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot; + Bloomin' idol made o' mud-- + Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd-- + Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! + On the road to Mandalay-- + +When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' low, +She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "_Kul-la-lo-lo_!" +With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek +We useter watch the steamers and the _hathis_ pilin' teak. + Elephints a-pilin' teak + In the sludgy, squdgy creek, + Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was arf afraid to speak! + On the road to Mandalay-- + +But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away, +An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay; +An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells: +"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', why, you won't 'eed nothin' else." + No! you won't 'eed nothin' else + But them spicy garlic smells + An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells! + On the road to Mandalay-- + +I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin'-stones, +An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; +Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, +An' they talk a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? + Beefy face an' grubby 'and-- + Law! wot _do_ they understand? + I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! + On the road to Mandalay-- + +Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst, +Where there aren't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst; +For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be-- +By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea-- + On the road to Mandalay, + Where the old Flotilla lay, + With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! + On the road to Mandalay! + Where the flyin'-fishes play, + An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + + + + +Columbus + + +Behind him lay the gray Azores, + Behind the Gates of Hercules; +Before him not the ghost of shores, + Before him only shoreless seas. +The good mate said: "Now must we pray, + For lo! the very stars are gone. +Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?" + "Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'" + +"My men grow mutinous day by day; + My men grow ghastly wan and weak." +The stout mate thought of home; a spray + Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek, +"What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say, + If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" +"Why, you shall say at break of day: + 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'" + +They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, + Until at last the blanched mate said: +"Why, now not even God would know + Should I and all my men fall dead. +These very winds forget their way, + For God from these dread seas is gone. +Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say--" + He said: "Sail on! Sail on! and on!" + +They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: + "This mad sea shows his teeth tonight. +He curls his lips, he lies in wait + With lifted teeth, as if to bite! +Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word: + What shall we do when hope is gone? +The words leapt like a leaping sword; + "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" + +Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, + And peered through darkness. Ah, that night +Of all dark nights! And then a speck-- + A light! a light! a light! a light! +It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! + It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. +He gained a world; he gave that world + Its grandest lesson; "On! sail on!" + + _Joaquin Miller._ + + + + +"Sister's Best Feller" + + +My sister's best feller is 'most six-foot-three, +And handsome and strong as a feller can be; +And Sis, she's so little, and slender, and small, +You never would think she could boss him at all; +But, my jing! +She don't do a thing +But make him jump 'round, like he worked with a string! +It jest made me 'shamed of him sometimes, you know, +To think that he'll let a girl bully him so. + +He goes to walk with her and carries her muff +And coat and umbrella, and that kind of stuff; +She loads him with things that must weigh 'most a ton; +And, honest, he _likes_ it,--as if it was fun! +And, oh, say! +When they go to a play, +He'll sit in the parlor and fidget away, +And she won't come down till it's quarter past eight, +And then she'll scold _him_ 'cause they get there so late. + +He spends heaps of money a-buyin' her things, +Like candy, and flowers, and presents, and rings; +And all he's got for 'em's a handkerchief case-- +A fussed-up concern, made of ribbons and lace; +But, my land! He thinks it's just grand, +"'Cause she made it," he says, "with her own little hand"; +He calls her "an angel"--I heard him--and "saint," +And "beautif'lest bein' on earth"--but she ain't, + +'Fore I go on an errand for her any time, +I just make her coax me, and give me a dime; +But that great big silly--why, honest and true-- +He'd run forty miles if she wanted him to. +Oh, gee whiz! +I tell you what 'tis! +I jest think it's _awful_--those actions of his. +I won't fall in love, when I'm grown--no sir-ee! +My sister's best feller's a warnin' to me! + + _Joseph C. Lincoln._ + + + + +Where the West Begins + + +Out where the handclasp's a little stronger, +Out where a smile dwells a little longer, + That's where the West begins. +Out where the sun's a little brighter, +Where the snow that falls is a trifle whiter, +Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, + That's where the West begins. + +Out where the skies are a trifle bluer, +Out where friendship's a little truer, + That's where the West begins. +Out where a fresher breeze is blowing, +Where there is laughter in every streamlet flowing, +Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing, + That's where the West begins. + +Out where the world is in the making, +Where fewer hearts with despair are aching; + That's where the West begins. +Where there is more of singing and less of sighing, +Where there is more of giving and less of buying, +And a man makes friends without half trying-- + That's where the West begins. + + _Arthur Chapman._ + + + + +The Tapestry Weavers + + +Let us take to our hearts a lesson--no lesson can braver be-- +From the ways of the tapestry weavers on the other side of the sea. +Above their heads the pattern hangs, they study it with care, +The while their fingers deftly move, their eyes are fastened there. + +They tell this curious thing, besides, of the patient, plodding weaver: +He works on the wrong side evermore, but works for the right side ever. +It is only when the weaving stops, and the web is loosed and turned, +That he sees his real handiwork--that his marvelous skill is learned. + +Ah, the sight of its delicate beauty, how it pays him for all his cost! +No rarer, daintier work than his was ever done by the frost. +Then the master bringeth him golden hire, and giveth him praise as well, +And how happy the heart of the weaver is, no tongue but his can tell. + +The years of man are the looms of God, let down from the place of the sun, +Wherein we are weaving ever, till the mystic web is done. +Weaving blindly but weaving surely each for himself his fate-- +We may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait. + +But, looking above for the pattern, no weaver hath to fear; +Only let him look clear into heaven, the Perfect Pattern is there. +If he keeps the face of the Savior forever and always in sight +His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his weaving sure to be right. + +And when the work is ended, and the web is turned and shown, +He shall hear the voice of the Master, it shall say unto him, "Well done!" +And the white-winged Angels of Heaven, to bear him shall come down; +And God shall give him gold for his hire--not a coin--but a glowing crown. + + + + +When the Teacher Gets Cross + + +When the teacher gets cross, and her blue eyes gets black, +And the pencil comes down on the desk with a whack, +We chillen all sit up straight in a line, +As if we had rulers instead of a spine, +And it's scary to cough, and it a'n't safe to grin, +When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in. + +When the teacher gets cross, the tables get mixed, +The ones and the twos begins to play tricks. +The pluses and minuses is just little smears, +When the cry babies cry their slates full of tears, +And the figgers won't add,--but just act up like sin, +When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in. + +When the teacher gets cross, the reading gets bad. +The lines jingle round till the' chillen is sad. +And Billy boy puffs and gets red in the face, +As if he and the lesson were running a race, +Until she hollers out, "Next!" as sharp as a pin, +When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in. + +When the teacher gets good, her smile is so bright, +That the tables gets straight, and the reading gets right. +The pluses and minuses comes trooping along, +And the figgers add up and stop being wrong, +And we chillen would like, but we dassent, to shout, +When the teacher gets good, and the dimples comes out. + + + + +Recessional + + +God of our fathers, known of old, + Lord of our far-flung battle line, +Beneath whose awful Hand we hold + Dominion over palm and pine-- +Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, +Lest we forget--lest we forget! + +The tumult and the shouting dies; + The captains and the kings depart: +Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, + An humble and a contrite heart. +Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, +Lest we forget--lest we forget! + +Far-called, our navies melt away; + On dune and headland sinks the fire: +Lo, all our pomp of yesterday + Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! +Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, +Lest we forget--lest we forget! + +If, drunk with sight of power, we loose + Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- +Such boasting as the Gentiles use, + Or lesser breeds without the Law-- +Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, +Lest we forget--lest we forget! + +For heathen heart that puts her trust + In reeking tube and iron shard, +All valiant dust that builds on dust, + And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, +For frantic boast and foolish word, +Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! + + Amen. + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + + + + +The Eternal Goodness + + +O Friends! with whom my feet have trod + The quiet aisles of prayer, +Glad witness to your zeal for God + And love of man I bear. + +I trace your lines of argument; + Your logic linked and strong +I weigh as one who dreads dissent, + And fears a doubt as wrong. + +But still my human hands are weak + To hold your iron creeds: +Against the words ye bid me speak + My heart within me pleads. + +Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? + Who talks of scheme and plan? +The Lord is God! He needeth not + The poor device of man. + +I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground + Ye tread with boldness shod; +I dare not fix with mete and bound + The love and power of God. + +Ye praise His justice; even such + His pitying love I deem; +Ye seek a king; I fain would touch + The robe that hath no seam. + +Ye see the curse which overbroods + A world of pain and loss; +I hear our Lord's beatitudes + And prayer upon the cross. + +More than your schoolmen teach, within + Myself, alas! I know; +Too dark ye cannot paint the sin, + Too small the merit show. + +I bow my forehead to the dust, + I veil mine eyes for shame, +And urge, in trembling self-distrust, + A prayer without a claim. + +I see the wrong that round me lies, + I feel the guilt within; +I hear, with groan and travail-cries, + The world confess its sin. + +Yet, in the maddening maze of things, + And tossed by storm and flood, +To one fixed stake my spirit clings; + I know that God is good! + +Not mine to look where cherubim + And seraphs may not see, +But nothing can be good in Him + Which evil is in me. + +The wrong that pains my soul below + I dare not throne above; +I know not of His hate,--I know + His goodness and His love. + +I dimly guess from blessings known + Of greater out of sight, +And, with the chastened Psalmist, own + His judgments too are right. + +I long for household voices gone, + For vanished smiles I long, +But God hath led my dear ones on, + And he can do no wrong. + +I know not what the future hath + Of marvel or surprise, +Assured alone that life and death + His mercy underlies. + +And if my heart and flesh are weak + To bear an untried pain, +The bruised reed He will not break, + But strengthen and sustain. + +No offering of my own I have, + Nor works my faith to prove; +I can but give the gifts He gave, + And plead His love for love. + +And so beside the Silent Sea, + I wait the muffled oar; +No harm from Him can come to me + On ocean or on shore. + +I know not where His islands lift + Their fronded palms in air; +I only know I cannot drift + Beyond His love and care. + +O brothers! if my faith is vain, + If hopes like these betray, +Pray for me that my feet may gain + The sure and safer way. + +And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen + Thy creatures as they be, +Forgive me if too close I lean + My human heart on Thee! + + _John G. Whittier._ + + + + +Driving Home the Cows + + +Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass + He turned them into the river-lane; +One after another he let them pass. + Then fastened the meadow-bars again. + +Under the willows and over the hill, + He patiently followed their sober pace; +The merry whistle for once was still, + And something shadowed the sunny face. + +Only a boy! and his father had said + He never could let his youngest go; +Two already were lying dead + Under the feet of the trampling foe. + +But after the evening work was done, + And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, +Over his shoulder he slung his gun, + And stealthily followed the footpath damp,-- + +Across the clover and through the wheat. + With resolute heart and purpose grim, +Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, + And the blind bat's flitting startled him. + +Thrice since then had the lanes been white, + And the orchards sweet with apple bloom; +And now, when the cows came back at night, + The feeble father drove them home. + +For news had come to the lonely farm + That three were lying where two had lain; +And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm + Could never lean on a son's again. + +The summer day grew cool and late; + He went for the cows when the work was done; +But down the lane, as he opened the gate, + He saw them coming, one by one,-- + +Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, + Shaking their horns in the evening wind, +Cropping the buttercups out of the grass-- + But who was it following close behind? + +Loosely swung in the idle air + The empty sleeve of army blue; +And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, + Looked out a face that the father knew. + +For southern prisons will sometimes yawn, + And yield their dead unto life again; +And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn + In golden glory at last may wane. + +The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; + For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, +And under the silent evening skies + Together they followed the cattle home. + + _Kate P. Osgood._ + + + + +A Song of Our Flag + + + Your Flag and my Flag! + And, oh, how much it holds-- + Your land and my land-- + Secure within its folds! + Your heart and my heart + Beat quicker at the sight; + Sun-kissed and wind-tossed, + Red and blue and white. +The one Flag--the great Flag--the Flag for me and you-- +Glorified all else beside--the red and white and blue! + + Your Flag and my Flag! + To every star and stripe + The drums beat as hearts beat + And fifers shrilly pipe! + Your Flag and my Flag-- + A blessing in the sky; + Your hope and my hope-- + It never hid a lie! +Home land and far land and half the world around, +Old Glory hears our glad salute and ripples to the sound! + + _Wilbur D. Nesbit._ + + + + +When the Minister Comes to Tea + + +Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair, +And they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square; +And the what-not's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat, +And the pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat; +Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she's frizzin' up her bangs; +Ma's got on her best alpacky, and she's askin' how it hangs; +Pa has shaved as slick as can be, and I'm rigged way up in G,-- +And it's all because we're goin' ter have the minister ter tea. +Oh! the table's fixed up gaudy, with the gilt-edged chiny set, +And we'll use the silver tea-pot and the comp'ny spoons, you bet; +And we're goin' ter have some fruitcake and some thimbleberry jam, +And "riz biscuits," and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham. +Ma, she'll 'polergize like fury and say everything is bad, +And "Sich awful luck with cookin'," she is sure she never had; +But, er course, she's only bluffin,' for it's as prime as it can be, +And she's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister's ter tea. +Everybody'll be a-smilin' and as good as ever was, +Pa won't growl about the vittles, like he generally does. +And he'll ask me would I like another piece er pie; but, sho! +That, er course, is only manners, and I'm s'posed ter answer "No." +Sis'll talk about the church-work and about the Sunday-school, +Ma'll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the Golden Rule, +And if I upset my tumbler they won't say a word ter me:-- +Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea! +Say! a minister, you'd reckon, never'd say what wasn't true; +But that isn't so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too; +'Cause when Sis plays on the organ so it makes yer want ter die, +Why, he sets and says it's lovely; and that, seems ter me,'s a lie: +But I like him all the samey, and I only wish he'd stay +At our house fer good and always, and eat with us every day; +Only think of havin' goodies _every_ evenin'! Jimmin_ee_! +And I'd _never_ git a scoldin' with the minister ter tea! + + _Joseph C. Lincoln._ + + + + +When the Cows Come Home + + + When klingle, klangle, klingle, + Far down the dusty dingle, + The cows are coming home; + +Now sweet and clear, now faint and low, +The airy tinklings come and go, +Like chimings from the far-off tower, +Or patterings of an April shower + That makes the daisies grow; + Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle + Far down the darkening dingle, + The cows come slowly home. + +And old-time friends, and twilight plays, +And starry nights and sunny days, +Come trooping up the misty ways + When the cows come home, + With jingle, jangle, jingle, + Soft tones that sweetly mingle-- + The cows are coming home; + +Malvine, and Pearl, and Florimel, +DeKamp, Red Rose, and Gretchen Schell. +Queen Bess and Sylph, and Spangled Sue, +Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo" + And clang her silver bell; + Go-ling, go-lang, golingledingle, + With faint, far sounds that mingle, + The cows come slowly home. + +And mother-songs of long-gone years, +And baby-joys and childish fears, +And youthful hopes and youthful tears, + When the cows come home. + With ringle, rangle, ringle, + By twos and threes and single, + The cows are coming home. + +Through violet air we see the town, +And the summer sun a-sliding down, +And the maple in the hazel glade +Throws down the path a longer shade, + And the hills are growing brown; + To-ring, to-rang, toringleringle, + By threes and fours and single, + The cows come slowly home. + +The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, +The same sweet June-day rest and calm, +The same sweet smell of buds and balm, + When the cows come home. + With tinkle, tankle, tinkle, + Through fern and periwinkle, + The cows are coming home. + +A-loitering in the checkered stream, +Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, +Clarine, Peach-bloom and Phebe Phillis +Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies, + In a drowsy dream; + To-link, to-lank, tolinklelinkle, + O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle, + The cows come slowly home. + +And up through memory's deep ravine +Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, +And the crescent of the silver queen, + When the cows come home. + With klingle, klangle, klingle, + With loo-oo, and moo-oo and jingle, + The cows are coming home. + +And over there on Merlin Hill +Sounds the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will, +And the dew-drops lie on the tangled vines, +And over the poplars Venus shines, + And over the silent mill. + Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle, + With ting-a-ling and jingle, + The cows come slowly home. + +Let down the bars; let in the train +Of long-gone songs, and flowers, and rain; +For dear old times come back again, + When the cows come home. + + _Agnes E. Mitchell._ + + + + +Custer's Last Charge + + +Dead! Is it possible? He, the bold rider, + Custer, our hero, the first in the fight, +Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider, + Shunning our battle-king's ringlets of light! +Dead! our young chieftain, and dead all forsaken! + No one to tell us the way of his fall! +Slain in the desert, and never to waken, + Never, not even to victory's call! + +Comrades, he's gone! but ye need not be grieving; + No, may my death be like his when I die! +No regrets wasted on words I am leaving, + Falling with brave men, and face to the sky. +Death's but a journey, the greatest must take it: + Fame is eternal, and better than all; +Gold though the bowl be, 'tis fate that must break it, + Glory can hallow the fragments that fall. + +Proud for his fame that last day that he met them! + All the night long he had been on their track, +Scorning their traps and the men that had set them, + Wild for a charge that should never give back. +There, on the hilltop he halted and saw them-- + Lodges all loosened and ready to fly; +Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them, + Told of his coming before he was nigh. + +All the wide valley was full of their forces, + Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat,-- +Warriors running in haste to their horses, + Thousands of enemies close to his feet! +Down in the valleys the ages had hollowed, + There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for a prey! +Numbers! What recked he? What recked those who followed? + Men who had fought ten to one ere that day? + +Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred, + Into the battle-line steady and full; +Then down the hillside exultingly thundered + Into the hordes of the Old Sitting Bull! +Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne, + Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew, +Shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion. + Then closed around the great hell of wild Sioux. + +Right to their center he charged, and then, facing-- + Hark to those yells and around them, Oh, see! +Over the hilltops the devils come racing, + Coming as fast as the waves of the sea! +Red was the circle of fire about them, + No hope of victory, no ray of light, +Shot through that terrible black cloud about them, + Brooding in death over Custer's last fight. + +THEN DID HE BLENCH? Did he die like a craven, + Begging those torturing fiends for his life? +Was there a soldier who carried the Seven + Flinched like a coward or fled from the strife? +No, by the blood of our Custer, no quailing! + There in the midst of the devils they close, +Hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing, + Fighting like tigers, all bayed amid foes! + +Thicker and thicker the bullets came singing; + Down go the horses and riders and all; +Swiftly the warriors round them were ringing, + Circling like buzzards awaiting their fall. +See the wild steeds of the mountain and prairie, + Savage eyes gleaming from forests of mane; +Quivering lances with pennons so airy; + War-painted warriors charging amain. + +Backward again and again they were driven, + Shrinking to close with the lost little band; +Never a cap that had worn the bright Seven + Bowed till its wearer was dead on the strand. +Closer and closer the death-circle growing, + Even the leader's voice, clarion clear, +Rang out his words of encouragement glowing, + "We can but die once, boys, but SELL YOUR LIVES DEAR!" + +Dearly they sold them, like Berserkers raging, + Facing the death that encircled them round; +Death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging, + Marking their tracks by their dead on the ground. +Comrades, our children shall yet tell their story,-- + Custer's last charge on the Old Sitting Bull; +And ages shall swear that the cup of his glory + Needed but that death to render it full. + + _Frederick Whitttaker._ + + + + +A Boy and His Stomach + + +What's the matter, stummick? Ain't I always been your friend? +Ain't I always been a pardner to you? All my pennies don't I spend +In getting nice things for you? Don't I give you lots of cake? +Say, stummick, what's the matter, You had to go an' ache? + +Why, I loaded you with good things yesterday; +I gave you more corn an' chicken than you'd ever had before; +I gave you fruit an' candy, apple pie an' chocolate cake, +An' last night when I got to bed you had to go an' ache. + +Say, what's the matter with you? Ain't you satisfied at all? +I gave you all you wanted; you was hard jes' like a ball, +An' you couldn't hold another bit of puddin'; yet last night +You ached most awful, stummick! That ain't treatin' me jest right. + +I've been a friend to you, I have! Why ain't you a friend o' mine? +They gave me castor oil becoz you made me whine. +I'm feelin' fine this mornin'; yes it's true; +But I tell you, stummick, you better appreciate things I do for you. + + + + +On the Shores of Tennessee + + +"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, + In the sunshine bright and strong, +For this world is fading, Pompey-- + Massa won't be with you long; +And I fain would hear the south wind + Bring once more the sound to me, +Of the wavelets softly breaking + On the shores of Tennessee. + +"Mournful though the ripples murmur + As they still the story tell, +How no vessels float the banner + That I've loved so long and well, +I shall listen to their music, + Dreaming that again I see +Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop + Sailing up the Tennessee; + +"And Pompey, while old Massa's waiting + For Death's last dispatch to come, +If that exiled starry banner + Should come proudly sailing home, +You shall greet it, slave no longer-- + Voice and hand shall both be free +That shout and point to Union colors + On the waves of Tennessee." + +"Massa's berry kind to Pompey; + But old darkey's happy here, +Where he's tended corn and cotton + For dese many a long-gone year. +Ober yonder, Missis' sleeping-- + No one tends her grave like me; +Mebbe she would miss the flowers + She used to love in Tennessee. + +"'Pears like, she was watching Massa-- + If Pompey should beside him stay, +Mebbe she'd remember better + How for him she used to pray; +Telling him that way up yonder + White as snow his soul would be, +If he served the Lord of Heaven + While he lived in Tennessee." + +Silently the tears were rolling + Down the poor old dusky face, +As he stepped behind his master, + In his long-accustomed place. +Then a silence fell around them, + As they gazed on rock and tree +Pictured in the placid waters + Of the rolling Tennessee;-- + +Master, dreaming of the battle + Where he fought by Marion's side, +Where he bid the haughty Tarleton + Stoop his lordly crest of pride:-- +Man, remembering how yon sleeper + Once he held upon his knee. +Ere she loved the gallant soldier, + Ralph Vervair of Tennessee. + +Still the south wind fondly lingers + 'Mid the veteran's silver hair; +Still the bondman, close beside him + Stands behind the old arm-chair. +With his dark-hued hand uplifted, + Shading eyes, he bends to see +Where the woodland, boldly jutting, + Turns aside the Tennessee. + +Thus he watches cloud-born shadows + Glide from tree to mountain-crest, +Softly creeping, aye and ever + To the river's yielding breast. +Ha! above the foliage yonder + Something flutters wild and free! +"Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! + The flag's come back to Tennessee!" + +"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, + Help me stand on foot once more, +That I may salute the colors + As they pass my cabin door. +Here's the paper signed that frees you, + Give a freeman's shout with me-- +'God and Union!' be our watchword + Evermore in Tennessee!" + +Then the trembling voice grew fainter, + And the limbs refused to stand; +One prayer to Jesus--and the soldier + Glided to the better land. +When the flag went down the river + Man and master both were free; +While the ring-dove's note was mingled + With the rippling Tennessee. + + _Ethel Lynn Beers._ + + + + +The White-Footed Deer + + +It was a hundred years ago, + When, by the woodland ways, +The traveler saw the wild deer drink, + Or crop the birchen sprays. + +Beneath a hill, whose rocky side + O'er-browed a grassy mead, +And fenced a cottage from the wind, + A deer was wont to feed. + +She only came when on the cliffs + The evening moonlight lay, +And no man knew the secret haunts + In which she walked by day. + +White were her feet, her forehead showed + A spot of silvery white, +That seemed to glimmer like a star + In autumn's hazy night. + +And here, when sang the whippoorwill, + She cropped the sprouting leaves, +And here her rustling steps were heard + On still October eves. + +But when the broad midsummer moon + Rose o'er the grassy lawn, +Beside the silver-footed deer + There grazed a spotted fawn. + +The cottage dame forbade her son + To aim the rifle here; +"It were a sin," she said, "to harm + Or fright that friendly deer. + +"This spot has been my pleasant home + Ten peaceful years and more; +And ever, when the moonlight shines, + She feeds before our door, + +"The red men say that here she walked + A thousand moons ago; +They never raise the war whoop here, + And never twang the bow. + +"I love to watch her as she feeds, + And think that all is well +While such a gentle creature haunts + The place in which we dwell." + +The youth obeyed, and sought for game + In forests far away, +Where, deep in silence and in moss, + The ancient woodland lay. + +But once, in autumn's golden time, + He ranged the wild in vain, +Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, + And wandered home again. + +The crescent moon and crimson eve + Shone with a mingling light; +The deer, upon the grassy mead, + Was feeding full in sight. + +He raised the rifle to his eye, + And from the cliffs around +A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, + Gave back its deadly sound. + +Away, into the neighboring wood, + The startled creature flew, +And crimson drops at morning lay + Amid the glimmering dew. + +Next evening shone the waxing moon + As sweetly as before; +The deer upon the grassy mead + Was seen again no more. + +But ere that crescent moon was old, + By night the red men came, +And burnt the cottage to the ground, + And slew the youth and dame. + +Now woods have overgrown the mead, + And hid the cliffs from sight; +There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon, + And prowls the fox at night. + + _W.C. Bryant._ + + + + +Mount Vernon's Bells + + +Where Potomac's stream is flowing + Virginia's border through, +Where the white-sailed ships are going + Sailing to the ocean blue; + +Hushed the sound of mirth and singing, + Silent every one! +While the solemn bells are ringing + By the tomb of Washington. + +Tolling and knelling, + With a sad, sweet sound, +O'er the waves the tones are swelling + By Mount Vernon's sacred ground. + +Long ago the warrior slumbered-- + Our country's father slept; +Long among the angels numbered + They the hero soul have kept. + +But the children's children love him, + And his name revere, +So where willows wave above him, + Sweetly still his knell you hear. + +Sail, oh ships, across the billows, + And bear the story far; +How he sleeps beneath the willows,-- + "First in peace and first in war," + +Tell while sweet adieus are swelling, + Till you come again, +He within the hearts is dwelling, + Of his loving countrymen. + + _M.B.C. Slade._ + + + + +Gradatim + + +Heaven is not reached at a single bound; + But we build the ladder by which we rise + From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, +And we mount to the summit round by round, + +I count this thing to be grandly true: + That a noble deed is a step toward God, + Lifting a soul from the common sod +To a purer air and a broader view. + +We rise by things that are under our feet; + By what we have mastered of good and gain, + By the pride deposed and the passion slain, +And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. + +We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, + When the morning calls us to life and light; + But our hearts grow weary, and ere he night +Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. + +We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, + And we think that we mount the air on wings, + Beyond the recall of sensual things, +While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. + +Only in dreams is a ladder thrown + From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; + But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, +And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone. + +Heaven is not reached at a single bound; + But we build the ladder by which we rise + From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, +And we mount to the summit round by round. + + _J.G. Holland._ + + + + +Mr. Finney's Turnip + + +Mr. Finney had a turnip + And it grew behind the barn; +It grew there, and it grew there, + And the turnip did no harm, + +It grew and it grew, + Till it could get no taller; +Mr. Finney pulled it up + And put it in his cellar. + +It lay there and it lay there, + Till it began to rot; +His daughter Sallie took it up, + And put it in the pot. + +She boiled it, and she boiled it, + As long as she was able; +His daughter Peggy fished it out. + And put it on the table. + +Mr. Finney and his wife. + They sat down to sup, +And they ate, and they ate, + Until they ate the turnip up. + + + + +The Village Blacksmith + + +Under a spreading chestnut tree + The village smithy stands; +The smith, a mighty man is he, + With large and sinewy hands; +And the muscles of his brawny arms + Are strong as iron bands. + +His hair is crisp, and black and long, + His face is like the tan; +His brow is wet with honest sweat, + He earns whate'er he can, +And looks the whole world in the face, + For he owes not any man. + +Week in, week out, from morn till night, + You can hear his bellows blow; +You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, + With measured beat and slow, +Like a sexton ringing the village bell, + When the evening sun is low. + +And children coming home from school + Look in at the open door; +They love to see the flaming forge, + And hear the bellows roar, +And catch the burning sparks that fly + Like chaff from a threshing floor. + +He goes on Sunday to the church, + And sits among his boys; +He hears the parson pray and preach, + He hears his daughter's voice, +Singing in the village choir, + And it makes his heart rejoice. + +It sounds to him like her mother's voice, + Singing in Paradise! +He needs must think of her once more, + How in the grave she lies; +And with his hard, rough hand he wipes + A tear out of his eyes. + +Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, + Onward through life he goes; +Each morning sees some task begun, + Each evening sees it close; +Something attempted, something done, + Has earned a night's repose. + +Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, + For the lesson thou hast taught! +Thus at the flaming forge of life + Our fortunes must be wrought; +Thus on its sounding anvil shaped + Each burning deed and thought. + + _H. W. Longfellow._ + + + + +You and You + +_To the American Private in the Great War_ + + +Every one of you won the war-- +You and you and you-- +Each one knowing what it was for, +And what was his job to do. + +Every one of you won the war, +Obedient, unwearied, unknown, +Dung in the trenches, drift on the shore, +Dust to the world's end blown; +Every one of you, steady and true, +You and you and you-- +Down in the pit or up in the blue, +Whether you crawled or sailed or flew, +Whether your closest comrade knew +Or you bore the brunt alone-- + +All of you, all of you, name after name, +Jones and Robinson, Smith and Brown, +You from the piping prairie town, +You from the Fundy fogs that came, +You from the city's roaring blocks, +You from the bleak New England rocks +With the shingled roof in the apple boughs, +You from the brown adobe house-- +You from the Rockies, you from the Coast, +You from the burning frontier-post +And you from the Klondyke's frozen flanks, +You from the cedar-swamps, you from the pine, +You from the cotton and you from the vine, +You from the rice and the sugar-brakes, +You from the Rivers and you from the Lakes, +You from the Creeks and you from the Licks +And you from the brown bayou-- +You and you and you-- +You from the pulpit, you from the mine, +You from the factories, you from the banks, +Closer and closer, ranks on ranks, +Airplanes and cannon, and rifles and tanks, +Smith and Robinson, Brown and Jones, +Ruddy faces or bleaching bones, +After the turmoil and blood and pain +Swinging home to the folks again +Or sleeping alone in the fine French rain-- +Every one of you won the war. + +Every one of you won the war-- +You and you and you-- +Pressing and pouring forth, more and more, +Toiling and straining from shore to shore +To reach the flaming edge of the dark +Where man in his millions went up like a spark, +You, in your thousands and millions coming, +All the sea ploughed with you, all the air humming, +All the land loud with you, +All our hearts proud with you, +All our souls bowed with the awe of your coming! + +Where's the Arch high enough, +Lads, to receive you, +Where's the eye dry enough, +Dears, to perceive you, +When at last and at last in your glory you come, +Tramping home? + +Every one of you won the war, +You and you and you-- +You that carry an unscathed head, +You that halt with a broken tread, +And oh, most of all, you Dead, you Dead! +Lift up the Gates for these that are last, +That are last in the great Procession. +Let the living pour in, take possession, +Flood back to the city, the ranch, the farm, +The church and the college and mill, +Back to the office, the store, the exchange, +Back to the wife with the babe on her arm, +Back to the mother that waits on the sill, +And the supper that's hot on the range. + +And now, when the last of them all are by, +Be the Gates lifted up on high + To let those Others in, +Those Others, their brothers, that softly tread, +That come so thick, yet take no ground, +That are so many, yet make no sound, +Our Dead, our Dead, our Dead! + +O silent and secretly-moving throng, +In your fifty thousand strong, +Coming at dusk when the wreaths have dropt, +And streets are empty, and music stopt, +Silently coming to hearts that wait +Dumb in the door and dumb at the gate, +And hear your step and fly to your call-- +Every one of you won the war, +But you, you Dead, most of all! + +_Edith Wharton (Copyright 1919 by Charles Scrihner's, Sons)._ + + + + +The First Snow-fall + + +The snow had begun in the gloaming, + And busily all the night +Had been heaping field and highway + With a silence deep and white. + +Every pine and fir and hemlock + Wore ermine too dear for an earl, +And the poorest twig on the elm tree + Was ridged inch-deep with pearl. + +From sheds new-roofed with Carrara + Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, +The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, + And still fluttered down the snow. + +I stood and watched by the window + The noiseless work of the sky, +And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, + Like brown leaves whirling by. + +I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn + Where a little headstone stood; +How the flakes were folding it gently, + As did robins the babes in the wood. + +Up spoke our own little Mabel, + Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" +And I told of the good All-father + Who cares for us here below. + +Again I looked at the snow-fall, + And thought of the leaden sky +That arched o'er our first great sorrow, + When that mound was heaped so high. + +I remembered the gradual patience + That fell from that cloud like snow, +Flake by flake, healing and hiding + The scar of our deep-plunged woe. + +And again to the child I whispered, + "The snow that husheth all, +Darling, the merciful Father + Alone can make it fall!" + +Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; + And she, kissing back, could not know +That _my_ kiss was given to her sister, + Folded close under deepening snow. + + _James Russell Lowell._ + + + + +The Concord Hymn + +_Sung at the completion of the Concord Monument, April 19, 1836_. + + +By the rude bridge that arched the flood, + Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, +Here once the embattled farmers stood, + And fired the shot heard round the world. + +The foe long since in silence slept; + Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; +And Time the ruined bridge has swept + Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. + +On this green bank, by this soft stream, + We set to-day a votive stone, +That memory may their deed redeem, + When, like our sires, our sons are gone. + +Spirit, that made these heroes dare + To die, to leave their children free, +Bid Time and Nature gently spare + The shaft we raise to them and thee. + + _Ralph Waldo Emerson._ + + + + +Casey at the Bat + + +It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; +The score stood two to four with but an inning left to play; +So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same, +A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. + +A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, +With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast, +For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that," +They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat. + +But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, +And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake; +So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat. +For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat, + +But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, +And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball"; +And when the dust had lifted and they saw what had occurred, +There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third. + +Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, +It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell; +It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; +For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. + +There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, +There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face. +And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, +No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat. + +Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, +Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; +Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip, +Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. + +And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, +And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. +Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-- +"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said. + +From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, +Like the beating of great storm waves on a stern and distant shore. +"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand. +And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand. + +With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; +He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; +He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew; +But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two." + +"Fraud," cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" +But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. +They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, +And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. + +The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; +He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; +And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, +And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. + +Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; +The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; +And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout: +But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out. + + _Phineas Thayer._ + + + + +Casey's Revenge + +_(Being a reply to "Casey at the Bat.")_ + + +There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more; +There were muttered oaths and curses--every fan in town was sore. +"Just think," said one, "how soft it looked with Casey at the bat! +And then to think he'd go and spring a bush league trick like that." + +All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless "shine." +They called him "Strike-out Casey" from the mayor down the line. +And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh, +While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey's eye. + +The lane is long, someone has said, that never turns again, +And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men. +And Casey smiled--his rugged face no longer wore a frown; +The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town. + +All Mudville has assembled; ten thousand fans had come +To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum; +And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild. +He doffed his cap in proud disdain--but Casey only smiled. + +"Play ball!" the umpire's voice rang out, and then the game began; +But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan +Who thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun +Their hopes sank low--the rival team was leading "four to one." + +The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score; +But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar. +The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard +When the pitcher hit the second and gave "four balls" to the third. + +Three men on base--nobody out--three runs to tie the game! +A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville's hall of fame. +But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night +When the fourth one "fouled to catcher," and the fifth "flew out to right." + +A dismal groan in chorus came--a scowl was on each face-- +When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place; +His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate; +He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate. + +But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away; +There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day. +They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored, "Strike him out!" +But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard the shout. + +The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it spread; +Another hiss, another groan--"Strike one!" the umpire said. +Zip! Like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee-- +"Strike two!" the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea. + +No roasting for the umpire now--his was an easy lot. +But here the pitcher twirled again--was that a rifle shot? +A whack; a crack; and out through space the leather pellet flew-- +A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue. + +Above the fence in center field, in rapid whirling flight +The sphere sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight. +Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit; +But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit! + +Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun, +And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun; +And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall, +But Mudville hearts are happy now--for Casey hit the ball! + + _James Wilson._ + + + + +Rock Me to Sleep + + +Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight, +Make me a child again just for tonight! +Mother, come back from the echoless shore, +Take me again to your heart as of yore; +Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, +Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; +Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;-- +Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. + +Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! +I am so weary of toil and of tears,-- +Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,-- +Take them, and give me my childhood again! +I have grown weary of dust and decay,-- +Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; +Weary of sowing for others to reap;-- +Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. + +Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, +Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! +Many a summer the grass has grown green, +Blossomed and faded, our faces between; +Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain +Long I to-night for your presence again. +Come from the silence so long and so deep;-- +Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. + +Over my heart, in the days that are flown, +No love like mother-love ever has shone; +No other worship abides and endures-- +Faithful, unselfish and patient, like yours; +None like a mother can charm away pain +From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. +Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;-- +Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. + +Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, +Fall on your shoulders again as of old; +Let it drop over my forehead to-night, +Shading my faint eyes away from the light; +For with its sunny-edged shadows once more +Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; +Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;-- +Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. + +Mother, dear mother, the years have been long +Since I last listened your lullaby song; +Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem +Womanhood's years have been only a dream. +Clasped to your breast in a loving embrace, +With your light lashes just sweeping my face, +Never hereafter to wake or to weep;-- +Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. + + _Elizabeth Akers Allen._ + + + + +An Answer to "Rock Me to Sleep" + + +My child, ah, my child; thou art weary to-night, +Thy spirit is sad, and dim is the light; +Thou wouldst call me back from the echoless shore +To the trials of life, to thy heart as of yore; +Thou longest again for my fond loving care, +For my kiss on thy cheek, for my hand on thy hair; +But angels around thee their loving watch keep, +And angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep. + +"Backward?" Nay, onward, ye swift rolling years! +Gird on thy armor, keep back thy tears; +Count not thy trials nor efforts in vain, +They'll bring thee the light of thy childhood again. +Thou shouldst not weary, my child, by the way, +But watch for the light of that brighter day; +Not tired of "Sowing for others to reap," +For angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep. + +Tired, my child, of the "base, the untrue!" +I have tasted the cup they have given to you; +I've felt the deep sorrow in the living green +Of a low mossy grave by the silvery stream. +But the dear mother I then sought for in vain +Is an angel presence and with me again; +And in the still night, from the silence deep, +Come the bright angels to rock me to sleep. + +Nearer thee now than in days that are flown, +Purer the love-light encircling thy home; +Far more enduring the watch for tonight +Than ever earth worship away from the light; +Soon the dark shadows will linger no more. +Nor come to thy call from the opening door; +But know thou, my child, that the angels watch keep, +And soon, very soon, they'll rock thee to sleep. + +They'll sing thee to sleep with a soothing song; +And, waking, thou'lt be with a heavenly throng; +And thy life, with its toil and its tears and pain, +Thou wilt then see has not been in vain. +Thou wilt meet those in bliss whom on earth thou didst love, +And whom thou hast taught of the "Mansions above." +"Never hereafter to suffer or weep," +The angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep. + + + + +Bay Billy + +(_December 15, 1862_) + + +'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg,-- + Perhaps the day you reck, +Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine, + Kept Early's men in check. +Just where Wade Hampton boomed away + The fight went neck and neck. + +All day the weaker wing we held, + And held it with a will. +Five several stubborn times we charged + The battery on the hill, +And five times beaten back, re-formed, + And kept our column still. + +At last from out the center fight + Spurred up a general's aide, +"That battery must silenced be!" + He cried, as past he sped. +Our colonel simply touched his cap, + And then, with measured tread, + +To lead the crouching line once more, + The grand old fellow came. +No wounded man but raised his head + And strove to gasp his name, +And those who could not speak nor stir, + "God blessed him" just the same. + +For he was all the world to us, + That hero gray and grim; +Right well we knew that fearful slope + We'd climb with none but him, +Though while his white head led the way + We'd charge hell's portals in. + +This time we were not half way up + When, midst the storm of shell, +Our leader, with his sword upraised, + Beneath our bayonets fell, +And as we bore him back, the foe + Set up a joyous yell. + +Our hearts went with him. Back we swept, + And when the bugle said, +"Up, charge again!" no man was there + But hung his dogged head. +"We've no one left to lead us now," + The sullen soldiers said. + +Just then before the laggard line + The colonel's horse we spied-- +Bay Billy, with his trappings on, + His nostrils swelling wide, +As though still on his gallant back + The master sat astride. + +Right royally he took the place + That was of old his wont, +And with a neigh that seemed to say, + Above the battle's brunt, +"How can the Twenty-second charge + If I am not in front?" + +Like statues rooted there we stood, + And gazed a little space; +Above that floating mane we missed + The dear familiar face, +But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire, + And it gave us heart of grace. + +No bugle-call could rouse us all + As that brave sight had done. +Down all the battered line we felt + A lightning impulse run. +Up, up the hill we followed Bill,-- + And we captured every gun! + +And when upon the conquered height + Died out the battle's hum, +Vainly 'mid living and the dead + We sought our leader dumb. +It seemed as if a spectre steed + To win that day had come. + +And then the dusk and dew of night + Fell softly o'er the plain, +As though o'er man's dread work of death + The angels wept again, +And drew night's curtain gently round + A thousand beds of pain. + +All night the surgeons' torches went + The ghastly rows between,-- +All night with solemn step I paced + The torn and bloody green. +But who that fought in the big war + Such dread sights have not seen? + +At last the morning broke. The lark + Sang in the merry skies, +As if to e'en the sleepers there + It said "Awake, arise!" +Though naught but that last trump of all + Could ope their heavy eyes. + +And then once more, with banners gay, + Stretched out the long brigade. +Trimly upon the furrowed field + The troops stood on parade, +And bravely 'mid the ranks were closed + The gaps the fight had made. + +Not half the Twenty-second's men + Were in their place that morn; +And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon + Stood six brave fellows on, +Now touched my elbow in the ranks, + For all between were gone. + +Ah! who forgets that weary hour + When, as with misty eyes, +To call the old familiar roll + The solemn sergeant tries,-- +One feels that thumping of the heart + As no prompt voice replies. + +And as in faltering tone and slow + The last few names were said, +Across the field some missing horse + Toiled up with weary tread. +It caught the sergeant's eye, and quick + Bay Billy's name he read. + +Yes! there the old bay hero stood, + All safe from battle's harms, +And ere an order could be heard, + Or the bugle's quick alarms, +Down all the front, from end to end, + The troops presented arms! + +Not all the shoulder-straps on earth + Could still our mighty cheer; +And ever from that famous day, + When rang the roll-call clear, +Bay Billy's name was read, and then + The whole line answered, "Here!" + + _Frank H. Gassaway._ + + + + +The Legend of the Organ-Builder + + +Day by day the Organ-builder in his lonely chamber wrought; +Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought; +Till at last the work was ended; and no organ voice so grand +Ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic hand. + +Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride, +Who, in God's sight were well-pleasing, in the church stood side by side, +Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play, +And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray. + +He was young, the Organ-builder, and o'er all the land his fame +Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame. +All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled, +By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled. + +So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set +Happy day--the brightest jewel in the glad year's coronet! +But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride-- +Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride. + +"Ah!" thought he, "how great a master am I! When the organ plays, +How the vast cathedral-arches will re-echo with my praise!" +Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar, +With every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star. + +But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer, +For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there. +All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest's low monotone, +And the bride's robe trailing softly o'er the floor of fretted stone. + +Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him, +Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim! +Whose the fault then? Hers--the maiden standing meekly at his side! +Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him--his bride. + +Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth; +On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth. +Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name: +For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame. + +Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day +Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray; +Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good; +Thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood; + +Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete, +And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet. +Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night, +Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight! + +Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread; +There he met a long procession--mourners following the dead. +"Now why weep ye so, good people? And whom bury ye today? +Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way? + +"Has some saint gone up to heaven?" "Yes," they answered, weeping sore; +"For the Organ-builder's saintly wife our eyes shall see no more; +And because her days were given to the service of God's poor, +From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door." + +No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain; +No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain. +"'Tis someone she has comforted, who mourns with us," they said, +As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin's head; + +Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle, +Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while. +When, oh, hark; the wondrous organ of itself began to play +Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day! + +All the vaulted arches rang with music sweet and clear; +All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near; +And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin's head, +With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it--dead. + +They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride; +Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side by side; +While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before, +And then softly sank to silence--silence kept forevermore. + + _Julia C. R. Dorr._ + + + + +Our Folks + + +"Hi! Harry Holly! Halt; and tell + A fellow just a thing or two; +You've had a furlough, been to see + How all the folks in Jersey do. +It's months ago since I was there-- + I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks. +When you were home, old comrade, say, + Did you see any of our folks? + +"You did? Shake hands--Oh, ain't I glad! + For if I do look grim and rough, +I've got some feelin'-- + People think + A soldier's heart is mighty tough; +But, Harry, when the bullets fly, + And hot saltpetre flames and smokes, +While whole battalions lie afield, + One's apt to think about his folks. + +"And so you saw them--when? and where? + The old man--is he hearty yet? +And mother--does she fade at all? + Or does she seem to pine and fret +For me? And Sis?--has she grown tall? + And did you see her friend--you know-- +That Annie Moss-- + (How this pipe chokes!) + Where did you see her?--Tell: me, Hal, +A lot of news about our folks, + +"You saw them in the church--you say, + It's likely, for they're always there. +Not Sunday? No? A funeral? Who? + Who, Harry? how you shake and stare! +All well, you say, and all were out. + What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax? +Why don't you tell me like a man: + What is the matter with our folks?" + +"I said all well, old comrade, true; + I say all well, for He knows best +Who takes the young ones in his arms, + Before the sun goes to the west. +The axe-man Death deals right and left, + And flowers fall as well as oaks; +And so-- + Fair Annie blooms no more! + And that's the matter with your folks. + +"See, this long curl was kept for you; + And this white blossom from her breast; +And here--your sister Bessie wrote + A letter telling all the rest. +Bear up, old friend." + Nobody speaks; + Only the old camp-raven croaks, +And soldiers whisper, "Boys, be still; + There's some bad news from Granger's folks." + +He turns his back--the only foe + That ever saw it--on this grief, +And, as men will, keeps down the tears + Kind nature sends to woe's relief. +Then answers he: "Ah, Hal, I'll try; + But in my throat there's something chokes, +Because, you see, I've thought so long + To count her in among our folks. + +"I s'pose she must be happy now, + But still I will keep thinking, too, +I could have kept all trouble off, + By being tender, kind and true. +But maybe not. + She's safe up there, + And when the Hand deals other strokes, +She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know, + And wait to welcome in our folks." + + _Ethel Lynn Beers._ + + + + +The Face upon the Floor + + +'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, +Which well-nigh filled Joe's bar-room on the corner of the square; +And as songs and witty stories came through the open door, +A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. + +"Where did it come from?" someone said. "The wind has blown it in." +"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whisky, rum or gin?" +"Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work-- +I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk." + +This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical, good grace; +In fact, he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. +"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd-- +To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. + +"Give me a drink--that's what I want--I'm out of funds, you know; +When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. +What? You laugh as though you thought this pocket never held a sou; +I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. + +"There, thanks; that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all; +Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call. +_Give you a song?_ No, I can't do that, my singing days are past; +My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast. + +"Say! give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll do-- +I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too. +That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think; +But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink. + +"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame-- +Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame; +Five fingers--there, that's the scheme--and corking whisky, too. +Well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you. + +"You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how +I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now. +As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health, +And but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth. + +"I was a painter--not one that daubed on bricks and wood, +But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good. +I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise, +For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. + +"I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame.' +It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name. +And then I met a woman--now comes the funny part-- +With eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart. + +"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see +Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me; +But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given, +And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven. + +"Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give, +With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live; +With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair? +If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair. + +"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May, +Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way; +And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprise, +Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. + +"It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown, +My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone; +And ere a year of misery had passed above my head, +The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead. + +"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,-- +I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while. +Why, what's the mattter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye, +Come, laugh, like me; 'tis only babes and women that should cry. + +"Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad, +And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. +Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score-- +You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room floor." + +Another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began +To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. +Then as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, +With a fearful shriek, he leaped, and fell across the picture dead. + + _H. Antoine D'Arcy._ + + + + +The Calf Path + + +One day through the primeval wood, +A calf walked home, as good calves should; +But made a trail all bent askew, +A crooked trail, as all calves do. +Since then three hundred years have fled, +And, I infer, the calf is dead. + +But still he left behind his trail, +And thereby hangs a moral tale. +The trail was taken up next day +By a lone dog that passed that way, +And then the wise bell-wether sheep +Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep, +And drew the flock behind him, too, +As good bell-wethers always do. +And from that day, o'er hill and glade, +Through those old woods a path was made. + +And many men wound in and out, +And turned and dodged and bent about, +And uttered words of righteous wrath +Because 'twas such a crooked path: +But still they followed--do not laugh-- +The first migrations of that calf, +And through this winding woodway stalked +Because he wabbled when he walked. + +This forest path became a lane, +That bent and turned and turned again; +This crooked path became a road. +Where many a poor horse, with his load, +Toiled on beneath the burning sun, +And traveled some three miles in one. +And thus a century and a half +They trod the footsteps of that calf. + +The years passed on in swiftness fleet, +The road became a village street; +And this, before men were aware, +A city's crowded thoroughfare. +And soon the central street was this +Of a renowned metropolis. +And men two centuries and a half +Trod in the footsteps of that calf! + +Each day a hundred thousand rout +Followed the zigzag calf about; +And o'er his crooked journey went +The traffic of a continent. +A hundred thousand men were led +By a calf near three centuries dead. +They followed still his crooked way +And lost one hundred years a day; +For thus such reverence is lent +To well-established precedent. + +A moral lesson this might teach +Were I ordained and called to preach; +For men are prone to go it blind, +Along the calf-paths of the mind, +And work away from sun to sun +To do what other men have done. +They follow in the beaten track, +And out and in, and forth and back, +And still their devious course pursue, +To keep the path that others do. +But how the wise wood-gods must laugh, +Who saw the first primeval calf; +Ah, many things this tale might teach-- +But I am not ordained to preach. + + _Sam Walter Foss._ + + + + +The Ride of Jennie M'Neal + + +Paul Revere was a rider bold-- +Well has his valorous deed been told; +Sheridan's ride was a glorious one-- +Often it has been dwelt upon; +But why should men do all the deeds +On which the love of a patriot feeds? +Hearken to me, while I reveal +The dashing ride of Jennie M'Neal. + +On a spot as pretty as might be found +In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground, +In a cottage, cozy, and all their own, +She and her mother lived alone. +Safe were the two, with their frugal store, +From all of the many who passed their door; +For Jennie's mother was strange to fears, +And Jennie was large for fifteen years; +With vim her eyes were glistening, +Her hair was the hue of a blackbird's wing; +And while the friends who knew her well +The sweetness of her heart could tell, +A gun that hung on the kitchen wall +Looked solemnly quick to heed her call; +And they who were evil-minded knew +Her nerve was strong and her aim was true. +So all kind words and acts did deal +To generous, black-eyed Jennie M'Neal. + +One night, when the sun had crept to bed, +And rain-clouds lingered overhead, +And sent their surly drops for proof +To drum a tune on the cottage roof, +Close after a knock at the outer door +There entered a dozen dragoons or more. +Their red coats, stained by the muddy road, +That they were British soldiers showed; +The captain his hostess bent to greet, +Saying, "Madam, please give us a bit to eat; +We will pay you well, and, if may be, +This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea; +Then we must dash ten miles ahead, +To catch a rebel colonel abed. +He is visiting home, as doth appear; +We will make his pleasure cost him dear." +And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal, +Close-watched the while by Jennie M'Neal. + +For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near +Had been her true friend, kind and dear; +And oft, in her younger days, had he +Right proudly perched her upon his knee, +And told her stories many a one +Concerning the French war lately done. +And oft together the two friends were, +And many the arts he had taught to her; +She had hunted by his fatherly side, +He had shown her how to fence and ride; +And once had said, "The time may be, +Your skill and courage may stand by me." +So sorrow for him she could but feel, +Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie M'Neal. + +With never a thought or a moment more, +Bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door, +Ran out where the horses were left to feed, +Unhitched and mounted the captain's steed, +And down the hilly and rock-strewn way +She urged the fiery horse of gray. +Around her slender and cloakless form +Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm; +Secure and tight a gloveless hand +Grasped the reins with stern command; +And full and black her long hair streamed, +Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed. +And on she rushed for the colonel's weal, +Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie M'Neal. + +Hark! from the hills, a moment mute, +Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit; +And a cry from the foremost trooper said, +"Halt! or your blood be on your head"; +She heeded it not, and not in vain +She lashed the horse with the bridle-rein. + +So into the night the gray horse strode; +His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road; +And the high-born courage that never dies +Flashed from his rider's coal-black eyes. +The pebbles flew from the fearful race: +The raindrops grasped at her glowing face. +"On, on, brave beast!" with loud appeal, +Cried eager, resolute Jennie M'Neal. + +"Halt!" once more came the voice of dread; +"Halt! or your blood be on your head!" +Then, no one answering to the calls, +Sped after her a volley of balls. +They passed her in her rapid flight, +They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right; +But, rushing still o'er the slippery track, +She sent no token of answer back, +Except a silvery laughter-peal, +Brave, merry-hearted Jennie M'Neal. + +So on she rushed, at her own good will, +Through wood and valley, o'er plain and hill; +The gray horse did his duty well, +Till all at once he stumbled and fell, +Himself escaping the nets of harm, +But flinging the girl with a broken arm. +Still undismayed by the numbing pain, +She clung to the horse's bridle-rein +And gently bidding him to stand, +Petted him with her able hand; +Then sprung again to the saddle bow, +And shouted, "One more trial now!" +As if ashamed of the heedless fall, +He gathered his strength once more for all, +And, galloping down a hillside steep, +Gained on the troopers at every leap; +No more the high-bred steed did reel, +But ran his best for Jennie M'Neal. + +They were a furlong behind, or more, +When the girl burst through the colonel's door, +Her poor arm helpless hanging with pain, +And she all drabbled and drenched with rain, +But her cheeks as red as fire-brands are, +And her eyes as bright as a blazing star, +And shouted, "Quick! be quick, I say! +They come! they come! Away! away!" +Then, sunk on the rude white floor of deal, +Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie M'Neal. + +The startled colonel sprung, and pressed +The wife and children to his breast, +And turned away from his fireside bright, +And glided into the stormy night; +Then soon and safely made his way +To where the patriot army lay. +But first he bent in the dim firelight, +And kissed the forehead broad and white, +And blessed the girl who had ridden so well +To keep him out of a prison-cell. +The girl roused up at the martial din, +Just as the troopers came rushing in, +And laughed, e'en in the midst of a moan, +Saying, "Good sirs, your bird has flown. +'Tis I who have scared him from his nest; +So deal with me now as you think best." +But the grand young captain bowed, and said, +"Never you hold a moment's dread. +Of womankind I must crown you queen; +So brave a girl I have never seen. +Wear this gold ring as your valor's due; +And when peace comes I will come for you." +But Jennie's face an arch smile wore, +As she said, "There's a lad in Putnam's corps, +Who told me the same, long time ago; +You two would never agree, I know. +I promised my love to be as true as steel," +Said good, sure-hearted Jennie M'Neal. + + _Will Carleton._ + + + + +The Hand That Rules the World + + +They say that man is mighty, he governs land and sea; +He wields a mighty scepter o'er lesser powers that be; +By a mightier power and stronger, man from his throne is hurled, +And the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. + +Blessings on the hand of woman! angels guard its strength and grace, +In the palace, cottage, hovel, oh, no matter where the place! +Would that never storms assailed it, rainbows ever gently curled; +For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. + +Infancy's the tender fountain, power may with beauty flow; +Mother's first to guide the streamlets, from them souls unresting grow; +Grow on for the good or evil, sunshine streamed or darkness hurled; +For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. + +Woman, how divine your mission here upon our natal sod! +Keep, oh, keep the young heart open always to the breath of God! +All true trophies of the ages are from mother-love impearled, +For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. + +Blessings on the hand of woman! fathers, sons and daughters cry, +And the sacred song is mingled with the worship in the sky-- +Mingles where no tempest darkens, rainbows evermore are curled; +For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. + + _William Ross Wallace._ + + + + +What I Live For + + +I live for those who love me, + Whose hearts are kind and true, +For the heaven that smiles above me, + And awaits my spirit, too; +For the human ties that bind me, +For the task by God assigned me, +For the bright hopes left behind me, + And the good that I can do. + +I live to learn their story + Who've suffered for my sake, +To emulate their glory, + And to follow in their wake; +Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, +The noble of all ages, +Whose deeds crowd history's pages, + And Time's great volume make. + +I live to hold communion + With all that is divine, +To feel there is a union + 'Twixt Nature's heart and mine; +To profit by affliction, +Reap truths from fields of fiction, +Grow wiser from conviction, + And fulfill each grand design. + +I live to hail that season, + By gifted minds foretold, +When men shall rule by reason, + And not alone by gold; +When man to man united, +And every wrong thing righted, +The whole world shall be lighted + As Eden was of old. + +I live for those who love me, + For those who know me true, +For the heaven that smiles above me, + And awaits my spirit, too; +For the cause that lacks assistance, +For the wrong that needs resistance, +For the future in the distance, + And the good that I can do. + + _George Linnaeus Banks._ + + + + +My Love Ship + + +If all the ships I have at sea +Should come a-sailing home to me, +Weighed down with gems, and silk and gold, +Ah! well, the harbor would not hold +So many ships as there would be, +If all my ships came home from sea. + +If half my ships came home from sea, +And brought their precious freight to me, +Ah! well, I should have wealth as great +As any king that sits in state, +So rich the treasure there would be +In half my ships now out at sea. + +If but one ship I have at sea +Should come a-sailing home to me, +Ah! well, the storm clouds then might frown, +For, if the others all went down, +Still rich and glad and proud I'd be +If that one ship came home to me. + +If that one ship went down at sea +And all the others came to me +Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, +With honor, riches, glory, gold, +The poorest soul on earth I'd be +If that one ship came not to me. + +O skies, be calm; O winds, blow free! +Blow all my ships safe home to me, +But if thou sendest some awrack, +To nevermore come sailing back, +Send any, all that skim the sea, +But send my love ship home to me. + + _Ella Wheeler Wilcox._ + + + + +The Man With the Hoe + +_(Written after seeing Millet's famous painting.)_ + +God made man in His own image; in the image of God made he +him.--GENESIS. + + +Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans +Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, +The emptiness of ages in his face, +And on his back the burden of the world. +Who made him dead to rapture and despair, +A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, +Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? +Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? +Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? +Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? +Is this the Thing, the Lord God made and gave +To have dominion over sea and land; +To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; +To feel the passion of Eternity? +Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns +And pillared the blue firmament with light? +Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf +There is no shape more terrible than this-- +More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed-- +More filled with signs and portents for the soul-- +More fraught with menace to the universe. + +What gulfs between him and the seraphim! +Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him +Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? +What the long reaches of the peaks of song, +The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? +Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; +Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; +Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, +Plundered, profaned and disinherited, +Cries protest to the judges of the world, +A protest that is also prophecy. + +O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, +Is this the handiwork you give to God, +This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? +How will you ever straighten up this shape; +Touch it again with immortality; +Give back the upward looking and the light, +Rebuild it in the music and the dream; +Make right the immemorial infamies, perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? + +O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, +How will the Future reckon with this man? +How answer his brute question in that hour +When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? +How will it be with kingdom and with kings-- +With those who shaped him to the thing he is-- +When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, +After the silence of the centuries? + + _Edwin Markham._ + + + + +Poorhouse Nan + + +Did you say you wished to see me, sir? Step in; 'tis a cheerless place, +But you're heartily welcome all the same; to be poor is no disgrace. +Have I been here long? Oh, yes, sir! 'tis thirty winters gone +Since poor Jim took to crooked ways and left me all alone! +Jim was my son, and a likelier lad you'd never wish to see, +Till evil counsels won his heart and led him away from me. + +'Tis the old, sad, pitiful story, sir, of the devil's winding stair, +And men go down--and down--and down--to blackness and despair; +Tossing about like wrecks at sea, with helm and anchor lost, +On and on, through the surging waves, nor caring to count the cost; +I doubt sometimes if the Savior sees, He seems so far away, +How the souls He loved and died for, are drifting--drifting astray! + +Indeed,'tis little wonder, sir, if woman shrinks and cries +When the life-blood on Rum's altar spilled is calling to the skies; +Small wonder if her own heart feels each sacrificial blow, +For isn't each life a part of hers? each pain her hurt and woe? +Read all the records of crime and shame--'tis bitterly, sadly true; +Where manliness and honor die, there some woman's heart dies, too. + +I often think, when I hear folks talk so prettily and so fine +Of "alcohol as needful food"; of the "moderate use of wine"; +How "the world couldn't do without it, there was clearly no other way +But for a man to drink, or let it alone, as his own strong will might say"; +That "to use it, but not abuse it, was the proper thing to do," +How I wish they'd let old Poorhouse Nan preach her little sermon, too! + +I would give them scenes in a woman's life that would make their + pulses stir, +For I was a drunkard's child and wife--aye, a drunkard's mother, sir! +I would tell of childish terrors, of childish tears and pain. +Of cruel blows from a father's hand when rum had crazed his brain; +He always said he could drink his fill, or let it alone as well; +Perhaps he might, he was killed one night in a brawl--in a grog-shop hell! + +I would tell of years of loveless toil the drunkard's child had passed, +With just one gleam of sunshine, too beautiful to last. +When I married Tom I thought for sure I had nothing more to fear, +That life would come all right at last; the world seemed full of cheer. +But he took to moderate drinking--he allowed 'twas a harmless thing, +So the arrow sped, and my bird of Hope came down with a broken wing. + +Tom was only a moderate drinker; ah, sir, do you bear in mind +How the plodding tortoise in the race left the leaping hare behind? +'Twas because he held right on and on, steady and true, if slow, +And that's the way, I'm thinking, that the moderate drinkers go! +Step over step--day after day--with sleepless, tireless pace, +While the toper sometimes looks behind and tarries in the race! + +Ah, heavily in the well-worn path poor Tom walked day by day, +For my heart-strings clung about his feet and tangled up the way; +The days were dark, and friends were gone, and life dragged on full slow, +And children came, like reapers, and to a harvest of want and woe! +Two of them died, and I was glad when they lay before me dead; +I had grown so weary of their cries--their pitiful cries for bread. + +There came a time when my heart was stone; I could neither hope nor pray; +Poor Tom lay out in the Potter's Field, and my boy had gone astray; +My boy who'd been my idol, while, like hound athirst for blood, +Between my breaking heart and him the liquor seller stood, +And lured him on with pleasant words, his pleasures and his wine; +Ah, God have pity on other hearts as bruised and hurt as mine. + +There were whispers of evil-doing, of dishonor, and of shame, +That I cannot bear to think of now, and would not dare to name! +There was hiding away from the light of day, there was creeping about at + night, +A hurried word of parting--then a criminal's stealthy flight! +His lips were white with remorse and fright when he gave me a good-by kiss; +And I've never seen my poor lost boy from that black day to this. + +Ah, none but a mother can tell you, sir, how a mother's heart will ache, +With the sorrow that comes of a sinning child, with grief for a lost one's + sake, +When she knows the feet she trained to walk have gone so far astray, +And the lips grown bold with curses that she taught to sing and pray; +A child may fear--a wife may weep, but of all sad things, none other +Seems half so sorrowful to me as being a drunkard's mother. + +They tell me that down in the vilest dens of the city's crime and murk, +There are men with the hearts of angels, doing the angels' work; +That they win back the lost and the straying, that they help the weak to + stand, +By the wonderful power of loving words--and the help of God's right hand! +And often and often, the dear Lord knows, I've knelt and prayed to Him, +That somewhere, somehow, 'twould happen that they'd find and save my Jim! + +You'll say 'tis a poor old woman's whim; but when I prayed last night, +Right over yon eastern window there shone a wonderful light! +(Leastways it looked that way to me) and out of the light there fell +The softest voice I had ever heard: it rung like a silver bell; +And these were the words, "The prodigal turns, so tired by want and sin, +He seeks his father's open door--he weeps--and enters in." + +Why, sir, you're crying as hard as I; what--is it really done? +Have the loving voice and the Helping Hand brought back my wandering son? +Did you kiss me and call me "Mother"--and hold me to your breast, +Or is it one of the taunting dreams that come to mock my rest? +No--no! thank God, 'tis a dream come true! I can die, for He's saved + my boy! +And the poor old heart that had lived on grief was broken at last by joy! + + _Lucy M. Blinn._ + + + + +Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud! + + +Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud! +Like a swift fleeting meteor, a fast flying cloud, +A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, +He passes from life to his rest in the grave. + +The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade, +Be scattered around, and together be laid; +And the young and the old, and the low and the high +Shall moulder to dust, and together shall die. + +The child whom a mother attended and loved, +The mother that infant's affection who proved, +The husband that mother and infant who blessed, +Each--all are away to their dwelling of rest. + +The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye +Shone beauty and pleasure--her triumphs are by; +And the memory of those who loved her and praised +Are alike from the minds of the living erased. + +The hand of the king who the scepter hath borne, +The brow of the priest who the mitre hath worn, +The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave +Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. + +The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, +The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, +The beggar who wandered in search of his bread +Have faded away like the grass that we tread. + +The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, +The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, +The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just +Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. + +So the multitude goes--like the flower and the weed +That wither away to let others succeed; +So the multitude comes--even those we behold, +To repeat every tale that has often been told. + +For we are the same things that our fathers have been, +We see the same sights that our fathers have seen; +We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, +And we run the same course that our fathers have run. + +The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think, +From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink, +To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling, +But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. + +They loved--but their story we cannot enfold, +They scorned--but the heart of the haughty is cold, +They grieved--but no wail from their slumbers may come, +They joy'd--but the voice of their gladness--is dumb. + +They died, ay, they died! and we things that are now, +Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, +Who make in their dwellings a transient abode +Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. + +Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, +Are mingled together in sunshine and rain; +And the smile, and the tear, and the song and the dirge +Still follow each other like surge upon surge. + +'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath +From the blossoms of health to the paleness of death; +From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud-- +Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud! + + _William Knox._ + + + + +How He Saved St. Michael's + + +'Twas long ago--ere ever the signal gun +That blazed before Fort Sumter had wakened the North as one; +Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire +Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their heart's desire. +On roofs and glittering turrets, that night, as the sun went down, +The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jeweled crown, +And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes, +They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael's rise +High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball +That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall; +First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor round, +And last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound. +The gently gathering shadows shut out the waning light; +The children prayed at their bedsides as they were wont each night; +The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone, +And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on. + +But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street, +For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet; +Men stared in each other's faces, thro' mingled fire and smoke, +While the frantic bells went clashing clamorous, stroke on stroke. +By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother fled, +With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in nameless dread; +While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and cap-stone high, +And painted their glaring banners against an inky sky. +From the death that raged behind them, and the crush of ruin loud, +To the great square of the city, were driven the surging crowd, +Where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood, +With its heavenward pointing finger the church of St. Michael's stood. + +But e'en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail, +A cry of horror blended with the roaring of the gale, +On whose scorching wings updriven, a single flaming brand, +Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand, +"Will it fade?" the whisper trembled from a thousand whitening lips; +Far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the ships. +A baleful gleam, that brighter and ever brighter shone, +Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-the-wisp to a steady beacon grown. +"Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand, +For the love of the periled city, plucks down yon burning brand!" +So cried the Mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard, +But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a word, +Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the sky-- +Clings to a column and measures the dizzy spire with his eye? +Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible, sickening height, +Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight? +But see! he has stepped on the railing, he climbs with his feet and his + hands, +And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath him, he stands! +Now once, and once only, they cheer him--a single tempestuous breath, +And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the stillness of death. + +Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire, +Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire: +He stops! Will he fall? Lo! for answer, a gleam like a meteor's track, +And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shattered and + black! +Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air; +At the church door mayor and council wait with their feet on the stair, +And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand-- +The unknown savior whose daring could compass a deed so grand. + +But why does a sudden tremor seize on them as they gaze? +And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and amaze? +He stood in the gate of the temple he had periled his life to save, +And the face of the unknown hero was the sable face of a slave! +With folded arms he was speaking in tones that were clear, not loud, +And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of the crowd. +"Ye may keep your gold, I scorn it! but answer me, ye who can, +If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a _man?_" + +He stepped but a short space backward, and from all the women and men +There were only sobs for answer, and the mayor called for a pen, +And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran, +And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from its door a man. + + _Mary A.P. Stansbury._ + + + + +Bingen on the Rhine + + +A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, +There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; +But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, +And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. +The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, +And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land; +Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, +For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on the Rhine! + +"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around +To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, +That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, +Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. +And 'midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, +The death-wound on their gallant breasts the last of many scars: +But some were young--and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; +And one had come from Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine! + +"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, +And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: +For my father was a soldier, and even as a child +My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; +And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, +I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword, +And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, +On the cottage-wall at Bingen--calm Bingen on the Rhine! + +"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, +When the troops are marching home again with glad and gallant tread; +But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, +For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. +And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name +To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; +And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), +For the honor of old Bingen--dear Bingen on the Rhine! + +"There's another--not a sister; in the happy days gone by, +You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; +Too innocent for coquetry--too fond for idle scorning-- +Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning; +Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen +My body will be out of pain--my soul be out of prison), +I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine +On the vine-clad hills of Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine! + +"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along--I heard, or seemed to hear. +The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; +And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, +The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; +And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk +Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk, +And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine: +But we'll meet no more at Bingen--loved Bingen on the Rhine!" + +His voice grew faint and hoarser,--his grasp was childish weak,-- +His eyes put on a dying look,--he sighed and ceased to speak; +His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-- +The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land--was dead! +And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down +On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; +Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine +As it shone on distant Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine! + + _Caroline Norton._ + + + + +College Oil Cans + + +On a board of bright mosaic wrought in many a quaint design, +Gleam a brace of silver goblets wreathed with flowers and filled with wine. +Round the board a group is seated; here and there are threads of white +Which their dark locks lately welcomed; but they're only boys tonight. +Some whose words have thrilled the senate, some who win the critic's + praise-- +All are "chums" to-night, with voices redolent of college days. + +"Boys," said one, "do you remember that old joke--about the wine-- +How we used to fill our oil cans and repair to 'No. 9'? +But at last the old professor--never long was he outdone-- +Opened up our shining oil cans and demolished all our fun!" +In the laugh that rings so gayly through the richly curtained room, +Join they all, save one; Why is it? Does he see the waxen bloom +Tremble in its vase of silver? Does he see the ruddy wine +Shiver in its crystal goblet, or do those grave eyes divine +Something sadder yet? He pauses till their mirth has died away, +Then in measured tones speaks gravely: +"Boys, a story, if I may, I will tell you, though it may not merit + worthily your praise, +It is bitter fruitage ripened from our pranks of college days," + +Eagerly they claim the story, for they know the LL.D. +With his flexible voice would garnish any tale, whate'er it be. + +"Just a year ago to-night, boys, I was in my room alone, +At the San Francisco L---- House, when I heard a plaintive moan +Sounding from the room adjoining. Hoping to give some relief +To the suffering one, I entered; but it thrilled my heart with grief +Just to see that wreck of manhood--bloated face, disheveled hair-- +Wildly tossing, ever moaning, while his thin hands beat the air. +Broken prayers, vile oaths and curses filled the air as I drew near; +Then in faint and piteous accents, these words I could plainly hear: +'Give me one more chance--one only--let me see my little Belle-- +Then I'll follow where they lead me, be it to the depths of hell!' +When he saw me he grew calmer, started strangely--looked me o'er-- +Oh, the glory of expression! I had seen those eyes before! +Yes, I knew him; it was Horace, he who won the college prize; +Naught remained of his proud beauty but the splendor of his eyes. +He whom we were all so proud of, lay there in the fading light. +If my years should number fourscore, I shall ne'er forget that sight. +And he knew me--called me 'Albert,' ere a single word I'd said-- +We were comrades in the old days; I sat down beside the bed. + +"Horace seemed to grow more quiet, but he would not go to sleep; +He kept talking of our boyhood while my hand he still would keep +In his own so white and wasted, and with burning eyes would gaze +On my face, still talking feebly of the dear old college days. +'Ah,' he said, 'life held such promise; but, alas! I am to-day +But a poor degraded outcast--hopes, ambition swept away, +And it dates back to those oil cans that we filled in greatest glee. +Little did I think in those days what the harvest now would be!' + +"For a moment he was silent, then a cry whose anguish yet +Wrings my heart, burst from his white lips, though his teeth were tightly + set, +And with sudden strength he started--sprang from my detaining arm, +Shrieking wildly, 'Curse the demons; do they think to do me harm? +Back! I say, ye forked-tongued serpents reeking with the filth of hell! +Don't ye see I have her with me--my poor sainted little Belle?' + +"When I'd soothed him into quiet, with a trembling arm he drew +My head down, 'Oh, Al,' he whispered, 'such remorse you never knew.' +And again I tried to soothe him, but my eyes o'erbrimmed with tears; +His were dry and clear, as brilliant as they were in college years. +All the flush had left his features, he lay white as marble now; +Tenderly I smoothed his pillow, wiped the moisture from his brow. +Though I begged him to be quiet, he would talk of those old days, +Brokenly at times, but always of 'the boys' with loving praise. + +"Once I asked him of Lorena--the sweet girl whom he had wed-- +You remember Rena Barstow. When I asked if she were dead, +'No,' he said, his poor voice faltering, 'she is far beyond the Rhine, +But I wish, to God, it were so, and I still might call her mine. +She's divorced--she's mine no longer,' here his voice grew weak and hoarse +'But although I am a drunkard, _I have one they can't divorce_. +I've a little girl in heaven, playing round the Savior's knee, +Always patient and so faithful that at last she died for me. + +"'I had drank so much, so often, that my brain was going wild; +Every one had lost hope in me but my faithful little child. +She would say, "Now stop, dear papa, for I know you can stop _now_." +I would promise, kiss my darling, and the next day break my vow. +So it went until one Christmas, dark and stormy, cold and drear; +Out I started, just as usual, for the cursed rum shop near, +And my darling followed after, in the storm of rain and sleet, +With no covering wrapped about her, naught but slippers on her feet; +No one knew it, no one missed her, till there came with solemn tread, +Stern-faced men unto our dwelling, bringing back our darling--_dead!_ +They had found her cold and lifeless, like, they said, an angel fair, +Leaning 'gainst the grog shop window--oh, she thought that _I was there!_ +Then he raised his arms toward heaven, called aloud unto the dead, +For his mind again was wandering: 'Belle, my precious Belle!' he said, +'Papa's treasure--papa's darling! oh, my baby--did--you--come +All the way--alone--my darling--just to lead--poor--papa--home?' +And he surely had an answer, for a silence o'er him fell. +And I sat alone and lonely--death had come with little Belle." + +Silence in that princely parlor--head of every guest is bowed. +They still see the red wine sparkle, but 'tis through a misty cloud. +Said the host at last, arising, "I have scorned the pledge to sign, +Laughed at temperance all my life long. Never more shall drop of wine +Touch my lips. The fruit _was_ bitter, boys; 'twas I proposed it first-- +That foul joke from which poor Horace ever bore a life accurst! +Let us pledge ourselves to-night, boys, never more by word, or deed, +In our own fair homes, or elsewhere, help to plant the poison seed." + +Silence once again, but only for a moment's space, and then, +In one voice they all responded with a low and firm "Amen." + + _Will Victor McGuire._ + + + + +God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop + + +The summer and autumn had been so wet, +That in winter the corn was growing yet. +'Twas a piteous sight to see all round +The grain lie rotting on the ground. + +Every day the starving poor +Crowded round Bishop Hatto's door, +For he had a plentiful last year's store, +And all the neighborhood could tell +His granaries were furnish'd well. + +At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day +To quiet the poor without delay; +He bade them to his great barn repair, +And they should have food for the winter there. + +Rejoiced the tidings good to hear, +The poor folk flock'd from far and near; +The great barn was full as it could hold +Of women and children, and young and old. + +Then, when he saw it could hold no more, +Bishop Hatto he made fast the door, +And while for mercy on Christ they call, +He set fire to the barn and burnt them all. + +"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he, +"And the country is greatly obliged to me +For ridding it, in these times forlorn, +Of rats that only consume the corn." + +So then to his palace returned he, +And he sat down to supper merrily, +And he slept that night like an innocent man; +But Bishop Hatto never slept again. + +In the morning, as he enter'd the hall +Where his picture hung against the wall, +A sweat like death all over him came, +For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. + +As he look'd, there came a man from his farm, +He had a countenance white with alarm: +"My lord, I open'd your granaries this morn, +And the rats had eaten all your corn." + +Another came running presently, +And he was pale as pale could be. +"Fly, my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he, +"Ten thousand rats are coming this way, +The Lord forgive you for yesterday!" + +"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he; +"'Tis the safest place in Germany; +The walls are high, and the shores are steep +And the stream is strong, and the water deep." + +Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away, +And he cross'd the Rhine without delay, +And reach'd his tower and barr'd with care +All the windows, doors, and loopholes there. + +He laid him down and closed his eyes, +But soon a scream made him arise; +He started, and saw two eyes of flame +On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. + +He listen'd and look'd,--it was only the cat, +But the bishop he grew more fearful for that, +For she sat screaming, mad with fear +At the army of rats that were drawing near. + +For they have swum over the river so deep, +And they have climb'd the shores so steep, +And up the tower their way is bent, +To do the work for which they were sent. + +They are not to be told by the dozen or score; +By thousands they come, and by myriads and more; +Such numbers had never been heard of before, +Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore. | + +Down on his knees the bishop fell, +And faster and faster his beads did he tell, +As louder and louder, drawing near, +The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. + +And in at the windows and in at the door, +And through the walls helter-skelter they pour; +And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, + +From the right and the left, from behind and before, +From within and without, from above and below,-- +And all at once to the bishop they go. + +They have whetted their teeth against the stones, +And now they pick the bishop's bones; +They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, +For they were sent to do judgment on him! + + _Robert Southey._ + + + + +The Last Hymn + + +The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea, +The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly, +And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted west, +And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest. + +Bat they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there; +A fierce spirit moved above them--the wild spirit of the air-- +And it lashed and shook and tore them till they thundered, groaned and + boomed, +And, alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed. + +Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales, +Lest the dawn of coming morrow should be telling awful tales, +When the sea had spent its passion and should cast upon the shore +Bits of wreck and swollen victims as it had done heretofore. + +With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained her eyes, +As she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. +Oh, it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, +For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea! + +Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach. +Oh, for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach! +Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with dread, +And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock-shore sped. + +"She's parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down!" +"God have mercy! Is his heaven far to seek for those who drown?" +Lo! when next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the sea, +Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be. + +Nearer to the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the wave, +And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save. +"Could we send him a short message? Here's a trumpet. Shout away!" +'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say. + +Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no! +There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe. +So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus! +Can you hear?" And "Aye, aye, sir," rang the answer o'er the waters loud + and clear. + +Then they listened,--"He is singing, 'Jesus, lover of my soul.'" +And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll." +Strange, indeed, it was to hear him,--"Till the storm of life is past," +Singing bravely o'er the waters, "Oh, receive my soul at last!" + +He could have no other refuge,--"Hangs my helpless soul on thee." +"Leave, ah! leave me not"--the singer dropped at last into the sea. +And the watchers, looking homeward, through their eyes by tears made dim, +Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn." + + _Marianne Faringham._ + + + + +A Fence or an Ambulance + + +'Twas a dangerous cliff, as they freely confessed, + Though to walk near its crest was so pleasant; +But over its terrible edge there had slipped + A duke and full many a peasant. +So the people said something would have to be done, + But their projects did not at all tally; +Some said, "Put a fence around the edge of the cliff," + Some, "An ambulance down in the valley." + +But the cry for the ambulance carried the day, + For it spread through the neighboring city; +A fence may be useful or not, it is true, + But each heart became brimful of pity +For those who slipped over that dangerous cliff; + And the dwellers in highway and alley +Gave pounds or gave pence, not to put up a fence, + But an ambulance down in the valley. + +"For the cliff is all right, if you're careful," they said, + "And, if folks even slip and are dropping, +It isn't the slipping that hurts them so much, + As the shock down below when they're stopping." +So day after day, as these mishaps occurred, + Quick forth would these rescuers sally +To pick up the victims who fell off the cliff, + With their ambulance down in the valley. + +Then an old sage remarked: "It's a marvel to me + That people give far more attention +To repairing results than to stopping the cause, + When they'd much better aim at prevention. +Let us stop at its source all this mischief," cried he, + "Come, neighbors and friends, let us rally, +If the cliff we will fence, we might almost dispense + With the ambulance down in the valley." + +"Oh, he's a fanatic," the others rejoined, + "Dispense with the ambulance? Never. +He'd dispense with all charities, too, if he could; + No! No! We'll support them forever. +Aren't we picking up folks just as fast as they fall? + And shall this man dictate to us? Shall he? +Why should people of sense stop to put up a fence, + While the ambulance works in the valley?" + +But a sensible few, who are practical too, + Will not bear with such nonsense much longer; +They believe that prevention is better than cure, + And their party will soon be the stronger. +Encourage them then, with your purse, voice, and pen, + And while other philanthropists dally, +They will scorn all pretense and put up a stout fence + On the cliff that hangs over the valley. + +Better guide well the young than reclaim them when old, + For the voice of true wisdom is calling, +"To rescue the fallen is good, but 'tis best + To prevent other people from falling." +Better close up the source of temptation and crime, + Than deliver from dungeon or galley; +Better put a strong fence 'round the top of the cliff + Than an ambulance down in the valley." + + _Joseph Malins._ + + + + +The Smack in School + + +A district school, not far away, +'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day, +Was humming with its wonted noise +Of three-score mingled girls and boys; +Some few upon their tasks intent, +But more on furtive mischief bent. +The while the master's downward look +Was fastened on a copy-book; +When suddenly, behind his back, +Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack! +As 'twere a battery of bliss +Let off in one tremendous kiss! +"What's that?" the startled master cries; +"That, thir," a little imp replies, +"Wath William Willith, if you pleathe, +I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!" +With frown to make a statue thrill, +The master thundered, "Hither, Will!" +Like wretch o'ertaken in his track +With stolen chattels on his back, +Will hung his head in fear and shame, +And to the awful presence came,-- +A great, green, bashful simpleton, +The butt of all good-natured fun, +With smile suppressed, and birch upraised +The threatener faltered, "I'm amazed +That you, my biggest pupil, should +Be guilty of an act so rude-- +Before the whole set school to boot-- +What evil genius put you to 't?" +"'Twas she, herself, sir," sobbed the lad; +"I did not mean to be so bad; +But when Susanna shook her curls, +And whispered I was 'fraid of girls, +And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, +I couldn't stand it, sir, at all, +But up and kissed her on the spot! +I know--boo-hoo--I ought to not, +But, somehow, from her looks--boo-hoo-- +I thought she kind o' wished me to!" + + _William Pitt Palmer._ + + + + +A Woman's Question + + +Do you know you have asked for the costliest thing + Ever made by the Hand above-- +A woman's heart and a woman's life, + And a woman's wonderful love? + +Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing + As a child might ask for a toy; +Demanding what others have died to win, + With the reckless dash of a boy? + +You have written my lesson of duty out, + Man-like you have questioned me-- +Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul, + Until I shall question thee. + +You require your mutton shall always be hot, + Your socks and your shirts shall be whole. +I require your heart to be true as God's stars, + And pure as heaven your soul. + +You require a cook for your mutton and beef; + I require a far better thing-- +A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and shirts-- + I look for a man and a king. + +A king for a beautiful realm called home, + And a man that the Maker, God, +Shall look upon as He did the first, + And say, "It is very good." + +I am fair and young, but the rose will fade + From my soft, young cheek one day-- +Will you love then, 'mid the falling leaves, + As you did 'mid the bloom of May? + +Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep + I may launch my all on its tide? +A loving woman finds heaven or hell + On the day she is made a bride. + +I require all things that are grand and true, + All things that a man should be; +If you give this all, I would stake my life + To be all you demand of me. + +If you cannot do this, a laundress and cook + You can hire with little to pay; +But a woman's heart and a woman's life + Are not to be won that way. + + _Lena Lathrop._ + + + + +Lasca + + +I want free life and I want fresh air; +And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, +The crack of the whips like shots in battle, +The mellay of horns, and hoofs, and heads +That wars, and wrangles, and scatters, and spreads; +The green beneath and the blue above, +And dash and danger, and life and love; +And Lasca! + Lasca used to ride +On a mouse-gray mustang, close to my side, +With blue _serape_ and bright-belled spur; +I laughed with joy as I looked at her! +Little knew she of books or creeds; +An _Ave Maria_ sufficed her needs; +Little she cared, save to be by my side, +To ride with me, and ever to ride, +From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide. +She was as bold as the billows that beat, +She was as wild as the breezes that blow; +From her little head to her little feet +She was swayed, in her suppleness, to and fro +By each gust of passion; a sapling pine, +That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff +And wars with the wind when the weather is rough, +Is like this Lasca, this love of mine. +She would hunger that I might eat, +Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; +But once, when I made her jealous for fun, +At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done, +One Sunday, in San Antonio, +To a glorious girl on the Alamo, +She drew from her girdle a dear little dagger, +And--sting of a wasp!--it made me stagger! +An inch to the left or an inch to the right, +And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night; +But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound +Her torn _rebosa_ about the wound +That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count + In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. + +Her eye was brown,--a deep, deep brown; +Her hair was darker than her eye; +And something in her smile and frown, +Curled crimson lip, and instep high, +Showed that there ran in each blue vein, +Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, +The vigorous vintage of old Spain. +She was alive in every limb + With feeling, to the finger tips; +And when the sun is like a fire, +And sky one shining, soft sapphire, + One does not drink in little sips. + +The air was heavy, the night was hot, +I sat by her side, and forgot--forgot; +Forgot the herd that were taking their rest; +Forgot that the air was close opprest; +That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, +In the dead of night or the blaze of noon; +That once let the herd at its breath take fright, +That nothing on earth can stop the flight; +And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, +Who falls in front of their mad stampede! +Was that thunder? No, by the Lord! +I sprang to my saddle without a word, +One foot on mine, and she clung behind. +Away on a hot chase down the wind! +But never was fox-hunt half so hard, +And never was steed so little spared, +For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared + In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. + +The mustang flew, and we urged him on; +There was one chance left, and you have but one; +Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; +Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance; +And if the steers, in their frantic course, +Don't batter you both to pieces at once, +You may thank your star; if not, good-by +To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, +And the open air and the open sky, + In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. + +The cattle gained on us, and just as I felt +For my old six-shooter, behind in my belt, +Down came the mustang, and down came we, +Clinging together, and--what was the rest? +A body that spread itself on my breast, +Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, +Two lips that hard on my lips were pressed; +Then came thunder in my ears, +As over us surged the sea of steers, +Blows that beat blood into my eyes, +And when I could rise, +Lasca was dead! + +I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, +And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep! +And there she is lying, and no one knows, +And the summer shines and the winter snows; +For many a day the flowers have spread +A pall of petals over her head; +And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air, +And the sly coyote trots here and there, +And the black snake glides, and glitters, and slides +Into the rift in a cotton-wood tree; +And the buzzard sails on, +And comes and is gone, +Stately and still like a ship at sea; +And I wonder why I do not care +For the things that are like the things that were. +Does half my heart lie buried there + In Texas, down by the Rio Grande? + + _Frank Desprez._ + + + + +Over the Hill to the Poor-House + + +Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way-- +I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray-- +I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told, +As many another woman that's only half as old. + +Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear! +Over the hill to the poor-house-it seems so horrid queer! +Many a step I've taken a-toiling to and fro, +But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. + +What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? +Am I lazy or crazy? Am I blind or lame? +True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; +But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. + +I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day +To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; +For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound, +If anybody only is willin' to have me round. + +Once I was young an' han'some--I was upon my soul-- +Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; +And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say, +For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way. + +'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over-free, +But many a house an' home was open then to me; +Many a han'some offer I had from likely men, +And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. + +And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, +But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; +For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, +And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along. + +And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay, +With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; +Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, +An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. + +So we worked for the childr'n, and raised 'em every one, +Worked for 'em summer and winter just as we ought to've done; +Only, perhaps, we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn-- +But every couple's childr'n's a heap the best to them. + +Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones! +I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; +And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, +I've noticed it sometimes, somehow, fails to work the other way. + +Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, +And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; +When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, +The Lord of Hosts he come one day, an' took him away from me. + +Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-- +Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; +And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, +Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town. + +She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile-- +She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style; +But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know; +But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go. + +She had an edication, an' that was good for her; +But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur; +An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), +That I never swallowed a grammar, or eat a 'rithmetic. + +So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-- +They was a family of themselves, and I another one; +And a very little cottage one family will do, +But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two. + +An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, +An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try; +But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, +When Charley turn'd agin me, an' told me I could go. + +I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, +And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all; +And what with her husband's sisters, and what with childr'n three, +'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. + +An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, +For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot; +But all the childr'n was on me--I couldn't stand their sauce-- +And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss. + +An' then I wrote Rebecca, my girl who lives out West, +And to Isaac, not far from her--some twenty miles, at best; +And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old, +And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold. + +So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-- +So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; +But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, +Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town. + +Over the hill to the poor-house--my childr'n dear, good-by! +Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh; +And God'll judge between us; but I will always pray +That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day. + + _Will Carleton._ + + + +The American Flag + + +When Freedom from her mountain height + Unfurled her standard to the air, +She tore the azure robe of night, + And set the stars of glory there. +She mingled with its gorgeous dyes +The milky baldric of the skies, +And striped its pure celestial white +With streakings of the morning light; +Then from his mansion in the sun +She called her eagle bearer down, +And gave into his mighty hand +The symbol of her chosen land. + +Majestic monarch of the cloud, + Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, +To hear the tempest trumpings loud +And see the lightning lances driven, + When strive the warriors of the storm, +And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, +Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given + To guard the banner of the free, +To hover in the sulphur smoke, +To ward away the battle stroke, +And bid its blendings shine afar, +Like rainbows on the cloud of War, + The harbingers of victory! + +Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, +The sign of hope and triumph high, +When speaks the signal trumpet tone, +And the long line comes gleaming on. +Ere yet the lifeblood, warm and wet, +Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, +Each soldier eye shall brightly turn +To where thy sky-born glories burn, +And, as his springing steps advance, +Catch war and vengeance from the glance. + +And when the cannon-mouthings loud +Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, +And gory sabres rise and fall +Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, + Then shall thy meteor glances glow, +And cowering foes shall shrink beneath + Each gallant arm that strikes below +That lovely messenger of death. + +Flag of the seas! on ocean wave +Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; +When death, careering on the gale, +Sweeps darkly 'round the bellied sail, +And frighted waves rush wildly back +Before the broadside's reeling rack, +Each dying wanderer of the sea +Shall look at once to heaven and thee, +And smile to see thy splendors fly +In triumph o'er his closing eye. + +Flag of the free heart's hope and home! + By angel hands to valor given; +Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, + And all thy hues were born in heaven. +Forever float that standard sheet! + Where breathes the foe but falls before us, +With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, + And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? + + _Joseph Rodman Drake._ + + + + +Golden Keys + + +A bunch of golden keys is mine +To make each day with gladness shine. + +"Good morning!" that's the golden key +That unlocks every door for me. + +When evening comes, "Good night!" I say, +And close the door of each glad day. + +When at the table "If you please" +I take from off my bunch of keys. + +When friends give anything to me, +I'll use the little "Thank you" key. + +"Excuse me," "Beg your pardon," too, +When by mistake some harm I do. + +Or if unkindly harm I've given, +With "Forgive me" key I'll be forgiven. + +On a golden ring these keys I'll bind, +This is its motto: "Be ye kind." + +I'll often use each golden key, +And so a happy child I'll be. + + + + +The Four-leaf Clover + + +I know a place where the sun is like gold, + And the cherry blooms burst like snow; +And down underneath is the loveliest nook, + Where the four-leaf clovers grow. + +One leaf is for faith, and one is for hope, + And one is for love, you know; +And God put another one in for luck-- + If you search, you will find where they grow. + +But you must have faith and you must have hope, + You must love and be strong, and so +If you work, if you wait, you will find the place + Where the four-leaf clovers grow. + + _Ella Higginson._ + + + + +Telling the Bees + +NOTE: A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country, formerly +prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a +member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and +their hives dressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be +necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a +new home. + + +Here is the place; right over the hill + Runs the path I took; +You can see the gap in the old wall still. + And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. + +There is the house, with the gate red-barred, + And the poplars tall; +And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, + And the white horns tossing above the wall. + +There are the beehives ranged in the sun; + And down by the brink +Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, + Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. + +A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, + Heavy and slow; +And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, + And the same brook sings of a year ago. + +There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; + And the June sun warm +Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, + Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. + +I mind me how with a lover's care + From my Sunday coat +I brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair, + And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. + +Since we parted, a month had passed,-- + To love, a year; +Down through the beeches I looked at last + On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. + +I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain + Of light through the leaves, +The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, + The bloom of her roses under the eaves. + +Just the same as a month before,-- + The house and the trees, +The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,-- + Nothing changed but the hives of bees. + +Before them, under the garden wall, + Forward and back, +Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, + Draping each hive with a shred of black. + +Trembling, I listened; the summer sun + Had the chill of snow; +For I knew she was telling the bees of one + Gone on the journey we all must go! + +Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps + For the dead to-day: +Haply her blind grandsire sleeps + The fret and pain of his age away." + +But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, + With his cane to his chin, +The old man sat; and the chore-girl still + Sung to the bees stealing out and in. + +And the song she was singing ever since + In my ear sounds on:-- +"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! + Mistress Mary is dead and gone!" + + _John G. Whittier._ + + + + +"Not Understood" + + +Not understood, we move along asunder, + Our paths grow wider as the seasons creep +Along the years. We marvel and we wonder, + Why life is life, and then we fall asleep, + Not understood. + +Not understood, we gather false impressions, + And hug them closer as the years go by, +Till virtues often seem to us transgressions; + And thus men rise and fall and live and die, + Not understood. + +Not understood, poor souls with stunted visions + Often measure giants by their narrow gauge; +The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision + Are oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age, + Not understood. + +Not understood, the secret springs of action + Which lie beneath the surface and the show +Are disregarded; with self-satisfaction + We judge our neighbors, and they often go + Not understood. + +Not understood, how trifles often change us-- + The thoughtless sentence or the fancied slight-- +Destroy long years of friendship and estrange us, + And on our souls there falls a freezing blight-- + Not understood. + +Not understood, how many hearts are aching + For lack of sympathy! Ah! day by day +How many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking, + How many noble spirits pass away + Not understood. + +O God! that men would see a little clearer, + Or judge less hardly when they cannot see! +O God! that men would draw a little nearer + To one another! They'd be nearer Thee, + And understood. + + + + +Somebody's Mother + + +The woman was old, and ragged, and gray, +And bent with the chill of a winter's day; +The streets were white with a recent snow, +And the woman's feet with age were slow. + +At the crowded crossing she waited long, +Jostled aside by the careless throng +Of human beings who passed her by, +Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye. + +Down the street with laughter and shout, +Glad in the freedom of "school let out," +Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep, +Hailing the snow piled white and deep; +Past the woman, so old and gray, +Hastened the children on their way. + +None offered a helping hand to her, +So weak and timid, afraid to stir, +Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet +Should trample her down in the slippery street. + +At last came out of the merry troop +The gayest boy of all the group; +He paused beside her, and whispered low, +"I'll help you across, if you wish to go." + +Her aged hand on his strong young arm +She placed, and so without hurt or harm, +He guided the trembling feet along, +Proud that his own were young and strong; +Then back again to his friends he went, +His young heart happy and well content. + +"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, +For all she's aged, and poor, and slow; +And some one, some time, may lend a hand +To help my mother--you understand?-- +If ever she's poor, and old, and gray, +And her own dear boy is far away." + +"Somebody's mother" bowed low her head, +In her home that 'night, and the prayer she said +Was: "God, be kind to that noble boy, +Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy." + +Faint was the voice, and worn and weak, +But the Father hears when His children speak; +Angels caught the faltering word, +And "Somebody's Mother's" prayer was heard. + + + + +To a Waterfowl + + + Whither, midst falling dew, +While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, +Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue + Thy solitary way? + + Vainly the fowler's eye +Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, +As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, + Thy figure floats along. + + Seek'st thou the plashy brink +Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, +Or where the rocking billows rise and sink + On the chafed ocean-side? + + There is a Power whose care +Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-- +The desert and illimitable air-- + Lone wandering, but not lost. + + All day thy wings have fanned, +At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; +Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, + Though the dark night is near. + + And soon that toil shall end; +Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, +And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, + Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. + + Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven +Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart +Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, + And shall not soon depart. + + He who, from zone to zone, +Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, +In the long way that I must tread alone, + Will lead my steps aright. + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + + + +My Mother + + +Who fed me from her gentle breast +And hushed me in her arms to rest, +And on my cheek sweet kisses prest? + My mother. + +When sleep forsook my open eye, +Who was it sung sweet lullaby +And rocked me that I should not cry? + My mother. + +Who sat and watched my infant head +When sleeping in my cradle bed, +And tears of sweet affection shed? + My mother. + +When pain and sickness made me cry, +Who gazed upon my heavy eye, +And wept, for fear that I should die? + My mother. + +Who ran to help me when I fell +And would some pretty story tell, +Or kiss the part to make it well? + My mother. + +Who taught my infant lips to pray, +To love God's holy word and day, +And walk in wisdom's pleasant way? + My mother. + +And can I ever cease to be +Affectionate and kind to thee +Who wast so very kind to me,-- + My mother. + +Oh, no, the thought I cannot bear; +And if God please my life to spare +I hope I shall reward thy care, + My mother. + +When thou art feeble, old and gray, +My healthy arms shall be thy stay, +And I will soothe thy pains away, + My mother. + +And when I see thee hang thy head, +'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed, +And tears of sweet affection shed,-- + My mother. + + + + +The Walrus and the Carpenter + + +The sun was shining on the sea, + Shining with all his might: +He did his very best to make + The billows smooth and bright-- +And this was odd, because it was + The middle of the night. + +The moon was shining sulkily, + Because she thought the sun +Had got no business to be there + After the day was done-- +"It's very rude of him," she said, + "To come and spoil the fun!" + +The sea was wet as wet could be, + The sands were dry as dry. +You could not see a cloud, because + No cloud was in the sky: +No birds were flying overhead-- + There were no birds to fly. + +The Walrus and the Carpenter + Were walking close at hand: +They wept like anything to see + Such quantities of sand: +"If this were only cleared away," + They said, "it would be grand!" + +"If seven maids with seven mops + Swept it for half a year, +Do you suppose," the Walrus said, + "That they could get it clear?" +"I doubt it," said the Carpenter, + And shed a bitter tear. + +"O Oysters, come and walk with us!" + The Walrus did beseech. +"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, + Along the briny beach: +We cannot do with more than four, + To give a hand to each." + +The eldest Oyster looked at him, + But never a word he said: +The eldest Oyster winked his eye, + And shook his heavy head-- +Meaning to say he did not choose + To leave the oyster-bed. + +But four young Oysters hurried up, + All eager for the treat: +Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, + Their shoes were clean and neat-- +And this was odd, because, you know, + They hadn't any feet. + +Four other Oysters followed them, + And yet another four; +And thick and fast they came at last, + And more, and more, and more-- +All hopping through the frothy waves, + And scrambling to the shore. + +The Walrus and the Carpenter + Walked on a mile or so, +And then they rested on a rock + Conveniently low: +And all the little Oysters stood + And waited in a row. + +"The time has come," the Walrus said, + "To talk of many things: +Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- + Of cabbages and kings-- +And why the sea is boiling hot-- + And whether pigs have wings." + +"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, + "Before we have our chat; +For some of us are out of breath, + And all of us are fat!" +"No hurry!" said the Carpenter. + They thanked him much for that. + +"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, + "Is what we chiefly need: +Pepper and vinegar besides + Are very good indeed-- +Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear, + We can begin to feed." + +"But not on us!" the Oysters cried, + Turning a little blue. +"After such kindness, that would be + A dismal thing to do!" +"The night is fine," the Walrus said, + "Do you admire the view? + +"It was so kind of you to come! + And you are very nice!" +The Carpenter said nothing but + "Cut us another slice. +I wish you were not quite so deaf-- + I've had to ask you twice!" + +"It seems a shame," the Walrus said, + "To play them such a trick. +After we've brought them out so far, + And made them trot so quick!" +The Carpenter said nothing but + "The butter's spread too thick!" + +"I weep for you," the Walrus said; + "I deeply sympathize." +With sobs and tears he sorted out + Those of the largest size, +Holding his pocket-handkerchief + Before his streaming eyes. + +"O Oysters," said the Carpenter, + "You've had a pleasant run! +Shall we be trotting home again?" + But answer came there none-- +And this was scarcely odd, because + They'd eaten every one. + + _Lewis Carroll._ + + + + +The Teacher's Dream + + +The weary teacher sat alone + While twilight gathered on: +And not a sound was heard around,-- + The boys and girls were gone. + +The weary teacher sat alone; + Unnerved and pale was he; +Bowed 'neath a yoke of care, he spoke + In sad soliloquy: + +"Another round, another round + Of labor thrown away, +Another chain of toil and pain + Dragged through a tedious day. + +"Of no avail is constant zeal, + Love's sacrifice is lost. +The hopes of morn, so golden, turn, + Each evening, into dross. + +"I squander on a barren field + My strength, my life, my all: +The seeds I sow will never grow,-- + They perish where they fall." + +He sighed, and low upon his hands + His aching brow he pressed; +And o'er his frame ere long there came + A soothing sense of rest. + +And then he lifted up his face, + But started back aghast,-- +The room, by strange and sudden change, + Assumed proportions vast. + +It seemed a Senate-hall, and one + Addressed a listening throng; +Each burning word all bosoms stirred, + Applause rose loud and long. + +The 'wildered teacher thought he knew + The speaker's voice and look, +"And for his name," said he, "the same + Is in my record book." + +The stately Senate-hall dissolved, + A church rose in its place, +Wherein there stood a man of God, + Dispensing words of grace. + +And though he spoke in solemn tone, + And though his hair was gray, +The teacher's thought was strangely wrought-- + "I whipped that boy to-day." + +The church, a phantom, vanished soon; + What saw the teacher then? +In classic gloom of alcoved room + An author plied his pen. + +"My idlest lad!" the teacher said, + Filled with a new surprise; +"Shall I behold his name enrolled + Among the great and wise?" + +The vision of a cottage home + The teacher now descried; +A mother's face illumed the place + Her influence sanctified. + +"A miracle! a miracle! + This matron, well I know, +Was but a wild and careless child, + Not half an hour ago. + +"And when she to her children speaks + Of duty's golden rule, +Her lips repeat in accents sweet, + My words to her at school." + +The scene was changed again, and lo! + The schoolhouse rude and old; +Upon the wall did darkness fall, + The evening air was cold. + +"A dream!" the sleeper, waking, said, + Then paced along the floor, +And, whistling slow and soft and low, + He locked the schoolhouse door. + +And, walking home, his heart was full + Of peace and trust and praise; +And singing slow and soft and low, + Said, "After many days." + + _W.H. Venable._ + + + + +A Legend of Bregenz + + +Girt round with rugged mountains, the fair Lake Constance lies; +In her blue heart reflected shine back the starry skies; +And watching each white cloudlet float silently and slow, +You think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below! + +Midnight is there: and silence, enthroned in heaven, looks down +Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town: +For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol shore, +Has stood above Lake Constance a thousand years and more. + +Her battlement and towers, from off their rocky steep, +Have cast their trembling shadow for ages on the deep; +Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred legend know, +Of how the town was saved, one night three hundred years ago. + +Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid had fled, +To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for daily bread; +And every year that fleeted so silently and fast, +Seemed to bear farther from her the memory of the past. + +She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for rest or change; +Her friends seemed no more new ones, their speech seemed no more strange; +And when she led her cattle to pasture every day, +She ceased to look and wonder on which side Bregenz lay. + +She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing and with tears; +Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist of years; +She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war and strife; +Each day she rose, contented, to the calm toils of life. + +Yet when her master's children would clustering round her stand, +She sang them ancient ballads of her own native land; +And when at morn and evening she knelt before God's throne, +The accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone. + +And so she dwelt: the valley more peaceful year by year; +When suddenly strange portents of some great deed seemed near. +The golden corn was bending upon its fragile stock, +While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down in talk. + +The men seemed stern and altered, with looks cast on the ground; +With anxious faces, one by one, the women gathered round; +All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put away; +The very children seemed afraid to go alone to play. + +One day, out in the meadow with strangers from the town, +Some secret plan discussing, the men walked up and down, +Yet now and then seemed watching a strange uncertain, gleam, +That looked like lances 'mid the trees that stood below the stream. + +At eve they all assembled, then care and doubt were fled; +With jovial laugh they feasted; the board was nobly spread. +The elder of the village rose up, his glass in hand, +And cried, "We drink the downfall of an accursed land! + +"The night is growing darker,--ere one more day is flown, +Bregenz, our foeman's stronghold, Bregenz shall be our own!" +The women shrank in terror, (yet Pride, too, had her part,) +But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within her heart. + +Before her stood fair Bregenz, once more her towers arose; +What were the friends beside her? Only her country's foes! +The faces of her kinsfolk, the days of childhood flown, +The echoes of her mountains, reclaimed her as their own! + +Nothing she heard around her, (though shouts rang forth again,) +Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the pasture, and the plain; +Before her eyes one vision, and in her heart one cry, +That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz, and then, if need be, die!" + +With trembling haste and breathless, with noiseless step, she sped; +Horses and weary cattle were standing in the shed; +She loosed the strong white charger, that fed from out her hand, +She mounted, and she turned his head towards her native land. + +Out--out into the darkness--faster, and still more fast; +The smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut wood is past; +She looks up; clouds are heavy: Why is her steed so slow?-- +Scarcely the wind beside them can pass them as they go. + +"Faster!" she cries. "Oh, faster!" Eleven the church-bells chime; +"O God," she cries, "help Bregenz, and bring me there in time!" +But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the kine, +Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the Rhine. + +Shall not the roaring waters their headlong gallop check? +The steed draws back in terror, she leans upon his neck +To watch the flowing darkness,--the bank is high and steep; +One pause--he staggers forward, and plunges in the deep. + +She strives to pierce the blackness, and looser throws the rein; +Her steed must breast the waters that dash above his mane. +How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles through the foam, +And see--in the far distance shine out the lights of home! + +Up the steep bank he bears her, and now they rush again +Toward the heights of Bregenz, that tower above the plain. +They reach the gate of Bregenz, just as the midnight rings, +And out come serf and soldier to meet the news she brings. + +Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight her battlements are manned; +Defiance greets the army that marches on the land. +And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid, +Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol maid. + +Three hundred years are vanished, and yet upon the hill +An old stone gateway rises, to do her honor still. +And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning in the shade, +They see in quaint old carving the charger and the maid. + +And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gateway, street, and tower, +The warder paces all night long, and calls each passing hour: +"Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud, and then (O crown of fame!) +When midnight pauses in the skies he calls the maiden's name! + + _Adelaide A. Procter._ + + + + +Better Than Gold + + +Better than grandeur, better than gold, +Than rank and title a thousand fold, +Is a healthy body, a mind at ease, +And simple pleasures that always please; +A heart that can feel for a neighbor's woe +And share his joys with a genial glow,-- +With sympathies large enough to enfold +All men as brothers,--is better than gold. + +Better than gold is a conscience clear, +Though toiling for bread in an humble sphere: +Doubly blest with content and health, +Untried by the lusts or cares of wealth. +Lowly living and lofty thought +Adorn and ennoble a poor man's cot; +For mind and morals, in Nature's plan, +Are the genuine test of a gentleman. + +Better than gold is the sweet repose +Of the sons of toil when their labors close; +Better than gold is the poor man's sleep, +And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep. +Bring sleeping draughts to the downy bed, +Where luxury pillows his aching head; +His simple opiate labor deems +A shorter road to the land of dreams. + +Better than gold is a thinking mind +That in the realm of books can find +A treasure surpassing Australian ore, +And live with the great and good of yore. +The sage's lore and the poet's lay, +The glories of empires pass'd away, +The world's great drama will thus unfold +And yield a pleasure better than gold. + +Better than gold is a peaceful home, +Where all the fireside charities come;-- +The shrine of love and the heaven of life, +Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife. +However humble the home may be, +Or tried with sorrow by Heaven's decree, +The blessings that never were bought or sold, +And center there, are better than gold. + +_Alexander Smart._ + + + + +October's Bright Blue Weather + + +O suns and skies and clouds of June, + And flowers of June together, +Ye cannot rival for one hour + October's bright blue weather; + +When loud the bumblebee makes haste, + Belated, thriftless vagrant, +And goldenrod is dying fast, + And lanes with grapes are fragrant; + +When gentians roll their fringes tight + To save them for the morning, +And chestnuts fall from satin burrs + Without a sound of warning; + +When on the ground red apples lie + In piles like jewels shining, +And redder still on old stone walls + Are leaves of woodbine twining; + +When all the lovely wayside things + Their white-winged seeds are sowing, +And in the fields, still green and fair, + Late aftermaths are growing; + +When springs run low, and on the brooks, + In idle, golden freighting, +Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush + Of woods, for winter waiting; + +When comrades seek sweet country haunts, + By twos and threes together, +And count like misers hour by hour, + October's bright blue weather. + +O suns and skies and flowers of June, + Count all your boasts together, +Love loveth best of all the year + October's bright blue weather. + + _Helen Hunt Jackson._ + + + + +Brier-Rose + + +Said Brier-Rose's mother to the naughty Brier-Rose: +"What _will_ become of you, my child, the Lord Almighty knows. +You will not scrub the kettles, and you will not touch the broom; +You never sit a minute still at spinning-wheel or loom." + +Thus grumbled in the morning, and grumbled late at eve, +The good-wife as she bustled with pot and tray and sieve; +But Brier-Rose, she laughed and she cocked her dainty head: +"Why, I shall marry, mother dear," full merrily she said. + +"_You_ marry; saucy Brier-Rose! The man, he is not found +To marry such a worthless wench, these seven leagues around." +But Brier-Rose, she laughed and she trilled a merry lay: +"Perhaps he'll come, my mother dear, from eight leagues away." + +The good-wife with a "humph" and a sigh forsook the battle, +And flung her pots and pails about with much vindictive rattle; +"O Lord, what sin did I commit in youthful days, and wild, +That thou hast punished me in age with such a wayward child?" + +Up stole the girl on tiptoe, so that none her step could hear, +And laughing pressed an airy kiss behind the good-wife's ear. +And she, as e'er relenting, sighed: "Oh, Heaven only knows +Whatever will become of you, my naughty Brier-Rose!" + +The sun was high and summer sounds were teeming in the air; +The clank of scythes, the cricket's whir, and swelling woodnotes rare, +From fields and copse and meadow; and through the open door +Sweet, fragrant whiffs of new-mown hay the idle breezes bore. + +Then Brier-Rose grew pensive, like a bird of thoughtful mien, +Whose little life has problems among the branches green. +She heard the river brawling where the tide was swift and strong, +She heard the summer singing its strange, alluring song. + +And out she skipped the meadows o'er and gazed into the sky; +Her heart o'erbrimmed with gladness, she scarce herself knew why, +And to a merry tune she hummed, "Oh, Heaven only knows +Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose!" + +Whene'er a thrifty matron this idle maid espied, +She shook her head in warning, and scarce her wrath could hide; +For girls were made for housewives, for spinning-wheel and loom, +And not to drink the sunshine and wild flower's sweet perfume. + +And oft the maidens cried, when the Brier-Rose went by, +"You cannot knit a stocking, and you cannot make a pie." +But Brier-Rose, as was her wont, she cocked her curly head: +"But I can sing a pretty song," full merrily she said. + +And oft the young lads shouted, when they saw the maid at play: +"Ho, good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, how do you do to-day?" +Then she shook her tiny fist; to her cheeks the color flew: +"However much you coax me, I'll _never_ dance with you." + + * * * * * + +Thus flew the years light winged over Brier-Rose's head, +Till she was twenty summers old and yet remained unwed. +And all the parish wondered: "The Lord Almighty knows +Whatever will become of that naughty Brier-Rose!" + +And while they wondered came the spring a-dancing o'er the hills; +Her breath was warmer than of yore, and all the mountain rills, +With their tinkling and their rippling and their rushing, filled the air, +And the misty sounds of water forth-welling everywhere. + +And in the valley's depth, like a lusty beast of prey, +The river leaped and roared aloud and tossed its mane of spray; +Then hushed again its voice to a softly plashing croon, +As dark it rolled beneath the sun and white beneath the moon. + +It was a merry sight to see the lumber as it whirled +Adown the tawny eddies that hissed and seethed and swirled, +Now shooting through the rapids and, with a reeling swing, +Into the foam-crests diving like an animated thing. + +But in the narrows of the rocks, where o'er a steep incline +The waters plunged, and wreathed in foam the dark boughs of the pine, +The lads kept watch with shout and song, and sent each straggling beam +A-spinning down the rapids, lest it should lock the stream. + + * * * * * + +And yet--methinks I hear it now--wild voices in the night, +A rush of feet, a dog's harsh bark, a torch's flaring light, +And wandering gusts of dampness, and round us far and nigh, +A throbbing boom of water like a pulse-beat in the sky. + +The dawn just pierced the pallid east with spears of gold and red. +As we, with boat-hooks in our hands, toward the narrows sped. +And terror smote us; for we heard the mighty tree-tops sway, +And thunder, as of chariots, and hissing showers of spray. + +"Now, lads," the sheriff shouted, "you are strong, like Norway's rock: +A hundred crowns I give to him who breaks the lumber lock! +For if another hour go by, the angry waters' spoil +Our homes will be, and fields, and our weary years of toil." + +We looked each at the other; each hoped his neighbor would +Brave death and danger for his home, as valiant Norsemen should. +But at our feet the brawling tide expanded like a lake, +And whirling beams came shooting on, and made the firm rock quake. + +"Two hundred crowns!" the sheriff cried, and breathless stood the crowd. +"Two hundred crowns, my bonny lads!" in anxious tones and loud. +But not a man came forward, and no one spoke or stirred, +And nothing save the thunder of the cataract was heard. + +But as with trembling hands and with fainting hearts we stood, +We spied a little curly head emerging from the wood. +We heard a little snatch of a merry little song, +And saw the dainty Brier-Rose come dancing through the throng. + +An angry murmur rose from the people round about. +"Fling her into the river," we heard the matrons shout; +"Chase her away, the silly thing; for God himself scarce knows +Why ever he created that worthless Brier-Rose." + +Sweet Brier-Rose, she heard their cries; a little pensive smile +Across her fair face flitted that might a stone beguile; +And then she gave her pretty head a roguish little cock: +"Hand me a boat-hook, lads," she said; "I think I'll break the lock." + +Derisive shouts of laughter broke from throats of young and old: +"Ho! good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, your tongue was ever bold." +And, mockingly, a boat-hook into her hands was flung, +When, lo! into the river's midst with daring leaps she sprung! + +We saw her dimly through a mist of dense and blinding spray; +From beam to beam she skipped, like a water-sprite at play. +And now and then faint gleams we caught of color through the mist: +A crimson waist, a golden head, a little dainty wrist. + +In terror pressed the people to the margin of the hill, +A hundred breaths were bated, a hundred hearts stood still. +For, hark! from out the rapids came a strange and creaking sound, +And then a crash of thunder which shook the very ground. + +The waters hurled the lumber mass down o'er the rocky steep. +We heard a muffled rumbling and a rolling in the deep; +We saw a tiny form which the torrent swiftly bore +And flung into the wild abyss, where it was seen no more. + +Ah, little naughty Brier-Rose, thou couldst not weave nor spin; +Yet thou couldst do a nobler deed than all thy mocking kin; +For thou hadst courage e'en to die, and by thy death to save +A thousand farms and lives from the fury of the wave. + +And yet the adage lives, in the valley of thy birth, +When wayward children spend their days in heedless play and mirth, +Oft mothers say, half smiling, half sighing, "Heaven knows +Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose!" + + _Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen._ + + + + +King Robert of Sicily + + +Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane +And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, +Appareled in magnificent attire +With retinue of many a knight and squire, +On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat +And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. +And as he listened, o'er and o'er again +Repeated, like a burden or refrain, +He caught the words, _"Deposuit potentes +De sede, et exaltavit humiles"_; +And slowly lifting up his kingly head, +He to a learned clerk beside him said, +"What mean those words?" The clerk made answer meet, +"He has put down the mighty from their seat, +And has exalted them of low degree." +Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, +"'Tis well that such seditious words are sung +Only by priests, and in the Latin tongue; +For unto priests, and people be it known, +There is no power can push me from my throne," +And leaning back he yawned and fell asleep, +Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. + +When he awoke, it was already night; +The church was empty, and there was no light, +Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, +Lighted a little space before some saint. +He started from his seat and gazed around, +But saw no living thing and heard no sound. +He groped towards the door, but it was locked; +He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, +And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, +And imprecations upon men and saints. +The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls +As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. + +At length the sexton, hearing from without +The tumult of the knocking and the shout, +And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, +Came with his lantern, asking "Who is there?" +Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, +"Open; 'tis I, the king! Art thou afraid?" +The frightened sexton, muttering with a curse, +"This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!" +Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; +A man rushed by him at a single stride, +Haggard, half-naked, without hat or cloak, +Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, +But leaped into the blackness of the night, +And vanished like a spectre from his sight. + +Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane +And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, +Despoiled of his magnificent attire, +Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire, +With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, +Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; +Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage +To right and left each seneschal and page, +And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, +His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. +From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed; +Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, +Until at last he reached the banquet-room, +Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. + +There on the dais sat another king, +Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet ring-- +King Robert's self in features, form, and height, +But all transfigured with angelic light! +It was an angel; and his presence there +With a divine effulgence filled the air, +An exaltation, piercing the disguise, +Though none the hidden angel recognize. + +A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, +The throneless monarch on the angel gazed, +Who met his look of anger and surprise +With the divine compassion of his eyes! +Then said, "Who art thou, and why com'st thou here?" +To which King Robert answered with a sneer, +"I am the king, and come to claim my own +From an impostor, who usurps my throne!" +And suddenly, at these audacious words, +Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; +The angel answered with unruffled brow, +"Nay, not the king, but the king's jester; thou +Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape +And for thy counselor shalt lead an ape; +Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, +And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!" + +Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, +They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; +A group of tittering pages ran before, +And as they opened wide the folding door, +His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, +The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, +And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring +With the mock plaudits of "Long live the king!" + +Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, +He said within himself, "It was a dream!" +But the straw rustled as he turned his head, +There were the cap and bells beside his bed; +Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, +Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, +And in the corner, a revolting shape, +Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape. +It was no dream; the world he loved so much +Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! + +Days came and went; and now returned again +To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; +Under the angel's governance benign +The happy island danced with corn and wine, +And deep within the mountain's burning breast +Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. + +Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, +Sullen and silent and disconsolate. +Dressed in the motley garb that jesters wear, +With look bewildered, and a vacant stare, +Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, +By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, +His only friend the ape, his only food +What others left--he still was unsubdued. +And when the angel met him on his way, +And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, +Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel +The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, +"Art thou the king?" the passion of his woe +Burst from him in resistless overflow. +And lifting high his forehead, he would fling +The haughty answer back, "I am, I am the king!" + +Almost three years were ended, when there came +Ambassadors of great repute and name +From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, +Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane +By letter summoned them forthwith to come +On Holy Thursday to his City of Rome. +The angel with great joy received his guests, +And gave them presents of embroidered vests, +And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, +And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. +Then he departed with them o'er the sea +Into the lovely land of Italy, +Whose loveliness was more resplendent made +By the mere passing of that cavalcade +With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir +Of jeweled bridle and of golden spur. + +And lo! among the menials, in mock state, +Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, +His cloak of foxtails flapping in the wind, +The solemn ape demurely perched behind, +King Robert rode, making huge merriment +In all the country towns through which they went. + +The Pope received them with great pomp, and blare +Of bannered trumpets, on St. Peter's Square, +Giving his benediction and embrace, +Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. +While with congratulations and with prayers +He entertained the angel unawares, +Robert, the jester, bursting through the crowd, +Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud: +"I am the king! Look and behold in me +Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! +This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, +Is an impostor in a king's disguise. +Do you not know me? Does no voice within +Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" +The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, +Gazed at the angel's countenance serene; +The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport +To keep a mad man for thy fool at court!" +And the poor, baffled jester, in disgrace +Was hustled back among the populace. + +In solemn state the holy week went by, +And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; +The presence of the angel, with its light, +Before the sun rose, made the city bright, +And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, +Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. +Even the jester, on his bed of straw, +With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw; +He felt within a power unfelt before, +And kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, +He heard the rustling garments of the Lord +Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. + +And now the visit ending, and once more +Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, +Homeward the angel journeyed, and again +The land was made resplendent with his train, +Flashing along the towns of Italy +Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. +And when once more within Palermo's wall, +And, seated on the throne in his great hall, +He heard the Angelus from convent towers, +As if the better world conversed with ours, +He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, +And with a gesture bade the rest retire. +And when they were alone, the angel said, +"Art thou the king?" Then, bowing down his head, +King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, +And meekly answered him, "Thou knowest best! +My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, +And in some cloister's school of penitence, +Across those stones that pave the way to heaven +Walk barefoot till my guilty soul be shriven!" + +The angel smiled, and from his radiant face +A holy light illumined all the place, +And through the open window, loud and clear, +They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, +Above the stir and tumult of the street, +"He has put down the mighty from their seat, +And has exalted them of low degree!" +And through the chant a second melody +Rose like the throbbing of a single string: +"I am an angel, and thou art the king!" + +King Robert, who was standing near the throne, +Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! +But all appareled as in days of old, +With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold; +And when his courtiers came they found him there, +Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. + + _H.W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Huskers + + +It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain +Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again; +The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay +With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow-flowers of May. + +Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red, +At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped; +Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued, +On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood. + +And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night, +He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light; +Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the hill; +And beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still. + +And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky, +Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why; +And schoolgirls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks, +Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks. + +From spire and ball looked westerly the patient weathercock, +But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks. +No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping shell, +And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell. + +The summer grains were harvested; the stubble-fields lay dry, +Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye; +But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood, +Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood. + +Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sere, +Unfolded by their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear; +Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold, +And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold. + +There wrought the busy harvesters; and many a creaking wain +Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain; +Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last, +And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed. + +And lo! as through the western pines on meadow, stream, and pond, +Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond, +Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone, +And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one! + +As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away, +And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay; +From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name, +Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came. + +Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, +Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below; +The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before, +And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er. + +Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart, +Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart; +While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade, +At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played. + +Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, +Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, +The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue, +To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung. + + _John G. Whittier._ + + + + +Darius Green and His Flying Machine + + +If ever there lived a Yankee lad, +Wise or otherwise, good or bad, +Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump +With flapping arms from stake or stump, + Or, spreading the tail + Of his coat for a sail, +Take a soaring leap from post or rail, + And wonder why + He couldn't fly, +And flap and flutter and wish and try-- +If ever you knew a country dunce +Who didn't try that as often as once, +All I can say is, that's a sign +He never would do for a hero of mine. + +An aspiring genius was D. Green: +The son of a farmer,--age fourteen; +His body was long and lank and lean,-- +Just right for flying, as will be seen; +He had two eyes, each bright as a bean, +And a freckled nose that grew between, +A little awry,--for I must mention +That he had riveted his attention +Upon his wonderful invention, +Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, +Working his face as he worked the wings, +And with every turn of gimlet and screw +Turning and screwing his mouth round, too, + Till his nose seemed bent + To catch the scent, +Around some corner, of new-baked pies, +And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes +Grew puckered into a queer grimace, +That made him look very droll in the face, + And also very wise. + +And wise he must have been, to do more +Than ever a genius did before, +Excepting Daedalus of yore +And his son Icarus, who wore + Upon their backs + Those wings of wax +He had read of in the old almanacs. +Darius was clearly of the opinion +That the air is also man's dominion, +And that, with paddle or fin or pinion, + We soon or late + Shall navigate +The azure as now we sail the sea. +The thing looks simple enough to me; + And if you doubt it, +Hear how Darius reasoned about it. + + "Birds can fly, + An' why can't I? + Must we give in," + Says he with a grin, + "'T the bluebird an' phoebe + Are smarter'n we be? +Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller, +An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler? +Does the leetle, chatterin', sassy wren, +No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men? + Jest show me that! + Er prove 't the bat +Has got more brains than's in my hat, +An' I'll back down, an' not till then!" + +He argued further: "Ner I can't see +What's ta' use o' wings to a bumblebee, +Fer to git a livin' with, more'n to me;-- + Ain't my business + Important's his'n is? + That Icarus + Was a silly cuss,-- +Him an' his daddy Daedalus. +They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax +Wouldn't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks. + I'll make mine o' luther, + Er suthin' er other." + +And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned: +"But I ain't goin' to show my hand +To mummies that never can understand +The fust idee that's big an' grand. + They'd 'a' laft an' made fun +O' Creation itself afore't was done!" +So he kept his secret from all the rest +Safely buttoned within his vest; +And in the loft above the shed +Himself he locks, with thimble and thread +And wax and hammer and buckles and screws, +And all such things as geniuses use;-- +Two bats for patterns, curious fellows! +A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows; +An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as +Some wire and several old umbrellas; +A carriage-cover, for tail and wings; +A piece of harness; and straps and strings; + And a big strong boxs + In which he locks +These and a hundred other things. + +His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke +And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk +Around the corner to see him work,-- +Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, +Drawing the waxed end through with a jerk, +And boring the holes with a comical quirk +Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. +But vainly they mounted each other's backs, +And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks; +With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks +He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks; +And a bucket of water, which one would think +He had brought up into the loft to drink + When he chanced to be dry, + Stood always nigh, + For Darius was sly! +And whenever at work he happened to spy +At chink or crevice a blinking eye, +He let a dipper of water fly. +"Take that! an' ef ever ye get a peep, +Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!" + And he sings as he locks + His big strong box:-- + +"The weasel's head is small an' trim, +An' he is leetle an' long an' slim, +An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb, + An' ef yeou'll be + Advised by me +Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' him!" + So day after day +He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, + Till at last 'twas done,-- +The greatest invention under the sun! +"An' now," says Darius, "hooray fer some fun!" + + 'Twas the Fourth of July, + And the weather was dry, +And not a cloud was on all the sky, +Save a few light fleeces, which here and there, + Half mist, half air, +Like foam on the ocean went floating by: +Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen +For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. + +Thought cunning Darius: "Now I sha'n't go +Along 'ith the fellers to see the show. +I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough! +An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off + I'll hev full swing + For to try the thing, +An' practyse a leetle on the wing." +"Ain't goin' to see the celebration?" +Says Brother Nate. "No; botheration! +I've got sich a cold--a toothache--I-- +My gracious!--feel's though I should fly!" + + Said Jotham, "Sho! + Guess ye better go." + But Darius said, "No! +Shouldn't wonder 'f yeou might see me, though, +'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red +O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head." +For all the while to himself he said:-- + "I'll tell ye what! +I'll fly a few times around the lot, +To see how 't seems, then soon's I've got +The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not, + I'll astonish the nation, + And all creation, +By flyin' over the celebration! +Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle; +I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull; +I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stan' on the steeple; +I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people! +I'll light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow; +An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below, + 'What world's this 'ere + That I've come near?' +Fer I'll make 'em believe I'm a chap f'm the moon! +An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' bulloon." + He crept from his bed; +And, seeing the others were gone, he said, +I'm a-gittin' over the cold 'n my head." + And away he sped, +To open the wonderful box in the shed. + +His brothers had walked but a little way +When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, +"What on airth is he up to, hey?" +"Don'o,--the' 's suthin' er other to pay, +Er he wouldn't 'a' stayed to hum to-day." +Says Burke, "His toothache's all 'n his eye! +_He_ never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July, +Ef he hedn't some machine to try. +Le's hurry back and hide in the barn, +An' pay him fer tellin' us that yarn!" +"Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back, +Along by the fences, behind the stack, +And one by one, through a hole in the wall, +In under the dusty barn they crawl, +Dressed in their Sunday garments all; +And a very astonishing sight was that, +When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat +Came up through the floor like an ancient rat. + And there they hid; + And Reuben slid +The fastenings back, and the door undid. + "Keep dark!" said he, +"While I squint an' see what the' is to see." + +As knights of old put on their mail,-- + From head to foot + An iron suit, +Iron jacket and iron boot, +Iron breeches, and on the head +No hat, but an iron pot instead, + And under the chin the bail,-- +I believe they called the thing a helm; +And the lid they carried they called a shield; +And, thus accoutred, they took the field, + Sallying forth to overwhelm +The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm:-- + So this modern knight + Prepared for flight, +Put on his wings and strapped them tight; +Jointed and jaunty, strong and light; +Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip,-- +Ten feet they measured from tip to tip! +And a helm had he, but that he wore, +Not on his head like those of yore, + But more like the helm of a ship. + + "Hush!" Reuben said, + "He's up in the shed! +He's opened the winder,--I see his head! + He stretches it out, + An' pokes it about, +Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, + An' nobody near;-- +Guess he don'o' who's hid in here! +He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill! +Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still! +He's a climbin' out now--of all the things! +What's he got on? I van, it's wings! +An' that t'other thing? I vum, it's a tail! +An' there he sets like a hawk on a rail! +Steppin' careful, he travels the length +Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. +Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; +Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that, +Fer to see 'f the' 's anyone passin' by; +But the' 's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. +_They_ turn up at him a wonderin' eye, +To see--The dragon! he's goin' to fly! +Away he goes! Jimmmy! what a jump! + Flop-flop-an' plump + To the ground with a thump! +Flutt'rin an' flound'rin', all in a lump!" + +As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, +Heels over head, to his proper sphere,-- +Heels over head, and head over heels, +Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,-- +So fell Darius. Upon his crown, +In the midst of the barnyard, he came down, +In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, +Broken braces and broken springs, +Broken tail and broken wings, +Shooting-stars, and various things! +Away with a bellow fled the calf, +And what was that? Did the gosling laugh? + 'Tis a merry roar + From the old barn-door, +And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, +"Say, D'rius! how de yeou like flyin'? +Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, +Darius just turned and looked that way, +As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff. +"Wall, I like flyin' well enough," +He said; "but the' ain't sich a thunder-in' sight +O' fun in 't when ye come to light." + + +MORAL + +I just have room for the moral here: +And this is the moral,--Stick to your sphere. +Or if you insist, as you have the right, +On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, +The moral is,--Take care how you light. + + _John T. Trowbridge._ + + + + +Song of the Shirt + + +With fingers weary and worn, + With eyelids heavy and red, +A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, + Plying her needle and thread-- +Stitch! stitch! stitch! + In poverty, hunger and dirt, +And still with a voice of dolorous pitch + She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" + +"Work! work! work! + While the cock is crowing aloof! +And work--work--work, + Till the stars shine through the roof! +It's oh! to be a slave + Along with the barbarous Turk, +Where a woman has never a soul to save, + If this is Christian work! + +"Work--work--work, + Till the brain begins to swim; +Work--work--work, + Till the eyes are heavy and dim! +Seam, and gusset, and band, + Band, and gusset, and seam, +Till over the buttons I fall asleep, + And sew them on in a dream! + +"O men, with sisters dear! + O men, with mothers and wives! +It is not linen you're wearing out, + But human creatures' lives! +Stitch--stitch--stitch! + In poverty, hunger, and dirt,-- +Sewing at once, with a double thread, + A shroud as well as a shirt! + +"But why do I talk of Death,-- + That phantom of grisly bone? +I hardly fear his terrible shape, + It seems so like my own,-- +It seems so like my own, + Because of the fasts I keep; +O God! that bread should be so dear, + And flesh and blood so cheap! + +"Work! work! work! + My labor never flags; +And what are its wages? A bed of straw, + A crust of bread--and rags, +That shattered roof--this naked floor-- + A table--a broken chair-- +And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank + For sometimes falling there! + +"Work--work--work! + From weary chime to chime! +Work--work--work + As prisoners work for crime! +Band, and gusset, and seam, + Seam, and gusset, and band,-- +Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, + As well as the weary hand. + +"Work--work--work! + In the dull December light! +And Work--work--work! + When the weather is warm, and bright! +While underneath the eaves + The brooding swallows cling, +As if to show me their sunny backs, + And twit me with the spring. + +"Oh, but to breathe the breath + Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,-- +With the sky above my head, + And the grass beneath my feet! +For only one short hour + To feel as I used to feel, +Before I knew the woes of want + And the walk that costs a meal! + +"Oh, but for one short hour,-- + A respite, however brief! +No blessed leisure for love or hope, + But only time for grief! +A little weeping would ease my heart; + But in their briny bed +My tears must stop, for every drop + Hinders needle and thread!" + +With fingers weary and worn, + With eyelids heavy and red, +A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, + Plying her needle and thread,-- +Stitch! stitch! stitch! + In poverty, hunger and dirt; +And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-- +Would that its tone could reach the rich!-- + She sang this "Song of the Shirt." + + _Thomas Hood._ + + + + +Christmas Everywhere + + +Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night! +Christmas in lands of the fir-tree and pine, +Christmas in lands of the palm-tree and vine, +Christmas where snow-peaks stand solemn and white, +Christmas where corn-fields lie sunny and bright, +Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night! + +Christmas where children are hopeful and gay, +Christmas where old men are patient and gray, +Christmas where peace, like a dove in its flight, +Broods o'er brave men in the thick of the fight; +Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight! + +For the Christ-child who comes is the Master of all, +No palace too great and no cottage too small, +The angels who welcome Him sing from the height: +"In the city of David, a King in his might." +Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight! + +Then let every heart keep its Christmas within, +Christ's pity for sorrow, Christ's hatred of sin, +Christ's care for the weakest, Christ's courage for right, +Christ's dread of the darkness, Christ's love of the light. +Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight! + +So the stars of the midnight which compass us round +Shall see a strange glory, and hear a sweet sound, +And cry, "Look! the earth is aflame with delight, +O sons of the morning, rejoice at the sight." +Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight! + + _Philllips Brooks._ + + + + +The Cloud + + +I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, + From the seas and the streams; +I bear light shade for the leaves when laid + In their noon-day dreams. +From my wings are shaken the dews that waken + The sweet buds every one, +When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, + As she dances about the sun. +I wield the flail of the lashing hail, + And whiten the green plains under, +And then again I dissolve it in rain, + And laugh as I pass in thunder. + +I sift the snow on the mountains below, + And their great pines groan aghast; +And all the night 'tis my pillow white, + While I sleep in the arms of the blast. +Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, + Lightning my pilot sits, +In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, + It struggles and howls at fits; +Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, + This pilot is guiding me, +Lured by the love of the genii that move + In the depths of the purple sea; +Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, + Over the lakes and the plains, +Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, + The Spirit he loves remains; +And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, + Whilst he is dissolving in rains. + +The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, + And his burning plumes outspread, +Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, + When the morning star shines dead; +As on the jag of a mountain crag, + Which an earthquake rocks and swings, +An eagle alit one moment may sit + In the light of its golden wings. +And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, + Its ardors of rest and of love, +And the crimson pall of eve may fall + From the depth of heaven above, +With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, + As still as a brooding dove. + +That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, + Whom mortals call the moon, +Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, + By the midnight breezes strewn; +And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, + Which only the angels hear, +May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, + The stars peep behind her and peer; +And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, + Like a swarm of golden bees, +When I widen the rent in my windbuilt tent, + Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, +Like strips of the sky fallen thro' me on high, + Are each paved with the moon and these. + +I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, + And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; +The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, + When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. +From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, + Over a torrent sea, +Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, + The mountains its columns be. +The triumphal arch thro' which I march, + With hurricane, fire, and snow, +When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, + Is the million-colored bow; +The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, + Whilst the moist earth was laughing below. + +I am the daughter of earth and water, + And the nursling of the sky; +I pass thro' the pores of the ocean and shores; + I change, but I cannot die. +For after the rain, when, with never a stain + The pavilion of heaven is bare, +And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams + Build up the blue dome of air, +I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, + And out of the caverns of rain, +Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, + I arise and unbuild it again, + + _Percy Bysshe Shelley._ + + + + +To a Skylark + + + Hail to thee, blithe spirit! + Bird thou never wert, + That from heaven, or near it, + Pourest thy full heart +In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. + + Higher still and higher + From the earth thou springest + Like a cloud of fire; + The blue deep thou wingest, +And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. + + In the golden lightning + of the sunken sun, + O'er which clouds are bright'ning, + Thou dost float and run, +Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. + + The pale purple even + Melts around thy flight; + Like a star of heaven, + In the broad daylight +Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: + + Keen as are the arrows + Of that silver sphere + Whose intense lamp narrows + In the white dawn clear. +Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. + + All the earth and air + With thy voice is loud, + As, when night is bare, + From one lonely cloud +The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. + + What thou art we know not; + What is most like thee? + From rainbow clouds there flow not + Drops so bright to see, +As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:-- + + Like a poet hidden + In the light of thought, + Singing hymns unbidden, + Till the world is wrought +To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: + + Like a high-born maiden + In a palace-tower, + Soothing her love-laden + Soul in secret hour +With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: + + Like a glow-worm golden + In a dell of dew, + Scattering unbeholden + Its aerial hue +Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: + + Like a rose embowered + In its own green leaves, + By warm winds deflowered, + Till the scent it gives +Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves: + + Sound of vernal showers + On the twinkling grass, + Rain-awakened flowers, + All that ever was +Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. + + Teach us, sprite or bird, + What sweet thoughts are thine: + I have never heard + Praise of love or wine +That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. + + Chorus Hymeneal, + Or triumphal chaunt, + Matched with thine would be all + But an empty vaunt, +A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. + + What objects are the fountains + Of thy happy strain? + What fields, or waves, or mountains? + What shapes of sky or plain? +What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? + + With thy clear keen joyance + Languor cannot be: + Shadow of annoyance + Never came near thee: +Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. + + Waking or asleep, + Thou of death must deem + Things more true and deep + Than we mortals dream, +Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? + + We look before and after + And pine for what is not: + Our sincerest laughter + With some pain is fraught; +Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. + + Yet if we could scorn + Hate, and pride, and fear; + If we were things born + Not to a shed a tear, +I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. + + Better than all measures + Of delightful sound, + Better than all treasures + That in books are found. +Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! + + Teach me half the gladness + That thy brain must know, + Such harmonious madness + From my lips would flow, +The world should listen then, as I am listening now, + + _Percy Bysshe Shelley._ + + + + +The Brook + + +I come from haunts of coot and hern, +I make a sudden sally, +And sparkle out among the fern, +To bicker down a valley. + +By thirty hills I hurry down, +Or slip between the ridges, +By twenty thorps, a little town, +And half a hundred bridges. + +Till last by Philip's farm I flow +To join the brimming river, +For men may come and men may go, +But I go on forever. + +I chatter over stony ways, +In little sharps and trebles, +I bubble into eddying bays, +I babble on the pebbles. + +With many a curve my banks I fret +By many a field and fallow, +And many a fairy foreland set +With willow-weed and mallow. + +I chatter, chatter as I flow +To join the brimming river, +For men may come and men may go, +But I go on forever. + +I wind about, and in and out, +With here a blossom sailing, +And here and there a lusty trout, +And here and there a grayling, + +And here and there a foamy flake +Upon me as I travel +With many a silvery waterbreak +Above the golden gravel, + +And draw them all along, and flow +To join the brimming river, +For men may come and men may go, +But I go on forever. + +I steal by lawns and grassy plots, +I slide by hazel covers; +I move the sweet forget-me-nots +That grow for happy lovers. + +I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, +Among my skimming swallows; +I make the netted sunbeam dance +Against my sandy shallows. + +I murmur under moon and stars, +In brambly wildernesses; +I linger by my shingly bars; +I loiter round my cresses; + +And out again I curve and flow +To join the brimming river, +For men may come and men may go, +But I go on forever. + + _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ + + + + +June + +(_From "The Vision of Sir Launfal"_) + + +No price is set on the lavish summer, +June may be had by the poorest comer. + +And what is so rare as a day in June? + Then, if ever, come perfect days; +Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, + And over it softly her warm ear lays; +Whether we look, or whether we listen, +We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; +Every clod feels a stir of might, + An instinct within it that reaches and towers, +And, groping blindly above it for light, + Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; +The flush of life may well be seen + Thrilling back over hills and valleys; +The cowslip startles in meadows green, + The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, +And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean + To be some happy creature's palace; +The little bird sits at his door in the sun, + Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, +And lets his illumined being o'errun + With the deluge of summer it receives; +His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, +And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; +He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- +In the nice ear of Nature, which song is the best? + +Now is the high-tide of the year, + And whatever of life hath ebbed away +Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, + Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; +Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, +We are happy now because God wills it; +No matter how barren the past may have been, +'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green; +We sit in the warm shade and feel right well +How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; +We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing +That skies are clear and grass is growing; +The breeze comes whispering in our ear, +That dandelions are blossoming near, + That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, +That the river is bluer than the sky, +That the robin is plastering his house hard by; +And if the breeze kept the good news back, +For other couriers we should not lack; + We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-- +And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, +Warmed with the new wine of the year, + Tells all in his lusty crowing! + +Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; +Everything is happy now, + Everything is upward striving; +'T is as easy now for the heart to be true +As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,-- + 'T is the natural way of living. +Who knows whither the clouds have fled? + In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake, +And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, + The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; +The soul partakes the season's youth, + And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe +Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, + Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. + + _James Russell Lowell._ + + + + +The Planting of the Apple-Tree + + + Come, let us plant the apple-tree. +Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; +Wide let its hollow bed be made; +There gently lay the roots, and there +Sift the dark mould with kindly care. + And press it o'er them tenderly, +As round the sleeping infant's feet +We softly fold the cradle-sheet; + So plant we the apple tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? +Buds, which the breath of summer days +Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; +Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast +Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; + We plant, upon the sunny lea, +A shadow for the noontide hour, +A shelter from the summer shower, + When we plant the apple-tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? +Sweets for a hundred flowery springs, +To load the May-wind's restless wings, +When, from the orchard row, he pours +Its fragrance through our open doors; + A world of blossoms for the bee, +Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, +For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, + We plant with the apple-tree. + + What plant we in this apple-tree? +Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, +And redden in the August noon, +And drop, when gentle airs come by, +That fan the blue September sky. + While children come, with cries of glee, +And seek them where the fragrant grass +Betrays their bed to those who pass, + At the foot of the apple tree. + + And when, above this apple tree, +The winter stars are quivering bright, +And winds go howling through the night, +Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, +Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, + And guests in prouder homes shall see, +Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine, +And golden orange of the Line, + The fruit of the apple-tree. + + The fruitage of this apple-tree +Winds, and our flag of stripe and star +Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, +Where men shall wonder at the view, +And ask in what fair groves they grew; + And sojourners beyond the sea +Shall think of childhood's careless day +And long, long hours of summer play, + In the shade of the apple-tree. + +Each year shall give this apple-tree +A broader flush of roseate bloom, +A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, +And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, +The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. + The years shall come and pass, but we +Shall hear no longer, where we lie, +The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, + In the boughs of the apple-tree. + + And time shall waste this apple tree. +Oh, when its aged branches throw +Thin shadows on the ground below, +Shall fraud and force and iron will +Oppress the weak and helpless still? + What shall the tasks of mercy be, +Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears +Of those who live when length of years + Is wasting this apple-tree? + + "Who planted this old apple-tree?" +The children of that distant day +Thus to some aged man shall say; +And, gazing on its mossy stem, +The gray-haired man shall answer them: + "A poet of the land was he, +Born in the rude but good old times; +'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes + On planting the apple-tree." + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + + + +Character of the Happy Warrior + + +Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he +That every man in arms should wish to be? +--It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought +Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought +Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: +Whose high endeavors are an inward light +That makes the path before him always bright: +Who, with a natural instinct to discern +What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; +Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, +But makes his moral being his prime care; +Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, +And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! +Turns his necessity to glorious gain; +In face of these doth exercise a power +Which is our human nature's highest dower; +Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves +Of their bad influence, and their good receives: +By objects, which might force the soul to abate +Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; +Is placable--because occasions rise +So often that demand such sacrifice; +More skillful in self-knowledge, even more pure, +As tempted more; more able to endure, +As more exposed to suffering and distress; +Thence also, more alive to tenderness. +--'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends +Upon that law as on the best of friends; +Whence, in a state where men are tempted still +To evil for a guard against worse ill, +And what in quality or act is best +Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, +He labors good on good to fix, and owes +To virtue every triumph that he knows: +--Who, if he rise to station of command, +Rises by open means; and there will stand +On honorable terms, or else retire, +And in himself possess his own desire; +Who comprehends his trust, and to the same +Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; +And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait +For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state; +Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, +Like showers of manna, if they come at all; +Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, +Or mild concerns of ordinary life, +A constant influence, a peculiar grace; +But who, if he be called upon to face +Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined +Great issues, good or bad for human kind, +Is happy as a Lover; and attired +With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; +And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law +In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; +Or if an unexpected call succeed, +Come when it will, is equal to the need: +--He who, though thus endued as with a sense +And faculty for storm and turbulence, +Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans +To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; +Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, +Are at his heart; and such fidelity +It is his darling passion to approve; +More brave for this, that he hath much to love:-- +'Tis, finally, the Man who lifted high, +Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, +Or left unthought-of in obscurity,-- +Who, with a toward or untoward lot, +Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not-- +Plays, in the many games of life, that one +Where what he most doth value must be won: +Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, +Nor thought of tender happiness betray; +Who, not content that former worth stand fast, +Looks forward, persevering to the last, +From well to better, daily self-surpast: +Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth +Forever, and to noble deeds give birth, +Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, +And leave a dead unprofitable name-- +Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; +And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws +His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: +This is the happy Warrior; this is He +That every Man in arms should wish to be. + + _William Wordsworth._ + + + + +The Charge of the Light Brigade + + +Half a league, half a league, + Half a league onward, +All in the valley of Death + Rode the six hundred. +"Forward, the Light Brigade! +Charge for the guns," he said: +Into the valley of Death + Rode the six hundred. + +"Forward, the Light Brigade!" +Was there a man dismay'd? +Not tho' the soldier knew + Some one had blunder'd: +Theirs not to make reply, +Theirs not to reason why, +Theirs but to do and die: +Into the valley of Death + Rode the six hundred. + +Cannon to right of them, +Cannon to left of them, +Cannon in front of them + Volley'd and thunder'd; +Storm'd at with shot and shell, +Boldly they rode and well, +Into the jaws of Death, +Into the mouth of Hell + Rode the six hundred, + +Flash'd all their sabres bare, +Flash'd as they turn'd in air, +Sabring the gunners there, +Charging an army, while + All the world wonder'd: +Plung'd in the battery-smoke +Right thro' the line they broke; +Cossack and Russian +Reel'd from the sabre-stroke + Shatter'd and sunder'd. +Then they rode back, but not,-- + Not the six hundred. + +Cannon to right of them, +Cannon to left of them, +Cannon behind them + Volley'd and thunder'd; +Storm'd at with shot and shell, +While horse and hero fell, +They that had fought so well +Came thro' the jaws of Death, +Back from the mouth of Hell, +All that was left of them, + Left of six hundred. + +When can their glory fade? +O the wild charge they made! + All the world wonder'd. +Honor the charge they made! +Honor the Light Brigade, + Noble six hundred! + + _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._. + + + + +Sheridan's Ride + +October 19, 1864 + + +Up from the South at break of day, +Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, +The affrighted air with a shudder bore, +Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, +The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, +Telling the battle was on once more, +And Sheridan--twenty miles away. + +And wider still those billows of war +Thundered along the horizon's bar; +And louder yet into Winchester rolled +The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, +Making the blood of the listener cold +As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, +And Sheridan--twenty miles away. + +But there is a road from Winchester town, +A good broad highway leading down; +And there, through the flush of the morning light, +A steed, as black as the steeds of night, +Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; +As if he knew the terrible need, +He stretched away with the utmost speed; +Hills rose and fell--but his heart was gay, +With Sheridan fifteen miles away. + +Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, +The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; +Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, +Foreboding to foemen the doom of disaster. +The heart of the steed and the heart of the master +Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, +Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; +Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, +With Sheridan only ten miles away. + +Under his spurning feet the road +Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, +And the landscape sped away behind +Like an ocean flying before the wind; +And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, +Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire. +But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire-- +He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, +With Sheridan only five miles away. + +The first that the General saw were the groups +Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. +What was done? what to do? a glance told him both, +Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, +He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas, +And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because +The sight of the master compelled it to pause. +With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; +By the flash of his eye and the red nostril's play +He seemed to the whole great army to say, +"I have brought you Sheridan all the way +From Winchester down to save the day!" + +Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! +Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man! +And when their statues are placed on high, +Under the dome of the Union sky-- +The American soldier's Temple of Fame-- +There, with the glorious General's name, +Be it said in letters both bold and bright: + "Here is the steed that saved the day, +By carrying Sheridan into the fight, + From Winchester--twenty miles away!" + + _Thomas Buchanan Read._ + + + + +O Little Town of Bethlehem + + +O little town of Bethlehem, + How still we see thee lie! +Above thy deep and dreamless sleep + The silent stars go by; +Yet in thy dark streets shineth + The everlasting Light; +The hopes and fears of all the years + Are met in thee to-night. + +For Christ is born of Mary, + And, gathered all above, +While mortals sleep, the angels keep + Their watch of wondering love. +O morning stars, together + Proclaim the holy birth! +And praises sing to God the King, + And peace to men on earth. + +How silently, how silently, + The wondrous gift is given! +So God imparts to human hearts + The blessings of His heaven. +No ear may hear His coming, + But in this world of sin, +Where meek souls will receive Him still, + The dear Christ enters in. + +O holy Child of Bethlehem! + Descend to us, we pray; +Cast out our sin, and enter in, + Be born in us to-day. +We hear the Christmas angels + The great glad tidings tell; +Oh, come to us, abide with us, + Our Lord Emmanuel! + + _Phillips Brooks._ + + + + +The Chambered Nautilus + + +This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, + Sails the unshadowed main,-- + The venturous bark that flings +On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings +In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, + And coral reefs lie bare, +Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. + +Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; + Wrecked is the ship of pearl! + And every chambered cell, +Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, +As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, + Before thee lies revealed,-- +Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! + +Year after year beheld the silent toil + That spread his lustrous coil; + Still, as the spiral grew, +He left the past year's dwelling for the new, +Stole with soft step its shining archway through, + Built up its idle door, +Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. + +Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, + Child of the wandering sea, + Cast from her lap, forlorn! +From thy dead lips a clearer note is born +Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! + While on mine ear it rings, +Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-- + +Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, + As the swift seasons roll! + Leave thy low-vaulted past! +Let each new temple, nobler than the last, +Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, + Till thou at length art free, +Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + + +Nobility + + +True worth is in _being_, not _seeming_,-- + In doing, each day that goes by, +Some little good--not in dreaming + Of great things to do by and by. +For whatever men say in their blindness, + And spite of the fancies of youth, +There's nothing so kingly as kindness, + And nothing so royal as truth. + +We get back our mete as we measure-- + We cannot do wrong and feel right, +Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure, + For justice avenges each slight. +The air for the wing of the sparrow, + The bush for the robin and wren, +But alway the path that is narrow + And straight, for the children of men. + +'Tis not in the pages of story + The heart of its ills to beguile, +Though he who makes courtship to glory + Gives all that he hath for her smile. +For when from her heights he has won her, + Alas! it is only to prove +That nothing's so sacred as honor, + And nothing so loyal as love! + +We cannot make bargains for blisses, + Nor catch them like fishes in nets; +And sometimes the thing our life misses + Helps more than the thing which it gets. +For good lieth not in pursuing, + Nor gaining of great nor of small, +But just in the doing, and doing + As we would be done by, is all. + +Through envy, through malice, through hating, + Against the world, early and late, +No jot of our courage abating-- + Our part is to work and to wait. +And slight is the sting of his trouble + Whose winnings are less than his worth; +For he who is honest is noble, + Whatever his fortunes or birth. + + _Alice Cary._ + + + + +The Wind + + +Who has seen the wind? + Neither I nor you: +But when the leaves hang trembling, + The wind is passing through. + +Who has seen the wind? + Neither you nor I: +But when the trees bow down their heads, + The wind is passing by. + + _Christina G. Rosetti._ + + + + +The Owl and The Pussy-Cat + + +The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea + In a beautiful pea-green boat; +They took some honey, and plenty of money, + Wrapped up in a five-pound note. +The Owl looked up to the moon above + And sang to a small guitar, +"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love! + What a beautiful Pussy you are,-- + You are, + What a beautiful Pussy you are!" + +Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! + How wonderful sweet you sing! +Oh, let us be married,--too long we have tarried,-- + But what shall we do for a ring?" +They sailed away for a year and a day + To the land where the Bong-tree grows, +And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood + With a ring in the end of his nose,-- + His nose, + With a ring in the end of his nose. + +"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling + Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." +So they took it away, and were married next day + By the turkey who lives on the hill. +They dined upon mince and slices of quince + Which they ate with a runcible spoon, +And hand in hand on the edge of the sand + They danced by the light of the moon,-- + The moon, + They danced by the light of the moon. + + _Edward Lear._ + + + + +The Frost + + +The Frost looked forth one still, clear night, +And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight; +So through the valley and over the height + In silence I'll take my way. +I will not go on like that blustering train, +The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, +That make so much bustle and noise in vain, + But I'll be as busy as they!" + +So he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest; +He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest +In diamond beads--and over the breast + Of the quivering lake he spread +A coat of mail, that it need not fear +The downward point of many a spear +That he hung on its margin, far and near, + Where a rock could rear its head. + +He went to the windows of those who slept, +And over each pane like a fairy crept; +Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, + By the light of the morn were seen +Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; +There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; +There were cities with temples and towers; and these + All pictured in silver sheen! + +But he did one thing that was hardly fair,-- +He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there +That all had forgotten for him to prepare, + "Now, just to set them a-thinking, +I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he; +"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three; +And the glass of water they've left for me + Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!" + + _Hannah F. Gould._ + + + + +The Corn Song + + +Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! + Heap high the golden corn! +No richer gift has Autumn poured + From out her lavish horn! + +Let other lands, exulting, glean + The apple from the pine, +The orange from its glossy green, + The cluster from the vine; + +We better love the hardy gift + Our rugged vales bestow, +To cheer us when the storm shall drift + Our harvest-fields with snow. + +Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, + Our plows their furrows made, +While on the hills the sun and showers + Of changeful April played. + +We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, + Beneath the sun of May, +And frightened from our sprouting grain + The robber crows away. + +All through the long, bright days of June, + Its leaves grew green and fair, +And waved in hot midsummer's noon + Its soft and yellow hair. + +And now, with Autumn's moonlit eyes, + Its harvest time has come, +We pluck away the frosted leaves + And bear the treasure home. + +There, richer than the fabled gift + Apollo showered of old, +Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, + And knead its meal of gold. + +Let vapid idlers loll in silk, + Around their costly board; +Give us the bowl of samp and milk, + By homespun beauty poured! + +Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth + Sends up its smoky curls, +Who will not thank the kindly earth, + And bless our farmer girls! + +Then shame on all the proud and vain, + Whose folly laughs to scorn +The blessing of our hardy grain, + Our wealth of golden corn! + +Let earth withhold her goodly root, + Let mildew blight her rye, +Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, + The wheat-field to the fly: + +But let the good old crop adorn + The hills our fathers trod; +Still let us, for His golden corn, + Send up our thanks to God! + + _John G. Whittier._ + + + + +On His Blindness + + +When I consider how my light is spent + Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, + And that one talent which is death to hide, +Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent +To serve therewith my Maker, and present + My true account, lest He, returning, chide; + "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" +I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent + That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need +Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best +Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state + Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, +And post o'er land and ocean without rest; +They also serve who only stand and wait." + + _John Milton._ + + + + +A Boy's Song + + +Where the pools are bright and deep, +Where the gray trout lies asleep, +Up the river and o'er the lea, +That's the way for Billy and me. + +Where the blackbird sings the latest, +Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, +Where the nestlings chirp and flee. +That's the way for Billy and me. + +Where the mowers mow the cleanest, +Where the hay lies thick and greenest; +There to trace the homeward bee, +That's the way for Billy and me. + +Where the hazel bank is steepest, +Where the shadow falls the deepest, +Where the clustering nuts fall free, +That's the way for Billy and me. + +Why the boys should drive away +Little sweet maidens from their play, +Or love to banter and fight so well, +That's the thing I never could tell. + +But this I know, I love to play, +Through the meadow, among the hay, +Up the water and o'er the lea, +That's the way for Billy and me. + + _James Hogg._ + + + + +November + + +The leaves are fading and falling, + The winds are rough and wild, +The birds have ceased their calling, + But let me tell you, my child, + +Though day by day, as it closes, + Doth darker and colder grow, +The roots of the bright red roses + Will keep alive in the snow. + +And when the winter is over, + The boughs will get new leaves, +The quail come back to the clover, + And the swallow back to the eaves. + +There must be rough, cold weather, + And winds and rains so wild; +Not all good things together + Come to us here, my child. + +So, when some dear joy loses + Its beauteous summer glow, +Think how the roots of the roses + Are kept alive in the snow. + + _Alice Gary._ + + + + +Little Birdie + + +What does little birdie say, +In her nest at peep of day? +"Let me fly," says little birdie-- + "Mother, let me fly away." +"Birdie, rest a little longer, +Till the little wings are stronger." +So she rests a little longer, + Then she flies away. + +What does little baby say +In her bed at peep of day? +Baby says, like little birdie, + "Let me rise and fly away." +"Baby, sleep a little longer, +Till the little limbs are stronger. +If she sleeps a little longer, + Baby, too, shall fly away." + + _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ + + + + +The Fairies + + +Up the airy mountain, + Down the rushy glen, +We daren't go a-hunting + For fear of little men; +Wee folk, good folk, + Trooping all together; +Green jacket, red cap, + And white owl's feather! + +Down along the rocky shore + Some make their home; +They live on crispy pancakes + Of yellow tide foam; +Some in the reeds + Of the black mountain-lake, +With frogs for their watch dogs, + All night awake. + +High on the hill-top + The old King sits; +He is now so old and gray + He's nigh lost his wits. +With a bridge of white mist + Columbkill he crosses, +On his stately journeys + From Slieveleague to Rosses; +Or going up with music + On cold, starry nights, +To sup with the Queen + Of the gay Northern Lights. + +By the craggy hillside, + Through the mosses bare, +They have planted thorn trees + For pleasure here and there; +Is any man so daring, + As dig them up in spite? +He shall find their sharpest thorns + In his bed at night. + +Up the airy mountain, + Down the rushy glen, +We daren't go a-hunting + For fear of little men; +Wee folk, good folk, + Trooping all together; +Green jacket, red cap, + And white owl's feather, + + _William Allingham._ + + + + +The Wonderful World + + +Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, +With the wonderful water round you curled, +And the wonderful grass upon your breast, +World, you are beautifully drest. + +The wonderful air is over me. +And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree-- +It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, +And talks to itself on the top of the hills. + +You friendly Earth, how far do you go, +With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, +With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles, +And people upon you for thousands of miles? + +Ah! you are so great, and I am so small, +I hardly can think of you, World, at all; +And yet, when I said my prayers today, +A whisper within me seemed to say: +"You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot! +You can love and think, and the Earth can not." + + _William Brighty Rands._ + + + + +Be Strong + + + Be strong! +We are not here to play, to dream, to drift; +We have hard work to do, and loads to lift; +Shun not the struggle--face it; 'tis God's gift. + + Be strong! +Say not, "The days are evil. Who's to blame?" +And fold the hands and acquiesce--oh shame! +Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name. + + Be strong! +It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong. +How hard the battle goes, the day how long; +Faint not--fight on! To-morrow comes the song. + + _Maltbie Davenport Babcock._ + + + + +Song: The Owl + + +When cats run home and light is come, + And dew is cold upon the ground, +And the far-off stream is dumb, + And the whirring sail goes round, + And the whirring sail goes round, + Alone and warming his five wits, + The white owl in the belfry sits. + +When merry milkmaids click the latch, + And rarely smells the new-mown hay, +And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch + Twice or thrice his roundelay, + Twice or thrice his roundelay; + Alone and warming his five wits, + The white owl in the belfry sits. + + _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ + + + + +Opportunity + + +Master of human destinies am I! + Fame, love and fortune on my footsteps wait. + Cities and fields I walk: I penetrate +Deserts and fields remote, and, passing by + Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late + I knock unbidden once at every gate! +If sleeping, wake: if feasting, rise before + I turn away. It is the hour of fate, + And they who follow me reach every state +Mortals desire, and conquer every foe + Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, +Condemned to failure, penury and woe, + Seek me in vain and uselessly implore-- + I answer not, and I return no more. + + _John J. Ingalls._ + + + + +Opportunity + + +They do me wrong who say I come no more + When once I knock and fail to find you in; +For every day I stand outside your door + And bid you wake and rise to fight and win. + +Wail not for precious chances passed away! + Weep not for golden ages on the wane! +Each night I burn the records of the day; + At sunrise every soul is born again. + +Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped; + To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; +My judgments seal the dead past with its dead, + But never bind a moment yet to come. + +Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep; + I lend an arm to all who say: "I can!" +No shamefac'd outcast ever sank so deep + But yet might rise and be again a man. + +Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast? + Dost reel from righteous retribution's blow? +Then turn from blotted archives of the past + And find the future's pages white as snow! + +Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell; + Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven! +Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell; + Each night a star to guide thy feet to Heaven. + + _Walter Malone._ + + + + +Sweet and Low + +(_From "The Princess"_) + + +Sweet and low, sweet and low, + Wind of the western sea, +Low, low, breathe and blow, + Wind of the western sea! +Over the rolling waters go, +Come from the dying moon, and blow, + Blow him again to me; +While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. + +Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, + Father will come to thee soon; +Rest, rest, on mother's breast, + Father will come to thee soon; +Father will come to his babe in the nest, +Silver sails all out of the west + Under the silver moon; +Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. + + _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ + + + + +The Barefoot Boy + + + Blessings on thee, little man, +Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! +With thy turned-up pantaloons, +And thy merry whistled tunes; +With thy red lip, redder still +Kissed by strawberries on the hill; +With the sunshine on thy face, +Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace: +From, my heart I give thee joy,-- +I was once a barefoot boy! +Prince thou art,--the grown-up man +Only is republican. +Let the million-dollared ride! +Barefoot, trudging at his side, +Thou hast more than he can buy +In the reach of ear and eye,-- +Outward sunshine, inward joy: +Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! + + O for boyhood's painless play, +Sleep that wakes in laughing day, +Health that mocks the doctor's rules, +Knowledge never learned of schools, +Of the wild bee's morning chase, +Of the wild-flower's time and place. +Flight of fowl and habitude +Of the tenants of the wood; +How the tortoise bears his shell, +How the woodchuck digs his cell, +And the ground-mole sinks his well; +How the robin feeds her young, +How the oriole's nest is hung; +Where the whitest lilies blow, +Where the freshest berries grow, +Where the groundnut trails its vine, +Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; +Of the black wasp's cunning way, +Mason of his walls of clay, +And the architectural plans +Of gray hornet artisans!-- +For, eschewing books and tasks, +Nature answers all he asks; +Hand in hand with her he walks, +Face to face with her he talks, +Part and parcel of her joy,-- +Blessings on the barefoot boy! + + O for boyhood's time of June, +Crowding years in one brief moon, +When all things I heard or saw, +Me, their master, waited for. +I was rich in flowers and trees, +Humming-birds and honey-bees; +For my sport the squirrel played, +Plied the snouted mole his spade; +For my taste the blackberry cone +Purpled over hedge and stone; +Laughed the brook for my delight +Through the day and through the night +Whispering at the garden wall, +Talked with me from fall to fall; +Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, +Mine the walnut slopes beyond, +Mine, on bending orchard trees, +Apples of Hesperides! +Still as my horizon grew, +Larger grew my riches too; +All the world I saw or knew +Seemed a complex Chinese toy, +Fashioned for a barefoot boy! + + O for festal dainties spread, +Like my bowl of milk and bread,-- +Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, +On the door-stone, gray and rude! +O'er me, like a regal tent, +Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, +Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. +Looped in many a wind-swung fold; +While for music came the play +Of the pied frogs' orchestra; +And, to light the noisy choir, +Lit the fly his lamp of fire. +I was monarch: pomp and joy +Waited on the barefoot boy! + +Cheerily, then, my little man, +Live and laugh, as boyhood can! +Though the flinty slopes be hard, +Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, +Every morn shall lead thee through +Fresh baptisms of the dew; +Every evening from thy feet +Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: +All too soon these feet must hide +In the prison cells of pride, +Lose the freedom of the sod, +Like a colt's for work be shod, +Made to tread the mills of toil, +Up and down in ceaseless moil: +Happy if their track be found +Never on forbidden ground, +Happy if they sink not in +Quick and treacherous sands of sin. +Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, +Ere it passes, barefoot boy! + + _John Greenleaf Whittier._ + + + + +Polonius' Advice to Laertes + +(_From "Hamlet"_) + + +There,--my blessing with you! +And these few precepts in thy memory +See thou character.--Give thy thoughts no tongue, +Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. +Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. +The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, +Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; +But do not dull thy palm with entertainment +Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware +Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, +Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. +Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: +Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. +Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, +But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy: +For the apparel oft proclaims the man. +Neither a borrower nor a lender be, +For loan oft loses both itself and friend, +And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. +This above all: to thine own self be true, +And it must follow, as the night the day, +Thou canst not then be false to any man. + + _William Shakespeare._ + + + + +A Fable + + +The mountain and the squirrel +Had a quarrel, +And the former called the latter "Little Prig." +Bun replied, +"You are doubtless very big; +But all sorts of things and weather +Must be taken in together, +To make up a year +And a sphere. +And I think it no disgrace +To occupy my place. +If I'm not so large as you, +You are not so small as I, +And not half as spry. +I'll not deny you make +A very pretty squirrel track; +Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; +If I cannot carry forests on my back, +Neither can you crack a nut." + + _Ralph Waldo Emerson._ + + + + +Suppose + + +Suppose, my little lady, + Your doll should break her head, +Could you make it whole by crying + Till your eyes and nose are red? +And wouldn't it be pleasanter + To treat it as a joke, +And say you're glad "'Twas Dolly's + And not your head that broke"? + +Suppose you're dressed for walking, + And the rain comes pouring down, +Will it clear off any sooner + Because you scold and frown? +And wouldn't it be nicer + For you to smile than pout, +And so make sunshine in the house + When there is none without? + +Suppose your task, my little man, + Is very hard to get, +Will it make it any easier + For you to sit and fret? +And wouldn't it be wiser + Than waiting like a dunce, +To go to work in earnest + And learn the thing at once? + +Suppose that some boys have a horse, + And some a coach and pair, +Will it tire you less while walking + To say, "It isn't fair"? +And wouldn't it be nobler + To keep your temper sweet, +And in your heart be thankful + You can walk upon your feet? + +And suppose the world don't please you, + Nor the way some people do, +Do you think the whole creation + Will be altered just for you? +And isn't it, my boy or girl, + The wisest, bravest plan, +Whatever comes, or doesn't come, + To do the best you can? + + _Phoebe Cary._ + + + + +I Like Little Pussy + + +I like little Pussy, + Her coat is so warm; +And if I don't hurt her + She'll do me no harm. +So I'll not pull her tail, + Nor drive her away, +But Pussy and I + Very gently will play; +She shall sit by my side, + And I'll give her some food; +And she'll love me because + I am gentle and good. + +I'll pat little Pussy, + And then she will purr, +And thus show her thanks + For my kindness to her; +I'll not pinch her ears, + Nor tread on her paw, +Lest I should provoke her + To use her sharp claw; +I never will vex her, + Nor make her displeased, +For Pussy don't like + To be worried or teased. + + _Jane Taylor._ + + + + +Thanksgiving-Day + + +Over the river and through the wood, + To Grandfather's house we go; + The horse knows the way + To carry the sleigh +Through the white and drifted snow. + +Over the river and through the wood,-- + Oh, how the wind does blow! + It stings the toes, + And bites the nose, +As over the ground we go. + +Over the river and through the wood, + Trot fast, my dapple gray! + Spring over the ground, + Like a hunting hound, +For this is Thanksgiving-Day. + +Over the river and through the wood, + And straight through the barnyard gate! + We seem to go + Extremely slow,-- +It is so hard to wait! + +Over the river and through the wood; + Now Grandmother's cap I spy! + Hurrah for the fun! + Is the pudding done? +Hurrah for the pumpkin pie! + + _Lydia Maria Child._ + + + + +Daffodils + + +I wandered lonely as a cloud + That floats on high o'er vales and hills, +When all at once I saw a crowd, + A host, of golden daffodils; +Beside the lake, beneath the trees, +Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. + +Continuous as the stars that shine + And twinkle on the milky way, +They stretched in never-ending line + Along the margin of a bay; +Ten thousand saw I at a glance, +Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. + +The waves beside them danced; but they + Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; +A poet could not but be gay + In such a jocund company; +I gazed--and gazed--but little thought +What wealth the show to me had brought. + +For oft, when on my couch I lie + In vacant or in pensive mood, +They flash upon that inward eye + Which is the bliss of solitude; +And then my heart with pleasure fills, +And dances with the daffodils. + + _William Wordsworth._ + + + + +To a Butterfly + + +I've watched you now a full half-hour, +Self-poised upon that yellow flower; +And, little Butterfly! indeed +I know not if you sleep or feed. +More motionless! and then +How motionless!--not frozen seas +What joy awaits you, when the breeze +Hath found you out among the trees, +And calls you forth again; +This plot of orchard-ground is ours; +My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; +Here rest your wings when they are weary; +Here lodge as in a sanctuary! +Come often to us, fear no wrong; +Sit near us on the bough! +We'll talk of sunshine and of song, +And summer days when we were young; +Sweet childish days, that were as long +As twenty days are now. + + _William Wordsworth._ + + + + +To The Fringed Gentian + + +Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, +And colored with the heaven's own blue, +That openest when the quiet light +Succeeds the keen and frosty night, + +Thou comest not when violets lean +O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, +Or columbines, in purple dressed, +Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. + +Thou waitest late and com'st alone, +When woods are bare and birds are flown, +And frosts and shortening days portend +The aged Year is near his end. + +Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye +Look through its fringes to the sky, +Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall +A flower from its cerulean wall. + +I would that thus, when I shall see +The hour of death draw near to me, +Hope, blossoming within my heart, +May look to heaven as I depart. + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + + + +The Song of the Camp + + +"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, + The outer trenches guarding, +When the heated guns of the camps allied + Grew weary of bombarding. + +The dark Redan, in silent scoff, + Lay, grim and threatening, under; +And the tawny mound of the Malakoff + No longer belched its thunder. + +There was a pause. A guardsman said, + "We storm the forts to-morrow; +Sing while we may, another day + Will bring enough of sorrow." + +They lay along the battery's side + Below the smoking cannon: +Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, + And from the banks of Shannon. + +They sang of love, and not of fame; + Forgot was Britain's glory: +Each heart recalled a different name, + But all sang "Annie Laurie." + +Voice after voice caught up the song, + Until its tender passion +Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-- + Their battle-eve confession. + +Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, + But, as the song grew louder, +Something upon the soldier's cheek + Washed off the stains of powder. + +Beyond the darkening ocean burned + The bloody sunset's embers, +While the Crimean valleys learned + How English love remembers. + +And once again a fire of hell + Rained on the Russian quarters, +With scream of shot, and burst of shell, + And bellowing of the mortars! + +And Irish Nora's eyes are dim + For a singer, dumb and gory; +And English Mary mourns for him + Who sang of "Annie Laurie." + +Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest + Your truth and valor wearing: +The bravest are the tenderest,-- + The loving are the daring. + + _Bayard Taylor._ + + + + +She Walks in Beauty + + +She walks in beauty, like the night + Of cloudless climes and starry skies; +And all that's best of dark and bright + Meet in her aspect and her eyes: +Thus mellowed to that tender light + Which heaven to gaudy day denies. + +One shade the more, one ray the less, + Had half impaired the nameless grace +Which waves in every raven tress, + Or softly lightens o'er her face; +Where thoughts serenely sweet express + How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. + +And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, + So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, +The smiles that win, the tints that glow, + But tell of days in goodness spent, +A mind at peace with all below, + A heart whose love is innocent! + + _Lord Byron._ + + + + +The Builders + + +All are architects of Fate, + Working in these walls of Time; +Some with massive deeds and great, + Some with ornaments of rhyme. + +Nothing useless is, or low; + Each thing in its place is best; +And what seems but idle show + Strengthens and supports the rest. + +For the structure that we raise, + Time is with materials filled; +Our to-days and yesterdays + Are the blocks with which we build. + +Truly shape and fashion these; + Leave no yawning gaps between; +Think not, because no man sees, + Such things will remain unseen. + +In the elder days of Art, + Builders wrought with greatest care +Each minute and unseen part; + For the Gods see everywhere. + +Let us do our work as well, + Both the unseen and the seen! +Make the house, where Gods may dwell, + Beautiful, entire, and clean. + +Else our lives are incomplete, + Standing in these walls of Time, +Broken stairways, where the feet + Stumble as they seek to climb. + +Build to-day, then, strong and sure, + With a firm and ample base; +And ascending and secure + Shall to-morrow find its place. + +Thus alone can we attain + To those turrets, where the eye +Sees the world as one vast plain, + And one boundless reach of sky. + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +The Brown Thrush + + +There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree, +He's singing to me! He's singing to me! +And what does he say, little girl, little boy? +"Oh, the world's running over with joy! + Don't you hear? don't you see? + Hush! Look! In my tree, +I'm as happy as happy can be!" + +And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, +And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree? +Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy, +Or the world will lose some of its joy! + Now I'm glad! now I'm free! + And I always shall be, +If you never bring sorrow to me." + +So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, +To you and to me, to you and to me; +And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, +"Oh, the world's running over with joy; + But long it won't be, + Don't you know? don't you see? +Unless we are as good as can be!" + + _Lucy Larcom._ + + + + +The Quality of Mercy + +(_From, "The Merchant of Venice"_) + + +The quality of mercy is not strain'd. +It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven +Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless'd: +It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. +'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes +The throned 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. Therefore, Jew, +Though justice be thy plea, consider this, +That, in the course of justice, none of us +Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; +And that same prayer doth teach us all to render +The deeds of mercy. + + _William Shakespeare._ + + + + +Don't Give Up + + +If you've tried and have not won, + Never stop for crying; +All's that's great and good is done + Just by patient trying. + +Though young birds, in flying, fall, + Still their wings grow stronger; +And the next time they can keep + Up a little longer. + +Though the sturdy oak has known + Many a blast that bowed her, +She has risen again, and grown + Loftier and prouder. + +If by easy work you beat, + Who the more will prize you? +Gaining victory from defeat,-- + That's the test that tries you! + + _Phoebe Cary._ + + + + +Incident of the French Camp + + +You know we French stormed Ratisbon: + A mile or so away +On a little mound, Napoleon + Stood on our storming-day; +With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, + Legs wide, arms locked behind, +As if to balance the prone brow, + Oppressive with its mind. +Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans + That soar, to earth may fall, +Let once my army-leader Lannes + Waver at yonder wall,"-- +Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew + A rider, bound on bound +Full-galloping; nor bridle drew + Until he reached the mound. + +Then off there flung in smiling joy, + And held himself erect +By just his horse's mane, a boy: + You hardly could suspect-- +(So tight he kept his lips compressed, + Scarce any blood came through) +You looked twice ere you saw his breast + Was all but shot in two. + +"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace + We've got you Ratisbon! +The Marshall's in the market-place, + And you'll be there anon +To see your flag-bird flap his vans + Where I, to heart's desire, +Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans + Soared up again like fire. + +The chief's eye flashed; but presently + Softened itself, as sheathes +A film the mother-eagle's eye + When her bruised eaglet breathes; +"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride +Touched to the quick, he said: + "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, + Smiling, the boy fell dead. + + _Robert Browning._ + + + + +The Bugle Song + +(_From "The Princess"_) + + +The splendor falls on castle walls + And snowy summits old in story: + The long light shakes across the lakes, + And the wild cataract leaps in glory. +Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, +Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, + And thinner, clearer, farther going! + O sweet and far from cliff and scar[A] + The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! +Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: +Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O love, they die in yon rich sky, + They faint on hill or field or river: + Our echoes roll from soul to soul, + And grow for ever and for ever. +Blow bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, +And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. + + _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ + +[Footnote A: Scar, a deep bank.] + + + + +A Child's Thought of God + + +They say that God lives very high; + But if you look above the pines +You cannot see our God; and why? + +And if you dig down in the mines, + You never see him in the gold, +Though from Him all that's glory shines. + +God is so good, He wears a fold + Of heaven and earth across His face, +Like secrets kept for love untold. + +But still I feel that His embrace + Slides down by thrills through all things made, +Through sight and sound of every place; + +As if my tender mother laid + On my shut lips her kisses' pressure, +Half waking me at night, and said, + "Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?" + + _Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ + + + + +The Blue and The Gray + + +By the flow of the inland river, + Where the fleets of iron have fled, +Where the blades of grave grass quiver, + Asleep are the ranks of the dead; + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day-- + Under the one, the Blue; + Under the other, the Gray. + +These in the robings of glory, + Those in the gloom of defeat, +All, with the battle blood gory, + In the dusk of eternity meet; + Under the sod and the dew,-- + Waiting the judgment day-- + Under the laurel, the Blue; + Under the willow, the Gray. + +From the silence of sorrowful hours + The desolate mourners go, +Lovingly laden with flowers + Alike for the friend and the foe; + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day-- + Under the roses, the Blue; + Under the lilies, the Gray. + +So with an equal splendor + The morning sun-rays fall, +With a touch impartially tender, + On the blossoms blooming for all; + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day-- + 'Broidered with gold, the Blue; + Mellowed with gold, the Gray. + +So, when the summer calleth, + On forest and field of grain +With an equal murmur falleth + The cooling drip of the rain; + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day-- + Wet with the rain, the Blue; + Wet with the rain, the Gray. + +Sadly, but not with upbraiding, + The generous deed was done; +In the storm of the years that are fading. + No braver battle was won; + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day-- + Under the blossoms, the Blue; + Under the garlands, the Gray. + +No more shall the war-cry sever, + Or the winding rivers be red; +They banish our anger forever + When they laurel the graves of our dead! + Under the sod and the dew, + Waiting the judgment day-- + Love and tears for the Blue; + Tears and love for the Gray. + + _Francis Miles Finch._ + + + + +Good Night and Good Morning + + +A fair little girl sat under a tree, +Sewing as long as her eyes could see, +Then smoothed her work, and folded it right, +And said, "Dear work, good night, good night!" + +Such a number of rooks came over her head, +Crying "Caw, caw," on their way to bed; +She said, as she watched their curious flight, +"Little black things, good night, good night!" + +The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, +The sheep's "bleat, bleat" came over the road, +And all seemed to say, with a quiet delight, +"Good little girl, good night, good night!" + +She did not say to the sun "Good night," +Tho' she saw him there like a ball of light; +For she knew he had God's own time to keep +All over the world, and never could sleep. + +The tall pink foxglove bowed his head, +The violets curtseyed and went to bed; +And good little Lucy tied up her hair, +And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. + +And, while on her pillow she softly lay, +She knew nothing more till again it was day; +And all things said to the beautiful sun, +"Good morning, good morning, our work is begun!" + + _Lord Houghton._ + + + + +Lady Moon + + +"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?" + "Over the sea." +"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?" + "All that love me." + +"Are you not tired with rolling and never + Resting to sleep? +Why look so pale and so sad, as for ever + Wishing to weep?" + +"Ask me not this, little child, if you love me; + You are too bold +I must obey my dear Father above me, + And do as I'm told." + +"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?" + "Over the sea." +"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?" + "All that love me." + + _Lord Houghton._ + + + + +Breathes There the Man With Soul So Dead? + +_(From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel")_ + + +Breathes there the man with soul so dead +Who never to himself hath said, + This is my own, my native land? +Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, +As home his footsteps he hath turned + From wandering on a foreign strand? +If such there breathe, go, mark him well; +For him no minstrel raptures swell; +High though his titles, proud his name, +Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,-- +Despite those titles, power, and pelf, +The wretch, concentred all in self, +Living, shall forfeit fair renown, +And, doubly dying, shall go down +To the vile dust from whence he sprung, +Unwept, unhonored and unsung. + + _Sir Walter Scott._ + + + + +Pippa's Song + + +The year's at the spring, +And day's at the morn; +Morning's at seven; +The hillside's dew-pearled; +The lark's on the wing; +The snail's on the thorn; +God's in His heaven-- +All's right with the world! + + _Robert Browning._ + + + + +Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star + + +Twinkle, twinkle, little star; +How I wonder what you are! +Up above the world so high, +Like a diamond in the sky. + +When the glorious sun is set, +When the grass with dew is wet, +Then you show your little light, +Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. + +In the dark blue sky you keep, +And often through my curtains peep; +For you never shut your eye +Till the sun is in the sky. + +As your bright and tiny spark +Lights the traveler in the dark, +Though I know not what you are, +Twinkle, twinkle, little star. + + _Jane Taylor._ + + + + +Crossing the Bar + + +Sunset and evening star, + And one clear call for me! +And may there be no moaning of the bar, + When I put out to sea, + +But such a tide as moving seems asleep, + Too full for sound and foam, +When that which drew from out the boundless deep + Turns again home. + +Twilight and evening bell, + And after that the dark! +And may there be no sadness of farewell, + When I embark; + +For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place + The flood may bear me far, +I hope to see my Pilot face to face + When I have crost the bar. + + _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ + + + + +The Tree + + +The Tree's early leaf buds were bursting their brown; +"Shall I take them away?" said the Frost, sweeping down. + "No, leave them alone + Till the blossoms have grown," +Prayed the Tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown. + +The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung: +"Shall I take them away?" said the Wind, as he swung, + "No, leave them alone + Till the blossoms have grown," +Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung. + +The Tree bore his fruit in the midsummer glow: +Said the child, "May I gather thy berries now?" + "Yes, all thou canst see: + Take them; all are for thee," +Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low. + + _Bjorrstjerne Bjornson._ + + + + +The Fountain + + +Into the sunshine, + Full of the light, +Leaping and flashing + From morn till night; + +Into the moonlight, + Whiter than snow, +Waving so flower-like + When the winds blow; + +Into the starlight + Rushing in spray, +Happy at midnight, + Happy by day; + +Ever in motion, + Blithesome and cheery, +Still climbing heavenward, + Never aweary; + +Glad of all weathers, + Still seeming best, +Upward or downward, + Motion thy rest; + +Full of a nature + Nothing can tame, +Changed every moment, + Ever the same; + +Ceaseless aspiring, + Ceaseless content, +Darkness or sunshine + Thy element; + +Glorious fountain, + Let my heart be +Fresh, changeful, constant, + Upward, like thee! + + _James Russell Lowell._ + + + + +The Leak in the Dike + + +The good dame looked from her cottage + At the close of the pleasant day, +And cheerily called to her little son, + Outside the door at play: +"Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, + While there is light to see. +To the hut of the blind old man who lives + Across the dike, for me; +And take these cakes I made for him-- + They are hot and smoking yet; +You have time enough to go and come + Before the sun is set." + +Then the good-wife turned to her labor, + Humming a simple song, +And thought of her husband, working hard + At the sluices all day long; +And set the turf a-blazing, + And brought the coarse black bread, +That he might find a fire at night + And find the table spread. + +And Peter left the brother + With whom all day he had played, +And the sister who had watched their sports + In the willow's tender shade; +And told them they'd see him back before + They saw a star in sight, +Though he wouldn't be afraid to go + In the very darkest night! +For he was a brave, bright fellow, + With eye and conscience clear; +He could do whatever a boy might do, + And he had not learned to fear. +Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest, + Nor brought a stork to harm, +Though never a law in Holland + Had stood to stay his arm! + +And now with his face all glowing, + And eyes as bright as the day +With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, + He trudged along the way; +And soon his joyous prattle + Made glad a lonesome place-- +Alas! if only the blind old man, + Could have seen that happy face! +Yet he somehow caught the brightness + Which his voice and presence lent; +And he felt the sunshine come and go + As Peter came and went. + +And now, as the day was sinking, + And the winds began to rise, +The mother looked from her door again, + Shading her anxious eyes, +And saw the shadows deepen + And birds to their homes come back, +But never a sign of Peter + Along the level track. +But she said, "He will come at morning, +So I need not fret nor grieve-- +Though it isn't like my boy at all + To stay without my leave." + +But where was the child delaying? + On the homeward way was he, +Across the dike while the sun was up + An hour above the sea. +He was stopping now to gather flowers, + Now listening to the sound, +As the angry waters dashed themselves + Against their narrow bound. +"Ah! well for us," said Peter, + "That the gates are good and strong, +And my father tends them carefully, + Or they would not hold you long! +You're a wicked sea," said Peter," + "I know why you fret and chafe; +You would like to spoil our lands and homes, + But our sluices keep you safe! + +But hark! Through the noise of waters + Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; +And the child's face pales with terror, + And his blossoms drop to the ground, +He is up the bank in a moment, + And, stealing through the sand, +He sees a stream not yet so large + As his slender, childish hand. +'Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, + Unused to fearful scenes; +But, young as he is, he has learned to know + The dreadful thing that means. +A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart + Grows faint that cry to hear, +And the bravest man in all the land + Turns white with mortal fear; +For he knows the smallest leak may grow + To a flood in a single night; +And he knows the strength of the cruel sea + When loosed in its angry might. + +And the boy! He has seen the danger + And shouting a wild alarm, +He forces back the weight of the sea + With the strength of his single arm! +He listens for the joyful sound + Of a footstep passing nigh; +And lays his ear to the ground, to catch + The answer to his cry. +And he hears the rough winds blowing, + And the waters rise and fall, +But never an answer comes to him + Save the echo of his call. + +He sees no hope, no succor, + His feeble voice is lost; +Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, + Though he perish at his post! +So, faintly calling and crying + Till the sun is under the sea; +Crying and moaning till the stars + Come out for company; +He thinks of his brother and sister, + Asleep in their safe warm bed; +He thinks of his father and mother, + Of himself as dying--and dead; +And of how, when the night is over, + They must come and find him at last; +But he never thinks he can leave the place + Where duty holds him fast. + +The good dame in the cottage + Is up and astir with the light, +For the thought of her little Peter + Has been with her all night. +And now she watches the pathway, + As yester eve she had done; +But what does she see so strange and black + Against the rising sun? +Her neighbors are bearing between them + Something straight to her door; +Her child is coming home, but not + As he ever came before! + +"He is dead!" she cries, "my darling!" + And the startled father hears. +And comes and looks the way she looks, + And fears the thing she fears; +Till a glad shout from the bearers + Thrills the stricken man and wife-- +"Give thanks, for your son, has saved our land, + And God has saved his life!" +So, there in the morning sunshine + They knelt about the boy; +And every head was bared and bent + In tearful, reverent joy. + +'Tis many a year since then, but still, + When the sea roars like a flood, +Their boys are taught what a boy can do + Who is brave and true and good; +For every man in that country + Takes his son by the hand, +And tells him of little Peter + Whose courage saved the land. +They have many a valiant hero + Remembered through the years; +But never one whose name so oft + Is named with loving tears; +And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, + And told to the child on the knee, +So long as the dikes of Holland + Divide the land from the sea! + + _Phoebe Cary._ + + + + +Robert of Lincoln + + +Merrily swinging on briar and weed, + Near to the nest of his little dame, +Over the mountain-side or mead, + Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; +Snug and safe is that nest of ours, +Hidden among the summer flowers. + Chee, chee, chee. + +Robert of Lincoln is gaily drest, + Wearing a bright black wedding coat; +White are his shoulders and white his crest, + Hear him call in his merry note: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; +Look, what a nice new coat is mine, +Sure there was never a bird so fine. + Chee, chee, chee. + +Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, + Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, +Passing at home a patient life, + Broods in the grass while her husband sings: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; +Brood, kind creature; you need not fear +Thieves and robbers while I am here. + Chee, chee, chee. + +Modest and shy as a nun is she; + One weak chirp is her only note. +Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, + Pouring boasts from his little throat: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; +Never was I afraid of man; +Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. + Chee, chee, chee. + +Six white eggs on a bed of hay, + Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! +There as the mother sits all day, + Robert is singing with all his might: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; +Nice, good wife, that never goes out, +Keeping the house while I frolic about. + Chee, chee, chee. + +Soon as the little ones chip the shell + Six wide mouths are open for food; +Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, + Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; +This new life is likely to be +Hard for a gay young fellow like me. + Chee, chee, chee. + +Robert of Lincoln at length is made + Sober with work, and silent with care; +Off is his holiday garment laid, + Half forgotten that merry air, + Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; +Nobody knows but my mate and I +Where our nest and our nestlings lie. + Chee, chee, chee. + +Summer wanes; the children are grown; + Fun and frolic no more he knows; +Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; + Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: + Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, + Spink, spank, spink; +When you can pipe that merry old strain, +Robert of Lincoln, come back again. + Chee, chee, chee, + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + + + +Wishing + + +Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose, +A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring! + The stooping boughs above me, + The wandering bee to love me, + The fern and moss to creep across, + And the Elm tree for our king! + +Nay--stay! I wish I were an Elm tree, +A great, lofty Elm tree, with green leaves gay! + The winds would set them dancing, + The sun and moonshine glance in, + The birds would house among the boughs, + And sweetly sing. + +Oh no! I wish I were a Robin, +A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go; + Through forest, field, or garden, + And ask no leave or pardon, + Till winter comes with icy thumbs + To ruffle up our wing! + +Well--tell! Where should I fly to, +Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell? + Before a day was over, + Home comes the rover. + For mother's kiss--sweeter this + Than any other thing. + + _William Allingham._ + + + + +The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna + + +Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, + As his corse to the rampart we hurried; +Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot + O'er the grave where our hero we buried. + +We buried him darkly at dead of night, + The sods with our bayonets turning; +By struggling moonbeam's misty light, + And the lantern dimly burning. + +No useless coffin enclosed his breast, + Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; +But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, + With his martial cloak around him. + +Few and short were the prayers we said, + And we spoke not a word of sorrow; +But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, + And we bitterly thought of the morrow. + +We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, + And smoothed down his lonely pillow, +That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head; + And we far away on the billow! + +Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, + And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; +But little he'll reck; if they let him sleep on + In the grave where a Briton has laid him. + +But half of our heavy task was done, + When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; +And we heard the distant and random gun + That the foe was sullenly firing. + +Slowly and sadly we laid him down. + From the field of his fame fresh and gory; +We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, + But we left him alone with his glory! + + _Charles Wolfe._ + + + + +How Many Seconds in a Minute? + + +How many seconds in a minute? +Sixty, and no more in it. + +How many minutes in an hour? +Sixty for sun and shower. + +How many hours in a day? +Twenty-four for work and play. + +How many days in a week? +Seven both to hear and speak. + +How many weeks in a month? +Four, as the swift moon runn'th. + +How many months in a year? +Twelve, the almanack makes clear. + +How many years in an age? +One hundred, says the sage. + +How many ages in time? +No one knows the rhyme. + + _Christina G. Rossetti._ + + + + +To-day + + +Here hath been dawning another blue day: +Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away? +Out of Eternity this new day was born; +Into Eternity, at night, will return. +Behold it aforetime no eye ever did; +So soon it forever from all eyes is hid. +Here hath been dawning another blue day: +Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away? + + _Thomas Carlyle._ + + + + +The Wind and the Moon + + +Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out. + You stare + In the air + Like a ghost in a chair, +Always looking what I am about; +I hate to be watched--I will blow you out." + +The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. + So deep, + On a heap + Of clouds, to sleep, +Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon-- +Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon." + +He turned in his bed; she was there again! + On high + In the sky + With her one clear eye, +The Moon shone white and alive and plain. +Said the Wind--"I will blow you out again." + +The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. + "With my sledge + And my wedge + I have knocked off her edge! +If only I blow right fierce and grim, +The creature will soon be dimmer than dim." + +He blew and blew, and she thinned to a thread. + "One puff + More's enough + To blow her to snuff! +One good puff more where the last was bred, +And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread!" + +He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone; + In the air + Nowhere + Was a moonbeam bare; +Far off and harmless the shy stars shone; +Sure and certain the Moon was gone. + +The Wind, he took to his revels once more; + On down + In town, + Like a merry-mad clown, +He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar, +"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more! + +He flew in a rage--he danced and blew; + But in vain + Was the pain + Of his bursting brain; +For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, +The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew. + +Slowly she grew--till she filled the night, + And shone + On her throne + In the sky alone, +A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, +Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the Night. + +Said the Wind--"What a marvel of power am I! + With my breath, + Good faith! + I blew her to death-- +First blew her away right out of the sky-- +Then blew her in; what a strength have I!" + +But the Moon, she knew nothing about the affair, + For, high + In the sky, + With her one white eye +Motionless, miles above the air, +She had never heard the great Wind blare. + + _George Macdonald._ + + + + +The Little Plant + + +In the heart of a seed, + Buried deep, so deep, +A dear little plant + Lay fast asleep! + +"Wake!" said the sunshine, + "And creep to the light!" +"Wake!" said the voice + Of the raindrop bright. + +The little plant heard + And it rose to see +What the wonderful + Outside world might be. + + _Kate L. Brown._ + + + + +Paul Revere's Ride + + +Listen, my children, and you shall hear +Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, +On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; +Hardly a man is now alive +Who remembers that famous day and year. + +He said to his friend, "If the British march + By land or sea from the town tonight, +Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch + Of the North Church tower, as a signal light,-- +One, if by land, and two, if by sea; +And I on the opposite shore will be, +Ready to ride and spread the alarm +Through every Middlesex village and farm, +For the country folk to be up and to arm." + +Then he said, "Good-night"; and with muffled oar +Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, +Just as the moon rose over the bay, +Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay +The Somerset, British man-of-war, +A phantom ship, with each mast and spar +Across the moon like a prison bar, +And a huge black hulk, that was magnified +By its own reflection in the tide. + +Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street + Wanders and watches with eager ears, + Till, in the silence around him, he hears + The muster of men at the barrack door, +The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, + And the measured tread of the grenadiers + Marching down to their boats on the shore. + +Then he climbed to the tower of the old North Church, + By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, + To the belfry chamber overhead, +And startled the pigeons from their perch +On the sombre rafters, that round him made +Masses and moving shapes of shade; +By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, +To the highest window in the wall, + Where he paused to listen, and look down + A moment on the roofs of the town, +And the moonlight flowing over all. + +Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead + In their night encampment on the hill, + Wrapped in silence so deep and still +That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, +The watchful night wind, as it went, +Creeping along from tent to tent, + And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" + A moment only he feels the spell +Of the place and hour, and the secret dread +Of the lonely belfry and the dead, +For suddenly all his thoughts are bent +On a shadowy something far away, +Where the river widens to meet the bay, +A line of black, that bends and floats +On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. + +Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, +Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride + On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. +Now he patted his horse's side, + Now gazed on the landscape far and near, +Then impetuous stamped the earth, +And turned and tightened his saddle girth; +But mostly he watched with eager search +The belfry tower of the old North Church, +As it rose above the graves on the hill, +Lonely and spectral, and sombre and still. +And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height +A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! + He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, +But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight + A second lamp in the belfry burns. + +A harry of hoofs in a village street, + A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, + And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark +Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; + That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, + The fate of a nation was riding that night; + And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, +Kindled the land into flame with its heat. +He has left the village and mounted the steep, +And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, + Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; +And under the alders, that skirt its edge, +Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, + Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. + +It was twelve by the village clock + When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. +He heard the crowing of the cock, +And the barking of the farmer's dog, +And felt the damp of the river fog, + That rises after the sun goes down. + +It was one by the village clock +When he galloped into Lexington, +He saw the gilded weathercock +Swim in the moonlight as he passed, + And the meeting house windows, blank and bare, + Gaze at him with a spectral glare +As if they already stood aghast + At the bloody work they would look upon. + +It was two by the village clock + When he came to the bridge in Concord town. +He heard the bleating of the flock, +And the twittering of birds among the trees, +And felt the breath of the morning breeze + Blowing over the meadows brown. +And one was safe and asleep in his bed + Who at the bridge would be first to fall, +Who that day would be lying dead, + Pierced by a British musket ball. + +You know the rest. In the books you have read +How the British regulars fired and fled-- +How the farmers gave them ball for ball, +From behind each fence and farmyard wall, +Chasing the red coats down the lane, +Then crossing the fields to emerge again +Under the trees at the turn of the road, +And only pausing to fire and load. + +So through the night rode Paul Revere; + And so through the night went his cry of alarm +To every Middlesex village and farm-- +A cry of defiance, and not of fear-- +A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, +And a word that shall echo forever-more; +For borne on the night wind of the past, +Through all our history to the last, +In the hour of darkness and peril and need, + The people will waken and listen to hear +The hurrying hoof beats of that steed, + And the midnight message of Paul Revere. + + _Henry W. Longfellow._ + + + + +In Flanders Fields + + +In Flanders fields the poppies grow +Between the crosses, row on row, +That mark our place; and in the sky +The larks, still bravely singing, fly, +Scarce heard amid the guns below. + +We are the dead. Short days ago +We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, +Loved and were loved; and now we lie + In Flanders fields. + +Take up our quarrel with the foe! +To you, from failing hands, we throw +The torch. Be yours to hold it high! +If ye break faith with us who die, +We shall not sleep, though poppies blow + In Flanders fields. + +_John McCrae._ + + + + +In Flanders Fields: An Answer + + +In Flanders fields the cannon boom +And fitful flashes light the gloom, +While up above, like eagles, fly +The fierce destroyers of the sky; +With stains the earth wherein you lie +Is redder than the poppy bloom, + In Flanders fields. + +Sleep on, ye brave. The shrieking shell, +The quaking trench, the startled yell, +The fury of the battle hell +Shall wake you not; for all is well. +Sleep peacefully; for all is well. + +Your flaming torch aloft we bear, +With burning heart an oath we swear +To keep the faith, to fight it through, +To crush the foe, or sleep with you + In Flanders fields. + +_C.B. Galbreath._ + + + + +Little Boy Blue + + +The little toy dog is covered with dust, + But sturdy and stanch he stands; +And the little toy soldier is red with rust, + And his musket moulds in his hands. +Time was when the little toy dog was new + And the soldier was passing fair, +And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue + Kissed them and put them there. + +"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, + "And don't you make any noise!" +So toddling off to his trundle-bed + He dreamt of the pretty toys. +And as he was dreaming, an angel song + Awakened our Little Boy Blue,-- +Oh, the years are many, the years are long, + But the little toy friends are true. + +Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, + Each in the same old place, +Awaiting the touch of a little hand, + The smile of a little face. +And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, + In the dust of that little chair, +What has become of our little Boy Blue + Since he kissed them and put them there. + + _Eugene Field._ + + + + +Thanatopsis + + +To him who in the love of Nature holds +Communion with her visible forms, she speaks +A various language; for his gayer hours +She has a voice of gladness, and a smile +And eloquence of beauty, and she glides +Into his darker musings with a mild +And healing sympathy, that steals away +Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts +Of the last bitter hoar come like a blight +Over thy spirit, and sad images +Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, +And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, +Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;-- +Go forth, under the open sky, and list +To Nature's teachings, while from all around-- +Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,-- +Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee +The all-beholding sun shall see no more +In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, +Where thy pale form was laid with many tears. +Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist +Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim +Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, +And, lost each human trace, surrendering up +Thine individual being, shalt thou go +To mix forever with the elements, +To be a brother to the insensible rock +And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain +Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak +Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. +Yet not to thine eternal resting-place +Shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst thou wish +Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down +With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings. +The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good, +Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, +All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, +Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun,--the vales +Stretching in pensive quietness between; +The venerable woods--rivers that move +In majesty, and the complaining brooks +That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, +Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- +Are but the solemn decorations all +Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, +The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, +Are shining on the sad abodes of death, +Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread +The globe are but a handful to the tribes +That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings +Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, +Or lose thyself in the continuous woods +Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, +Save his own dashings--yet, the dead are there; +And millions in those solitudes, since first +The flight of years began, have laid them down +In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone. +So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw +In silence from the living, and no friend +Take note of thy departure? All that breathe +Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh +When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care +Plod on, and each one as before will chase +His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave +Their mirth and their employments, and shall come +And make their bed with thee. As the long train +Of ages glide away, the sons of men,-- +The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes +In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, +And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,-- +Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, +By those who in their turn shall follow them. + +So live, that when thy summons comes to join +The innumerable caravan which moves +To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take +His chamber in the silent halls of death, +Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, +Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed +By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave +Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch +About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + + + +The First Settler's Story + + +It ain't the funniest thing a man can do-- +Existing in a country when it's new; +Nature, who moved in first--a good long while-- +Has things already somewhat her own style, +And she don't want her woodland splendors battered, +Her rustic furniture broke up and scattered, +Her paintings, which long years ago were done +By that old splendid artist-king, the sun, +Torn down and dragged in civilization's gutter, +Or sold to purchase settlers' bread and butter. +She don't want things exposed from porch to closet, +And so she kind o' nags the man who does it. +She carries in her pockets bags of seeds, +As general agent of the thriftiest weeds; +She sends her blackbirds, in the early morn, +To superintend his fields of planted corn; +She gives him rain past any duck's desire-- +Then maybe several weeks of quiet fire; +She sails mosquitoes--leeches perched on wings-- +To poison him with blood-devouring stings; +She loves her ague-muscle to display, +And shake him up--say every other day; +With, thoughtful, conscientious care she makes +Those travelin' poison-bottles, rattlesnakes; +She finds time, 'mongst her other family cares, +To keep in stock good wild-cats, wolves, and bears. + +Well, when I first infested this retreat, +Things to my view looked frightful incomplete; +But I had come with heart-thrift in my song, +And brought my wife and plunder right along; +I hadn't a round trip ticket to go back, +And if I had there wasn't no railroad track; +And drivin' East was what I couldn't endure: +I hadn't started on a circular tour. + +My girl-wife was as brave as she was good, +And helped me every blessed way she could; +She seemed to take to every rough old tree, +As sing'lar as when first she took to me. +She kep' our little log-house neat as wax, +And once I caught her fooling with my axe. +She learned a hundred masculine things to do: +She aimed a shot-gun pretty middlin' true, +Although in spite of my express desire, +She always shut her eyes before she'd fire. +She hadn't the muscle (though she _had_ the heart) +In out-door work to take an active part; +Though in our firm of Duty and Endeavor +She wasn't no silent partner whatsoever. +When I was logging, burning, choppin' wood, +She'd linger round and help me all she could, +And keep me fresh-ambitious all the while, +And lifted tons just with her voice and smile. +With no desire my glory for to rob, +She used to stan' around and boss the job; +And when first-class success my hands befell, +Would proudly say, "_We_ did that pretty well!" +She _was_ delicious, both to hear and see-- +That pretty wife-girl that kep' house for me. + +Well, neighborhoods meant counties in those days; +The roads didn't have accommodating ways; +And maybe weeks would pass before she'd see-- +And much less talk with--any one but me. +The Indians sometimes showed their sun-baked faces, +But they didn't teem with conversational graces; +Some ideas from the birds and trees she stole, +But 'twasn't like talking with a human soul; +And finally I thought that I could trace +A half heart-hunger peering from her face. +Then she would drive it back and shut the door; +Of course that only made me see it more. +'Twas hard to see her give her life to mine, +Making a steady effort not to pine; +'Twas hard to hear that laugh bloom out each minute, +And recognize the seeds of sorrow in it. +No misery makes a close observer mourn +Like hopeless grief with hopeful courage borne; +There's nothing sets the sympathies to paining +Like a complaining woman uncomplaining. +It always draws my breath out into sighs +To see a brave look in a woman's eyes. + +Well, she went on, as plucky as could be, +Fighting the foe she thought I did not see, +And using her heart-horticultural powers +To turn that forest to a bed of flowers. +You cannot check an unadmitted sigh, +And so I had to soothe her on the sly, +And secretly to help her draw her load; +And soon it came to be an up-hill road. +Hard work bears hard upon the average pulse, +Even with satisfactory results; +But when effects are scarce, the heavy strain +Falls dead and solid on the heart and brain. +And when we're bothered, it will oft occur +We seek blame-timber; and I lit on her; +And looked at her with daily lessening favor, +For what I knew she couldn't help, to save her. +And Discord, when he once had called and seen us, +Came round quite often, and edged in between us. + +One night, when I came home unusual late, +Too hungry and too tired to feel first-rate, +Her supper struck me wrong (though I'll allow +She hadn't much to strike with, anyhow); +And when I went to milk the cows, and found +They'd wandered from their usual feeding ground, +And maybe'd left a few long miles behind 'em, +Which I must copy, if I meant to find 'em, +Flash-quick the stay-chains of my temper broke, +And in a, trice these hot words I had spoke: +"You ought to've kept the animals in view, +And drove 'em in; you'd nothing else to do. +The heft of all our life on me must fall; +You just lie round and let me do it all." + +That speech--it hadn't been gone a half a minute +Before I saw the cold black poison in it; +And I'd have given all I had, and more, +To've only safely got it back in-door. +I'm now what most folks "well-to-do" would call +I feel to-day as if I'd give it all, +Provided I through fifty years might reach +And kill and bury that half-minute speech. + +She handed back no words, as I could hear; +She didn't frown; she didn't shed a tear; +Half proud, half crushed, she stood and looked me o'er, +Like some one she had never seen before! +But such a sudden anguish-lit surprise +I never viewed before in human eyes. +(I've seen it oft enough since in a dream; +It sometimes wakes me like a midnight scream.) + +Next morning, when, stone-faced, but heavy-hearted, +With dinner pail and sharpened axe I started +Away for my day's work--she watched the door. +And followed me half way to it or more; +And I was just a-turning round at this, +And asking for my usual good-by kiss; +But on her lip I saw a proudish curve, +And in her eye a shadow of reserve; +And she had shown--perhaps half unawares-- +Some little independent breakfast airs; +And so the usual parting didn't occur, +Although her eyes invited me to her! +Or rather half invited me, for she +Didn't advertise to furnish kisses free; +You always had--that is, I had--to pay +Full market price, and go more'n half the way. +So, with a short "Good-by," I shut the door, +And left her as I never had before. +But when at noon my lunch I came to eat. +Put up by her so delicately neat-- +Choicer, somewhat, than yesterday's had been, +And some fresh, sweet-eyed pansies she'd put in-- +"Tender and pleasant thoughts," I knew they meant-- +It seemed as if her kiss with me she'd sent; +Then I became once more her humble lover, +And said, "To-night I'll ask forgiveness of her." + +I went home over-early on that eve, +Having contrived to make myself believe, +By various signs I kind o' knew and guessed, +A thunder-storm was coming from the west. +('Tis strange, when one sly reason fills the heart, +How many honest ones will take its part: +A dozen first-class reasons said 'twas right +That I should strike home early on that night.) + +Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung, +With tender heart-words trembling on my tongue; +But all within looked desolate and bare: +My house had lost its soul,--she was not there! +A penciled note was on the table spread, +And these are something like the words it said: +"The cows have strayed away again, I fear; +I watched them pretty close; don't scold me, dear. +And where they are, I think I nearly know: +I heard the bell not very long ago.... +I've hunted for them all the afternoon; +I'll try once more--I think I'll find them soon. +Dear, if a burden I have been to you, +And haven't helped you as I ought to do. +Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead; +I've tried to do my best--I have indeed. +Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack, +And have kind words for me when I get back." + +Scarce did I give this letter sight and tongue-- +Some swift-blown rain-drops to the window clung, +And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded: +My thunder-storm had come, now 'twasn't needed. +I rushed out-door. The air was stained with black: +Night had come early, on the storm-cloud's back: +And everything kept dimming to the sight, +Save when the clouds threw their electric light; +When for a flash, so clean-cut was the view, +I'd think I saw her--knowing 'twas not true. +Through my small clearing dashed wide sheets of spray, +As if the ocean waves had lost their way; +Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made, +In the bold clamor of its cannonade. +And she, while I was sheltered, dry, and warm, +Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm! +She who, when storm-frights found her at her best, +Had always hid her white face on my breast! + +My dog, who'd skirmished round me all the day, +Now crouched and whimpering, in a corner lay; +I dragged him by the collar to the wall, +I pressed his quivering muzzle to a shawl-- +"Track her, old boy!" I shouted; and he whined, +Matched eyes with me, as if to read my mind, +Then with a yell went tearing through the wood, +I followed him, as faithful as I could. +No pleasure-trip was that, through flood and flame; +We raced with death: we hunted noble game. +All night we dragged the woods without avail; +The ground got drenched--we could not keep the trail, +Three times again my cabin home I found, +Half hoping she might be there, safe and sound; +But each time 'twas an unavailing care: +My house had lost its soul; she was not there! + +When, climbing--the wet trees, next morning-sun. +Laughed at the ruin that the night had done, +Bleeding and drenched, by toil and sorrow bent, +Back to what used to be my home I went. +But as I neared our little clearing-ground-- +Listen!--I heard the cow-bell's tinkling sound. +The cabin door was just a bit ajar; +It gleamed upon my glad eyes like a star, +"Brave heart," I said, "for such a fragile form! +She made them guide her homeward through the storm!" +Such pangs of joy I never felt before. +"You've come!" I shouted and rushed through the door. + +Yes, she had come--and gone again. She lay +With all her young life crushed and wrenched away-- +Lay, the heart-ruins of oar home among, +Not far from where I killed her with my tongue. +The rain-drops glittered 'mid her hair's long strands, +The forest thorns had torn her feet and hands, +And 'midst the tears--brave tears--that one could trace +Upon the pale but sweetly resolute face, +I once again the mournful words could read, +"I have tried to do my best--I have, indeed." + +And now I'm mostly done; my story's o'er; +Part of it never breathed the air before. +'Tisn't over-usual, it must be allowed, +To volunteer heart-history to a crowd, +And scatter 'mongst them confidential tears, +But you'll protect an old man with his years; +And wheresoe'er this story's voice can reach, +This is the sermon I would have it preach: + +Boys flying kites haul in their white-winged birds: +You can't do that way when you're flying words. +"Careful with fire," is good advice we know: +"Careful with words," is ten times doubly so. +Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead, +But God himself can't kill them when they're said! +Yon have my life-grief: do not think a minute +'Twas told to take up time. There's business in it. +It sheds advice: whoe'er will take and live it, +Is welcome to the pain it cost to give it. + + _Will Carleton._ + + + + +Seein' Things + + +I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice, +An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice! +I'm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed, +For, when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said, +Mother tells me "Happy dreams!" and takes away the light, +An' leaves me lying all alone an' seein' things at night! + +Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door, +Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor; +Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' round +So softly an' so creepylike they never make a sound! +Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white-- +But the color ain't no difference when you see things at night! + +Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street, +An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat, +I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row, +A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me--so! +Oh, my! I was so skeered that time I never slep' a mite-- +It's almost alluz when I'm bad I see things at night! + +Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I'd be skeered to death! +Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my breath; +An' I am, oh! so sorry I'm a naughty boy, an' then +I promise to be better an' I say my prayers again! +Gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it right +When a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night! + +An' so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin, +I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within; +An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at's big an' nice, +I want to--but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice! +No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight +Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night! + + _Eugene Field._ + + + + +The Raggedy Man + + +Oh, The Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa; +An' he's the goodest man ever you saw! +He comes to our house every day, +An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay; +An' he opens the shed--an' we all ist laugh +When he drives out our little old wobblely calf; +An' nen--ef our hired girl says he can-- +He milks the cows fer 'Lizabuth Ann.-- + Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man? + Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! + +W'y, The Raggedy Man--he's ist so good, +He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood; +An' nen he spades in our garden, too, +An' does most things 'at _boys_ can't do.-- +He clumbed clean up in our big tree +An' shocked a' apple down fer me-- +An' 'nother 'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann-- +An' 'nother 'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man.-- + Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man? + Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! + +An' The Raggedy Man one time say he +Pick' roast' rambos from a' orchard-tree, +An' et 'em--all ist roas' an' hot! +An' it's so, too!--'cause a corn-crib got +Afire one time an' all burn' down +On "The Smoot Farm," 'bout four mile from town-- +On "The Smoot Farm"! Yes--an' the hired han' +'At worked there nen 'uz The Raggedy Man! + Ain't he the beanin'est Raggedy Man? + Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! + +The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind +He'll be our "horsey," an' "Haw" an' mind +Ever'thing 'at you make him do-- +An' won't run off--'less you want him to! +I drived him wunst 'way down our lane +An' he got skeered, when it 'menced to rain, +An' ist rared up an' squealed and run +Purt' nigh away!--An' it's all in fun! +Nen he skeered ag'in at a' old tin can. + Whoa! y' old runaway Raggedy Man! + Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! + +An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes, +An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes: +Knows 'bout Giants, an' Griffuns, an' Elves, +An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves! +An', wite by the pump la our pasture-lot, +He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got, +'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can +Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann! +Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man! + Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man? + Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! + +An' wunst when The Raggedy Man come late, +An' pigs ist root' thue the garden-gate, +He 'tend like the pigs 'uz bears an' said, +"Old Bear-shooter'll shoot 'em dead!" +An' race' an' chase' em, an' they'd ist run +When he pint his hoe at 'em like it's a gun +An' go "Bang!-Bang!" nen 'tend he stan' +An' load up his gun ag'in! Raggedy Man! + He's an old Bear-Shooter Raggedy Man! + Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! + +An' sometimes The Raggedy Man lets on +We're little prince-children, an' old king's gone +To get more money, an' lef us there-- +And Robbers is ist thick ever'where; +An' nen-ef we all won't cry, fer shore-- +The Raggedy Man he'll come and "splore +The Castul-halls," an' steal the "gold"-- +And steal us, too, an' grab an' hold +An' pack us off to his old "Cave"!-An' + Haymow's the "Cave" o' The Raggedy Man!-- + Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! + +The Raggedy Man--one time, when he +Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me, +Says "When you're big like your Pa is, +Air you go' to keep a fine store like his-- +An' be a rich merchunt--an' wear fine clothes?-- +Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?" +An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann, +An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man!-- + I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!" + Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! + + _James Whitcomb Riley._ + + + + +Maud Muller + + +Maud Muller, on a summer's day, +Raked the meadow sweet with hay. + +Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth +Of simple beauty and rustic health. + +Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee +The mock-bird echoed from his tree. + +But when she glanced to the far-off town, +White from its hill-slope looking down, + +The sweet song died, and a vague unrest +And a nameless longing filled her breast,-- + +A wish, that she hardly dared to own, +For something better than she had known. + +The Judge rode slowly down the lane, +Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. + +He drew his bridle in the shade +Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, + +And asked a draught from the spring that flowed +Through the meadow across the road. + +She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, +And filled for him her small tin cup, + +And blushed as she gave it, looking down +On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. + +"Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught +From a fairer hand was never quaffed." + +He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, +Of the singing birds and the humming' bees; + +Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether +The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. + +And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, +And her graceful ankles bare and brown; + +And listened, while a pleased surprise +Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. + +At last, like one who for delay +Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. + +Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me! +That I the Judge's bride might be! + +"He would dress me up in silks so fine, +And praise and toast me at his wine. + +"My father should wear a broadcloth coat; +My brother should sail a painted boat. + +"I'd dress my mother, so grand and gay, +And the baby should have a new toy each day. + +"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, +And all should bless me who left our door." + +The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, +And saw Maud Muller standing still. + +"A form more fair, a face more sweet. +Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet, + +"And her modest answer and graceful air +Show her wise and good as she is fair. + +"Would she were mine, and I to-day, +Like her, a harvester of hay: + +"No doubtful balance of rights and, wrongs +Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, + +"But low of cattle and song of birds, +And health and quiet and loving words." + +But 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 field alone. + +But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, +When he hummed in court an old love-tune; + +And the young girl mused beside the well +Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. + +He wedded a wife of richest dower, +Who lived for fashion, as he for power. + +Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, +He watched a picture come and go; + +And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes +Looked out in their innocent surprise. + +Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, +He longed for the wayside well instead; + +And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms +To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. + +And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, +"Ah, that I were free again! + +"Free as when I rode that day, +Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." + +She wedded a man unlearned and poor, +And many children played round her door. + +But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, +Left their traces on heart and brain. + +And oft, when the summer sun shone hot +On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, + +And she heard the little spring brook fall +Over the roadside, through the wall, + +In the shade of the apple-tree again +She saw a rider draw his rein. + +And, gazing down with timid grace, +She felt his pleased eyes read her face. + +Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls +Stretched away into stately halls; + +The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, +The tallow candle an astral burned, + +And for him who sat by the chimney lug, +Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, + +A manly form at her side she saw, +And joy was duty and love was law. + +Then she took up her burden of life again, +Saying only, "It might have been." + +Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, +For rich repiner and household drudge! + +God pity them both! and pity us all, +Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. + +For of all sad words of tongue or pen, +The saddest are these: "It might have been!" + +Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies +Deeply buried from human eyes; + +And, in the hereafter, angels may +Roll the stone from its grave away! + + _John G. Whittier._ + + + + +Sister and I + + +We were hunting for wintergreen berries, + One May-day, long gone by, +Out on the rocky cliff's edge, + Little sister and I. +Sister had hair like the sunbeams; + Black as a crow's wing, mine; +Sister had blue, dove's eyes; + Wicked, black eyes are mine. +Why, see how my eyes are faded-- + And my hair, it is white as snow! +And thin, too! don't you see it is? + I tear it sometimes; so! +There, don't hold my hands, Maggie, + I don't feel like tearing it now; +But--where was I in my story? + Oh, I was telling you how +We were looking for wintergreen berries; + 'Twas one bright morning in May, +And the moss-grown rocks were slippery + With the rains of yesterday. +But I was cross that morning, + Though the sun shone ever so bright-- +And when sister found the most berries, + I was angry enough to fight! +And when she laughed at my pouting-- + We were little things, you know-- +I clinched my little fist up tight, + And struck her the biggest blow! +I struck her--I tell you--I struck her, + And she fell right over below-- +There, there, Maggie, I won't rave now; + You needn't hold me so-- +She went right over, I tell you, + Down, down to the depths below! +'Tis deep and dark and horrid + There where the waters flow! +She fell right over, moaning, + "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so sad, +That, when I looked down affrighted, + It drove me _mad--mad_! +Only her golden hair streaming + Out on the rippling wave, +Only her little hand reaching + Up, for someone to save; +And she sank down in the darkness, + I never saw her again, +And this is a chaos of blackness + And darkness and grief since then. +No more playing together + Down on the pebbly strand; +Nor building our dolls stone castles + With halls and parlors grand; +No more fishing with bent pins, + In the little brook's clear waves; +No more holding funerals + O'er dead canaries' graves; +No more walking together + To the log schoolhouse each morn; +No more vexing the master + With putting his rules to scorn; +No more feeding of white lambs + With milk from the foaming pail; +No more playing "see-saw" + Over the fence of rail; +No more telling of stories + After we've gone to bed; +Nor talking of ghosts and goblins + Till we fairly shiver with dread; +No more whispering fearfully + And hugging each other tight, +When the shutters shake and the dogs howl + In the middle of the night; +No more saying "Our Father," + Kneeling by mother's knee-- +For, Maggie, I _struck_ sister! + And mother is dead, you see. +Maggie, sister's an angel, + Isn't she? Isn't it true? +For angels have golden tresses + And eyes like sister's, blue? +Now _my_ hair isn't golden, + My eyes aren't blue, you see-- +Now tell me, Maggie, if I were to die, + Could they make an angel of me? +You say, "Oh, yes"; you think so? + Well, then, when I come to die, +We'll play up there, in God's garden-- + We'll play there, sister and I. +Now, Maggie, you needn't eye me + Because I'm talking so queer; +Because I'm talking so strangely; + You needn't have the least fear, +Somehow I'm feeling to-night, Maggie, + As I never felt before-- +I'm sure, I'm sure of it, Maggie, + I never shall rave any more. +Maggie, you know how these long years + I've heard her calling, so sad, +"Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so mournful? + It always drives me _mad_! +How the winter wind shrieks down the chimney, + "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" oh! oh! +How the south wind wails at the casement, + "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so low, +But most of all when the May-days + Come back, with the flowers and the sun, +How the night-bird, singing, all lonely, + "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" doth moan; +You know how it sets me raving-- + For _she_ moaned, "_Oh, Bessie!_" just so, +That time I _struck_ little sister, + On the May-day long ago! +Now, Maggie, I've something to tell you-- + You know May-day is here-- +Well, this very morning, at sunrise, + The robins chirped "Bessie!" so clear-- +All day long the wee birds singing, + Perched on the garden wall, +Called "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so sweetly, + I couldn't feel sorry at all. +Now, Maggie, I've something to tell you-- + Let me lean up to you close-- +Do you see how the sunset has flooded + The heavens with yellow and rose? +Do you see o'er the gilded cloud mountains + Sister's golden hair streaming out? +Do you see her little hand beckoning? + Do you hear her little voice calling out +"Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so gladly, + "Bessie, oh, Bessie! Come, haste"? +Yes, sister, I'm coming; I'm coming, + To play in God's garden at last! + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems Teachers Ask For, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR *** + +***** This file should be named 18909.txt or 18909.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/9/0/18909/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |