diff options
Diffstat (limited to '38579-8.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 38579-8.txt | 9783 |
1 files changed, 9783 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/38579-8.txt b/38579-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8527ffc --- /dev/null +++ b/38579-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9783 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Recitations for the Social Circle, by +James Clarence Harvey + +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: Recitations for the Social Circle + +Author: James Clarence Harvey + +Release Date: January 15, 2012 [EBook #38579] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RECITATIONS FOR THE SOCIAL CIRCLE *** + + + + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Josephine Paolucci, Marilynda +Fraser-Cunliffe and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team at https://www.pgdp.net. + + + + + + + +RECITATIONS + +FOR THE SOCIAL CIRCLE. + +SELECTED AND ORIGINAL. + +[Illustration] + +BY + +JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + +PUBLISHED BY +THE CHRISTIAN HERALD. + +LOUIS KLOPSCH, Proprietor, +BIBLE HOUSE, NEW YORK. + + +Copyright, 1896. +BY LOUIS KLOPSCH. + + + + +INTRODUCTORY NOTE. + + +In reading and recitation, the general tendency is to overdo. The quiet +reserve force, which can be made apparent in the voice, will reach the +heart and stir the soul when gesture and ranting fail. "Be bold! Be not too +bold" should be the watchwords of the reciter. Self-possession, with a +nervousness arising from an earnest desire to please, is the keynote to +success. Never gesticulate if you can help it. When a gesture asserts +itself to such an extent that you have made it before you realize it, be +sure it was effective and graceful. + +It is a noble ambition to wish to sway the hearts and minds of others by +the subtle modulations of the voice, and only he who feels the force of +what he utters can hope to accomplish his end. The thought of the author +must be pursued and overtaken. The sentiments between the lines must be +enlisted before the voice will lend itself, in all its glorious power, to +the tones that thrill and the music that charms. + +It is not always necessary to search for something your audience has never +heard. It is far better to reveal hidden thought and new life in selections +which are familiar. The hackneyed recitation, if rendered better than ever +before, will win more applause than a fresh bit carelessly studied. + +Above all, use judgment in selection. The stout lady of fifty-two should +avoid "Marco Bozarris" and "The Elf Child," and the young lady just home +from boarding-school should not attempt the ponderous utterances of a Roman +gladiator. + +Care in selection; fidelity in study; wisdom in the choice of occasion; +modesty in delivery; earnestness of manner and sincerity of feeling +throughout, must win at last. If you make failures, trace them to a lack in +some one or more of these requisites and, by experience, learn to avoid a +recurrence. Orators, like poets, are "born not made," but even the born +speaker will fail at times unless these laws are considered and observed. +Always render an author's lines as he wrote them. The chances are ten to +one that every word carries its burden of thought, even though you may not +have discerned it. Err on the conservative side if in doubt. +Over-enthusiasm is less easily pardoned. + +Never select dialect verses or stories unless you have the unusual gift +necessary to give them the piquancy and zest which attends a good +imitation. Ask a dozen friends for an honest opinion on the subject and +draw an average from their criticisms to guide you in your choice of +selections. Don't lose your temper over a severe criticism. Search +carefully through your list of abilities and see if there is not, perhaps, +some foundation for kindly suggestion. It is often a great assistance, in +memorizing the work of another, to make a written copy, but attention +should be given to the making of a perfect copy, properly punctuated. + +Use the eye in memorizing. + +Oftentimes a mental picture of a page will recall a line which for an +instant seems about to escape you. Use the ear as well and study the effect +of various modulations of voice as you rehearse in private. + +Above all, use the best of your intelligence, earnestly, in studying and +applying the thousand little nothings that in the aggregate make the +perfect reader. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + PAGE. + +A Dream of the Universe. By Jean Paul Richter, 95 + +A Friend of the Fly, 173 + +After-Dinner Speech by a Frenchman, 287 + +America for God. By T. DeWitt Talmage, 74 + +An Affectionate Letter, 198 + +An Appeal for Liberty. By Joseph Story, 296 + +An Hour of Horror, 218 + +Annie and Willie's Prayer. By Sophia P. Snow, 275 + +Answered Prayers, By Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 175 + +An Unaccountable Mystery. By Paul Denton, 80 + +A Rainy Day, 260 + +A Reasonable Request, 194 + +At the Stage Door. By James Clarence Harvey, 16 + +At the Stamp Window, 110 + +Becalmed. By Samuel K. Cowan, 182 + +Banford's Burglar Alarm, 314 + +Behind Time. By Freeman Hunt, 77 + +Bessie Kendrick's Journey. By Mrs. Annie E. Preston, 253 + +Better Things, 319 + +Bicycle Ride. By James Clarence Harvey, 236 + +By Special Request. By Frank Castles, 47 + +Charity, 308 + +Cut Behind. By T. DeWitt Talmage, 14 + +Daughter of the Desert. By James Clarence Harvey, 65 + +De Pint Wid Ole Pete, 215 + +Destiny of Our Country. By R. C. Winthrop, 188 + +Eloquence, the Study of. By Cicero, 11 + +Emulation (Up to Date). By James Clarence Harvey, 187 + +Extract from Blaine's Oration on James A. Garfield, 208 + +Fashionable, 261 + +Fast Mail and the Stage. By John H. Yates, 230 + +Frenchman and the Landlord. Anonymous, 18 + +Gentle Alice Brown. By W. S. Gilbert, 149 + +Get Acquainted With Yourself. By R. J. Burdette, 119 + +God in the Constitution. By T. DeWitt Talmage, 176 + +Good Old Way, 207 + +Good Reading. By John S. Hart, L.L.D., 41 + +Go Vay, Becky Miller, Go Vay, 220 + +Guild's Signal. By Francis Bret Harte, 21 + +His Last Court, 104 + +Hornets. By Bill Nye, 70 + +How "Old Mose" Counted Eggs, 272 + +How Shall I Love You? By Will C. Ferril, 212 + +Imperfectus. By James Clarence Harvey, 83 + +In Arabia. By James Berry Bensel, 37 + +In the Bottom Drawer, 185 + +It is a Winter Night. By Richard Henry Stoddard, 221 + +I Wonder. By James Clarence Harvey, 159 + +Katrina's Visit to New York, 138 + +Keenan's Charge. By George P. Lathrop, 97 + +Kittens and Babies. By Lizzie M. Hadley, 80 + +Land of Our Birth. By Lillie E. Barr, 239 + +Legend of the Ivy. By James Clarence Harvey, 34 + +Let Us Give Thanks, 258 + +Literary Attractions of the Bible. By Dr. Hamilton, 88 + +Little Brown Curl, 213 + +Little Feet, 259 + +Little Jim. By George R. Sims, 118 + +Little White Hearse. By J. W. Riley, 121 + +Lullaby, 114 + +Maid of Orleans. By J. E. Sagebeer, 144 + +Mark Twain and the Interviewer, 22 + +Mother, Home and Heaven, 56 + +Mother's Doughnuts. By Charles F. Adams, 87 + +Mother's Fool, 217 + +Mr. Winkle Puts on Skates. By Charles Dickens, 281 + +Mutation. By James Clarence Harvey, 164 + +My Mother's Bible. By George P. Morris, 286 + +New Year Ledger. By Amelia E. Barr, 39 + +No Objection to Children, 309 + +Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, 51 + +Old Uncle Jake, 298 + +Only a Song, 235 + +Our Own. By Margaret E. Sangster, 76 + +Our Heroes Shall Live. By Henry Ward Beecher, 113 + +Paul Revere's Ride. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 43 + +Penning a Pig. By James A. Bailey, 115 + +Praying for Papa, 180 + +Praying for Shoes. By Paul Hamilton Hayne, 58 + +Puzzled Dutchman, 227 + +Queen Vashti. By T. DeWitt Talmage, 131 + +Rabbi and the Prince. By James Clarence Harvey, 143 + +Resignation. By Longfellow, 196 + +Resurgam. By Eben E. Rexford, 262 + +Roman Legend. By James Clarence Harvey, 170 + +Rum's Devastation and Destiny. By William Sullivan, 60 + +Serenade. By Thomas Hood, 129 + +She Cuts His Hair, 294 + +Shwate Kittie Kehoe. By James Clarence Harvey, 155 + +Since She Went Home. By R. J. Burdette, 72 + +Six Love Letters, 165 + +Speech of Patrick Henry, 160 + +Story of the Little Rid Hin. By Mrs. Whitney, 232 + +Supporting the Guns, 30 + +The American Union. By Daniel Webster, 52 + +The Black Horse and His Rider. By Charles Sheppard, 290 + +The Book Canvasser. By Max Adeler, 264 + +The Children. By Charles Dickens, 306 + +The Children We Keep, 73 + +The Christmas Baby. By Will Carleton, 92 + +The Country's Greatest Evil, 156 + +The Crowded Street. By William Cullen Bryant, 252 + +The Dead Doll. By Margaret Vandegrift, 108 + +The Doorstep. By E. C. Stedman, 270 + +The Enchanted Shirt. By John Hay, 177 + +The Fatal Glass. By Laura U. Case, 137 + +The Fault of the Age. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 263 + +The Hot Axle. By T. DeWitt Talmage, 303 + +The Minister's Grievances, 204 + +The Misnomer. By Josie C. Malott, 269 + +The Modern Belle, 226 + +The Nameless Guest. By James Clarence Harvey, 112 + +The Old Oaken Bucket. By Samuel Woodworth, 279 + +The Pilot. By John B. Gough, 135 + +The Poppy Land Limited Express. By Edgar Wade Abbot, 55 + +The Prime of Life. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 29 + +There is a Tongue in Every Leaf, 257 + +There'll Be Room in Heaven, 122 + +The Retort Dis-courteous. By James Clarence Harvey, 125 + +The Teacher's Diadem, 240 + +The United States. By Daniel Webster, 35 + +The Whirling Wheel. By Tudor Jenks, 288 + +The Whistling Regiment. By James Clarence Harvey, 199 + +Tobe's Monument. By Elizabeth Kilham, 243 + +Useful Precepts for Girls, 100 + +W'en de Darky am A-whis'lin'. By S. Q. Lapius, 134 + +We're Building Two a Day! By Rev. Alfred J. Hough, 224 + +What the Little Girl Said, 221 + +Widder Budd, 102 + +Wind and Sea. By Bayard Taylor, 13 + +Woman's Pocket. By James M. Bailey, 84 + +Women of Mumbles Head. By Clement Scott, 190 + +Young America, 153 + +Zenobia's Defence. By William Ware, 126 + + + + +RECITATIONS FOR THE SOCIAL CIRCLE. + + + + +THE STUDY OF ELOQUENCE. + +BY CICERO. + + +I cannot conceive anything more excellent, than to be able, by language, to +captivate the affections, to charm the understanding, and to impel or +restrain the will of whole assemblies, at pleasure. Among every free +people, especially in peaceful, settled governments, this single art has +always eminently flourished, and always exercised the greatest sway. For +what can be more surprising than that, amidst an infinite multitude, one +man should appear, who shall be the only, or almost the only man capable of +doing what Nature has put in every man's power? Or, can anything impart +such exquisite pleasure to the ear and to the intellect, as a speech in +which the wisdom and dignity of the sentiments are heightened by the utmost +force and beauty of expression? + +Is there anything so commanding, so grand, as that the eloquence of one man +should direct the inclinations of the people, the consciences of judges, +and the majesty of senates? Nay, farther, can aught be esteemed so great, +so generous, so public-spirited, as to assist the suppliant, to rear the +prostrate, to communicate happiness, to avert danger, and to save a +fellow-citizen from exile? Can anything be so necessary, as to keep those +arms always in readiness, with which you may defend yourself, attack the +profligate, and redress your own, or your country's wrongs? + +But let us consider this accomplishment as detached from public business, +and from its wonderful efficacy in popular assemblies, at the bar, and in +the senate; can anything be more agreeable, or more endearing in private +life, than elegant language? For the great characteristic of our nature, +and what eminently distinguishes us from brutes, is the faculty of social +conversation, the power of expressing our thoughts and sentiments by words. +To excel mankind, therefore, in the exercise of that very talent which +gives them the preference to the brute creation, is what everybody must not +only admire, but look upon as the just object of the most indefatigable +pursuit. + +And now, to mention the chief point of all, what other power could have +been of sufficient efficacy to bring together the vagrant individuals of +the human race; to tame their savage manners, to reconcile them to social +life; and, after cities were founded, to mark out laws, forms, and +constitutions, for their government?--Let me, in a few words, sum up this +almost boundless subject. I lay it down as a maxim, that upon the wisdom +and abilities of an accomplished orator, not only his own dignity, but the +welfare of vast numbers of individuals, and even of the whole state, must +greatly depend. + + + + +THE WIND AND THE SEA. + +BY BAYARD TAYLOR. + + + The Sea is a jovial comrade; + He laughs, wherever he goes, + And the merriment shines + In the dimpling lines + That wrinkle his hale repose. + He lays himself down at the feet of the sun + And shakes all over with glee, + And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore + In the mirth of the mighty sea. + + But the wind is sad and restless, + And cursed with an inward pain; + You may hark as you will, + By valley or hill, + But you hear him still complain. + He wails on the barren mountain; + Shrieks on the wintry sea; + Sobs in the cedar and moans in the pine, + And shivers all over the aspen tree. + + Welcome are both their voices, + And I know not which is best, + The laughter that slips + From the ocean's lips, + Or the comfortless wind's unrest. + There's a pang in all rejoicing, + A joy in the heart of pain, + And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, + Are singing the self-same strain. + + + + +CUT BEHIND. + +BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE. + + +The scene opens on a clear, crisp morning. Two boys are running to get on +the back of a carriage, whose wheels are spinning along the road. One of +the boys, with a quick spring, succeeds. The other leaps, but fails, and +falls on the part of the body where it is most appropriate to fall. No +sooner has he struck the ground than he shouts to the driver of the +carriage, "Cut behind!" + +Human nature is the same in boy as in man--all running to gain the vehicle +of success. Some are spry, and gain that for which they strive. Others are +slow, and tumble down; they who fall crying out against those who mount, +"Cut behind!" + +A political office rolls past. A multitude spring to their feet, and the +race is on. Only one of all the number reaches that for which he runs. No +sooner does he gain the prize, and begin to wipe the sweat from his brow, +and think how grand a thing it is to ride in popular preferment, than the +disappointed candidates cry out, "Incompetency! Stupidity! Fraud! Now let +the newspapers of the other political party 'cut behind.'" + +There is a golden chariot of wealth rolling down the street. A thousand +people are trying to catch it. They run, they jostle; they tread on each +other. Push, and pull, and tug. Those talk most against riches who cannot +get there. Clear the track for the racers! One of the thousand reaches the +golden prize and mounts. Forthwith the air is full of cries, "Got it by +fraud! Shoddy! Petroleum aristocracy! His father was a rag-picker! His +mother was a washer-woman! I knew him when he blacked his own shoes! Pitch +him off the back part of the golden chariot! Cut behind! cut behind!" + +In many eyes success is a crime. "I do not like you," said the snow-flake +to the snow-bird. "Why?" said the snow-bird. "Because," said the +snow-flake, "you are going _up_ and I am going _down_." + +We have to state that the man in the carriage, on the crisp morning, though +he had a long lash-whip, with which he could have made the climbing boy +yell most lustily, did not _cut behind_. He heard the shout in the rear, +and said, "Good morning, my son. That is right; climb over and sit by me. +Here are the reins; take hold and drive; was a boy myself once, and know +what tickles youngsters." + +Thank God, there are so many in the world that never "cut behind," but are +ready to give a fellow a ride whenever he wants it. There are hundreds of +people whose chief joy it is to help others on. Now it is a smile, now a +good word, now ten dollars. When such a kind man has ridden to the end of +the earthly road, it will be pleasant to hang up the whip with which he +drove the enterprises of a lifetime, and feel that with it he never "cut +behind" at those who were struggling. + + + + +AT THE STAGE DOOR. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + + The curtain had fallen, the lights were dim, + The rain came down with a steady pour; + A white-haired man with a kindly face, + Peered through the panes of the old stage door. + "I'm getting too old to be drenched like that" + He muttered and turning met face to face, + The woman whose genius, an hour before, + Like a mighty power had filled the place. + + "Yes, much too old," with a smile, she said, + And she laid her hand on his silver hair; + "You shall ride with me to your home to-night, + For that is my carriage standing there." + The old door-tender stood, doffing his hat + And holding the door, but she would not stir, + Though he said it was not for the "likes of him + To ride in a kerridge with such as her." + + "Come, put out your lights," she said to him, + "I've something important I wish to say, + And I can't stand here in the draught you know-- + I can tell you much better while on the way." + So into the carriage the old man crept, + Thanking her gratefully, o'er and o'er, + Till she bade him listen while she would tell + A story, concerning that old stage door. + + "It was raining in torrents, ten years ago + This very night, and a friendless child + Stood, shivering there, by that old stage door, + Dreading her walk in a night so wild. + She was only one of the 'extra' girls, + But you gave her a nickle to take the car, + And said 'Heaven bless ye, my little one, + Ye can pay me back ef ye ever star.' + + "So you cast your bread on the waters then, + And I pay you back, as my heart demands, + And we're even now--no! not quite," she said, + As she emptied her purse in his trembling hands. + "And if ever you're needy and want a friend, + You know where to come, for your little mite + Put hope in my heart and made me strive + To gain the success you have seen to-night." + + Then the carriage stopped, at the old man's door, + And the gas-light shone on him, standing there: + And he stepped to the curb, as she rolled away, + While his thin lips murmured a fervent prayer. + He looked at the silver and bills and gold, + And he said: "She gives all this to me? + My bread has come back a thousandfold, + God bless her! God bless all such as she!" + + + + +THE FRENCHMAN AND THE LANDLORD. + +ANONYMOUS. + + +A shrewd and wealthy old landlord, away down in Maine, is noted for driving +his "sharp bargains," by which he has amassed a large amount of property. +He is the owner of a large number of dwelling-houses, and it is said of him +that he is not over-scrupulous of his rental charges, whenever he can find +a customer whom he knows to be responsible. His object is to lease his +house for a term of years to the best tenants, and get the uttermost +farthing in the shape of rent. + +A diminutive Frenchman called on him last winter, to hire a dwelling he +owned in Portland, and which had long remained empty. References were +given, and the landlord, ascertaining that the tenant was a man "after his +own heart," immediately commenced to "Jew" him. He found that the tenement +appeared to suit the Frenchman, and he placed an exorbitant price upon it; +the leases were drawn and duly executed, and the tenant removed into his +new quarters. + +Upon kindling fires in the house, it was found that the chimneys wouldn't +"draw," and the building was filled with smoke. The window-sashes rattled +in the wind at night, and the cold air rushed through a hundred crevices +about the house until now unnoticed. The snow melted upon the roof, and the +attics were drenched from the leakage. The rain pelted, and our Frenchman +found a "natural" bathroom upon the second floor--but the lease was signed +and the landlord chuckled. + +"I have been vat you sall call 'tuck in,' vis zis _maison_," muttered our +victim to himself a week afterwards, "but _n'importe_, ve sal se vat ve +_sal_ see." + +Next morning he arose bright and early, and passing down he encountered the +landlord. + +"Ah ha!--_Bon jour, monsieur_," said he in his happiest manner. + +"Good day, sir. How do you like your house?" + +"Ah monsieur--elegant, beautiful, magnificent. _Eh bien_, monsieur, I have +ze one regret!" + +"Ah! What is that?" + +"I sal live in zat house but tree little year." + +"How so?" + +"I have find by vot you call ze lease, zat you have give me ze house but +for tree year, and I ver mooch sorrow for zat." + +"But you can have it longer if you wish--" + +"Ah, monsieur, sal be ver mooch glad if I can have zat house _so long as I +please_--eh--monsieur?" + +"Oh, certainly, certainly, sir." + +"_Tres bien_, monsieur! I sal valk rite to your offees, and you sal give me +vot you call ze lease for that _maison jes so long as I sal vant the +house_. Eh, monsieur?" + +"Certainly, sir. You can stay there your lifetime, if you like." + +"Ah, monsieur--I have ver mooch tanks for zis accommodation." + +The old lease was destroyed and a new one was delivered in form to the +French gentleman, giving him possession of the premises for "such a period +as the lessee may desire the same, he paying the rent promptly, etc." + +The next morning our crafty landlord was passing the house just as the +French-man's last load of furniture was being started from the door; an +hour afterward, a messenger called on him with a legal tender, for the rent +for eight days, accompanied with a note as follows: + +"Monsieur--I have been smoke--I have been drouned--I have been frees to +death, in ze house vat I av hire of you for ze period as I may desire. I +have stay in ze house _jes so long as I please_, and ze bearer of zis vill +give you ze key! _Bon jour_, monsieur." + +It is needless to add that our landlord has never since been known to give +up "a bird in the hand for one in the bush." + + + + +GUILD'S SIGNAL. + +BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE, 1839. + + + Two low whistles, quaint and clear, + That was the signal the engineer-- + That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said-- + Gave to his wife at Providence, + As through the sleeping town, and thence + Out in the night, + On to the light, + Down past the farms, lying white, he sped! + + As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, + Yet to the woman looking out, + Watching and waiting, no serenade, + Love-song, or midnight roundelay + Said what that whistle seemed to say; + "To my trust true, + So love to you! + Working or waiting. Good night!" it said. + + Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, + Old commuters, along the line, + Brakesmen and porters, glanced ahead, + Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, + Pierced through the shadows of Providence,-- + "Nothing amiss-- + Nothing!--it is + Only Guild calling his wife," they said. + + Summer and winter, the old refrain + Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, + Pierced through the budding boughs o'er head, + Flew down the track when the red leaves burned + Like living coals from the engine spurned! + Sang as it flew + "To our trust true. + First of all, duty! Good night!" it said. + + And then, one night, it was heard no more + From Stonington over Rhode Island Shore, + And the folk in Providence smiled and said, + As they turned in their beds: "The engineer + Has once forgotten his midnight cheer." + _One_ only knew + To his trust true, + Guild lay under his engine, dead. + + + + +MARK TWAIN AND THE INTERVIEWER. + + +The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and +said he was connected with "The Daily Thunderstorm," and added,-- + +"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you." + +"Come to what?" + +"_Interview_ you." + +"Ah! I see. Yes--yes. Um! Yes--yes." + +I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under +a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been looking six +or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I +said,-- + +"How do you spell it?" + +"Spell what?" + +"Interview." + +"Oh, my goodness? What do you want to spell it for?" + +"I don't want to spell it: I want to see what it means." + +"Well, this is astonishing, I must say. _I_ can tell you what it means, if +you--if you"-- + +"Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too." + +"In, _in_, ter, _ter_, _inter_"-- + +"Then you spell it with an _I_?" + +"Why, certainly!" + +"Oh, that is what took me so long!" + +"Why, my _dear_ sir, what did _you_ propose to spell it with?" + +"Well, I--I--I hardly know. I had the Unabridged; and I was ciphering +around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But +it's a very old edition." + +"Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a _picture_ of it in even the latest +e---- My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world; but you +do not look as--as--intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm,--I +mean no harm at all." + +"Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not +flatter, and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite +remarkable in that way. Yes--yes: they always speak of it with rapture." + +"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the +custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious." + +"Indeed! I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do +you do it with?" + +"Ah, well--well--well--this is disheartening. It _ought_ to be done with a +club, in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking +questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will +you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient +points of your public and private history?" + +"Oh, with pleasure,--with pleasure. I have a very bad memory; but I hope +you will not mind. That is to say, it is an irregular memory, singularly +irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much +as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me." + +"Oh! it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can." + +"I will! I will put my whole mind on it." + +"Thanks! Are you ready to begin?" + +"Ready." + +_Question._ How old are you? + +_Answer._ Nineteen in June. + +_Q._ Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were +you born? + +_A._ In Missouri. + +_Q._ When did you begin to write? + +_A._ In 1836. + +_Q._ Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now? + +_A._ I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow. + +_Q._ It does indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever +met? + +_A._ Aaron Burr. + +_Q._ But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen +years---- + +_A._ Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for? + +_Q._ Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to +meet Burr? + +_A._ Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day; and he asked me to make +less noise, and---- + +_Q._ But, good heavens! If you were at his funeral, he must have been dead; +and, if he was dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not? + +_A._ I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way. + +_Q._ Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to you, and that +he was dead? + +_A._ I didn't say he was dead. + +_Q._ But wasn't he dead? + +_A._ Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't. + +_Q._ What do _you_ think? + +_A._ Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my funeral. + +_Q._ Did you--However we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask +about something else. What was the date of your birth? + +_A._ Monday, October 31, 1693. + +_Q._ What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old. +How do you account for that? + +_A._ I don't account for it at all. + +_Q._ But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make +yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy. + +_A._ Why, have you noticed that? (_Shaking hands._) Many a time it has +seemed to me like a discrepancy; but somehow I couldn't make up my mind. +How quick you notice a thing! + +_Q._ Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, +any brothers or sisters? + +_A._ Eh! I--I--I think so,--yes--but I don't remember. + +_Q._ Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard. + +_A._ Why, what makes you think that? + +_Q._ How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of +on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours? + +_A._ Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it, that _was_ a brother of +mine. That's William, _Bill_ we called him. Poor old Bill! + +_Q._ Why, is he dead, then? + +_A._ Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery +about it. + +_Q._ That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then? + +_A._ Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him. + +_Q._ _Buried_ him! Buried him without knowing whether he was dead or not? + +_A._ Oh, no! Not that. He was dead enough. + +_Q._ Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and +you knew he was dead---- + +_A._ No, no! We only thought he was. + +_Q._ Oh, I see! He came to life again? + +_A._ I bet he didn't. + +_Q._ Well. I never heard anything like this. _Somebody_ was dead. Somebody +was buried. Now, where was the mystery? + +_A._ Ah, that's just it! That's it exactly! You see we were twins,--defunct +and I; and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and +one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill; +and some think it was me. + +_Q._ Well, that _is_ remarkable. What do _you_ think? + +_A._ Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this +awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a +secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us +had a peculiar mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand; that was +_me_. _That child was the one that was drowned._ + +_Q._ Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it, after +all. + +_A._ You don't; well, _I_ do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have +been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! +don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have +heart-breaking troubles enough without adding this. + +_Q._ Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present; and I am +very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good +deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind +telling me what peculiar circumstance it was that made you think Burr was +such a remarkable man? + +_A._ Oh, it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it +at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for +the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said he +wanted to take a last look at the scenery; and so he _got up, and rode with +the driver_. + + * * * * * + +Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company; and I +was sorry to see him go. + + + + +THE PRIME OF LIFE. + +BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. + + + I read the sentence or heard it spoken-- + A stalwart phrase and with meaning rife-- + And I said: "Now I know, by youth's sweet token, + That this is the time called the 'prime of life.' + + "For my hopes soar over the loftiest mountain, + And the future glows red, like a fair sunrise; + And my spirits gush forth, like a spring-fed fountain, + And never a grief in the heart of me lies." + + Yet later on, when with blood and muscle + Equipped I plunged in the world's hard strife, + When I loved its danger, and laughed at the tussle, + "Why _this_," I said, "is the prime of life." + + And then, when the tide in my veins ran slower, + And youth's first follies had passed away, + When the fervent fires in my heart burned lower, + And over my body my brain had sway, + + I said: "It is when, through the veiled ideal + The vigorous reason thrusts a knife + And rends the illusion, and shows us the real, + Oh! this is the time called 'prime of life.'" + + Hut now when brain and body are troubled + (For one is tired and one is ill, + Yet my soul soars up with a strength redoubled + And sits on the throne of my broken will), + Now when on the ear of my listening spirit, + That is turned away from the earth's harsh strife, + The river of death sounds murmuring near it-- + I know that _this_ "is the prime of life." + + + + +SUPPORTING THE GUNS. + + +Did you ever see a battery take position? + +It hasn't the thrill of a cavalry charge, nor the grimness of a line of +bayonets moving slowly and determinedly on, but there is peculiar +excitement about it that makes old veterans rise in the saddle and cheer. + +We have been fighting at the edge of the woods. Every cartridge-box has +been emptied once and more, and a fourth of the brigade has melted away in +dead and wounded and missing. Not a cheer is heard in the whole brigade. We +know that we are being driven foot by foot, and that when we break back +once more, the line will go to pieces and the enemy will pour through the +gap. + +Here comes help! + +Down the crowded highway gallops a battery, withdrawn from some other +position to save ours. The field fence is scattered while you could count +thirty, and the guns rush for the hill behind us. Six horses to a piece, +three riders to each gun. Over dry ditches where a farmer could not drive +a wagon; through clumps of bushes, over logs a foot thick, every horse on +the gallop, every rider lashing his team and yelling,--the sight behind us +makes us forget the foe in front. The guns jump two feet high as the heavy +wheels strike rock or log, but not a horse slackens his pace, not a +cannoneer loses his seat. Six guns, six caissons, sixty horses, eighty men, +race for the brow of the hill as if he who reached it first was to be +knighted. + +A moment ago the battery was a confused mob. We look again and the six guns +are in position, the detached horses hurrying away, the ammunition-chests +open, and along our line runs the command: "Give them one more volley and +fall back to support the guns!" We have scarcely obeyed when boom! boom! +boom! opens the battery, and jets of fire jump down and scorch the green +trees under which we fought and despaired. + +The shattered old brigade has a chance to breathe for the first time in +three hours as we form a line of battle behind the guns and lie down. What +grim, cool fellows these cannoneers are. Every man is a perfect machine. +Bullets plash dust in their faces, but they do not wince. Bullets sing over +and around them, but they do not dodge. There goes one to the earth, shot +through the head as he sponged his gun. The machinery loses just one +beat,--misses just one cog in the wheel, and then works away again as +before. + +Every gun is using short-fuse shell. The ground shakes and trembles--the +roar shuts out all sounds from a battle-line three miles long, and the +shells go shrieking into the swamp to cut trees short off--to mow great +gaps in the bushes--to hunt out and shatter and mangle men until their +corpses cannot be recognized as human. You would think a tornado was +howling through the forest, followed by billows of fire, and yet men live +through it--aye! press forward to capture the battery! We can hear their +shouts as they form for the rush. + +Now the shells are changed for grape and canister, and the guns are served +so fast that all reports blend into one mighty roar. The shriek of a shell +is the wickedest sound in war, but nothing makes the flesh crawl like the +demoniac singing, purring, whistling grape-shot and the serpent-like hiss +of canister. Men's legs and arms are not shot through, but torn off. Heads +are torn from bodies and bodies cut in two. A round shot or shell takes two +men out of the ranks as it crashes through. Grape and canister mow a swath +and pile the dead on top of each other. + +Through the smoke we see a swarm of men. It is not a battle-line, but a mob +of men desperate enough to bathe their bayonets in the flame of the guns. +The guns leap from the ground, almost, as they are depressed on the +foe--and shrieks and screams and shouts blend into one awful and steady +cry. Twenty men out of the battery are down, and the firing is interrupted. +The foe accept it as a sign of wavering, and come rushing on. They are not +ten feet away when the guns give them a last shot. That discharge picks +living men off their feet and throws them into the swamp, a blackened, +bloody mass. + +Up now, as the enemy are among the guns! There is a silence of ten seconds, +and then the flash and roar of more than three thousand muskets, and a rush +forward with bayonets. For what? Neither on the right, nor left, nor in +front of us is a living foe! There are corpses around us which have been +struck by three, four and even six bullets, and nowhere on this acre of +ground is a wounded man! The wheels of the guns cannot move until the +blockade of dead is removed. Men cannot pass from caisson to gun without +climbing over winrows of dead. Every gun and wheel is smeared with blood, +every foot of grass has its horrible stain. + +Historians write of the glory of war. Burial parties saw murder where +historians saw glory. + + + + +A LEGEND OF THE IVY. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + + In a quiet village of Germany, once dwelt a fair-haired maiden, + Whose eyes were as blue as the summer sky and whose hair with + gold was laden; + Her lips were as red as a rose-bud sweet, with teeth, like pearls, + behind them, + Her smiles were like dreams of bliss, complete, and her waving curls + enshrined them. + Fond lovers thronged to the maiden's side, but of all the youth around her, + One only had asked her to be his bride, and a willing listener found her, + "Some time, we'll marry," she often said, then burst into song or laughter, + And tripped away, while the lover's head hung low as he followed after. + Impatient growing, at last he said, "The springtime birds are mating, + Pray whisper, sweet, our day to wed; warm hearts grow cold from waiting." + "Not yet," she smiled, with a fond caress; but he answered, "Now or never, + I start for the Holy War unless I may call thee mine forever." + "For the Holy War? Farewell!" she cried, with never a thought of grieving. + His wish so often had been denied, she could not help believing + His heart would wait till her budding life had blown to its + full completeness. + She did not know that a wedded wife holds a spell in her youthful sweetness. + But alas! for the "Yes" too long delayed, he fought and he bravely perished; + And alas! for the heart of the tender maid, and the love it + fondly cherished; + Her smile grew sad for all hope was gone; life's sands were + swiftly fleeting, + And just at the break of a wintry dawn, her broken heart ceased beating; + And when, on her grave, at the early spring, bright flowers her friends were + throwing, + They knelt and there, just blossoming, they saw a strange plant growing, + Its tender fingers, at first, just seen, crept on through the grass + and clover, + Till, at last, with a mound of perfect green, it covered + the whole grave over; + And often the village youth would stand by the vine-clad mound, + in the gloaming, + And holding a maiden's willing hand, would tell that the strange + plant roaming + Was the maiden's soul, which could not rest and with fruitless, + fond endeavor, + Went seeking the heart it loved the best, but sought in vain, forever. + + + + +THE UNITED STATES. + +BY DANIEL WEBSTER. + + +And now, Mr. President, instead of speaking of the possibility or utility +of secession, instead of dwelling in these caverns of darkness, instead of +groping with those ideas so full of all that is horrid and horrible, let +us come out into the light of day; let us enjoy the fresh air of Liberty +and Union; let us cherish those hopes which belong to us; let us devote +ourselves to those great objects that are fit for our consideration and our +action; let us raise our conceptions to the magnitude and the importance of +the duties that devolve upon us; let our comprehension be as broad as the +country for which we act, our aspirations as high as its certain destiny; +let us not be pigmies in a case that calls for men. + +Never did there devolve on any generation of men higher trusts than now +devolve upon us, for the preservation of this constitution, and the harmony +and peace of all who are destined to live under it. Let us make our +generation one of the strongest and brightest links in that golden chain, +which is destined, I fondly believe, to grapple the people of all the +states to this constitution, for ages to come. + +We have a great, popular, constitutional government, guarded by law and by +judicature, and defended by the whole affections of the people. No +monarchical throne presses these states together; no iron chain of military +power encircles them; they live and stand upon a government popular in its +form, representative in its character, founded upon principles of equality, +and so constructed, we hope, as to last forever. + +In all its history it has been beneficent: it has trodden down no man's +liberty; it has crushed no state. Its daily respiration is liberty and +patriotism; its yet youthful veins are full of enterprise, courage, and +honorable love of glory and renown. Large before, the country has now, by +recent events, becomes vastly larger. + +This republic now extends, with a vast breadth, across the whole continent. +The two great seas of the world wash the one and the other shore. We +realize, on a mighty scale, the beautiful description of the ornamental +edging of the buckler of Achilles-- + + "Now the broad shield complete, the artist crowned + With his last hand, and poured the ocean round; + In living silver seemed the waves to roll, + And beat the buckler's verge, and bound the whole." + + + + +IN ARABIA. + +BY JAMES BERRY BENSEL, 1856. + + + "Choose thou between!" and to his enemy + The Arab chief a brawny hand displayed, + Wherein, like moonlight on a sullen sea, + Gleamed the gray scimitar's enamelled blade. + + "Choose thou between death at my hand and thine! + Close in my power, my vengeance I may wreak, + Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like mine + Is noble still. Thou hast thy choosing--speak!" + + And Ackbar stood. About him all the band + That hailed his captor chieftain, with grave eyes + His answer waited, while that heavy hand + Stretched like a bar between him and the skies. + + Straight in the face before him Ackbar sent + A sneer of scorn, and raised his noble head; + "Strike!" and the desert monarch, as content, + Rehung the weapon at his girdle red. + + Then Ackbar nearer crept and lifted high + His arms toward the heaven so far and blue + Wherein the sunset rays began to die, + While o'er the band, a deeper silence grew. + + "Strike! I am ready! Did'st thou think to see + A son of Gheva spill upon the dust + His noble blood? Did'st hope to have my knee + Bend at thy feet, and with one mighty thrust, + + "The life thou hatest flee before thee here? + Shame on thee! on thy race! Art thou the one + Who hast so long his vengeance counted dear? + My hate is greater; I did strike thy son, + + "Thy one son, Noumid, dead before my face; + And by the swiftest courser of my stud + Sent to thy door his corpse. And one might trace + Their flight across the desert by his blood. + + "Strike! for my hate is greater than thy own!" + But with a frown the Arab moved away, + Walked to a distant palm and stood alone + With eyes that looked where purple mountains lay. + + This for an instant; then he turned again + Toward the place where Ackbar waited still, + Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain, + Or with a hateful mission to fulfil. + + "Strike! for I hate thee!" Ackbar cried once more, + "Nay, but my hate I cannot find!" said now + His enemy. "Thy freedom I restore, + Live, life were worse than death to such as thou." + + So with his gift of life, the Bedouin slept + That night untroubled; but when dawn broke through + The purple East, and o'er his eyelids crept + The long, thin finger of the light, he drew + + A heavy breath and woke. Above him shone + A lifted dagger--"Yea, he gave thee life, + But I give death!" came in fierce undertone, + And Ackbar died. It was dead Noumid's wife. + + + + +The New Year Ledger. + +BY AMELIA E. BARR. + + + I said one year ago, + "I wonder, if I truly kept + A list of days when life burnt low, + Of days I smiled and days I wept, + If good or bad would highest mount + When I made up the year's account?" + + I took a ledger fair and fine, + "And now," I said, "when days are glad, + I'll write with bright red ink the line, + And write with black when they are bad, + So that they'll stand before my sight + As clear apart as day and night. + + "I will not heed the changing skies, + Nor if it shine nor if it rain; + But if there comes some sweet surprise, + Or friendship, love or honest gain, + Why, then it shall be understood + That day is written down as good. + + "Or if to anyone I love + A blessing meets them on the way, + That will to me a pleasure prove: + So it shall be a happy day; + And if some day, I've cause to dread + Pass harmless by, I'll write it red. + + "When hands and brain stand labor's test, + And I can do the thing I would, + Those days when I am at my best + Shall all be traced as very good. + And in 'red letter,' too, I'll write + Those rare, strong hours when right is might. + + "When first I meet in some grand book + A noble soul that touches mine, + And with this vision I can look + Through some gate beautiful of time, + That day such happiness will shed + That golden-lined will seem the red. + + "And when pure, holy thoughts have power + To touch my heart and dim my eyes, + And I in some diviner hour + Can hold sweet converse with the skies, + Ah! then my soul may safely write: + 'This day has been most good and bright.'" + + What do I see on looking back? + A red-lined book before me lies, + With here and there a thread of black, + That like a gloomy shadow flies,-- + A shadow it must be confessed, + That often rose in my own breast. + + And I have found it good to note + The blessing that is mine each day; + For happiness is vainly sought + In some dim future far away. + Just try my ledger for a year, + Then look with grateful wonder back, + And you will find, there is no fear, + The red days far exceed the black. + + + + +GOOD READING THE GREATEST ACCOMPLISHMENT. + +BY JOHN S. HART, LL.D. + + +There is one accomplishment, in particular, which I would earnestly +recommend to you. Cultivate assiduously the ability to read well. I stop to +particularize this, because it is a thing so very much neglected, and +because it is such an elegant and charming accomplishment. Where one person +is really interested by music, twenty are pleased by good reading. Where +one person is capable of becoming a skillful musician, twenty may become +good readers. Where there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of +musical talent, there are twenty for that of good reading. + +The culture of the voice necessary for reading well, gives a delightful +charm to the same voice in conversation. Good reading is the natural +exponent and vehicle of all good things. It is the most effective of all +commentaries upon the works of genius. It seems to bring dead authors to +life again, and makes us sit down familiarly with the great and good of all +ages. + +Did you ever notice what life and power the Holy Scriptures have when well +read? Have you ever heard of the wonderful effects produced by Elizabeth +Fry on the criminals of Newgate, by simply reading to them the parable of +the Prodigal Son? Princes and peers of the realm, it is said, counted it a +privilege to stand in the dismal corridors, among felons and murderers, +merely to share with them the privilege of witnessing the marvelous pathos +which genius, taste, and culture could infuse into that simple story. + +What a fascination there is in really good reading! What a power it gives +one! In the hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, in the +domestic and in the social circle, among chosen friends and companions, how +it enables you to minister to the amusement, to the comfort, the pleasure +of dear ones, as no other art or accomplishment can. No instrument of man's +devising can reach the heart as does that most wonderful instrument, the +human voice. It is God's special gift and endowment to his chosen +creatures. Fold it not away in a napkin. + +If you would double the value of all your other acquisitions, if you would +add immeasurably to your own enjoyment and to your power of promoting the +enjoyment of others, cultivate, with incessant care, this divine gift. No +music below the skies is equal to that of pure, silvery speech from the +lips of a man or woman of high culture. + + + + +PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. + +BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + 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 to-night, + 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 row'd 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 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 the 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 at the landscape far and near, + Then, impetuous, stamped the earth + And turned and lighted 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 hurry of hoofs in the 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 had 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's 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 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 twitter 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 redcoats 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 for evermore! + 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. + + + + +BY SPECIAL REQUEST. + +BY FRANK CASTLES. + +_A Lady Standing with one Hand on a Chair in a Somewhat Amateurish +Attitude._ + + +Our kind hostess has asked me to recite something, "by special request," +but I really don't know what to do. I have only a very small _repertoire_, +and I'm afraid you know all my stock recitations. What shall I do? +(_Pause._) I have it; I'll give you something entirely original. I'll tell +you about my last experience of reciting, which really is the cause of my +being so nervous to-night. I began reciting about a year ago; I took +elocution lessons with Mr. ----; no, I won't tell you his name, I want to +keep him all to myself. I studied the usual things with him--the "Mercy" +speech from the "Merchant of Venice," and Juliet's "Balcony scene," but I +somehow never could imagine my fat, red-faced, snub-nosed old master +(there! I've told you who he was), I never could fancy him as an ideal +Romeo; he looked much more like Polonius, or the Ghost before he was a +ghost--I mean as he probably was in the flesh. + +My elocution master told me that Shakespeare was not my forte, so I studied +some more modern pieces. He told me I was getting on very well--"one of my +most promising pupils," but I found that he said that to every one. + +Well, it soon became known that I recited (one must have _some_ little +vices, you know, just to show up one's virtues). I received an invitation +from Lady Midas for a musical evening last Friday, and in a postscript, "We +hope you will favor us with a recitation." Very flattering, wasn't it? + +I went there fully primed with three pieces--"The Lifeboat," by Sims, "The +Lost Soul," and Calverley's "Waiting." I thought that I had hit on a +perfectly original selection; but I was soon undeceived. There were a great +many people at Lady Midas', quite fifty, I should think, or perhaps two +hundred; but I'm very bad at guessing numbers. We had a lot of music. A +young man, with red hair and little twinkling light eyes, sang a song by De +Lara, but it did not sound as well as when I heard the composer sing it. +Then two girls played a banjo duet; then--no, we had another song first, +then a girl with big eyes and an ugly dress--brown nun's veiling with +yellow lace, and beads, and ribbons, and sham flowers and all sorts of +horrid things, so ugly, I'm sure it was made at home. Well--where was I? +Oh, yes!--she stood up and recited, what do you think? Why, "Calverley's +Waiting!" Oh! I was so cross when it came to the last verses; you remember +how they go (_imitating_)-- + + "'Hush! hark! I see a hovering form! + From the dim distance slowly rolled; + It rocks like lilies in a storm, + And oh! its hues are green and gold. + + 'It comes, it comes! Ah! rest is sweet, + And there is rest, my babe, for us!' + She ceased, as at her very feet + Stopped the St. John's Wood omnibus." + +Well, when I heard that I felt inclined to cry. Just imagine how provoking; +one of the pieces I had been practicing for weeks past. Oh, it _was_ +annoying! After that there was a violin solo, then another--no, then I had +an ice, such a nice young man, just up from Aldershot, _very_ young, but +_so_ amusing, and so full of somebody of "ours" who had won something, or +lost something, I could not quite make out which. + +Then we came back to the drawing-room, and an elderly spinster, with curls, +sang, "Oh that we two were Maying," and the young man from Aldershot said, +"Thank goodness we aren't." + +Afterward I had another ice, not because I wanted it, not a bit, but the +young man from Aldershot said he was _so_ thirsty. + +Then I saw a youth with long hair and badly-fitting clothes. I thought he +was going to sing, but he wasn't; oh no! much worse! he recited. When I +heard the first words I thought I should faint (_imitating_): + + "Been out in the lifeboat often? Aye, aye, sir, oft enough. + When it's rougher than this? Lor' bless you, this ain't what _we_ calls + rough." + +How well I knew the lines! Wasn't it cruel? However, I had one hope +left--my "Lost Soul," a beautiful poem, serious and sentimental. The +æsthetic youth was so tedious that the young man from Aldershot asked me to +come into the conservatory, and really I was so vexed and disappointed that +I think I would have gone into the coal-cellar if he had asked me. + +We went into the conservatory and had a nice long talk, all about----well, +it would take too long to tell you now, and besides it would not interest +_you_. + +All at once mamma came in, and I felt rather frightened at first (I don't +know why), but she was laughing and smiling. "O, Mary," she said, "that +æsthetic young man has been so funny; they encored 'The Lifeboat,' so he +recited a very comic piece of poetry, that sent us all into fits of +laughter, it was called 'The Fried Sole,' a parody on 'The Lost Soul' that +you used to recite." + +Alas! my last hope was wrecked; I could not read after that! I believe I +burst into tears. Anyhow, mamma hurried me off in a cab, and I cried all +the way home and--and--I forgot to say good-night to the young man from +Aldershot. Wasn't it a pity? + +And you see that's why I don't like to recite anything to-night. (_Some one +from the audience comes up and whispers to her_). No! really, have I? How +stupid! I'm told that I've been reciting all this time. I am so sorry; will +you ever forgive me? I do beg pardon; I'll never do it again! (_Runs out._) + + + + +NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. + + [Found in the Knapsack of a Soldier of the Civil War + After He Had Been Slain in Battle.] + + + Near the camp-fire's flickering light, + In my blanket bed I lie, + Gazing through the shades of night + And the twinkling stars on high; + O'er me spirits in the air + Silent vigils seem to keep, + As I breathe my childhood's prayer, + "Now I lay me down to sleep." + + Sadly sings the whip-poor-will + In the boughs of yonder tree; + Laughingly the dancing rill + Swells the midnight melody. + Foemen may be lurking near, + In the cañon dark and deep; + Low I breathe in Jesus' ear: + "I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep." + + 'Mid those stars one face I see-- + One the Saviour turned away-- + Mother, who in infancy + Taught my baby lips to pray; + Her sweet spirit hovers near + In this lonely mountain-brake. + Take me to her Saviour dear + "If I should die before I wake." + + Fainter grows the flickering light, + As each ember slowly dies; + Plaintively the birds of night + Fill the air with sad'ning cries; + Over me they seem to cry: + "You may never more awake." + Low I lisp: "If I should die, + I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take." + + Now I lay me down to sleep; + I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep. + If I should die before I wake, + I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take. + + + + +THE AMERICAN UNION. + +BY DANIEL WEBSTER. + + +I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the +prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our +Federal Union. It is to that union we owe our safety at home, and our +consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that union that we are chiefly +indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. + +That union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues, in the severe +school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered +finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign +influences, these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and +sprang forth with newness of life. + +Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and +its blessings; and although our territory has stretched out wider and +wider, and our population spread further and further, they have not outrun +its protection, or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain +of national, social, and personal happiness. + +I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the union, to see what might +lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances +of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be +broken asunder. + +I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see +whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below; +nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this +government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how +the union should be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the +condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. + +While the union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread +out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate +the veil. God grant that, in my day at least, that curtain may not rise! +God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind! + +When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in +heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of +a once glorious union; on states dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a +land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! + +Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous +ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still +full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original +lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured, +bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as, What is all this +worth? nor those other words of delusion and folly, Liberty first, and +union afterward; but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living +light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over +the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, +dear to every true American heart, liberty and union now and forever, one +and inseparable! + + + + +THE POPPY LAND LIMITED EXPRESS. + +BY EDGAR WADE ABBOT. + + + The first train leaves at six p. m. + For the land where the poppy blows; + The mother dear is the engineer, + And the passenger laughs and crows. + + The palace car is the mother's arms; + The whistle, a low, sweet strain: + The passenger winks, and nods, and blinks, + And goes to sleep in the train! + + At eight p. m. the next train starts + For the poppy land afar, + The summons clear falls on the ear: + "All aboard for the sleeping-car!" + + But what is the fare to poppy land? + I hope it is not too dear. + The fare is this, a hug and a kiss, + And it's paid to the engineer! + + So I ask of Him who children took + On His knee in kindness great, + "Take charge, I pray, of the trains each day, + That leave at six and eight. + + "Keep watch of the passengers," thus I pray, + "For to me they are very dear, + And special ward, O gracious Lord, + O'er the gentle engineer." + + + + +MOTHER, HOME, AND HEAVEN. + + +Mother, Home, and Heaven, says a writer, are three of the most beautiful +words in the English language. And truly I think that they may be well +called so--what word strikes so forcibly upon the heart as mother? Coming +from childhood's sunny lips, it has a peculiar charm; for it speaks of one +to whom they look and trust for protection. + +A mother is the truest friend we have; when trials heavy and sudden fall +upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends, who +rejoiced with us in our sunshine, desert us when troubles thicken around +us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and +counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to +our hearts. + +The kind voice of a mother has often been the means of reclaiming an erring +one from the path of wickedness to a life of happiness and prosperity. + +The lonely convict, immured in his dreary cell, thinks of the innocent days +of his childhood, and feels that though other friends forsake him, he has +still a guardian angel watching over him; and that, however dark his sins +may have been, they have all been forgiven and forgotten by her. + +Mother is indeed a sweet name, and her station is indeed a holy one; for in +her hands are placed minds, to be moulded almost at her will; aye, fitted +to shine--not much, it is true, on earth, compared, if taught aright, with +the dazzling splendor which awaits them in heaven. + +Home! how often we hear persons speak of the home of their childhood. Their +minds seem to delight in dwelling upon the recollections of joyous days +spent beneath the parental roof, when their young and happy hearts were as +light and free as the birds who made the woods resound with the melody of +their cheerful voices. What a blessing it is, when weary with care, and +burdened with sorrow, to have a home to which we can go, and there, in the +midst of friends we love, forget our troubles and dwell in peace and +quietness. + +Heaven! that land of quiet rest--toward which those, who, worn down and +tired with the toils of earth, direct their frail barks over the troubled +waters of life, and after a long and dangerous passage, find it--safe in +the haven of eternal bliss. Heaven is the home that awaits us beyond the +grave. There the friendships formed on earth, and which cruel death has +severed, are never more to be broken: and parted friends shall meet again, +never more to be separated. + +It is an inspiring hope that, when we separate here on earth at the +summons of death's angel, and when a few more years have rolled over the +heads of those remaining, if "faithful unto death," we shall meet again in +Heaven, our eternal _home_, there to dwell in the presence of our Heavenly +Father, and go no more out forever. + + + + +PRAYING FOR SHOES. + +BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. + +_A True Incident._ + + + On a dark November morning, + A lady walked slowly down + The thronged, tumultuous thoroughfare + Of an ancient seaport town. + + Of a winning and gracious beauty, + The peace of her pure young face + Was soft as the gleam of an angel's dream + In the calms of a heavenly place. + + Her eyes were fountains of pity, + And the sensitive mouth expressed + A longing to set the kind thoughts free + In music that filled her breast. + + She met, by a bright shop window, + An urchin timid and thin, + Who, with limbs that shook and a yearning look, + Was mistily glancing in + At the rows and varied clusters + Of slippers and shoes outspread, + Some shimmering keen, but of sombre sheen, + Some purple and green and red. + + His pale lips moved and murmured; + But of what, she could not hear. + And oft on his folded hands would fall + The round of a bitter tear. + + "What troubles you, child?" she asked him, + In a voice like the May-wind sweet. + He turned, and while pointing dolefully + To his naked and bleeding feet, + + "I was praying for shoes," he answered; + "Just look at the splendid show! + I was praying to God for a single pair, + The sharp stones hurt me so!" + + She led him, in museful silence, + At once through the open door, + And his hope grew bright, like a fairy light, + That flickered and danced before! + + And there he was washed and tended + And his small, brown feet were shod; + And he pondered there on his childish prayer, + And the marvelous answer of God. + + Above them his keen gaze wandered, + How strangely from shop to shelf, + Till it almost seemed that he fondly dreamed + Of looking on God Himself. + + The lady bent over, and whispered, + "Are you happier now, my lad?" + He started, and all his soul flashed forth + In a gratitude swift and glad. + + "Happy?--Oh, yes!--I am happy!" + Then (wonder with reverence rife, + His eyes aglow, and his voice sunk low), + "Please tell me! Are you God's wife?" + + + + +RUM'S DEVASTATION AND DESTINY. + +BY HON. WILLIAM SULLIVAN. + + [In a discourse delivered before the Massachusetts + Society for the Suppression of Intemperance, on the + twenty-third of May, 1832, Hon. William Sullivan, one + of the vice-presidents of the society, gave an account + of the discovery of the art of distilling wine from + brandy, showing that it was made some five or six + hundred years ago, by an alchemist who was in search of + the means of acquiring "inexhaustible riches and + perpetual youth." After having spoken of the origin of + alcohol, the speaker imagines it to be "the office of + history to announce the future, instead of recording + the past," and assuming to stand beside the man who + made the discovery, delivered the following eloquent + address detailing the melancholy consequences of this + discovery, and forecasting the blessings which shall + result from the final overthrow of the rum fiend.] + + +In your researches after that which you should, at once, have known to be +impossible, by the laws of nature, you have opened a fountain of misery +which shall flow for ages. You have not contented yourself with pressing +out the juices of the fruits bestowed upon you, and converting these into +strong drink which you needed not,--but you have taken this strong drink, +and the harvest, which was given to you for food, and have drawn from these +a liquid which is not food and which will not nourish nor sustain your +earthly frame. This liquid shall be a curse upon you and your descendants. +It shall be known wherever the arts of civilization are known. You shall +call it the _elixir of life_. You shall believe it to be nutritious to the +body and gladdening to the soul. The love of it shall grow with the use of +it. It shall soothe the solitary hour and cheer the festive board. It shall +charm away your griefs, and be the cause of your rejoicings. It shall be +the inducement to communion and the bond of friendship. It shall be prized +alike by the high and the low. It shall be the joy of princes as well as of +the meanest of mortals. It shall be the stimulant to laborious toil, and +the reward for labor done. It shall be bought and sold, and make the dealer +therein rich. It shall yield abundant revenues to sovereignty. Hospitality +shall be dishonored in not offering it to the guest, and the guest shall be +disgraced in not receiving it at the hand of his host. + +But----it shall visit your limbs with palsy; it shall extinguish the pride +of man; it shall make the husband hateful to the wife, and the wife +loathsome to the husband; it shall annihilate the love of offspring; it +shall make members of society a shame and a reproach to each other, and to +all among whom they dwell. It shall steal from the virtuous and the +honorable their good name, and shall make the strong and the vigorous to +totter along the streets of cities. It shall pervert the law of habit, +designed to strengthen you in the path of duty, and bind you in its iron +chain. It shall disgrace the judge upon the bench, the minister in the +sacred desk, and the senator in his exalted seat. It shall make your food +tasteless, your mouth to burn as with a fever, and your stomach to tremble +as with disease. It shall cause the besotted mother to overlay her newborn, +unconscious that it dies beneath the pressure of her weight; the natural +cravings of the infant shall make it strive to awaken her who has passed, +unheeded, to her last long sleep. The son shall hide his face that he may +not behold his father's depravity; and the father shall see the object of +his fondest hopes turn to a foul and bloated carcass, that hurries to the +grave. It shall turn the children of men into raving maniacs; and the +broken ties of blood and affection shall find no relief but in the friendly +coming of Death. As the seed which man commits to the earth comes forth +into that which he converts into spirit, so shall this product of his own +invention be as seed in his own heart, to bring forth violence, rapine and +murder. It shall cause man to shut up his fellow-man in the solitude of the +grated cell. The prisoner shall turn pale and tremble, in his loneliness, +at the presence of his own thoughts; he shall come forth to die, in cold +blood, by the hand of his fellow, with the spectacle of _religious homage +on a scaffold_, and amid the gaze of curious thousands. Poverty shall be +made squalid and odious, even so that Charity shall turn away her face in +disgust. It shall attract the pestilence that walks, even at noon-day, in +darkness, to the very vitals of the drunkard, as carrion invites the +far-sighted birds of prey. The consumer of spirit shall be found dead in +the highway, with the exhausted vessel by his side. Yea, the drunkard shall +kindle a fire in his own bosom which shall not depart from him till he is +turned to ashes. The dropsical drunkard shall die in his delirium, and the +fluid which has gathered in his brain shall smell like spirit, and like +spirit shall burn. A feeble frame, an imbecile mind, torturing pain and +incurable madness shall be of the inheritance which drunkards bequeath, to +run with their blood to innocent descendants. + +The wise men, who assemble in the halls; of legislation, shall be blind to +this ruin, desolation, and misery. Nay, they shall license the sale of this +poison, and shall require of dignified magistrates to certify how much +thereof shall be sold for the "PUBLIC GOOD." + +This minister of woe and wretchedness shall roam over the earth at +pleasure. It shall be found in every country of the Christian; it shall go +into every city, into every village, and into every house. But it shall not +visit the country of the heathen, nor spread woe and wretchedness among +them, but by the hands of Christians. + +The light of reason shall at length break upon the benighted and afflicted +world. The truth shall be told. It shall be believed. The causes of +calamity shall be unveiled. The friends of the human race shall speak and +be respected. Rational man shall be ashamed of his follies and his crimes, +and humbled to the dust that he was so long ignorant of their origin. +Governments shall be ashamed that they so long tolerated and sustained the +most costly and cruel foe that man has ever encountered. Avarice itself +shall be conscience-stricken and penitent. It shall remain where nature +placed it for use; and it shall be odious in the sight of _Heaven_ and of +_Earth_ to convert the fruits of the soil into poison. + + + + +THE DAUGHTER OF THE DESERT. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + + An opulent lord of Ispahan, + In luxury, lolled on a silk divan, + Dreaming the idle hours away + In a cloud of smoke from his nargile. + Weary with nothing to do in life, + He thought, as he watched the smoky whirls, + "'Twill be diversion to choose a wife + From my peerless bevy of dancing-girls. + There are beauties fair from every land-- + Lustrous eyes from Samarcand, + Dusky forms from the upper Nile, + Teeth that glisten when red lips smile, + Gypsy faces of olive hue, + Stolen from some wild wandering clan, + Fair complexions and eyes of blue, + From the sunny isles of Cardachan, + Regal beauties of queenly grace + And sinuous sirens of unknown race; + Some one among them will surely bless + Hours that grow heavy with idleness." + Then the slave that waited his lightest need, + Fell on his knee, by the silk divan, + And the swarthy, listening ear gave heed + To the will of the lord of Ispahan. + + "Send hither my dancing-girls," he said, + "And set me a feast to please the eye + And tempt the palate, for this shall be + A wedding breakfast before us spread, + If the charm of beauty can satisfy + And one of their number pleaseth me. + I will wed no maiden of high degree + With the tips of her fingers henna-stained + And the dew of youth from her life-blood drained, + But a child of nature wild and free." + + Then the slave bent low and said: "O Sire, + A woman lingers beside the gate; + Her eyes are aglow like coals of fire + And she mourns as one disconsolate; + And when we bid her to cease and go, + Each eye grows bright, like an evening star, + And she sayeth: 'The master will hear my woe, + For I come from the deserts of Khandakar.'" + "Bid her to enter," the master said, + And the frown from his forehead swiftly fled. + The hasty word on his lip way stayed + As he thought of his youth, in the land afar, + And the peerless eyes of a Bedouin maid, + In the desert places of Khandakar. + The woman entered and swift unwound + The veil that mantled her face around, + And in matchless beauty, she stood arrayed, + In the scant attire of a Bedouin maid. + The indolent lord of Ispahan + Started back on the silk divan, + For in form and feature, in very truth, + It seemed the love of his early youth. + The almond eyes and the midnight hair, + The rosebud mouth and the rounded chin-- + Time had not touched them; they still were fair, + And the passion of yore grew strong within. + Then she made him the secret Bedouin sign, + Which only dishonor can fail to heed; + The solemn pact of the races nine, + To help each other in time of need. + But her eyes beheld no answering sign, + Though a crimson tide to his forehead ran, + And the trembling maiden could not divine + The will of the lord of Ispahan. + With the sound of a rippling mountain brook, + The voice of the woman her lips forsook; + And thus her tale of despair began + In the lordly palace of Ispahan: + + "On a stallion black as the midnight skies, + From a desert I come, where my lover lies + At death's dark verge; and the hostile clan + That struck him down, are in Ispahan + With slaves to sell, in the open street; + And only because my steed was fleet + Am I now free; but here I bide, + For this morning the hard-rid stallion died. + Out of your opulence, one swift steed + Only a drop from the sea will be; + A grain of sand on the shore, to my need; + But the wealth of the whole, wide world to me. + My soul to the soul of my loved one cries, + At dawn or in darkness, whate'er betide, + And the pain of longing all peace denies, + To the heart that strains to my lover's side." + "You shall mourn no more, but sit with me + And rejoice in a scene of revelry; + For the pleasures of life are the rights of man," + Said the indolent lord of Ispahan. + + The curtains parted and noiseless feet + Of dusky slaves stole over the floor. + Their strong arms laden with burden sweet + Of fruits and flowers a goodly store. + Luscious peaches and apricots, + Plucked from the sunniest garden spots; + Syrian apples and cordials rare; + Succulent grapes that filled the air + With heavy sweetness, while rivers ran, + From beakers of wine from Astrakhan; + Cooling salvers of colored ice; + Almonds powdered with fragrant spice; + Smoking viands, on plates of gold, + And carven vessels of price untold, + Kindling the appetite afresh + For dainty morsels of fowl and flesh. + The musical notes of the mellow flute, + From a source remote, rose higher and higher, + With the quivering sounds from a hidden lute, + The plaintive sweep of the tender lyre. + + Then a whirlwind of color filled the air-- + A misty vapor of filmy lace, + With gleams of silk and of round arms bare, + In a mazy whirl of infinite grace; + And the lustrous glow of tresses blent + With the shimmer of pearls, from the Orient. + The half-sobbed, breathless, sweet refrain, + A swelling burst of sensuous sound, + Sank lower to swell and sink again, + Then died in silence most profound. + The panting beauties with cheeks aglow, + Scattered about on the rug-strewn floor, + Like bright-hued leaves when the chill winds blow, + Or tinted sea-shells along the shore. + But the lord of the palace turned and cried; + "Heavy and languid these maidens are." + And he said, to the Bedouin at his side: + "Teach them the dances of Khandakar." + Her dark eyes lit with the flash of fire, + And she said: "You will pity my need most dire? + You will give me steed to fly afar, + To my love in the deserts of Khandakar?" + "Half that I own shall be yours," he said, + "If the love of my youth that was under ban + Comes back to me like a soul from the dead + Bringing joy to the palace of Ispahan." + + She sprang to the floor with an agile bound. + The music broke in a swirl of sound, + Her hair from its fillet became unbound. + And the dancing-girls that stood apart, + Gazed rapt and speechless, with hand to heart, + At the wild, untrammelled curves of grace + Of the dancing-girl from the desert race. + Not one of them half so fair to see; + Not one as lithe in the sinuous twist + Of twirling body and bending knee, + Of supple ankle and curving wrist. + The wilder the music, the wilder she; + It seemed like the song of a bird set free + To thrill in the heart of a cloud of mist + And live on its own mad ecstasy. + Spellbound and mute, on the silk divan, + Sat the lord of the palace of Ispahan. + + But the thoughts of the master were drifting far + To his youth in the deserts of Khandakar; + To the time when another had danced as well, + And listened with tenderness in her eyes, + To the burning words his lips might tell, + With kisses freighting her soft replies. + And he had thought that her smile would bless + His roving life, in the land afar, + And cheer him in hours of loneliness, + In the tents of the deserts of Khandakar. + But the tribe had chosen the maid to wed + With the powerful chief of a hostile clan, + And the flattered woman had turned and fled + From the pleading voice of a stricken man; + Then out of the desert the lover sped, + To become a great lord of Ispahan. + + And now this child, with the subtle grace + Of the mother that bore her, had come to him + With the desert's breath upon her face, + Rousing within him a purpose grim. + "By the beard of the Prophet! but you shall be + The light and the joy of my life to me! + As your mother was, you are to-day. + Your lover, perchance, hath lived his span; + You shall dry your maidenly tears and stay + As the wife of the lord of Ispahan." + That night, when the dusky shadows crept + Across the tiles of the banquet-room, + They found the form of a man who slept + On a silk divan, in the gathering gloom. + The window screens were wide to the air, + And the hedge, where the fragrant roses grew, + Was cleft and trodden to earth, just where + A frightened fugitive might pass through. + + And the groom of the stables, heavy with wine, + Wakened not at the prancing tread + Of the milk-white steed and made no sign, + As the Bedouin maid from the palace fled. + And the indolent lord of Ispahan + Seemed resting still, on the silk divan; + But his heart was beating with love no more, + In his eyes no light of passion gleamed; + His listless fingers touched the floor, + Where the crimson tide of his life-blood streamed, + And he slept the last, long, dreamless sleep; + For the end had come to life's brief span; + And his jewelled dagger was handle deep, + In the heart of the lord of Ispahan. + + + + +HORNETS. + +BY BILL NYE. + + +Last fall I desired to add to my rare collection a large hornet's nest. I +had an embalmed tarantula and her porcelain-lined nest, and I desired to +add to these the gray and airy house of the hornet. I procured one of the +large size, after cold weather, and hung it in my cabinet by a string. I +forgot about it until spring. When warm weather came something reminded me +of it; I think it was a hornet. He jogged my memory in some way, and called +my attention to it. Memory is not located where I thought it was. It seemed +as though when ever he touched me he awakened a memory,--a warm memory, +with a red place all around it. + +Then some more hornets came, and began to rake up old personalities. I +remember that one of them lit on my upper lip. He thought it was a rosebud. +When he went away it looked like a gladiolus bulb. I wrapped a wet sheet +around it to take out the warmth and reduce the swelling, so that I could +go through the folding doors, and tell my wife about it. Hornets lit all +over me, and walked around on my person. I did not dare to scrape them off, +because they were so sensitive. You have to be very guarded in your conduct +toward a hornet. + +I remember once while I was watching the busy little hornet gathering honey +and June-bugs from the bosom of a rose, years ago, I stirred him up with a +club, more as a practical joke than anything, and he came and lit in my +sunny hair;--that was when I wore my own hair--and he walked around through +my gleaming tresses quite a while, making tracks as large as a water-melon +all over my head. If he hadn't run out of tracks my head would have looked +like a load of summer squashes. I remember I had to thump my head against +the smoke-house in order to smash him; and I had to comb him out with a +fine comb, and wear a waste-paper basket two weeks for a hat. Much has +been said of the hornet; but he has an odd, quaint way after all, that is +forever new. + + + + +SINCE SHE WENT HOME. + +BY R. J. BURDETTE. + + + Since she went home-- + The evening shadows linger longer here, + The winter days fill so much of the year, + And even summer winds are chill and drear, + Since she went home. + + Since she went home-- + The robin's note has touched a minor strain, + The old glad songs breathe but a sad refrain, + And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain, + Since she went home. + + Since she went home-- + How still the empty room her presence blessed; + Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed; + My lonely heart has nowhere for its rest, + Since she went home. + + Since she went home-- + The long, long days have crept away like years, + The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears, + And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears, + Since she went home. + + + + +THE CHILDREN WE KEEP. + + + The children kept coming, one by one, + Till the boys were five and the girls were three, + And the big brown house was alive with fun + From the basement floor to the old roof-tree. + Like garden flowers the little ones grew, + Nurtured and trained with the tenderest care; + Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in its dew, + They bloomed into beauty, like roses rare. + + But one of the boys grew weary one day, + And leaning his head on his mother's breast, + He said, "I'm tired and cannot play; + Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest." + She cradled him close in her fond embrace, + She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song, + And rapturous love still lighted his face + When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng. + + Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes, + Who stood where the "brook and the river meet," + Stole softly away into paradise + Ere "the river" had reached her slender feet. + While the father's eyes on the grave are bent, + The mother looked upward beyond the skies; + "Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent, + Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise." + + The years flew by and the children began + With longing to think of the world outside; + And as each, in his turn, became a man, + The boys proudly went from the father's side. + The girls were women so gentle and fair + That lovers were speedy to woo and win; + And with orange blossoms in braided hair, + The old home was left, the new home to begin. + + So, one by one, the children have gone,-- + The boys were five and the girls were three; + And the big brown house is gloomy and lone, + With but two old folks for its company. + They talk to each other about the past, + As they sit together in eventide, + And say, "All the children we keep at last + Are the boy and the girl who in childhood died." + + + + +AMERICA FOR GOD. + +BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE. + + +But now what are the weapons by which, under our Omnipotent Leader, the +real obstacles in the way of our country's evangelization, the ten thousand +mile Sebastopols, are to be leveled? The first columbiad, with range enough +to sweep from eternity to eternity, is the Bible, millions of its copies +going out, millions on millions. Then there are all the Gospel batteries, +manned by seventy thousand pastors and home missionaries, over the head of +each one of whom is the shield of Divine protection, and in the right hand +of each one the gleaming, two-edged sword of the Infinite Spirit! Hundreds +of thousands of private soldiers for Christ, marching under the +one-starred, blood-striped flag of Emanuel! On our side, the great and +mighty theologians of the land the heavy artillery, and the hundreds of +thousands of Christian children the infantry. They are marching on! +Episcopacy, with the sublime roll of its liturgies; Methodism, with its +battle-cry of "The sword of the Lord and John Wesley;" the Baptist Church, +with its glorious navy sailing up our Oregons and Sacramentos and +Mississippis; and Presbyterians, moving on with the battle-cry of "The +sword of the Lord and John Knox." And then, after awhile will come the +great tides of revival, sweeping over the land, the five hundred thousand +conversions in 1857 eclipsed by the salvation of millions in a day, and the +four American armies of the Lord's host marching toward each other, the +Eastern army marching west, the Western army marching east, the Northern +army marching south, the Southern army marching north; shoulder to +shoulder! Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! until they meet mid-continent, having taken +America for God! + +The thunder of the bombardment is already in the air, and when the last +bridge of opposition is taken, and the last portcullis of Satan is lifted, +and the last gun spiked, and the last tower dismantled, and the last +charger of iniquity shall have been hurled back upon its haunches, what a +time of rejoicing! + + + + +OUR OWN. + +BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER. + + + If I had known, in the morning, + How wearily all the day + The words unkind would trouble my mind + That I said when you went away, + I had been more careful, darling, + Nor given you needless pain; + But--we vex our own with look and tone + We might never take back again. + + For though in the quiet evening + You may give me the kiss of peace, + Yet it well might be that never for me + The pain of the heart should cease; + How many go forth at morning + Who never come home at night, + And hearts have broken for harsh words spoken + That sorrow can ne'er set right. + + We have careful thought for the stranger, + And smiles for the sometime guest, + But oft for our own the bitter tone, + Though we love our own the best. + Ah, lip with the curve impatient, + Ah, brow with the shade of scorn, + 'T were a cruel fate were the night too late + To undue the work of morn. + + + + +BEHIND TIME. + +BY FREEMAN HUNT. + + +A railroad train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. A curve was +just ahead, and beyond it was a station, at which the cars usually passed +each other. The conductor was late, so late that the period during which +the down train was to wait had nearly elapsed; but he hoped yet to pass the +curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an +instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in +eternity; and all because an engineer had been _behind time_. + +A great battle was going on. Column after column had been precipitated for +eight mortal hours on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The +summer sun was sinking to the west; re-inforcements for the obstinate +defenders were already in sight; it was necessary to carry the position +with one final charge, or everything would be lost. A powerful corps had +been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in season all +would yet be well. The great conqueror, confident in its arrival, formed +his reserve into an attacking column, and ordered them to charge the enemy. +The whole world knows the result. Grouchy failed to appear; the imperial +guard was beaten back; Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St. +Helena because one of his marshals was _behind time_. + +A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled against bankruptcy. +As it had enormous assets in California, it expected remittances by a +certain day; and, if the sums promised arrived, its credit, its honor, and +its future prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed +without bringing the gold. At last came the fatal day on which the firm had +bills maturing to enormous amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at +daybreak; but it was found, on inquiry, that she brought no funds, and the +house failed. The next arrival brought nearly half a million to the +insolvents, but it was too late; they were ruined because their agent, in +remitting, had been _behind time_. + +A condemned man was led out for execution. He had taken human life, but +under circumstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was +active in his behalf. Thousands had signed petitions for a reprieve; a +favorable answer had been expected the night before; and, though it had not +come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive in season. +Thus the morning passed without the appearance of the messenger. The last +moment had come. The prisoner took his place on the drop, the cap was drawn +over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in +the wind. Just at that moment a horse-man came into sight, galloping down +hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, +which he waved rapidly to the crowd. He was the express rider with the +reprieve. But he had come too late. A comparatively innocent man had died +an ignominious death, because a watch had been five minutes too slow, +making its bearer arrive _behind time_. + +It is continually so in life. The best-laid plans, the most important +affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor, +happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed because somebody is "behind +time." There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply +because they are "behind time." There are others who put off reformation +year by year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because +forever "_behind time_." + +Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. It is but a little period, yet it +has often saved a fortune or redeemed a people. If there is one virtue that +should be cultivated more than another by him who would succeed in life, it +is punctuality; if there is one error that should be avoided, it is being +_behind time_. + + + + +KITTENS AND BABIES. + +BY LIZZIE M. HADLEY. + + + There were two kittens, a black and a gray, + And grandmamma said, with a frown, + "It never will do to keep them both, + The black one we'd better drown." + + "Don't cry, my dear," to tiny Bess, + "One kitten's enough to keep; + Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing late + And time you were fast asleep." + + The morrow dawned, and rosy and sweet + Came little Bess from her nap. + The nurse said, "Go into mamma's room + And look in grandma's lap." + + "Come here," said grandma, with a smile, + From the rocking-chair where she sat, + "God has sent you two little sisters; + Now! what do you think of that?" + + Bess looked at the babies a moment, + With their wee heads, yellow and brown, + And then to grandma soberly said, + "_Which one are you going to drown_?" + + + + +AN UNACCOUNTABLE MYSTERY. + +BY PAUL DENTON. + + +Intemperance is the strangest and most unaccountable mystery with which we +have to deal. Why, as a rule, the human soul is passionately jealous of its +own happiness, and tirelessly selfish as to its own interest. It delights +to seek the sunshine and the flowers this side the grave: ardently hopes +for heaven in the life to come. It flashes its penetrating thought through +the dark chambers of the earth; or lighted by the lurid flames of +smouldering, volcanic fires, wings them through buried ovens. It lights up +the ocean's bed, melting its mysteries into solution, detecting its coral +richness, and causing its buried pearls, which have rested for long +centuries beneath the black waves, to glow with their long-hoarded beauty. +It holds converse with the glittering planets of the skies and compels them +to tell it of their mountain ranges, their landscapes, and their utility. +It toys with the mad lightnings which break from the darkness, and guides +death and destruction through the earth, until it allures the impetuous +element into docility and subserviency. It bids the panting waters breathe +their hot, heavy breath upon the piston-rod and make the locomotive a +beautiful thing of life, majestically thundering its way over continents, +screaming forth the music of civilization in the midst of wild forests and +the heat of burning deserts, beneath scorching, torrid suns. It leaps over +burning plains and scalding streams; restless and daring, it lights its +casket over arctic zones and seas; and perhaps tiring of such incumbrance, +deserts it in the cold shade of the ice mountain and speeds on untrammeled +and alone. Franklin followed the beckonings of his tireless spirit until +worn out and weary, his body laid down on the cold ice and slept. Kane +coaxed himself home to the old churchyard, and then bade his spirit drop +the machine it had so sadly wrenched and fly through earth or the +eternities, as God might will. Livingstone marched through the jungles and +cheerless forests of uninviting Africa, but his limbs were too feeble to +keep up with his hungry soul, which tore itself from its burden and left it +to crumble beneath the burning sun. And thus the soul flies from zone to +zone and from world to world, sipping the sweets of wisdom, as the bee +sucks honey from the flowers; reading lessons from the leaflet on the tree, +studying the language of the soft whispering zephyr, and of the hurricane +which springs from nothing into devastating power; and it is ever restless +in its researches, for it seeks its own happiness and improvement in its +new discoveries, and in a better knowledge of God's creation. Speak to the +human soul of liberty, and swell it with gratitude, and, beaming with +smiles, it will follow whereever you lead. Speak to it of its immortality +and of the divine grandeur of its faculties, and, warmed by your +appreciation, it will strive harder for a fuller development and brighter +existence. Lead it among the roses, and it will seldom fail to light your +pathway with smiles and to remind you of its gratitude. It loves to be +noticed; loves to be assisted; loves to be made happy; loves to be warned +of danger, and yet, with reference to that which pierces it with the most +bleeding wounds, which more than anything else bars from it the sunlight +and robs it of happiness--Intemperance--IT IS AS HEEDLESS AS THE STONE. + + + + +IMPERFECTUS. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + + I wonder if ever a song was sung, + But the singer's heart sang sweeter! + I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung, + But the thought surpassed the meter! + I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought, + Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought! + Or if ever a painter, with light and shade, + The dream of his inmost heart portrayed! + + I wonder if ever a rose was found, + And there might not be a fairer! + Or if ever a glittering gem was ground, + And we dreamed not of a rarer! + Ah! never on earth do we find the best, + But it waits for us in a Land of Rest, + And a perfect thing we shall never behold, + Till we pass the portals of shining gold. + + + + +A WOMAN'S POCKET. + +BY JAMES M. BAILEY. + + +The most difficult thing to reach is a woman's pocket. This is especially +the case if the dress is hung up in a closet, and the man is in a hurry. We +think we are safe in saying that he always is in a hurry on such an +occasion. The owner of the dress is in the sitting room serenely engrossed +in a book. Having told him that the article which he is in quest of is in +her dress pocket in the closet she has discharged her whole duty in the +matter and can afford to feel serene. He goes at the task with a dim +consciousness that he has been there before, but says nothing. On opening +the closet door and finding himself confronted with a number of dresses, +all turned inside out and presenting a most formidable front, he hastens +back to ask "Which dress?" and being told the brown one, and also asked if +_she_ has so _many_ dresses that there need be any great effort to find the +right one, he returns to the closet with alacrity, and soon has his hands +on the brown dress. It is inside out like the rest,--a fact he does not +notice, however, until he has made several ineffectual attempts to get his +hand into it. Then he turns it around very carefully and passes over the +pocket several times without knowing it. A nervous movement of his hands, +and an appearance of perspiration on his forehead are perceptible. He now +dives one hand in at the back, and feeling around, finds a place, and +proceeds to explore it, when he discovers that he is following up the +inside of a lining. The nervousness increases, also the perspiration. He +twitches the dress on the hook, and suddenly the pocket, white, plump and +exasperating, comes to view. Then he sighs the relief he feels and is +mentally grateful he did not allow himself to use any offensive +expressions. It is all right now. There is the pocket in plain view--not +the inside but the outside--and all he has to do is to put his hand right +around in the inside and take out the article. That is all. He can't help +but smile to think how near he was to getting mad. Then he puts his hand +around to the other side. He does not feel the opening. He pushes a little +further--now he has got it; he shoves the hand down, and is very much +surprised to see it appear opposite his knees. He had made a mistake. He +tries again; again he feels the entrance and glides down it only to appear +again as before. This makes him open his eyes and straighten his face. He +feels of the outside of the pocket, pinches it curiously, lifts it up, +shakes it, and, after peering closely about the roots of it, he says, "How +funny!" and commences again. He does it calmly this time, because hurrying +only makes matters worse. He holds up breadth after breadth, goes over them +carefully, gets his hand first into a lining, then into the air again +(where it always surprises him when it appears), and finally into a pocket, +and is about to cry out with triumph, when he discovers that it is the +pocket to another dress. He is mad now; the closet air almost stifles him; +he is so nervous he can hardly contain himself, and the pocket looks at him +so exasperatingly that he cannot help but "plug" it with his clenched fist, +and immediately does it. Being somewhat relieved by this performance he has +a chance to look about him, and sees that he has put his foot through a +band-box and into the crown of his wife's bonnet; has broken the brim of +his Panama hat which was hanging in the same closet, and torn about a yard +of bugle trimming from a new cloak. All this trouble is due directly to his +wife's infatuation in hanging up her dresses inside out, so he immediately +starts after her, and impetuously urging her to the closet, excitedly and +almost profanely intimates his doubts of their being a pocket in the dress, +anyway. The cause of the unhappy disaster quietly inserts her hand inside +the robe, and directly brings it forth with the sought for article in its +clasp. He doesn't know why, but this makes him madder than anything else. + + + + +MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS. + +BY CHARLES F. ADAMS. + +_El Dorado, 1851._ + + + I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys, + 'N feelin' kind o' blue, + I thought I'd look in at "The Ranch," + Ter find out what wuz new; + When I seed this sign a-hangin' + On a shanty by the lake: + "Here's whar yer get your doughnuts + Like yer mother used ter make." + + I've seen a grizzly show his teeth, + I've seen Kentucky Pete + Draw out his shooter, 'n advise + A "tenderfoot" ter treat; + But nuthin' ever tuk me down, + 'N made my benders shake, + Like that sign about the doughnuts + That my mother used ter make. + + A sort o' mist shut out the ranch, + 'N standin' thar instead, + I seen an old, white farm-house, + With its doors all painted red. + A whiff came through the open door-- + Wuz I sleepin' or awake? + The smell wuz that of doughnuts + Like my mother used ter make. + + The bees wuz hummin' round the porch + Whar honeysuckles grew; + A yellow dish of apple-sass + Wuz settin' thar in view. + 'N on the table, by the stove, + An old-time "Johnny-cake," + 'N a platter full of doughnuts + Like my mother used ter make. + + A patient form I seemed ter see, + In tidy dress of black, + I almost thought I heard the words, + "When will my boy come back?" + 'N then--the old sign creaked: + But now it was the boss who spake: + 'Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts + Like yer mother used ter make. + + Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up, + 'N ez I've "struck pay gravel," + I ruther think I'll pack my kit, + Vamoose the ranch, 'n travel. + I'll make the old folks jubilant, + 'N if I don't mistake, + I'll try some o' them doughnuts + Like my mother used ter make. + + + + +LITERARY ATTRACTIONS OF THE BIBLE. + +BY DR. HAMILTON. + + +God made the present earth as the Home of Man; but had he meant it as a +mere lodging, a world less beautiful would have served the purpose. There +was no need for the carpet of verdure, or the ceiling of blue; no need for +the mountains, and cataracts, and forests; no need for the rainbow, no need +for the flowers. A big, round island, half of it arable, and half of it +pasture, with a clump of trees in one corner, and a magazine of fuel in +another, might have held and fed ten millions of people; and a hundred +islands, all made in the same pattern, big and round, might have held and +fed the population of the globe. + +But man is something more than the animal which wants lodging and food. He +has a spiritual nature, full of keen perceptions and deep sympathies. He +has an eye for the sublime and the beautiful, and his kind Creator has +provided man's abode with affluent materials for these nobler tastes. He +has built Mont Blanc, and molten the lake in which its image sleeps. He has +intoned Niagara's thunder, and has breathed the zephyr which sweeps its +spray. He has shagged the steep with its cedars, and be-sprent the meadow +with its king-cups and daisies. He has made it a world of fragrance and +music,--a world of brightness and symmetry,--a world where the grand and +the graceful, the awful and lovely, rejoice together. In fashioning the +Home of Man, the Creator had an eye to something more than convenience, and +built, not a barrack, but a palace--not a Union work-house, but an +Alhambra; something which should not only be very comfortable, but very +splendid and very fair; something which should inspire the soul of its +inhabitant, and even draw forth the "very good" of complacent Deity. + +God also made the Bible as the guide and oracle of man; but had He meant it +as the mere lesson-book of duty, a volume less various and less attractive +would have answered every end. But in giving that Bible, its divine Author +had regard to the mind of man. He knew that man has more curiosity than +piety, more taste than sanctity; and that more persons are anxious to hear +some new, or read some beauteous thing, than to read or hear about God and +the great salvation. He knew that few would ever ask, "What must I do to be +saved?" till they came in contact with the Bible itself; and, therefore, He +made the Bible not only an instructive book, but an attractive one,--not +only true, but enticing. He filled it with marvelous incident and engaging +history; with sunny pictures from Old World scenery, and affecting +anecdotes from the patriarch times. He replenished it with stately argument +and thrilling verse, and sprinkled it over with sententious wisdom and +proverbial pungency. He made it a book of lofty thoughts and noble +images,--a book of heavenly doctrine, but withal of earthly adaptation. In +preparing a guide to immortality, Infinite Wisdom gave, not a dictionary, +nor a grammar, but a Bible--a book which, in trying to reach the heart of +man, should captivate his taste; and which, in transforming his affection, +should also expand his intellect. The pearl is of great price; but even the +casket is of exquisite beauty. The sword is of ethereal temper, and nothing +cuts so keen as its double edge; but there are jewels on the hilt, an +exquisite inlaying on the scabbard. The shekels are of the purest ore; but +even the scrip which contains them is of a texture more curious than any +which the artists of earth can fashion. The apples are gold; but even the +basket is silver. + +The Bible contains no ornamental passages, nothing written for mere +display; its steadfast purpose is, "Glory to God in the highest," and the +truest blessedness of man; it abounds in passages of the purest beauty and +stateliest grandeur, all the grander and all the more beautiful because +they are casual and unsought. The fire which flashes from the iron hoof of +the Tartar steed as he scours the midnight path is grander than the +artificial firework; for it is the casual effect of speed and power. The +clang of ocean as he booms his billows on the rock, and the echoing caves +give chorus, is more soul-filling and sublime than all the music of the +orchestra, for it is the music of that main so mighty that there is a +grandeur in all it does,--in its sleep a melody, and in its march a stately +psalm. And in the bow which paints the melting cloud there is a beauty +which the stained glass or gorgeous drapery emulates in vain; for it is the +glory which gilds beneficence, the brightness which bespeaks a double boon, +the flush which cannot but come forth when both the sun and shower are +there. The style of Scripture has all this glory. It has the gracefulness +of a high utility; it has the majesty of intrinsic power; it has the charm +of its own sanctity: it never labors, never strives, but, instinct with +great realities and bent on blessed ends, it has all the translucent beauty +and unstudied power which you might expect from its lofty object and +all-wise Author. + + + + +THE CHRISTMAS BABY. + +BY WILL CARLETON. + + "Tha'rt welcome, little bonny brid. + But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did: + Teimes are bad." + + _English Ballad._ + + + Hoot! ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way, + Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day, + Knowin' that we already have three of ye, an' seven, + An' tryin' to make yerself out a Christmas present o' Heaven? + + Ten of ye have we now, Sir, for this world to abuse; + An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat, an' Nellie she have no shoes, + An' Sammie he have no shirt, Sir (I tell it to his shame), + An' the one that was just before ye we ain't had time to name! + + An, all o' the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folk fall; + An' Boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all; + An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight, + An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night; + + An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somewhat to do, + An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through, + An' but for your poor dear mother a-doin' twice her part, + Ye'd 'a seen us all in heaven afore _ye_ was ready to start! + + An' now _ye_ have come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound, + A-weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound! + With yer mother's eyes a flashin', yer father's flesh an' build, + An' a big mouth an' stomach all ready for to be filled! + + No, no! don't cry, my baby! hush up, my pretty one! + Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy--I only was just in fun. + Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'us folks; + But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes! + + Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest? come, sit upon my knee; + I'll tell ye a secret, youngster, I'll name ye after me. + Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play, + An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day! + + Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old, + But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold; + An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, there, + An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair! + + Say! when ye come from heaven, my little name-sake dear, + Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here? + That was yer little sister--she died a year ago, + An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow! + + Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew + Came here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you, + I'd show 'em to the door, Sir, so quick they'd think it odd, + Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from God! + + + + +A DREAM OF THE UNIVERSE. + +BY JEAN PAUL RICHTER. + + +Into the great vestibule of heaven, God called up a man from dreams, +saying, "Come thou hither, and see the glory of my house." And, to the +servants that stood around His throne, He said, "Take him, and undress him +from his robes of flesh; cleanse his vision, and put a new breath into his +nostrils; only touch not with any change his human heart,--the heart that +weeps and trembles." + +It was done; and, with a mighty angel for his guide, the man stood ready +for his infinite voyage; and from the terraces of heaven, without sound or +farewell, at once they wheeled away into endless space. Sometimes, with +solemn flight of angel wings, they fled through Saharas of +darkness,--through wildernesses of death, that divided the world of life; +sometimes they swept over frontiers that were quickening under the +prophetic motions from God. + +Then, from a distance that is counted only in heaven, light dawned for a +time through a sleepy film; by unutterable pace the light swept to them; +they by unutterable pace to the light. In a moment, the rushing of planets +was upon them; in a moment, the blazing of suns was around them. + +Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but were not revealed. On +the right hand and on the left, towered mighty constellations, that by +self-repetition and answers from afar, that by counter-positions, built up +triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose archways--horizontal, +upright--rested, rose--at altitudes by spans that seemed ghostly from +infinitude. Without measure were the architraves, past number were the +archways, beyond memory the gates. + +Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below; above was +below,--below was above, to the man stripped of gravitating body; depth was +swallowed up in height insurmountable; height was swallowed up in depth +unfathomable. Suddenly, as thus they rode from infinite to infinite; +suddenly, as thus they tilted over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose that +systems more mysterious, that worlds more billowy, other heights and other +depths, were coming--were nearing--were at hand. + +Then the man sighed, and stopped, and shuddered, and wept. His overladen +heart uttered itself in tears; and he said, "Angel, I will go no farther; +for the spirit of man acheth with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory +of God. Let me lie down in the grave, and hide me from the persecutions of +the Infinite; for end, I see, there is none." + +And from all the listening stars that shone around, issued a choral cry, +"The man speaks truly; end there is none that ever yet we heard of." "End +is there none?" the angel solemnly demanded: "Is there indeed no end, and +is this the sorrow that kills you?" But no voice answered that he might +answer himself. Then the angel threw up his glorious hands toward the +heaven of heavens, saying, "End is there none to the universe of God! Lo, +also there is no beginning!" + + + + +KEENAN'S CHARGE. + +BY GEORGE P. LATHROP. + +(_Chancellorsville, May, 1863._) + + + The sun had set; + The leaves with dew were wet; + Down fell a bloody dusk + On the woods, that second of May, + Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey, + Tore through, with angry tusk. + + "They've trapped us, boys!"-- + Rose from our flank a voice. + With a rush of steel and smoke + On came the Rebels straight, + Eager as love and wild as hate: + And our line reeled and broke; + Broke and fled. + No one staid--but the dead! + With curses, shrieks and cries, + Horses and wagons and men + Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, + And above us the fading skies. + + There's one hope, still,-- + Those batteries parked on the hill! + "Battery, wheel!" (mid the roar) + "Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire + Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire + A bugle rings "Trot"--and no more. + + The horses plunged, + The cannon lurched and lunged, + To join the hopeless rout. + But suddenly rode a form + Calmly in front of the human storm, + With a stern, commanding shout: + + "Align those guns!" + (We knew it was Pleasonton's) + The cannoneers bent to obey, + And worked with a will, at his word: + And the black guns moved as if _they_ had heard. + But ah, the dread delay! + + "To wait is crime; + O God, for ten minutes' time!" + The general looked around. + There Keenan sat, like a stone, + With his three hundred horse alone-- + Less shaken than the ground. + + "Major, your men?" + "Are soldiers, General." "Then, + Charge, Major! Do your best: + Hold the enemy back, at all cost, + Till my guns are placed;--else the army is lost. + You die to save the rest!" + + By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, + Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes + For an instant,--clear, and cool, and still; + Then, with a smile, he said: "I will." + "Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank. + Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, + Rose joyously, with a willing breath, + Rose like a greeting hail to death. + Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed; + Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed; + Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, + In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; + And above in the air with an instinct true, + Like a bird of war their pennon flew. + + With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, + And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, + And strong brown faces bravely pale + For fear their proud attempt shall fail, + Three hundred Pennsylvanians close + On twice ten thousand gallant foes. + + Line after line the troopers came + To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame; + Rode in and sabered and shot--and fell; + Nor came one back his wounds to tell. + And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall + In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, + While the circle-stroke of his saber, swung + Round his head like a halo there, luminous hung. + Line after line, ay, whole platoons, + Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons + By the maddened horses were onward borne + And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; + As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. + So they rode, till there were no more to ride. + + But over them, lying there, shattered and mute, + What deep echo rolls?--'Tis a death-salute + From the cannon in place; for heroes, you braved + Your fate not in vain: the army was saved! + + Over them now,--year following year, + Over their graves the pine-cones fall, + And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call; + But they stir not again; they raise no cheer: + They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, + Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. + The rush of their charge is resounding still + That saved the army at Chancellorsville. + + + + +USEFUL PRECEPTS FOR GIRLS. + + +First catch your lover. + +Hold him when you have him. + +Don't let go of him to catch every new one that comes along. + +Try to get very well acquainted with him before you take him for life. + +Unless you intend to support him, find out whether he earns enough to +support you. + +Don't make up your mind he is an angel. Don't palm yourself off on him for +one either. + +Don't let him spend his salary on you; that right should be reserved until +after marriage. + +If you have any conscientious scruples about marrying a man with a mother, +say so in time that he may either get rid of her to oblige you, or get rid +of you to oblige her, as he thinks best. + +If you object to secret societies and tobacco, it is better to come with +your objections now than to reserve them for curtain lectures hereafter. + +If your adorer happens to fancy a certain shade of hair, don't color bleach +yours to oblige him. Remember your hair belongs to you and he doesn't. + +Be very sure it is the man you are in love with, and not the clothes he +wears. Fortune and fashion are both so fickle it is foolish to take a +stylish suit for better or worse. + +If you intend to keep three servants after marriage, settle the matter +beforehand. The man who is making love to you may expect you to do your own +washing. + +Don't try to hurry up a proposal by carrying on a flirtation with some +other fellow. Different men are made of different material, and the one you +want might go off in a fit of jealousy and forget to come back. + +If you have a love letter to write, do not copy it out of a "letter +writer." If your young man ever happened to consult the same book he would +know your sentiments were borrowed. + +Don't marry a man to oblige any third person in existence. It is your right +to suit yourself in the matter. But remember at the same time that love is +blind, and a little friendly advice from one whose advice is worth having +may insure you a lifetime of happiness, or prevent one of misery. + +In love affairs always keep your eyes wide open, so that when the right man +comes along you may see him. + +When you see him you will recognize him and the recognition will be mutual. + +If you have no fault to find with him personally, financially, +conscientiously, socially, morally, politically, religiously, or in any +other way, he is probably perfect enough to suit you, and you can afford +to-- + +Believe in him; hope in him; love him; marry him! + + + + +WIDDER BUDD. + + + I'm fifty, I'm fair, and without a gray hair, + An' I feel just ez young as a girl. + When I think o' Zerubbabel Lee, I declare + It sets me all into a whirl. + Last night he waz here, an' I told him to "clear"-- + An' my! How supprised he did look: + Perhaps I wuz rash, but he's after my _cash_-- + I see through his plans like a book. + + Some offers I've had that I cannot call bad; + There was Deacon Philander Breezee; + I'd a sartin sed _Yes_, when he wanted a kiss, + Ef he hadn't so flustrated me. + It took me so quick that it felt like a kick-- + I flew all to pieces at once; + Sez I, "You kin go--I'm not wanting a beau;" + I acted, I know, like a dunce. + + Sez he, ez he rose, "I hev come to propose." + I stopped him afore he began: + Sez I, "You kin go, an' see Hepzibah Stow-- + _I won't be tied down to a man_." + "Mariar," ses he, "Widder Tompkins an' me + Kin strike up a bargain, I know; + An', seein' ez we can't decide to agree, + I guess that I hed better go." + + He picked up his hat from the chair where it sat, + An' solemnly started away. + Sez I, with a look that I'm _sure_ he mistook, + "You're perfectly welcome to stay." + My face got ez red ez our old waggin-shed-- + I thought for the land I should melt. + Sez he, "I am done. Good night, leetle one," + I _wish_ he'd a known how I felt. + + To-day, Isaac Beers, with his snickers and sneers, + Whose face is ez ugly ez sin, + Dropped in just to see about buyin' my steers, + An' tickled the mole on my chin. + Sez I, "You jest quit; I don't like you a bit; + You can't come your sawder on me. + You'd better behave till Jane's cold in her grave, + Your manners is ruther too free." + + When dear David died (sniff--sniff), ez I sot by his side (sniff--sniff); + He ketched up my hand in his own (sniff--sniff); + He squeezed it awhile (sniff--sniff), an' he sez with a smile + (sniff--sniff), + "You'll soon be a widder alone (sniff--sniff--sniff), + An' when I am gone (sniff--sniff) don't you fuss an' take on (sniff--sniff) + Like old Widder Dorothy Day (sniff--sniff). + Look out for your tin (sniff--sniff) if you marry agin (sniff--sniff), + Nor throw your affections away (sniff--sniff--sniff)." + + My children hev grown, an' have homes o' their own-- + They're doin' ez well ez they can (_wipes her eyes and nose_): + An' I'm gettin' sick o' this livin' alone-- + I wouldn't mind havin' a man. + Fur David hez gone to the mansion above-- + His body is cold in the ground, + Ef you know of a man who would marry for love, + Jest find him an' send him around. + + + + +HIS LAST COURT. + + +Old Judge Grepson, a justice of the peace, was never known to smile. He +came to Arkansas years ago, and year after year, by the will of the voters, +he held his place as magistrate. The lawyers who practiced in his court +never joked with him, because every one soon learned that the old man never +engaged in levity. Every morning, no matter how bad the weather might be, +the old man took his place behind the bar which, with his own hands, he had +made, and every evening, just at a certain time, he closed his books and +went home. No one ever engaged him in private conversation, because he +would talk to no one. No one ever went to his home, a little cottage among +the trees in the city's outskirts, because he had never shown a disposition +to make welcome the visits of those who even lived in the immediate +vicinity. His office was not given him through the influence of +"electioneering," because he never asked any man for his vote. He was first +elected because, having been once summoned in a case of arbitration, he +exhibited the executive side of such a legal mind that the people nominated +and elected him. He soon gained the name of the "hard justice," and every +lawyer in Arkansas referred to his decision. His rulings were never +reversed by the higher courts. He showed no sentiment in decision. He stood +upon the platform of a law which he made a study, and no one disputed him. + +One day, a woman, charged with misdemeanor, was arraigned before him. "The +old man seems more than ever unsteady," remarked a lawyer as the magistrate +took his seat. "I don't see how a man so old can stand the vexation of a +court much longer." + +"I am not well to-day," said the Judge, turning to the lawyers, "and any +cases that you may have you will please dispatch them to the best, and let +me add, quickest of your ability." + +Every one saw that the old man was unusually feeble, and no one thought of +a scheme to prolong a discussion, for all the lawyers had learned to +reverence him. + +"Is this the woman?" asked the Judge. "Who is defending her?" + +"I have no defence, your Honor," the woman replied. "In fact, I do not +think I need any, for I am here to confess my guilt. No man can defend me," +and she looked at the magistrate with a curious gaze. "I have been arrested +on a charge of disturbing the peace, and I am willing to submit my case. I +am dying of consumption, Judge, and I know that any ruling made by the law +can have but little effect on me;" and she coughed a hollow, hacking cough, +and drew around her an old black shawl that she wore. The expression on the +face of the magistrate remained unchanged, but his eyelids dropped and he +did not raise them when the woman continued: + +"As I say, no man can defend me. I am too near that awful separation of +soul and body. Years ago I was a child of brightest promise. I lived with +my parents in Kentucky. Wayward and light-hearted, I was admired by all the +gay society known in the neighborhood. A man came and professed his love +for me. I don't say this, Judge, to excite your sympathy. I have many and +many a time been drawn before courts, but I never before spoke of my past +life." + +She coughed again and caught a flow of blood on a handkerchief which she +pressed to her lips. "I speak of it now because I know that this is the +last court on earth before which I will be arraigned. I was fifteen years +old when I fell in love with the man. My father said he was bad, but I +loved him. He came again and again, and when my father said that he should +come no more I ran away and married him. My father said I should never come +home again. I had always been his pride and had loved him dearly, but he +said that I must never again come to his home,--my home, the home of my +youth and happiness. How I longed to see him. How I yearned to put my head +on his breast. My husband became addicted to drink. He abused me. I wrote +to my father, asking him to let me come home, but the answer that came was +'I don't know you!' My husband died--yes, cursed God and died! Homeless and +wretched, and with my little boy I went out into the world. My child died, +and I bowed down and wept over a pauper's grave. I wrote to my father +again, but he answered: 'I know not those who disobey my commandments!' I +turned away from that letter, hardened. I spurned my teachings. Now I am +here." + +Several lawyers rushed forward. A crimson stream flowed from her lips. They +leaned her lifeless head back against the chair. The old magistrate had not +raised his eyes; "Great God!" said a lawyer, "he is dead!" + +The woman was his daughter. + + + + +THE DEAD DOLL. + +BY MARGARET VANDEGRIFT. + + + You needn't be trying to comfort me--I tell you my dolly is dead! + There's no use in saying she isn't with a crack like that in her head; + It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out, + that day, + And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say. + + And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it + with glue, + As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you? + You might make her look all mended--but what do I care for looks? + Why glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books! + + My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack! + It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack + Against that horrible brass thing that holds up that little shelf. + Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself? + + I think you must be crazy--you'll get her another head! + What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead! + And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new Spring hat! + And I took a sweet ribbon of her's last night to tie on that horrid cat! + + When my mamma gave me that ribbon--I was playing out in the yard-- + She said to me most expressly, "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde." + And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it; + But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!" + + But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe I do, + That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too. + Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit! + For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit. + + But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course; + We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse; + And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this, you see-- + This dear little box--and we'll bury her there out under the maple tree. + + And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird; + And he'll put what I tell him on it--yes, every single word! + I shall say, "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead; + She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head." + + + + +AT THE STAMP WINDOW. + + +Just before twelve o'clock yesterday fore-noon there were thirteen men and +one woman at the stamp window of the post-office. Most of the men had +letters to post for the out-going trains. The woman had something tied up +in a blue match-box. She got there first, and she held the position with +her head in the window and both elbows on the shelf. + +"Is there such a place in this country as Cleveland?" she began. + +"Oh, yes." + +"Do you send mail there?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, a woman living next door asked me to mail this box for her. I guess +it's directed all right. She said it ought to go for a cent." + +"Takes two cents," said the clerk, after weighing it. "If there is writing +inside it will be twelve cents." + +"Mercy on me, but how you do charge!" + +Here the thirteen men began to push up and hustle around and talk about one +old match-box delaying two dozen business letters, but the woman had lots +of time. + +"Then it will be two cents, eh?" + +"If there is no writing inside." + +"Well, there may be. I know she is a great hand to write. She's sending +some flower seeds to her sister, and I presume she has told her how to +plant 'm." + +"Two threes!" called out one of the crowd, as he tried to get to the +window. + +"Hurry up!" cried another. + +"There ought to be a separate window here for women," growled a third. + +"Then it will take twelve cents?" she calmly queried, as she fumbled around +for her purse. + +"Yes." + +"Well, I'd better pay it, I guess." + +From one pocket she took two coppers. From her reticule she took a three +cent piece. From her purse she fished out a nickel; and it was only after a +hunt of eighty seconds that she got the twelve cents together. She then +consumed four minutes in licking on the stamps, asking where to post the +box, and wondering if there really was any writing inside,--but woman +proposes and man disposes. Twenty thousand dollars' worth of business was +being detained by a twelve-cent woman, and a tidal wave suddenly took her +away from the window. In sixty seconds the thirteen men had been waited on +and gone their ways, and the woman returned to the window, handed in the +box, and said: + +"Them stamps are licked on kind o' crooked, but it won't make any +difference, will it?" + + + + +THE NAMELESS GUEST. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + + I wonder if ever the Angel of Death + Comes down from the great Unknown, + And soars away, on the wings of night, + Unburdened and alone! + I wonder if ever the angels' eyes, + Are filled with pitying tears, + As they grant to the souls, unfit for flight, + A few more weary years! + + For it seems, at times, when the world is still, + And the soft night winds are whist, + As though some spirit were hovering near, + In folds of dream-like mist, + And I feel, though mortals are nowhere near, + That I am not quite alone, + And, with dreary thoughts of dying and death, + My heart grows cold as stone. + + But whether 'tis death that hovers near, + And knocks at the door of my heart, + Or whether 'tis some bright angel, come + To be of my life a part, + I cannot tell, and I long in vain, + The secret strange to know, + While the moments of mirth and grief and pain, + Move on in their ceaseless flow. + + And at night, when I kneel to a Higher Power + And ask His tender care, + One yearning cry of a wayward life + Is the burden of my prayer, + That I may bend, with willing lips, + To kiss the chastening rod, + And learn the way, through the golden gate, + To the great white throne of God. + + + + +OUR HEROES SHALL LIVE. + +BY HENRY WARD BEECHER. + + +This brief extract from a splendid oration should be spoken in clear, +defined tones, rather high pitch, the utterance slow, with a rather long +pause after each question: + +Oh, tell me not that they are dead--that generous host, that airy army of +invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are +they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal +language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon +society, and inspire the people with nobler motives, and more heroic +patriotism? + +Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. It _was_ your son, but +now he is the nation's. He made your household bright: now his example +inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now +brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he was narrowed, +appropriated, shut up to you. Now he is augmented, set free, and given to +all. Before he was yours: he _is_ ours. He has died from the family, that +he might live to the nation. Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected: +and it shall by and by be confessed of our modern heroes, as it is of an +ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his +whole life. + + + + +LULLABY. + + + "Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green; + Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen." + Rockaby, lullaby, all the day long, + Down to the land of the lullaby song. + Babyland never again will be thine, + Land of all mystery, holy, divine, + Motherland, otherland, + Wonderland, underland, + Land of a time ne'er again to be seen; + Flowerland, bowerland, + Airyland, fairyland, + Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green. + + Rockaby, baby, thy mother will keep + Gentle watch over thine azure-eyed sleep; + Baby can't feel what the mother-heart knows, + Throbbing its fear o'er your quiet repose. + Mother-heart knows how baby must fight + Wearily on through the fast coming night; + Battle unending, + Honor defending, + Baby must wage with the power unseen. + Sleep now, O baby, dear! + God and thy mother near; + Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green. + + Rockaby, baby, the days will grow long; + Silent the voice of the mother-love song, + Bowed with sore burdens the man-life must own, + Sorrows that baby must bear all alone. + Wonderland never can come back again; + Thought will come soon--and with reason comes pain, + Sorrowland, motherland, + Drearyland, wearyland, + Baby and heavenland lying between. + Smile, then, in motherland, + Dream in the otherland, + Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green. + + + + +PENNING A PIG. + +JAMES M. BAILEY. + + +Two families in Slawson had a somewhat singular experience several weeks +ago. These families live in a double house, and each had a pen with two +pigs. Last Friday the woman in one part discovered that her two pigs were +free from their pen, and looking after geological specimens at the foot of +the yard. She also discovered at the same time that the gate to a cabbage +yard adjoining was open, and that the pigs might at any moment become +ravished by a view of the glories within. + +Her husband being away she hurriedly secured the gate, and then set about +to return the truants by the following ingenious plan: Taking a shovelful +of corn, she approached as close to the animals as possible, and, holding +the tempting morsel near enough for them to learn its inviting character, +she screwed her face into an expression of winning sweetness, and backed +slowly toward the pen. + +It was a beautiful illustration of woman's faith, and we regret to write +that it did not work. The pigs took one snuff at the contents of the +shovel, just to show that they took some interest in the matter, and, being +convinced thereby that there was nothing injurious in the experiment, fell +to rooting about again with renewed fervor. + +The nearer the woman came to the pen the straighter her face grew, and +presently lost every vestige of solicitude, and assumed instead an +expression of medium ferocity. What she may have done will never be known, +as at this juncture her husband made his appearance on the back stoop, and, +her eye resting upon him, she commenced to apostrophize him in the language +married people alone are adepts at. + +After requesting somebody to show him the idiot who had left those hogs out +that he might punch his head, he drove straight at the truants, and missed +them, of course. Then he drove at them again with a clothes pole, and +missed them again, although he made another pole by hitting that on a +stone. Any one who has helped to drive one or two pigs will readily +understand the number of articles that passed through the air, and the +style of conversation the man kept up during the chase. + +Finally, he got one of the animals in a corner, and, being by this time +utterly regardless of personal appearance or consequences, threw himself +upon the brute, neatly scraping the fence with the top of his head, and +falling upon the pig in such a way as to hold in abeyance every one of its +muscles except those in the throat. These were at once put into active +operation, and the man for a moment thought he had captured a planing-mill. +Then he raised slowly, keeping a tight hold of the animal, and getting on +his feet with a pig in his arms, struck out for the pen, preceded by his +wife and the other woman, and closely and anxiously observed by all the +neighbors for a half-mile around. + +In this way the procession laboriously moved. The pig, having worked its +head within two inches of the man's ear, was pouring therein a tale of +unparalleled distress, which, if not calculated to melt the stoutest heart, +actually threatened to split open the stoutest head. The man was utterly +powerless to remedy the horror, having both hands engaged, and could only +twist his ear a little out of range, and scream at the top of his voice his +plans for the future of "them hogs." + +On reaching the pen, and while in the act of dumping the howling viper over +the side, the woman next door made an unfortunate discovery. _His_ hogs +were in the pen; the truants were _hers_. The man, who was still holding +the pig, and might have, with reason, taken a prominent part in the debate, +contented himself by merely expressing a hope that he might be blessed, and +then trudged around to the other pen, where he arrived after much unlooked +for tribulation, and again hoisted the howling monster up to the top, when +the woman next door made another and still more remarkable discovery. Her +pigs were in their pen. + +"What's that?" screamed the man, who was so fixed he could not very well +see into the pen, and was obliged to lift his voice to make himself heard +above the din. + +"Them ain't my pigs," screamed the woman. + +"Why ain't they?" he yelled. + +"Cause my pigs are here," she shrieked back. + +It is needless to say that the strange animals were urged out of that +garden without the use of subterfuge. + + + + +LITTLE JIM. + +BY GEORGE R. SIMS. + + + Our little Jim + Was such a limb + His mother scarce could manage him. + His eyes were blue, + And looked you through, + And seemed to say, + "I'll have my way!" + His age was six, + His saucy tricks + But made you smile, + Though all the while + You said, "You limb, + You wicked Jim, + Be quiet, do!" + + Poor little Jim! + Our eyes are dim + When soft and low we speak of him. + No clattering shoe + Goes running through + The silent room, + Now wrapped in gloom. + So still he lies, + With fast-shut eyes, + No need to say, + Alas! to-day, + "You little limb, + You baby Jim, + Be quiet, do!" + + + + +GET ACQUAINTED WITH YOURSELF. + +BY R. J. BURDETTE. + + +Telemachus, it will do you ever so much good if every once in a while you +will go away by yourself for an hour or two and get real well acquainted +with yourself. As a man thinketh, so he is. And you will never "know +thyself" thoroughly unless now and then you get alone and sit down and talk +to yourself, cross-examine yourself; learn what you know; what are your +ambitions, your aims, your hopes,--what is your real character; because, my +dear boy, your reputation may be one thing and your character quite +another. Sometimes it does happen, in this faulty old world, that a really +good man, a man whose character is above reproach, may bear the reputation +of a rascal; and once in a while--two or three times in a while, in fact--a +rascal wears the stolen reputation of an honest man. Go away now and then, +my boy, and sit down all by yourself and think. Think of nothing under the +sun only yourself. Yes, I know, my son, there are men who never think of +anything else, and God never made more useless men; but that is because +they do all their thinking about themselves publicly and loud. They never +think alone. + +You will be honest with yourself when you are alone, my boy. A man is apt +to be honest with himself in the dark. He does not pose in heroic postures +when he has no audience. When he stands face to face with himself, with no +human eye to watch him, and no human ear to listen to his confession, and +only his Maker, who knows every secret motive and thought of his life to +see and to listen, a man has to be honest. How could he be a hypocrite +then? + +Get away from the crowd a little while every day, my boy. Stand one side +and let the world run by, while you get acquainted with yourself, and see +what kind of a fellow you are. Ask yourself hard questions about yourself. +Find out all you can about yourself. Ascertain from original sources if you +are really the manner of man people say you are. Find out if you are +always honest; if you always tell the square, perfect truth in business +deals; if your life is as good and upright at eleven o'clock at night as it +is at noon; if you are as sound a temperance man on a fishing expedition as +you are at a Sabbath-school picnic; if you are as good a boy when you go to +Chicago as you are at home; if, in short, you really are the manner of +young man your father hopes you are, your mother says you are, and your +sweetheart believes you are. Get on intimate terms with yourself, my boy, +and, believe me, every time you come out from one of those private +interviews you will be a better, stronger, purer man. Don't forget this, +Telemachus, and it will do you good. + + + + +THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE. + +BY J. W. RILEY. + + + As the little white hearse went glimmering by-- + The man on the coal cart jerked his lines, + And smutted the lid of either eye, + And turned and stared at the business signs; + And the street-car driver stopped and beat + His hands on his shoulders and gazed up street + Till his eye on the long track reached the sky-- + As the little white hearse went glimmering by. + + As the little white hearse went glimmering by-- + A stranger petted a ragged child + In the crowded walk, and she knew not why, + But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled; + And a bootblack thrilled with a pleasure strange + As a customer put back his change + With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh-- + As the little white hearse went glimmering by. + + As the little white hearse went glimmering by-- + A man looked out of a window dim, + And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry-- + For a dead child even were dear to him! + And he thought of his empty life and said: + "Loveless alive and loveless dead, + Nor wife nor child in earth or sky!"-- + As the little white hearse went glimmering by. + + + + +THERE'LL BE ROOM IN HEAVEN. + + +She was a little old woman, very plainly dressed in black bombazine that +had seen much careful wear; her bonnet was very old-fashioned, and people +stared at her tottering up the aisle of the church, evidently bent on +securing one of the best seats, for a great man preached that day. The +house was filled with splendidly dressed people who had heard of the fame +of the preacher, of his learning, his intellect and goodness, and they +wondered at the presumption of the poor old woman. She must have been in +her dotage, for she picked out the pew of the richest and proudest member +of the church and took a seat. The three ladies who were seated there +beckoned to the sexton, who bent over the intruder and whispered something, +but she was hard of hearing, and smiled a little withered smile, as she +said, gently: "Oh, I'm quite comfortable here, quite comfortable." + +"But you are not wanted here," said the sexton, pompously; "there is not +room. Come with me, my good woman; I will see that you have a seat." + +"Not room," said the old woman, looking at her shrunken proportions, and +then at the fine ladies. "Why, I'm not crowded a bit. I rode ten miles to +hear the sermon to-day, because--" + +But here the sexton took her by the arm, shook her roughly in a polite +underhand way, and then she took the hint. Her faded old eyes filled with +tears, her chin quivered; but she rose meekly and left the pew. Turning +quietly to the ladies, who were spreading their rich dresses over the space +she left vacant, she said gently: "I hope, my dears, there'll be room in +heaven for us all." Then she followed the pompous sexton to the rear of the +church where, in the last pew, she was seated between a threadbare girl and +a shabby old man. + +"She must be crazy," said one of the ladies in the pew which she had first +occupied. "What can an ignorant old woman like her want to hear Dr. ---- +preach for? She would not be able to understand a word he said." + +"Those people are so persistent! The idea of her forcing herself into our +pew! Isn't that voluntary lovely? There's Dr. ---- coming out of the +vestry. Is he not grand?" + +"Splendid! What a stately man! You know he has promised to dine with us +while he is here." + +He was a commanding looking man, and as the organ voluntary stopped, and he +looked over the great crowd of worshipers gathered in the vast church, he +seemed to scan every face. His hand was on the Bible when suddenly he +leaned over the reading desk and beckoned to the sexton, who obsequiously +mounted the steps to receive a mysterious message. And then the three +ladies in the grand pew were electrified to see him take his way the whole +length of the church to return with the old woman, when he placed her in +the front pew of all, its other occupants making willing room for her. The +great preacher looked at her with a smile of recognition, and then the +services proceeded, and he preached a sermon that struck fire from every +heart. + +"Who was she?" asked the ladies who could not make room for her, as they +passed the sexton at the door. + +"The preacher's mother," was the reply. + + + + +THE RETORT DIS-COURTEOUS. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + + Mr. Michael McGlynn, of Dublin town, + And Dinny O'Doyle, of Kildare, + Through the streets of the city, went up and down, + A remarkably guileless pair. + Said Michael to Dinny: "Me darlin' bhoy, + Since the roise o' the mornin' sun, + Niver a dhrop or a boite have Oi, + Oi think I could ate a bun." + + Said Dinny to Michael: "Av coorse: av coorse! + To ate is the woise man's part; + Oi have a sinsation loike that mesilf, + Oi think Oi could touch a tart." + So the kindred souls of this guileless pair, + An eating house speedily found, + And before them a jar on the table sat, + Full of horseradish, freshly ground. + + With a tablespoon, Mr. Michael McGlynn + Took all that his mouth would hold, + Then gasped for breath, while his head turned hot + And his spine turned icy cold. + The tears on his cheeks came rolling down, + But he had no breath to swear, + So he simply clutched at the tablecloth, + And tore at his red, red hair. + + Amazed and surprised, Mr. Dinny O'Doyle + Said: "Michael, me darlin' bhoy, + Phwat's troublin' yer sowl? Phwat's wrong wid ye now? + Phwat's the raison ye've tears in yer oi?" + + "Oh, nothin," said Michael; "my grandfather doid + Some twenty-foive years ago, + Oi chanced to remember the fine owld man, + An' Oi couldn't help croiyin', ye know. + + "But, Dinny O'Doyle, doant mind it at all; + How wake an' how choildish Oi same," + Then he passed the horseradish and spoon and all; + "Have some of this nice oice crame!" + So Dinny dipped into the treacherous jar, + And the tears quickly sprang to his eyes, + While Michael McGlynn, who had got back his breath, + Affected a strange surprise. + + "Phy, Dinny, me bhoy, ye're croiyin' yersilf," + He said with a chuckle and grin; + "Phwat's troublin' _yer_ sowl? Phwat's wrong wid _ye_ now? + Is it wapin' ye are for a sin?" + "Is it askin' ye are, phwat's makin' me croiy?" + Said Dinny, "Oi'll spake as Oi'm bid, + Oi'm croiyin' bekase Mr. Michael McGlynn, + Didn't doi when his grandfather did." + + + + +ZENOBIA'S DEFENCE. + +BY WILLIAM WARE. + + [Zenobia became Queen of Palmyra A. D. 267, after the + murder of her husband, Odenatus. She was a woman of + great energy and assumed the title of Queen of the + East. She was deprived of her dominion by Aurelian A. + D. 272, and died in retirement near Rome.] + + +I am charged with pride and ambition. The charge is true, and I glory in +its truth. Whoever achieved anything great in letters, arts, or arms, who +was not ambitious? Cæsar was not more ambitious than Cicero. It was but in +another way. All greatness is born of ambition. Let the ambition be a noble +one, and who shall blame it? I confess I did once aspire to be queen, not +only of Palmyra, but of the East. That I am. I now aspire to remain so. Is +it not an honorable ambition? Does it not become a descendant of the +Ptolemies and of Cleopatra? I am applauded by you all for what I have +already done. You would not it should have been less. + +But why pause here? Is _so_ much ambition praiseworthy, and _more_ +criminal? Is it fixed in nature that the limits of this empire should be +Egypt on the one hand, the Hellespont and the Euxine on the other? Were not +Suez and Armenia more natural limits? Or hath empire no natural limit, but +is broad as the genius that can devise, and the power that can win? Rome +has the West. Let Palmyra possess the East. Not that nature prescribes this +and no more. The gods prospering, I mean that the Mediterranean shall not +hem me in upon the west, or Persia on the east. Longinus is right,--I would +that the world were mine. I feel, within, the will and the power to bless +it, were it so. + +Are not my people happy? I look upon the past and the present, upon my +nearer and remoter subjects, and ask, nor fear the answer, Whom have I +wronged? What province have I oppressed, what city pillaged, what region +drained with taxes? Whose life have I unjustly taken, or whose estates have +I coveted or robbed? Whose honor have I wantonly assailed? Whose rights, +though of the weakest and poorest, have I violated? I dwell, where I would +ever dwell, in the hearts of my people. It is written in your faces, that I +reign not more over you than within you. The foundation of my throne is not +more power than love. + +Suppose, now, my ambition should add another province to our realm. Would +that be an evil? The kingdoms already bound to us by the joint acts of +ourselves and the late royal Odenatus, we found discordant and at war. They +are now united and at peace. One harmonious whole has grown out of hostile +and sundered parts. At my hands they receive a common justice and equal +benefits. The channels of their commerce have I opened, and dug them deep +and sure. Prosperity and plenty are in all their borders. The streets of +our capital bear testimony to the distant and various industry which here +seeks its market. + +This is no vain boasting: receive it not so, good friends. It is but the +truth. He who traduces himself sins in the same way as he who traduces +another. He who is unjust to himself, or less than just, breaks a law, as +well as he who hurts his neighbor. I tell you what I am, and what I have +done, that your trust for the future may not rest upon ignorant grounds. If +I am more than just to myself, rebuke me. If I have over-stepped the +modesty that became me, I am open to your censure, and I will bear it. + +But I have spoken that you may know your queen, not only by her acts, but +by her admitted principles. I tell you, then, that I am ambitious, that I +crave dominion, and while I live will reign. Sprung from a line of kings, a +throne is my natural seat. I love it. But I strive, too--you can bear me +witness that I do--that it shall be, while I sit upon it, an honored, +unpolluted seat. If I can, I will hang a yet brighter glory around it. + + + + +A SERENADE.[1] + +BY THOMAS HOOD. + + + "Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" + Thus I heard a father cry. + "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! + The brat will never shut an eye; + Hither come, some power divine! + Close his lids or open mine! + + "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! + What the mischief makes him cry? + Lullaby, oh, lullaby! + Still he stares--I wonder why; + Why are not the sons of earth + Blind, like puppies, from their birth? + + "Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" + Thus I heard the father cry; + "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! + Mary, you must come and try! + Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake-- + The more I sing, the more you wake! + + "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! + Fie, you little creature, fie! + Lullaby, oh, lullaby! + Is no poppy-syrup nigh? + Give him some, or give him all, + I am nodding to his fall! + + "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! + Two such nights and I shall die! + Lullaby, oh, lullaby! + He'll be bruised, and so shall I-- + How can I from bedposts keep, + When I'm walking in my sleep? + + "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! + Sleep his very looks deny; + Lullaby, oh, lullaby! + Nature soon will stupefy-- + My nerves relax--my eyes grow dim-- + Who's that fallen, me or him?" + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] This poem can be made very effective as a humorous recitation by the +performer imitating a sleepy father vainly endeavoring to quiet a restless +child. A doll, or something to represent one, should be held in the arms. + + + + +QUEEN VASHTI. + +BY T. DEWITT TALMAGE. + + +We stand amid the palaces of Shushan. The pinnacles are aflame with the +morning light. The columns rise festooned and wreathed, the wealth of +empires flashing from the grooves; the ceilings adorned with images of bird +and beast, and scenes of prowess and conquest. The walls are hung with +shields, and emblazoned until it seems that the whole round of splendors is +exhausted. Each arch is a mighty leap of architectural achievement,--golden +stars, shining down on glowing arabesque; hangings of embroidered work, in +which mingle the blueness of the sky, the greenness of the grass and the +whiteness of the sea foam; tapestries hung on silver rings, wedding +together the pillars of marble. Pavilions reach out in every +direction,--these for repose, filled with luxuriant couches, in which weary +limbs sink until all fatigue is submerged; these for carousal, where kings +drink down a kingdom at one swallow. + +Amazing spectacle! Light of silver dripping down over stairs of ivory on +shields of gold; floors of stained marble, sunset red and night black, and +inlaid with gleaming pearl. Why, it seems as if a heavenly vision of +amethyst, and jacinth, and topaz, and chrysoprasus had descended and +alighted upon Shushan. It seems as if a billow of celestial glory had +dashed clear over heaven's battlements upon this metropolis of Persia. + +In connection with this palace there is a garden, where the mighty men of +foreign lands are seated at a banquet. Under the spread of oak, and linden, +and acacia, the tables are arranged. The breath of honey-suckle and +frankincense fills the air. Fountains leap up into the light, the spray +struck through with rainbows falling in crystalline baptism upon flowering +shrubs--then rolling down through channels of marble, and widening out here +and there into pools swirling with the finny tribes of foreign aquariums, +bordered with scarlet anemones, hypericums, and many colored ranunculus; +meats of rarest bird and beast smoking up amid wreaths of aromatics; the +vases filled with apricots and almonds; the basket piled up with apricots, +and dates, and figs, and oranges, and pomegranates; melons tastefully +twined with leaves of acacia; the bright waters of Eulæus filling the urns, +and sweating outside the rim in flashing beads amid the traceries; wine +from the royal vats of Ispahan and Shiraz, in bottles of tinged shell, and +lily-shaped cups of silver, and flagons and tankards of solid gold. + +The music rises higher, and the revelry breaks out into wilder transport, +and the wine has flushed the cheek and touched the brain, and louder than +all other voices are the hiccough of the inebriates, the gabble of fools, +and the song of the drunkards. + +In another part of the palace Queen Vashti is entertaining the princesses +of Persia at a banquet. Drunken Ahasuerus says to his servants: "Go out and +fetch Vashti from that banquet with the women, and bring her to this +banquet with the men, and let me display her beauty." The servants +immediately start to obey the king's command, but there was a rule in +Oriental society that no woman might appear in public without having her +face veiled. Yet here was a mandate that no one dare dispute, demanding +that Vashti come in unveiled before the multitude. However, there was in +Vashti's soul a principle more regal than Ahasuerus, more brilliant than +the gold of Shushan, of more wealth than the revenue of Persia, which +commanded her to disobey the order of the King; and so all the +righteousness and holiness and modesty of her nature rises up into one +sublime refusal. She says: "I will not go into the banquet unveiled." Of +course, Ahasuerus was infuriated; and Vashti, robbed of her position and +her estate, is driven forth in poverty and ruin to suffer the scorn of a +nation, and yet to receive the applause of after generations, who shall +rise up to admire this martyr to kingly insolence. + +The last vestige of that feast is gone; the last garland has faded; the +last arch has fallen; the last tankard has been destroyed, and Shushan is a +ruin; but as long as the world stands there will be multitudes of men and +women, familiar with the Bible, who will come into this picture-gallery of +God and admire the divine portrait of Vashti, the Queen; Vashti, the +veiled; Vashti, the sacrifice; Vashti, the silent. + + + + +W'EN DE DARKY AM A-WHIS'LIN' IN DE CO'N. + +BY S. Q. LAPIUS. + + + W'en de jewdraps 'gins to glisten, + An' de east am growin' red, + An' de catbird am a-singin' in de trees; + W'en de swallers an' de martins + Am a-quar'lin' in de shed, + An' de hollyhocks am callin' to de bees; + W'en de gray mule 'gins to whinny + An' de porker 'gins to squeal, + Den it's time to be a-wo'kin' in de mo'n, + Kase de sun am climbin' higher + An' de han's am in de field-- + An' de darky am a whis'lin' in de c'on. + + W'en de fog hab lef' de valley, + An' de blue am in de sky, + An' de bees am wo'kin' in de medder lot; + W'en de hollyhocks am drowsin', + An' de sun am ridin' high, + An' de dusty country road am blazin' hot; + Den de darky 'gins to listen-- + + As de catbird quits his song-- + Fo' de soundin' ob de welcome dinner-ho'n, + Kase his knees am growin' wabbly, + An' de rows am growin' long-- + An' he's hoin' an' a-whis'lin' in de co'n! + + W'en de fiery sun am smilin' + An' a-sinkin' in de wes', + An' de shadders creep along de dusty road; + W'en de martins am a-chatter'n' + An' dey hurry home to res', + An' de longes' row ob all am nea'ly hoed; + W'en de bullfrog 'gins to holler, + An' de cowbell down de lane + 'Gins to tinkle in a way dat's mos' fo'lo'n, + Den amid de gloomy echoes + Comes dat soul-refreshin' strain-- + Ob de darky as he whis'les in de co'n! + + + + +THE PILOT. + +BY JOHN B. GOUGH. + + +John Maynard was well known in the lake district as a God-fearing, honest, +and intelligent man. He was pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. +One summer afternoon--at that time those steamers seldom carried +boats--smoke was seen ascending from below; and the captain called out, +"Simpson, go below and see what the matter is down there." + +Simpson came up with his face as pale as ashes, and said, "Captain, the +ship is on fire!" + +Then "Fire! fire! fire!" on shipboard. + +All hands were called up; buckets of water were dashed on the fire, but in +vain. There were large quantities of rosin and tar on board, and it was +found useless to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward +and inquired of the pilot, "How far are we from Buffalo?" + +"Seven miles." + +"How long before we can reach there?" + +"Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam." + +"Is there any danger?" + +"Danger! Here, see the smoke bursting out!--go forward, if you would save +your lives!" + +Passengers and crew--men, women and children--crowded the forward part of +the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet +of fire; clouds of smoke arose. + +The captain cried out through his trumpet, "John Maynard!" + +"Ay, ay, sir!" + +"Are you at the helm?" + +"Ay, ay, sir!" + +"How does she head?" + +"Southeast by east, sir." + +"Head her southeast and run her on shore," said the captain. Nearer, +nearer, yet nearer she approached the shore. Again the captain cried out, +"John Maynard!" + +The response came feebly this time, "Ay, ay, sir!" + +"Can you hold on five minutes longer, John?" he said. + +"By God's help, I will!" + +The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp; one hand was disabled; his +knee upon the stanchion, his teeth set, his other hand upon the wheel, he +stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship; every man, woman, and child was +saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to God. + + + + +THE FATAL GLASS. + +BY LAURA U. CASE. + + + He raised the cup to his pure, sweet lips-- + Lips fresh from a mother's kisses; + Merry the banquet hall that night, + For youth and beauty were there, and bright + The glittering lamps shone o'er them; + And one had sung with a voice divine, + A song in praise of the ruby wine, + That graced the feast before them. + Little he dreamed as he lightly quaffed + The sparkling wine, that the first rare draught + Was a link in the chain to bind him, + And drag his soul, like a servile slave, + Down slippery steps to a shameful grave, + From a throne where love enshrined him. + + She raised the cup to her tainted lips-- + Lips foul with the vilest curses-- + In a loathsome haunt of sin and shame, + Where Christian charity seldom came, + With its holy words to teach them + Of the pastures green and waters sweet-- + Of her who wept at the Master's feet, + Whose boundless love could reach them. + Is love so dear, and life so cheap, + That one poor soul, like a wandering sheep, + Alone on the bleak, cold mountain, + Should gladly turn from a life accursed, + To drown the past and quench the thirst + In draughts from a poisonous fountain? + + He raised the cup to his trembling lips-- + Lips wrinkled by age and hunger; + The meagre pittance he'd begged for food, + Brightened the palm of the man who stood + At his bar with his wines around him. + He drank, and turned on tottering feet + To the bitter storm and the cold, dark street, + Where a corpse in the morn they found him. + And oh! could those speechless lips have told + Of the want and sorrow, hunger and cold + He had known, or the answer given, + When his trembling soul for entrance plead + At the crystal gates, where One has said, + "No drunkard shall enter Heaven!" + + + + +KATRINA'S VISIT TO NEW YORK. + + +Vell, von morning I says to Hans (Hans vos mein husband): "Hans, I tinks I +goes down to New York, und see some sights in dot village." + +Und Hans he say: "Vell Katrina, you vork hard pooty mooch, I tinks it vould +petter be dot you goes und rest yourself some." So I gets meinself ready +righd avay quick und in two days I vos de shteam cars on vistling avay for +New York. Ve vent so fast I tinks mein head vould shplit sometimes. De +poles for dot delegraph vires goes by like dey vos mad und running a races +demselves mit to see vich could go de fastest mit de oder. De engine +vistled like sometimes it vos hurt bad, und screeched mit de pain, und de +horses by dem fields vould run as dey vas scared. + +I vas pooty mooch as ten hours ven ve rushed into some houses so big enough +as all our village, und de cars begin to shtop vith so many leetle jerks I +dinks me I shall lose all de dinner vot I eat vile I vas coming all de vay +apoudt. + +Vell, ven dem cars got shtopped, de peoples all got oudt und I picked mein +traps oup und got oudt too. I had shust shtepped de blatform on, ven so +mooch as ein hundert men, mit vips in dere hands, und dere fingers all in +de air oup, asked me all at vonce, "Vere I go?" Und every one of dem +fellers vanted me to go mit him to his hotel. But I tells em I guess not; I +vas going mit my brudder-mit-law, vot keeps ein pakeshop on de Powery, vere +it didn't cost me notings. So I got me in dot shtreet cars, und pays de man +mit brass buttons on his coat to let me oudt mit de shtreet vere dot Yawcup +Schneider leeves. Oh, my! vot lots of houses! De shtreets vos all ofer +filled mit dem. Und so many peoples I tinks me dere must be a fire, or a +barade, or some oxcitement vot gets de whole city in von blaces. It dakes +me so mooch time to look at everytings I forgot me ven to got oudt und +rides apast de blaces I vants to shtop to, und has to valk again pack mit +dree or four shquares. But I vind me dot brudder-mit-law who vos make me so +velcome as nefer vos. + +Vell, dot vos Saturday mit de afternoon. I vas tired mit dot day's travel +und I goes me pooty quick to bed und ven I vakes in de morning de sun vas +high oup in de shky. But I gets me oup und puts on mein new silk vrock und +tinks me I shall go to some fine churches und hear ein grosse breacher. Der +pells vas ringing so schveet I dinks I nefer pefore hear such music. Ven I +got de shtreet on de beoples vos all going quiet und nice to dere blaces +mit worship, und I makes oup my mind to go in von of dem churches so soon +as von comes along. Pooty soon I comes to de von mit ein shteeples high oup +in de shky und I goes in mit de beoples und sits me down on ein seat all +covered mit a leetle mattress. De big organ vas blaying so soft it seemed +likes as if some angels must be dere to make dot music. + +Pooty soon de breacher man shtood in de bulbit oup und read de hymn oudt, +und all de beoples sing until de churches vos filled mit de shweetness. +Den de breacher man pray, und read de Pible, und den he say dot de bulbit +would be occupied by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas. + +Den dot man gommence to breach und he read mit his dext, "Und Simon's +vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." He talks for so mooch as ein half hour +already ven de beoples sings again und goes homes. I tells mein +brudder-mit-law it vos so nice I tinks me I goes again mit some oder +churches. So vot you tinks? I goes mit anoder churches dot afternoon und +dot same Villiam R. Shtover vos dere und breach dot same sermon ofer again +mit dot same dext, "Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." I +tinks to my ownself--dot vos too bad, und I goes home und dells Yawcup, und +he says, "Nefer mind, Katrina, to-night ve goes somevhere else to +churches." So ven de night vas come und de lamps vos all lighted mit de +shtreets, me und mein brudder-mit-law, ve goes over to dot Brooklyn town to +hear dot Heinrich Vard Peecher. + +My but dot vos ein grosse church, und so many beobles vas dere, ve vas +crowded mit de vall back. Ven de singing vas all done, a man vot vos +sitting mit a leetle chair got oup und say dot de Rev. Heinrich Vard +Peecher vas to de Vhite Mountains gone mit dot hay fever, but dot de +bulbit vould be occupied on this occasion by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover mit +Leavenworth, Kansas. Und dot Villiam R. Shtover he gots mit dot bulbit oup +und breaches dot same sermon mit dot same dext, "Und Simon's vife's mudder +lay sick mit a fever." + +Dot vos too bad again und I gets mad. I vos so mad I vish dot he got dot +fever himself. + +Vell, von dot man vas troo Yawcup says to me, "Come, Katrina, ve'll go down +to dot ferry und take de boat vot goes to New York!" Ven ve vas on dot boat +de fog vas so tick dot you couldn't see your hands pehind your pack. De +vistles vas plowing, und dem pells vos ringing, und von man shtepped up mit +Yawcup und say "Vot vor dem pells pe ringing so mooch?" + +Und ven I looked around dere shtood dot Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, +Kansas--und I said pooty quick: "Vot vor dem pells vas ringing? Vy for +Simon's vife's mudder, vot must be died, for I hear dree times to-day +already dot she vas sick mit ein fever." + + + + +THE RABBI AND THE PRINCE. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + +_Versified from the Talmud._ + + + A monarch sat in serious thought, alone, + But little reck'd he of his robe and throne; + Naught valuing the glory of control, + He sought to solve the future of his soul. + "Why should I bow the proud, imperious knee, + To mighty powers no mortal eye can see?" + So mused he long and turned this question o'er, + Then, with impatient tread, he paced the floor, + Till maddened by conflicting trains of thought + And speculation vague, which came to naught, + With feverish haste he clutched a tasseled cord + As desperate hands, in battle, clutch a sword. + "Summon Jehoshua," the monarch cried. + The white-haired Rabbi soon was at his side. + + *....*....*....* + + "I bow no more to powers I cannot see; + Thy faith and learning shall be naught to me, + Unless, before the setting of the sun, + Mine eyes behold the uncreated one." + + *....*....*....* + + The Rabbi led him to the open air. + The oriental sun with furious glare + Sent down its rays, like beams of molten gold. + The aged teacher, pointing, said: "Behold." + "I cannot," said the Prince, "my dazzled eyes + Refuse their service, turned upon the skies." + + *....*....*....* + + "Son of the dust," the Rabbi gently said + And bowed, with reverence, his hoary head, + "This one creation, thou canst not behold, + Though by thy lofty state and pride made bold. + + How canst thou then behold the God of Light, + Before whose face the sunbeams are as night? + Thine eyes before this trifling labor fall, + Canst gaze on him who hath created all? + Son of the dust, repentance can atone; + Return and worship God, who rules alone." + + + + +THE MAID OF ORLEANS. + +BY J. E. SAGEBEER. + + +It was just at the dawn of day, when the first rays of morning were +breaking over Europe and dispelling the darkness of the Middle Ages. France +and England were engaged in a desperate struggle, the one for existence, +the other for a throne. All the western part of France had avowed the +English cause, and the English king had been proclaimed at Paris, at Rouen +and at Bordeaux, while the strongly fortified city of Orleans, the key to +the French possessions, was besieged. The thunder and lightning of the +battlefield are bad enough, but the starvation and pestilence of a besieged +city are infinitely worse. The supplies of Orleans were exhausted; the +garrison was reduced to a few desperate men, and the women and children had +been abandoned to the English. But far away on the border of Germany, in +the little village of Domremy, the Nazareth of France, God was raising up +a deliverer for Orleans, a savior for the nation. + +The out-door life of a peasant girl had given to Joan of Arc a +well-developed form, while the beauties of her soul and the spiritual +tendencies of her nature must have given to her face that womanly beauty +that never fails to win respect and love. Her standard was a banner of +snowy silk; her weapon a sword, that from the day she first drew it from +its scabbard until she finally laid it down upon the grave of St. Denis, +was never stained with blood; and her inspiration was a self-sacrificing +devotion to the will of God, to the rights of France and her king. Without +a single opposing shot she passed under the very battlements of the +besieging English, and entered Orleans with soldiers for empty forts and +food for starving people. + +It needed no eloquent speech to incite the men of Orleans to deeds of valor +and of vengeance. The ruins of their homes choked the streets; the +desolated city was one open sepulchre, while the cries of half-starved +children and the wails of heartbroken mothers, stirred them to such a mad +frenzy of enthusiasm, that now, since a leader had come, they would have +rushed headlong and thoughtlessly against the English forts as into a trap +of death. + +And now the attack was planned and the lines were formed; and then as the +crumbling walls of the city echoed back the wild shouts of the Orleanites, +the maid of Domremy, waving her sword aloft and followed by her snowy +banner, led her Frenchmen on to slaughter and to victory. Then from the +English archers came flight after flight of swift-winged arrows, while the +wild catapults threw clouds of death-laden stones crashing among the +French. Broadsword and battle-axe clashed on shield and helmet, while the +wild horses, mad with rage and pain, rushed with fierce yells upon the foe; +but ever above the din and noise of battle, above death shouts and saber +strokes, though the dust and smoke obscured her banner, ever could be heard +the clear, ringing voice of their leader, shouting for victory and for +France. An arrow pierced her bosom, but drawing it out with her own hand +and throwing it aside, she showed the French her blood-stained corselet, +and once more urged them on. As when the Archangel Michael, leading the +heavenly cohorts, forced the rebellious angels to the very brink of hell, +then hurled them over and so saved the throne of heaven, so did the maid of +Orleans, leading on frenzied Frenchmen, press back the English step by +step, and slaughtered rank by rank, till the whole army turned and fled, +and Orleans was free and France was safe. + +And now her work was done. Would that some kindly voice had bade her now +go home to tend the sheep and roll their white wool on her distaff! But she +who had raised the siege of Orleans and led the way to Rheims, could not +escape a jealous fate. The Duke of Burgundy had laid siege to Compiegne. +Joan of Arc went to the rescue and was repulsed, and while bravely fighting +in the rear of her retreating troops, fell prisoner to the recreant French +and was sold by them to the English. For one long year she languished in +her prison tower. Her keepers insulted her and called her a witch; and when +in desperation she sprang from the tower and was taken up insensible, they +loaded her poor body with chains, and two guards stayed in her cell day and +night. + +Her trial came, but her doom was already sealed. The Bishop of Beauvais, +with a hundred doctors of theology, were her judges. Without a particle of +evidence against her, they convicted her of sorcery and sentenced her to be +burnt at the stake. A howl of fiendish joy went up from the blood-thirsty +court of Paris,--a howl of fiendish joy that made its way to every +battlefield where she had fought; it rang against the rescued walls of +Orleans and was echoed to the royal court at Rheims; it reached to the +bottomless pit and made the imps of Satan dance with glee; it echoed +through the halls of heaven and made the angels weep; but there was no +rescuer for the helpless girl. Even the gladiator, forced into the fight, +against his will, when fallen in the arena, his sword broken and the +enemy's knee upon his breast, might yet hope for "thumbs down," and mercy +from the hard-hearted Roman spectators. But not a single hand was raised to +save the maid of Domremy, the saviour of Orleans. + +Had she not faithfully done her work? Had she not bled for them? Had she +not saved the kingdom? And in all chivalrous France was there not a +champion to take up the gauntlet in defence of a helpless girl? When she +led their armies, their spears blazed in heaven's sunlight; now they would +quench them in her blood. With scarcely time to think of death, she was +hurried away to the public square and chained to the stake, and when the +fagots were fired, more painful than the circling flames, she heard the +mocking laugh of the angry crowd. Higher and higher rose the flames, until, +pressing the cross to her heart, her unconscious head sank upon her bosom, +and her pure spirit went up amid the smoke and soared away to heaven. + + + + +GENTLE ALICE BROWN. + +BY W. S. GILBERT. + + [This is one of the Bab-Ballads, on which the very + successful comic opera "Pinafore" was founded.] + + + It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown, + Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; + Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; + But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing. + + As Alice was a sitting at her window-sill one day, + A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; + She cast her eyes upon, and he looked so good and true, + That she thought: "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!" + + And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, + She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten; + A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road + (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode). + + But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise + To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes; + So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed, + The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed. + + "Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not, + To discover that I was a most disreputable lot? + Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!" + The padre said: "Whatever have you been and gone and done?" + + "I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, + I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad, + I've planned a little burglary and forged a little check, + And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!" + + The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear, + And said: "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear; + It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; + But sins like these one expiates at half a crown apiece. + + "Girls will be girls--you're very young, and flighty in your mind; + Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: + We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks-- + Let's see--five crimes at half-a-crown--exactly twelve-and-six." + + "Oh, father!" little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, + You do these little things for me so singularly cheap-- + Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; + But, oh! there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet! + + "A pleasant looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, + I've noticed at my window, as I've sat acatching flies; + He passes by it every day as certain as can be-- + I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me!" + + "For shame!" said father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word + This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. + Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand + To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band! + + "This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parent so! + They are the most remunerative customers I know; + For many, many years they've kept starvation from my doors; + I never knew so criminal a family as yours! + + "The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood + Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; + And if you marry any one respectable at all. + Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?" + + The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, + And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown-- + To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, + Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it. + + Good Robber Brown he muffled up his anger pretty well; + He said: "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; + I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, + And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits. + + "I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two: + Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do-- + A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall + When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small." + + He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; + He watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware; + He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, + And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed. + + And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, + She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind, + Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand + On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band. + + + + +YOUNG AMERICA. + + +The central figure was a bareheaded woman with a broom in her hand. She +stood on the back step, and was crying: + +"George!" + +There was no response, but anybody who had been on the other side of the +close-boarded fence at the foot of the garden might have observed two boys +intently engaged in building a mud pie. + +"That's your mother hollerin' Georgie," said one of the two, placing his +eye to a knothole and glancing through to the stoop. + +"I don't care," said the other. + +"Ain't you going in?" + +"No!" + +"Georgie!" came another call, short and sharp; "do you hear me?" + +There was no answer. + +"Where is she now?" inquired Georgie, putting in the filling of the pie. + +"On the stoop," replied his friend at the knothole. + +"What's she doin'?" + +"Ain't doin' nothin'." + +"George Augustus!" + +Still no answer. + +"You needn't think you can hide from me, young man, for I can see you, and +if you don't come in here at once, I'll come out there in a way that you'll +know it." + +Now this was an eminently natural statement, but hardly plausible as her +eyes would have had to pierce an inch board fence to see Georgie; and even +were this possible, it would have required a glance in that special +direction, and not over the top of a pear tree in an almost opposite way. +Even the boy at the knothole could hardly repress a smile. + +"What's she doin' now?" inquired Georgie. + +"She stands there yet." + +"I won't speak to you again, George Augustus," came the voice. "Your father +will be home in a few minutes, and I shall tell him all about what you have +done." + +Still no answer. + +"Ain't you afraid?" asked the conscientious young man, drawing his eye from +the knothole to rest it. + +"No! she won't tell pa; she never does, she only says it to scare me." + +Thus enlightened and reassured, the guard covered the knothole again. + +"Ain't you acoming in here, young man?" again demanded the woman, "or do +you want me to come out there to you with a stick? I won't speak to you +again, sir!" + +"Is she comin'?" asked the baker. + +"No." + +"Which way is she lookin'?" + +"She's lookin' over in the other yard." + +"Do you hear me, I say?" came the call again. + +No answer. + +"George Augustus! do you hear your mother?" + +Still no answer. + +"Oh, you just wait, young man, till your father comes home, and he'll make +you hear, I'll warrant ye." + +"She's gone in now," announced the faithful sentinel, withdrawing from his +post. + +"All right! take hold of this crust and pull it down on that side, and +that'll be another pie done," said the remorse-stricken George Augustus. + + + + +SHWATE KITTIE KEHOE. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + + Shwate Kittie Kehoe, + Can ye tell, I do' know. + Phwat the mischief's about ye that bothers me so? + For there's that in yer eye. + That I wish I may die + If it doesn't pursue me wherever I go. + Och hone! + Shwate Kitty Kehoe. + + It's a livin' disgrace + That yer shwate purty face + Should be dhrivin' me sinses all over the place! + I go this way an' that, + Loike a man fur a hat, + Wid the wind up an alley-way, runnin' a race. + Och hone! + Shwate Kittie Kehoe. + + Oh! Faith, but I'm sad, + Fur to know that I'm mad, + That only intinsifies all that is bad; + But phwat can I do, + Whin a shwate smile from you + Turns everythin' rosy and makes me sowl glad? + Och hone! + Shwate Kittie Kehoe. + + Shwate Kittie Kehoe, + I beg of ye, go + To the outermost inds of the earth, I do' know; + If ye'll only do this, + Jist lave me wan kiss, + An' I'll die whin yer sthartin', Shwate Kittie Kehoe. + Och hone! Och hone! + Shwate Kittie Kehoe. + + + + +THE COUNTRY'S GREATEST EVIL. + + [A short speech by Vice-President Henry Wilson, + delivered at the National Temperance Convention, in + Chicago, June, 1875.] + + +Forty years of experience and observation have taught me that the greatest +evil of our country, next, at any rate, to the one that has gone down in +fire and blood to rise no more, is the evil of intemperance. Every day's +experience, every hour of reflection, teaches me that it is the duty of +patriotism, the duty of humanity, the duty of Christianity, to live +Christian lives, and to exert temperance influence among the people. + +There was a time, when I was younger than I am now, when I hoped to live +long enough to see the cause which my heart loves and my judgment approves +stronger than it is to-day. I may be mistaken, but it seems to me that the +present is a rather dark and troubled night for that cause, and it is +because it so seems to me that I believe it to be the duty of every honest, +conscientious, self-sacrificing man of our country to speak and to work for +the cause in every legitimate and proper way. And my reliance for the +advancement of the cause of temperance is the same reliance which I have +for the spread of the Gospel of our Divine Lord and Master. + +The heart, the conscience and the reason must be appealed to continually; +and Christian men and women must remember that the heart of Christianity is +temperance. If it costs a sacrifice, give it. What is sacrifice to doing +good and lifting toward heaven our fellow-men? We have got to rely on +appeals and addresses made to the heart of this nation, to the conscience +of the people and the reason of the country. We have got to train up our +children in the cause from infancy. We must teach it in the schools and +everywhere by word, and above all by example; and it seems to me that +Christian ministers, in this dark hour of our country, when they see so +much intemperance, and what looks to some of us like a reaction, should +make the voice of the pulpits of this land heard. + +Members of Christian churches should remember that they have something to +do in this cause. If anything stands in the way of Christianity it is the +drunkenness in our land. A word for temperance at this time is the +strongest blow against the kingdom of Satan and for the cause of our Lord +and Master. + +Suppose you have been disappointed. Suppose that many of your laws have +failed. We know that we are right. We personally feel and see it. The +evidence is around and about us that we cannot be mistaken in living total +abstinence lives and recommending such a course to our neighbors. + +When it costs something to stand by the temperance cause, then is the hour +to stand by it. If I could be heard to-day by the people of the land, by +the patriotic young men of this country, full of life, vigor and hope, I +would say that it is among the first, the highest, and the grandest duties, +which the country, God, and the love of humanity impose, to work for the +cause of _total abstinence_. + + + + +I WONDER. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + + I wonder if, under the grass-grown sod, + The weary human heart finds rest! + If the soul, with its woes, when it flies to God, + Leaves all its pain, in the earth's cold breast! + Or whether we feel, as we do to-day, + That joy holds sorrow in hand, alway. + + I wonder if, after the kiss of death, + The love that was sweet, in days of yore. + Departs with the last, faint, fleeting breath, + Or deeper grows than ever before! + I wonder if, there in the great Unknown, + Fond hearts grow weary when left alone! + + I think of the daily life I lead, + Its broken dreams and its fitful starts, + The hopeless hunger, the heart's sore need, + The joy that gladdens, the wrong that parts, + And wonder whether the coming years + Will bring contentment, or toil and tears. + + + + +SPEECH OF PATRICK HENRY. + + [Delivered before the Convention of Delegates of + Virginia, March 23, 1775.] + + +Mr. President: It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We +are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of +that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise +men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed +to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, +hear not, the things which so nearly concern our temporal salvation? For my +part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the +whole truth,--to know the worst, and to provide for it! + +I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of +experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And, +judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of +the British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with +which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House? Is it +that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? +Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet! Suffer not +yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss! Ask yourselves how this gracious +reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which +cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a +work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be +reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love? + +Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and +subjugation,--the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, +sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to +submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has +Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this +accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant +for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and +rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long +forging. And what have we to oppose to them?--Shall we try argument? Sir, +we have been trying that, for the last ten years. Have we anything new to +offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light +of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. + +Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we +find which have not already been exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, +sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done every thing that could be +done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned, we +have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves before +the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical +hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted, our +remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult, our +supplications have been disregarded, and we have been spurned, with +contempt, from the foot of the throne. + +In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and +reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be +free, if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for +which we have been so long contending, if we mean not basely to abandon the +noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have +pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest +shall be obtained,--we must fight; I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An +appeal to arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us! + +They tell us, sir, that we are weak,--unable to cope with so formidable an +adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the +next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British +guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by +irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual +resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom +of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are +not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature +hath placed in our power. + +Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a +country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our +enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles +alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and +who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is +not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. +Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it +is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in +submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard +on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable; and let it come! I repeat +it, sir, let it come! + +It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry: Peace, +peace!--but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale +that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding +arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What +is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace +so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, +Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give +me liberty, or give me death! + + + + +MUTATION. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + + Upon the shores of No-man's-land, + I met an angel, one whose wings + Shed beams of light on either hand, + As radiant as the sunrise brings. + And happy souls, with eager tread, + Passed up and down the sandy slope; + "Oh, tell me your fair name!" I said; + She turned and smiled, and answered: "Hope." + + Along the shores of No-man's-land, + The angel walked, with folded wings, + And shadows fell on every hand, + The burden that the night-wind brings. + With head turned backward, sad and slow + She paced the sands, her eyelids wet, + "Hope mourns," I said, and soft and low, + The angel sighed: "I am Regret." + + + + +SIX LOVE LETTERS + + +"Are there any more of those letters?" + +When her father asked this question in an awful tone, Lucilla Richmond +could not say No, and dared not say Yes, but as an intermediate course +burst into tears and sobbed behind her handkerchief. + +"Bring them to me, Lucilla," said her father, as if she had answered him, +as indeed she had; and the girl, trembling and weeping, arose to obey him. + +Then Mrs. Richmond, her daughter's own self grown older, came behind her +husband's chair and patted him on the shoulder. "Please don't be hard with +her, my dear," she said, coaxingly. "He's a nice young man, and it's all +our fault, after all, as much as hers." + +"Perhaps you approve of the whole affair, ma'am," said Mr. Richmond. + +"I--no--that is I only--" gasped the little woman; and hearing Lucilla +coming, she sank into a chair, blaming herself dreadfully for not having +been present at all her daughter's music lessons during the past year. + +"It was inexcusable in a poor music teacher, who should have known his +place," Mr. Richmond declared; and he clutched the little perfumed billet +which had fallen into his hands, as he might a scorpion, and waited for the +others with a look upon his face which told of no softening. At last six +little white envelopes, tied together with blue ribbons, were laid at his +elbow by his trembling daughter. + +"Lock these up until I return home this evening," he said to his wife; "I +will read them then. Meanwhile Lucilla is not to see this music teacher on +any pretence whatever." + +Mr. Richmond put on his hat and departed, and Lucilla and her mother took +the opportunity of falling into each other's arms. + +"It is so naughty of you," said Mrs. Richmond. "But oh, dear, I can't blame +you. It was exactly so with your father, and my father objected because of +his poverty. He used to be very romantic himself in those old times. Such +letters as he wrote to me. I have them in my desk yet. He said he'd die if +I refused him." + +"So does Fred," said Lucilla. + +"And that life would be worthless without me, and about my being +beautiful,--I'm sure he ought to sympathize a little," said Mrs. Richmond. + +She went into her own room to put the letters into her desk; and as she +placed them into one of the pigeon holes, she saw in another a bundle, +tied exactly as these were, and drew them out. These letters were to a +Lucilla also, one who had received them twenty years before. A strange idea +came into Mrs. Richmond's mind. + +When she left the desk she looked guilty and frightened. The dinner hour +arrived, and with it came her husband, angered and more determined than +ever. The meal was passed in silence; then, having adjourned to the parlor, +Mr. Richmond seated himself in a great arm-chair, and demanded, in a voice +of thunder: "Those absurd letters, if you please." + +"Six letters--six shameful pieces of deception, Lucilla," said the +indignant parent. "I am shocked that a child of mine should practice such +duplicity. Hem! let me see. Number one, I believe. June, and this is +December. Half a year you have deceived us then, Lucilla. Let me see--ah! +'From the first moment I adored you,' bah! Nonsense. People don't fall in +love in that absurd manner. 'With your smiles for a goal, I would win both +fame and fortune, poor as I am!' Fiddlesticks, Lucilla. A man who has +common sense would always wait until he had a fair commencement before he +proposed to a girl. Praising your beauty, eh? 'The loveliest creature I +ever saw!' Exaggeration, my dear. You are not plain, but such flattery is +absurd. 'Must hear from you or die!' Dear, dear, dear--how absurd!" And Mr. +Richmond dropped the first letter and picked another. "The same stuff," he +commented. "I hope you do not believe a word he says. Ah! now in number +three he calls you 'an angel!' He's romantic, upon my soul! And what is +this? 'Those who forbid me to see you can find no fault with me but my +poverty. I am honest--I am earnest in my efforts. I am by birth a +gentleman, and I love you from the depths of my soul. Do not let them sell +you for gold, Lucilla.' Great heavens, what impertinence to your parents!" + +"I don't remember Fred saying anything of that kind," said poor little +Lucilla. "He never knew you would object." + +Mr. Richmond shook his head, frowned and then read on until the last sheet +lay under his hand. Then with an ejaculation of rage, he sprang to his +feet. + +"Infamous!" he cried! "I'll go to him this instant--I'll horsewhip him, +I'll--I'll murder him! As for you, by Jove, I'll send you to a convent. +Elope--elope with a music teacher! Here, John, call a cab, I----" + +"Oh, papa! you are crazy!" said Lucilla. "Frederick never proposed such a +thing. Let me see the letter. Oh, that is not Fred's--upon my word it is +not. Do look, papa, it is dated twenty years back, and Frederick's name is +not Charles! Papa, these are your letters to mamma, written long ago. +Mother's name is Lucilla, you know." + +Mr. Richmond sat down in his arm-chair in silence, very red in the face. + +"How did this occur?" he said, sternly; and little Mrs. Richmond, +retreating into a corner, with her handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed: + +"I did it on purpose! You know, Charles, it's so long ago, and I thought +you might not exactly remember how you fell in love with me at first sight; +how papa and mamma objected, and how, at last, we ran away together; and it +seemed to me if we could bring it back all plainly to you as it was then, +we might let Lucilla marry the man she loves, who is good, if he is not +rich. I do not need to be brought back any plainer myself; women have more +time to remember, you know. And we've been very happy--have we not?" + +And certainly Mr. Richmond could not deny that. The little ruse was +favorable to the young music teacher, who had really only been sentimental, +and had not gone one half so far as an elopement; and in due course of time +the two were married with all the pomp and grandeur befitting the nuptials +of a wealthy merchant's daughter, with the perfect approbation of Lucilla's +father. + + + + +A ROMAN LEGEND. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + + Hour by hour, with skillful pencil, wrought the artist, sad and lone, + Day by day, he labored nobly, though to all the world unknown; + He was brave, the youthful artist, but his soul grew weak and faint, + As he strove to place before him, the fair features of a saint; + Worn and weary, he strove vainly, for the touch of Heavenly grace, + Till, one day, a radiant sunbeam fell upon the up-turned face, + And the very air was flooded with a presence strangely sweet, + For the soul, within the sunbeam, seemed to make the work complete; + Swift as thought the artist's pencil deftly touched the features fair, + Night came down, but one bright sunbeam left its soul imprisoned there; + And around his dingy garret gazed the artist, wondering, + For the work sublime illumed it like the palace of a king; + And within the artist nature flamed his first fond love divine, + Which bewildered all his senses, as with rare, old, ruby wine. + Yearningly, he cried: "I love thee," to the radiant saintly face, + But the never-ceasing answer was a look of Heavenly grace. + Out into the world he wandered, questioning, searching everywhere, + And the stars above, full often, heard his soul burst forth in prayer: + "God in Heaven, in mercy, hear me! Hear thy suppliant's pleading cry, + Lead, oh lead! my footsteps to her. Grant but this, or let me die." + Friends forsook and want pursued him, still he struggled on alone, + Till, at last, outworn and trembling, reason tottered on its throne, + And he seemed the helpless plaything of some mad, relentless fate, + Till the Sisterhood of Mercy found him lying at their gate; + Made him welcome, gave him shelter and with ever-patient care + Bathed his brow and brushed the tangled, matted tresses of his hair. + Long he lingered on the borders of the holy-land of death, + One fair Sister, by his bedside, counting low each fluttering breath. + Softly fell the evening shadows, shutting out the golden glow, + Of a gorgeous, lingering sunset, gilding all the earth below, + When, upon his pillow turning, swift came to him hope's bright gleams, + For the anxious face above him was the loved one of his dreams. + But her life was one of mercy, and the band across her brow, + Gave the spotless testimony of a maiden's holy vow. + "Is this Heaven? Are you an angel?" swift he questioned her, the while + She smoothed back his wavy tresses, only answering with a smile; + "Tell me truly, couldst thou love me, since thou wouldst not let me die?" + But she pointed to the band about her brow and breathed a sigh. + In her hours of patient watching, she had learned the bitter truth, + That the Sisterhood of Mercy has its anguish and its ruth; + Nevermore she came, well-knowing, from temptation se must fly, + For his eager, tender questions in her heart had found reply. + Every morning he would question: "Will she come to me to-day?" + And the tender, truthful Sisters shook their heads and turned away, + For adown his classic features passed the shadow of his pain, + As he closed his eyes and murmured: "She will never come again." + In his dreams, one night, he fancied she had bent above his bed, + And his loving arms reached upward, but the vision sweet had fled. + Hopeless, in his great heart-hunger, through a storm of wind and rain, + To his picture turned the artist, bowing low with grief and pain; + Open wide he threw the shutters of his garret casement high, + Heeding not the vivid lightning, as it flashed athwart the sky. + On his lowly couch reclining, soon in weariness he slept, + While the storm clouds o'er him thundering, long and loud their vigils kept. + Wilder grew the night and fiercer blew the winds, until at last, + Like a bird of prey or demon, through the shattered casement, passed + The old shutter, rending, tearing every wondrous touch and trace + Of the artist's patient labor, from the radiant, saintly face; + And the jagged bands of lightning, as they flashed along the floor, + Lit the crushed and crumpled canvas, worthless now forevermore. + And the artist, slowly rising, groped his way across the room, + Feeling, knowing he had lost her, though enshrouded in the gloom. + Then besought his couch and murmured: "It is well, God knoweth best." + And the sunbeams of the morning found a weary soul--at rest. + + + + +A FRIEND OF THE FLY. + + +With a fly-screen under one arm and a bundle of sticky fly-paper under the +other, an honest agent entered a grocery store one day in the summer and +said: "Why don't you keep 'em out?" + +"Who vash dot?" asked the grocery-man. + +"Why, the pesky flies. You've got 'em by the thousand in here, and the fly +season has only begun. Shall I put fly-screens in the doors?" + +"What for?" + +"To keep the flies out." + +"Why should I keep der flies oudt? Flies like some shance to go aroundt und +see der city de same ash agents. If a fly ish kept out on der street all +der time he might ash vhell be a horse." + +"Yes, but they are a great nuisance. I'll put you up a screen door there +for three dollars." + +"Not any for me. If a fly vhants to come in here, und he behaves himself in +a respectable manner, I have notings to say. If he don't behave, I bounce +him oudt pooty queek, und don't he forget her!" + +"Well, try this fly-paper. Every sheet will catch five hundred flies." + +"Who vhants to catch 'em?" + +"I do--you--everybody." + +"I don't see it like dot. If I put dot fly-paper on der counter somebody +comes along und wipes his nose mit it, or somebody leans his elbow on her +und vhalks off mit him. It would be shust like my boy Shake to come in und +lick all der molasses off, to play a shoke on his fadder." + +"Say, I'll put down a sheet, and if it doesn't catch twenty flies in five +minutes I'll say no more." + +"If you catch twenty flies I have to pry 'em loose mit a stick und let 'em +go, und dot vhas too much work. No, my agent friendt; flies must have a +shance to get along und take some comfort. I vhas poor once myself, und I +know all about it." + +"I'll give you seven sheets for ten cents." + +"Oxactly, but I won't do it. It looks to me like shmall beesness for a big +agent like you to go around mit some confidence games to shwindle flies. A +fly vhas born to be a fly, und to come into my shtore ash often ash he +likes. When he comes I shall treat him like a shentleman. I gif him a fair +show. I don't keep an axe to knock him in der headt, und I don't put some +molasses all oafer a sheet of paper und coax him to come und be all stuck +up mit his feet till he can't fly away. You can pass along--I'm no such +person like dot." + + + + +ANSWERED PRAYERS. + +BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. + + + I prayed for riches, and achieved success,-- + All that I touched turned into gold. Alas! + My cares were greater, and my peace was less + When that wish came to pass. + + I prayed for glory; and I heard my name + Sung by sweet children and by hoary men. + But ah! the hurts, the hurts that come with fame! + I was not happy then. + + I prayed for love, and had my soul's desire; + Through quivering heart and body and through brain + There swept the flame of its devouring fire; + And there the scars remain. + + I prayed for a contented mind. At length + Great light upon my darkened spirit burst. + Great peace fell on me, also, and great strength. + Oh! had that prayer been first! + + + + +GOD IN THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION. + +BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE. + + +Not only because of the kindness of God to this nation in the past should +such a reverential insertion be made, but because of the fact that we are +going to want Divine interposition still further in our national history. +This gold and silver question will never be settled until God settles it. +This question of tariff and free trade will never be settled until God +settles it. This question between the East and the West, which is getting +hotter and hotter, and looks toward a Republic of the Pacific, will not be +settled until God settles it. We needed God in the one hundred and twenty +years of our past national life, and we will need Him still more in the +next one hundred and twenty years. Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates +of our glorious Constitution, and let the King of Glory come in! Make one +line of that immortal document radiant with Omnipotence! Spell at least one +word with Thrones! At the beginning, or at the close, or in the centre, +recognize Him from whom as a nation we have received all the blessing of +the past and upon whom we are dependent for the future. Print that one +word "God," or "Lord," or "Eternal Father," or "Ruler of Nations," +somewhere between the first word and the last. The Great Expounder of the +Constitution sleeps at Marshfield, Massachusetts, the Atlantic Ocean still +humming near his pillow of dust its prolonged lullaby; but is there not +some one now living, who, in the white marble palace of the nation on +yonder hill, not ten minutes away, will become the Irradiator of the +Constitution by causing to be added the most tremendous word of our English +vocabulary, the name of that Being before whom all nations must bow or go +into defeat and annihilation,--"God?" + + + + +THE ENCHANTED SHIRT. + +BY JOHN HAY. + + + The king was sick. His cheek was red, + And his eye was clear and bright; + He ate and drank with a kingly zest, + And peacefully snored at night. + + But he said he was sick--and a king should know; + And doctors came by the score; + They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, + And sent to the schools for more. + + At last two famous doctors came, + And one was poor as a rat; + He had passed his life in studious toil + And never found time to grow fat. + + The other had never looked in a book; + His patients gave him no trouble; + If they recovered, they paid him well, + If they died, their heirs paid double. + + Together they looked at the royal tongue, + As the king on his couch reclined; + In succession they thumped his august chest, + But no trace of disease could find. + + The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut." + "Hang him up!" roared the king, in a gale, + In a ten-knot gale of royal range; + The other grew a shadow pale; + + But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, + And thus his prescription ran: + "The king will be well if he sleeps one night + In the shirt of a happy man." + + Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, + And fast their horses ran, + And many they saw, and to many they spake, + But they found no happy man. + + They found poor men who would fain be rich, + And rich who thought they were poor; + And men who twisted their waists in stays, + And women that short hose wore. + + They saw two men by the roadside sit, + And both bemoaned their lot; + For one had buried his wife he said, + And the other one had not. + + At last they came to a village gate; + A beggar lay whistling there; + He whistled and sang and laughed, and rolled + On the grass in the soft June air. + + The weary couriers paused and looked + At the scamp so blithe and gay, + And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend, + Yon seem to be happy to-day." + + "Oh yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, + And his voice rang free and glad; + "An idle man has so much to do + That he never has time to be sad." + + "This is our man," the courier said, + "Our luck has led us aright. + I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, + For the loan of your shirt to-night." + + The merry blackguard lay back on the grass + And laughed till his face was black; + "I would do it, God wot," and he roared with fun, + "But I haven't a shirt to my back." + + Each day to the king the reports came in + Of his unsuccessful spies, + And the sad panorama of human woes + Passed daily under his eyes. + + And he grew ashamed of his useless life, + And his maladies hatched in gloom; + He opened the windows, and let in the air + Of the free heaven into his room; + + And out he went in the world, and toiled + In his own appointed way, + And the people blessed him, the land was glad, + And the king was well and gay. + + + + +PRAYING FOR PAPA. + + +A man who had been walking for some time in the downward path, came out of +his house and started down town for a night of carousal with some old +companions he had promised to meet. His young wife had besought him with +imploring eyes to spend the evening with her, and had reminded him of the +time when evenings passed in her company were all too short. His little +daughter had clung about his knees and coaxed in her pretty, wilful way for +"papa" to tell her some bedtime stories, but habit was stronger than love +for wife and child, and he eluded their tender questioning by the special +sophistries the father of evil advances at such times from his credit fund, +and went his way. + +But when he was a few blocks distant from his home, he found that in +changing his coat he had forgotten to remove his wallet, and he could not +go out on a drinking bout without money, even though he knew his family +needed it, and his wife was economizing every day more and more in order to +make up his deficits, and he hurried back and crept softly past the windows +of the little house, in order that he might steal in and obtain it without +running the gauntlet of either questions or caresses. + +But something stayed his feet; there was a fire in the grate within--for +the night was chilly--and it lit up the little parlor and brought out in +startling effects the pictures on the wall. But these were as nothing to +the pictures on the hearth. There, in the soft glow of the fire-light knelt +his child at the mother's feet, its small hands clasped in prayer, its fair +head bowed; and as its rosy lips whispered each word with distinctness, the +father listened, spell-bound to the spot: + + "Now I lay me down to sleep, + I pray the Lord my soul to keep; + If I should die before I wake, + I pray the Lord my soul to take." + +Sweet petition! The man himself, who stood there with bearded lips shut +tightly together, had said that prayer once at his mother's knee. Where was +that mother now? The sunset gates had long ago unbarred to let her through. +But the child had not finished; he heard her say "God bless mamma, papa, +and my ownself"--and there was a pause, and she lifted her troubled blue +eyes to her mother's face. + +"God bless papa," prompted the mother, softly. + +"God bless papa," lisped the little one. + +"And--please send papa home sober"--he could not hear the mother as she +said this, but the child followed in a clear, inspired tone: + +"God--bless--papa--and--please--send--him--home--sober. Amen." + +Mother and child sprang to their feet in alarm when the door opened so +suddenly, but they were not afraid when they saw who it was, returned so +soon. That night, when little Mamie was being tucked up in bed after such a +romp with papa, she said in the sleepiest and most contented of voices: + +"Mamma, God answers most as quick as the telegraph, doesn't he?" + + + + +BECALMED. + +BY SAMUEL, K. COWAN. + + + It was as calm as calm could be; + A death-still night in June; + A silver sail on a silver sea, + Under a silver moon. + + Not the least low air the still sea stirred; + But all on the dreaming deep + The white ship lay, like a white sea-bird, + With folded wings, asleep. + + For a long, long month, not a breath of air; + For a month, not a drop of rain; + And the gaunt crew watched in wild despair, + With a fever in throat and brain. + + And they saw the shore, like a dim cloud, stand + On the far horizon-sea; + It was only a day's short sail to the land, + And the haven where they would be. + + Too faint to row--no signal brought + An answer, far or nigh. + Father, have mercy; leave them not + Alone, on the deep, to die. + + And the gaunt crew prayed on the decks above; + And the women prayed below: + "One drop of rain, for Heaven's great love! + Oh, Heaven, for a breeze to blow!" + + But never a shower from the cloud would burst, + And never a breeze would come: + O God, to think that man can thirst + And starve in sight of home! + + But out to sea with the drifting tide + The vessel drifted away-- + Till the far-off shore, like the dim cloud, died; + And the wild crew ceased to pray! + + Like fiends they glared, with their eyes aglow; + Like beasts with hunger wild: + But a mother prayed, in the cabin below, + By the bed of her little child. + + It slept, and lo! in its sleep it smiled,-- + A babe of summers three: + "O Father, save my little child, + Whatever comes to me!" + + Calm gleamed the sea, calm gleamed the sky, + No cloud--no sail in view; + And they cast them lots, for who should die + To feed the starving crew! + + Like beasts they glared, with hunger wild, + And their red-glazed eyes aglow, + And the death-lot fell on the little child + That slept in the cabin below! + + And the mother shrieked in wild despair: + "O God, my child--my son. + They will take his life, it is hard to bear; + Yet, Father, Thy will be done." + + And she waked the child from its happy sleep, + And she kneeled by the cradle bed; + "We thirst, my child, on the lonely deep; + We are dying, my child, for bread. + + "On the lone, lone sea no sail--no breeze; + Not a drop of rain in the sky; + We thirst--we starve--on the lonely seas; + And thou, my child, must die!" + + She wept: what tears her wild soul shed + Not I, but Heaven knows best. + And the child rose up from its cradle bed, + And crossed its hands on its breast: + + "Father," he lisped, "so good, so kind, + Have pity on mother's pain: + For mother's sake, a little wind; + Father, a little rain!" + + And she heard them shout for the child from the deck, + And she knelt on the cabin stairs: + "The child!" they cry, "the child--stand back-- + And a curse on your idiot prayers!" + + And the mother rose in her wild despair, + And she bared her throat to the knife: + "Strike--strike me--me; but spare, oh, spare + My child, my dear son's life!" + + O God, it was a ghastly sight,-- + Red eyes, like flaming brands, + And a hundred belt-knives flashing bright + In the clutch of skeleton hands! + + "Me--me--strike--strike, ye fiends of death!" + But soft--through the ghastly air + Whose falling tear was that? whose breath + Waves through the mother's hair? + + A flutter of sail--a ripple of seas-- + A speck on the cabin pane; + O God; it's a breeze--a breeze-- + And a drop of blessed rain! + + And the mother rushed to the cabin below, + And she wept on the babe's bright hair. + "The sweet rain falls the sweet winds blow; + Father has heard thy prayer!" + + Bu the child had fallen asleep again, + And lo! in its sleep it smiled. + "Thank God," she cried, "for His wind and His rain! + Thank God, for my little child!" + + + + +IN THE BOTTOM DRAWER. + + +I saw wife pull out the bottom drawer of the old family bureau this +evening, and went softly out, and wandered up and down, until I knew that +she had shut it up and gone to her sewing. We have some things laid away in +that drawer which the gold of kings could not buy, and yet they are relics +which grieve us until both our hearts are sore. I haven't dared look at +them for a year, but I remember each article. + +There are two worn shoes, a little chip hat with part of the brim gone, +some stockings, pants, a coat, two or three spools, bits of broken +crockery, a whip and several toys. Wife--poor thing--goes to that drawer +every day of her life, and prays over it, and lets her tears fall upon the +precious articles; but I dare not go. + +Sometimes we speak of little Jack, but not often. It has been a long time, +but somehow we can't get over grieving. He was such a burst of sunshine +into our lives that his going away has been like covering our every-day +existence with a pall. Sometimes, when we sit alone of an evening, I +writing and she sewing, a child on the street will call out as our boy used +to, and we will both start up with beating hearts and a wild hope, only to +find the darkness more of a burden than ever. + +It is so still and quiet now. I look up at the window where his blue eyes +used to sparkle at my coming, but he is not there. I listen for his +pattering feet, his merry shout, and his ringing laugh; but there is no +sound. There is no one to climb over my knees, no one to search my pockets +and tease for presents: and I never find the chairs turned over, the broom +down, or ropes tied to the door-knobs. + +I want some one to tease me for my knife; to ride on my shoulder; to lose +my axe; to follow me to the gate when I go, and be there to meet me when I +come; to call "good-night" from the little bed, now empty. And wife, she +misses him still more; there are no little feet to wash, no prayers to say; +no voice teasing for lumps of sugar, or sobbing with the pain of a hurt +toe; and she would give her own life, almost, to awake at midnight, and +look across to the crib and see our boy there as he used to be. + +So we preserve our relics; and when we are dead we hope that strangers will +handle them tenderly, even if they shed no tears over them. + + + + +EMULATION (UP TO DATE). + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + + "He who would thrive must rise at five," + The old folks used to say, + And so, of course, to thrive the more, + Tis better still to rise at four, + And make a longer day. + + Still smarter he who wakes at three, + And hurries out of bed; + And he who would this man outdo + Must rise when clocks are striking two, + To earn his daily bread. + + To rise and run at stroke of one, + Advantage still may keep; + But he who would them all forestall + Must never go to bed at all, + And die for lack of sleep. + + + + +DESTINY OF OUR COUNTRY. + +BY R. C. WINTHROP. + + +Here, then, sir, I bring these remarks to a close. I have explained, to the +best of my ability, the views which I entertain of the great questions of +the day. Those views may be misrepresented hereafter, as they have been +heretofore; but they cannot be misunderstood by any one who desires, or who +is even willing, to understand them. + +Most gladly would I have found myself agreeing more entirely with some of +the friends whom I see around me, and with more than one of those +elsewhere, with whom I have always been proud to be associated, and whose +lead, on almost all occasions, I have rejoiced to follow. + +Our tie, however, I am persuaded, still remains to us all--a common +devotion to the Union of these States, and a common determination to +sacrifice everything but principle to its preservation. Our +responsibilities are indeed great. This vast republic, stretching from sea +to sea, and rapidly outgrowing everything but our affections, looks +anxiously to us, this day, to take care that it receives no detriment. + +Nor is it too much to say, that the eyes and the hearts of the friends of +constitutional freedom throughout the world are at this moment turned +eagerly here,--more eagerly than ever before,--to behold an example of +successful republican institutions, and to see them come out safely and +triumphantly from the fiery trial to which they are now subjected! + +I have the firmest faith that these eyes and these hearts will not be +disappointed. I have the strongest belief that the visions and phantoms of +disunion which now appall us will soon be remembered only like the clouds +of some April morning, or "the dissolving views" of some evening spectacle. + +I have the fullest conviction that this glorious republic is destined to +outlast all, all, at either end of the Union, who may be plotting against +its peace, or predicting its downfall. + + "Fond, impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine cloud + Raised by thy breath, can quench the orb of day? + To morrow, it repairs its golden flood, + And warms the nations with redoubled ray!" + +Let us proceed in the settlement of the unfortunate controversies in which +we find ourselves involved, in a spirit of mutual conciliation and +concession:--let us invoke fervently upon our efforts the blessings of that +Almighty Being who is "the author of peace and lover of concord:"--and we +shall still find order springing out of confusion, harmony evoked from +discord, and peace, union and liberty, once more reassured to our land! + + + + +THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD. + +BY CLEMENT SCOTT. + + + Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! + And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. + It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead, + Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head! + Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south; + Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth; + It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way, + And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay. + + Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone, + In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; + It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, + or when + There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate + cry for men. + When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he! + Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, + Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, + Had saved some hundred lives apiece--at a shilling or so a head! + + So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, + And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar. + Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! + Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns; + Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love, + Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above! + Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, + For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head? + + It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew! + And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew; + And then the anchor parted--'twas a tussle to keep afloat! + But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. + Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high! + "God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye!" + Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, + But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves. + + Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, + And saw in the boiling breakers a figure,--a fighting form; + It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath; + It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death, + It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips + Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships. + They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more, + Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, + straight to shore. + + There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, + Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land. + 'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, + But what are a couple of women with only a man to save? + What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men + Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir--and then + Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent, + Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went! + + "Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper, "For God's sake, girls, + come back!" + As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. + "Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea, + "If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!" + "Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale, + "You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall + if you brave the gale!" + "_Come back!_" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town, + We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!" + + "Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch + of your hand! + Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land! + Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more, + And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore." + Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, + They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest-- + Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, + And many a hearty cheer was raised for "The Women of Mumbles Head!" + + + + +A REASONABLE REQUEST. + +MR. DARNELLE ASKS HIS FIANCEE A FAVOR, AFTER THEIR ENGAGEMENT. + + +"It is so sudden, Mr. Darnelle." + +"I know it is," responded the young man gently. + +He stood before her with his weight resting easily on one foot, his left +elbow on the mantel-piece, his right arm behind him, and his whole attitude +one of careless, unstudied ease and grace, acquired only by long and +patient practice. + +"I know it is," he repeated. "Measured by ordinary standards and by the +cold conventionalities of society, it is indeed sudden. We have known each +other only twenty-four hours. Until 8.25 o'clock last night neither of us +had ever heard of the other. Yet with the heart one day is as one hundred +years. Could we have known one another better, darling," he went on, with a +tremor in his cultivated B flat baritone voice, "if we had attended the +theatre, the concert, the church and the oyster parlor together for a dozen +seasons? Does not your heart beat responsive to mine?" + +"I will not pretend to deny, Mr. Darnelle," replied the young lady, with a +rich blush mantling her cheek and brow, "that your avowal moves me +strangely." + +"I know it--I feel it," he responded eagerly. "Love is not the slow, +vegetable-like growth of years. It does not move in its course with the +measured, leisurely step of a man working by the day. It springs up like a +mushr--like an electric flash. It takes instant possession. It does not +need to be jerked in, as it were. It needs not the agonized coaxing of--of +a young man's first chin whiskers, my darling. It is here! You will forgive +my presumption, will you not, and speak the words that tremble on your +lips--the words that will fill my cup of joy to overflowing?" + + * * * * * + +The evening had passed like a beautiful dream. Mr. Darnelle, admonished by +the clock that it was time to go, had risen reluctantly to his feet, and +stood holding the hand of his beautiful betrothed. + +"My love," he said, in eager passionate accents, "now that you have blessed +my life with a measureless, ineffable joy, and made all my future radiant +with golden hope, you will not think I am asking too much if I plead for +just one favor?" + +"What is it?" shyly responded the lovely maiden. + +"Will you please tell me your first name?" + + + + +RESIGNATION. + +BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. + + + There is no flock, however watched and tended, + But one dead lamb is there! + There is no fireside howso'er defended, + But has one vacant chair! + + The air is full of farewells to the dying; + And mournings for the dead; + The heart of Rachel, for her children crying. + Will not be comforted! + + Let us be patient! These severe afflictions + Not from the ground arise, + But oftentimes celestial benedictions + Assume this dark disguise. + + We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; + Amid these earthly damps + What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers + May be heaven's distant lamps. + + There is no Death! What seems so is transition; + This life of mortal breath + Is but a suburb of the life elysian, + Whose portal we call Death. + + She is not dead,--the child of our affection,-- + But gone unto that school + Where she no longer needs our poor protection, + And Christ himself doth rule. + + In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, + By guardian angels led, + Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, + She lives, whom we call dead. + + Day after day we think what she is doing + In those bright realms of air; + Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, + Behold her grown more fair. + + Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken + The bond which nature gives, + Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, + May reach her where she lives. + + Not as a child shall we again behold her; + For when with raptures wild + In our embraces we again enfold her, + She will not be a child; + + But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, + Clothed with celestial grace; + And beautiful with all the soul's expansion + Shall we behold her face. + + And though at times impetuous with emotion + And anguish long suppressed, + The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, + That cannot be at rest,-- + + We will be patient and assuage the feeling + We may not wholly stay; + By silence sanctifying, not concealing, + The grief that must have way. + + + + +AN AFFECTIONATE LETTER. + +_Tipperary, Ireland, September the ten._ + + +MY DEAR NEPHEW: + +I have not heard anything of you sens the last time I wrote ye. I have +moved from the place where I now live, or I should have written to you +before. I did not know where a letter might find you first, but I now take +my pen in hand to drop you a few lines, to inform you of the death of your +own living uncle, Kilpatrick. He died very suddenly after a long illness of +six months. Poor man, he suffered a great deal. He lay a long time in +convulsions, perfectly quiet and speechless, and all the time talking +incoherently and inquiring for water. + +I'm much at a loss to tell you what his death was occasioned by, but the +doctor thinks it was caused by his last sickness, for he was not well ten +days during his confinement. + +His age ye know jist as well as I can tell ye; he was 25 years old last +March, lacking fifteen months; and if he had lived till this time he would +be just six months dead. + +N. B. Take notis. I inclose to you a tin pound note, which ye father sends +to ye unbeknown to me. Your mother often speaks of ye; she would like to +send ye the brindle cow, and I would inclose her to ye but for the horns. + +I would beg of ye not to break the sale of this letter until two or three +days after ye read it, for thin ye will be better prepared for the +sorrowful news. + +PATRICK O'BRANIGAN. + +To Michael Glancy, No. -- Broad Street, United States of Ameriky, State of +Massachusetts, in Boston. + + + + +THE WHISTLING REGIMENT. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + [In the recitation which follows, the effect can be + heightened by an accompaniment of the piano and by the + whistling of strains from Annie Laurie, adapting the + style to the sentiment of the verses. + + The melody should be played very softly, except where + the battle is alluded to, and the whistling should be + so timed that the last strain of Annie Laurie may end + with the words, "would lay me down and die." The beat + of the drums can be introduced with good effect, but it + is better to omit it unless it can be done skilfully. + It is well to state before reciting, that the escape + described is not entirely imaginary as many prisoners + made their way through underground passages from rebel + prisons, during the Civil War. An asterisk (*) at the + end of a line denotes where the whistling should + commence, and a dagger (*t) where it should + cease.] + + + When the North and South had parted, and the boom of the signal gun + Had wakened the Northern heroes, for the great deeds to be done, + When the nation's cry for soldiers had echoed o'er hill and dale, + When hot youth flushed with courage, while the mother's cheeks turned pale, + In the woods of old New England, as the day sank down the west, + A loved one stood beside me, her brown head on my breast. + From the earliest hours of childhood our paths had been as one, + Her heart was in my keeping, though I knew not when 'twas won; + We had learned to love each other, in a half unspoken way, + But it ripened to full completeness when the parting came, that day; + Not a tear in the eyes of azure, but a deep and fervent prayer, + That seemed to say: "God bless you, and guard you, everywhere." + At the call for volunteers, her face was like drifted snow, + She read in my eyes a question and her loyal heart said, "Go." + As the roll of the drums drew nearer, through the leaves of the + rustling trees,* + The strains of Annie Laurie were borne to us, on the breeze. + Then I drew her pale face nearer and said: "Brave heart and true, + Your tender love and prayers shall bring me back to you." + And I called her _my_ Annie Laurie and whispered to her that I + For her sweet sake was willing--to lay me down and die. + And I said: "Through the days of danger, that little song shall be + Like a pass word from this hillside, to bring your love to me."[*t] + Oh! many a time, at nightfall, in the very shades of death, + When the picket lines were pacing their rounds with bated breath,* + + The lips of strong men trembled and brave breasts heaved a sigh, + When some one whistled softly, "I'd lay me down and die."[*t] + The tender little ballad our watchword soon became, + And in place of Annie Laurie, each had a loved one's name. + In the very front of battle, where the bullets thickest fly,* + The boys from old New England oftimes went rushing by, + And the rebel lines before us gave way where'er we went, + For the gray coats fled in terror from the "whistling regiment." + Amidst the roar of the cannon, and the shriek of the shells on high, + Yon could hear the brave boys whistling: "I'd lay me down and die."[*t] + But, Alas! Though truth is mighty and right will at last prevail, + There are times when the best and bravest, by the wrong outnumbered, fail; + And thus, one day, in a skirmish, but a half-hour's fight at most, + A score of the whistling soldiers were caught by the rebel host. + With hands fast tied behind us, we were dragged to a prison pen, + Where, hollow-eyed and starving, lay a thousand loyal men. + No roof but the vault of Heaven, no bed save the beaten sod, + Shut in from the world around us, by a wall where the sentries trod. + For a time our Annie Laurie brought cheer to that prison pen; + A hope to the hearts of the living; a smile to the dying men. + But the spark of Hope burned dimly, when each day's setting sun + Dropped the pall of night o'er a comrade, whose sands of life were run. + One night, in a dismal corner, where the shadows darkest fell, + We huddled close together to hear a soldier tell + The tales of dear New England and of loved ones waiting there, + When, Hark! a soft, low whistle, pierced through the heavy air,* + And the strain was Annie Laurie. Each caught the other's eye, + And with trembling lips we answered, "I'd lay me down and die." + From the earth, near the wall behind us, a hand came struggling through, + With a crumpled bit of paper for the captive boys in blue. + And the name! My God! 'Twas Annie, my Annie, true and brave, + From the hills of old New England she had followed me to save.[*t] + "Not a word or a sign, but follow, where'er you may be led, + Bring four of your comrades with you," was all hat the writing said. + Only eight were left of the twenty and lots were quickly thrown, + Then our trembling fingers widened the space where the hand had shown. + With a stealthy glance at the sentries, the prisoners gathered round, + And the five whom fate had chosen stole silent underground, + On, on, through the damp earth creeping, we followed our dusky guide, + Till under a bank o'erhanging we came to the river side: + "Straight over," a low voice whispered, "where you see yon beacon light," + And ere we could say, "God bless you," he vanished into the night. + Through the fog and damp of the river, when the moon was hid from sight, + With a fond, old, faithful negro, brave Annie had crossed each night; + And the long, dark, narrow passage had grown till we heard close by + The notes of the dear old pass-word: "I'd lay me down and die." + With oarlocks muffled and silent, we pushed out into the stream, + When a shot rang out on the stillness. We could see by the musket gleam, + A single sentry firing, but the balls passed harmless by, + For the stars had hid their faces and clouds swept o'er the sky. + O God! How that beacon burning, brought joy to my heart that night,* + For I knew whose hand had kindled that fire to guide our flight. + The new-born hope of freedom filled every arm with strength, + And we pulled at the oars like giants till the shore was reached at length. + We sprang from the skiff, half-fainting, once more in the land of the free, + And the lips of my love were waiting to welcome and comfort me. + In my wasted arms I held her, while the weary boys close by + Breathed low, "For Annie Laurie, I'd lay me down and die."[*t] + + + + +THE MINISTER'S GRIEVANCES. + + +"Brethren," said the aged minister, as he stood up before the church +meeting on New Year's Eve, "I am afraid we will have to part. I have +labored among you now for fifteen years, and I feel that that is almost +enough, under the peculiar circumstances in which I am placed. Not that I +am exactly dissatisfied; but a clergyman who has been preaching to sinners +for fifteen years for five hundred dollars a year, naturally feels that he +is not doing a great work when Deacon Jones, acting as an officer of the +church, pays his last quarter's salary in a promissory note at six months, +and then, acting as an individual, offers to discount it for him at ten per +cent if he will take it part out in clover seed and pumpkins. + +"I feel somehow as if it would take about eighty-four years of severe +preaching to prepare the deacon for existence in a felicitous hereafter. +Let me say, also, that while I am deeply grateful to the congregation for +the donation party they gave me on Christmas, I have calculated that it +would be far more profitable for me to shut my house and take to the woods +than endure another one. I will not refer to the impulsive generosity which +persuaded Sister Potter to come with a present of eight clothes pins; I +will not insinuate anything against Brother Ferguson, who brought with him +a quarter of a peck of dried apples of the crop of 1872; I shall not allude +to the benevolence of Sister Tynhirst, who came with a pen-wiper and a tin +horse for the baby; I shall refrain from commenting upon the impression +made by Brother Hill, who brought four phosphorescent mackerel, possibly +with an idea that they might be useful in dissipating the gloom in my +cellar. I omit reference to Deacon Jones' present of an elbow of stove-pipe +and a bundle of tooth-picks, and I admit that when Sister Peabody brought +me sweetened sausage-meat, and salted and peppered mince-meat for pies, she +did right in not forcing her own family to suffer from her mistake in +mixing the material. But I do think I may fairly remark respecting the case +of Sister Walsingham, that after careful thought I am unable to perceive +how she considered that a present of a box of hair-pins to my wife +justified her in consuming half a pumpkin pie, six buttered muffins, two +platefuls of oysters, and a large variety of miscellaneous food, previous +to jamming herself full of preserves, and proceeding to the parlor to join +in singing 'There is rest for the weary!' Such a destruction of the +necessaries of life doubtless contributes admirably to the stimulation of +commerce, but it is far too large a commercial operation to rest solely +upon the basis of a ten-cent box of hair-pins. + +"As for matters in the church, I do not care to discuss them at length. I +might say much about the manner in which the congregation were asked to +contribute clothing to our mission in Senegambia; we received nothing but +four neckties and a brass breast-pin, excepting a second-hand carriage-whip +that Deacon Jones gave us. I might allude to the frivolous manner in which +Brother Atkinson, our tenor, converses with Sister Priestly, our soprano, +during my sermons, and last Sunday he kissed her when he thought I was not +looking; I might allude to the absent-mindedness which has permitted +Brother Brown twice lately to put half a dollar on the collection-plate and +take off two quarters and a ten-cent piece in change; and I might dwell +upon the circumstance that while Brother Toombs, the undertaker, sings 'I +would not live alway' with professional enthusiasm that is pardonable, I do +not see why he should throw such unction into the hymn 'I am unworthy +though I give my all,' when he is in arrears for two years' pew-rent, and +is always busy examining the carpet-pattern when the plate goes round. I +also----" + +But there Brother Toombs turned off the gas suddenly, and the meeting +adjourned full of indignation at the good pastor. His resignation was +accepted unanimously. + + + + +THE GOOD OLD WAY. + + + John Mann had a wife who was kind and true,-- + A wife who loved him well; + She cared for the house and their only child; + But if I the truth must tell, + She fretted and pined because John was poor + And his business was slow to pay; + But he only said, when she talked of change, + "We'll stick to the good old way!" + + She saw her neighbors were growing rich + And dwelling in houses grand; + That she was living in poverty, + With wealth upon every hand; + And she urged her husband to speculate, + To risk his earnings at play; + But he only said, "My dearest wife, + We'll stick to the good old way." + + For he knew that the money that's quickly got + Is the money that's quickly lost; + And the money that stays is the money earned + At honest endeavor's cost. + So he plodded along in his honest style, + And he bettered himself each day, + And he only said to his fretful wife, + "We'll stick to the good old way." + + And at last there came a terrible crash, + When beggary, want, and shame + Came down on the homes of their wealthy friends, + While John's remained the same; + For he had no debts and he gave no trust, + "My motto is this," he'd say,-- + "It's a charm against panics of every kind,-- + 'Tis stick to the good old way!" + + And his wife looked round on the little house + That was every nail their own, + And she asked forgiveness of honest John + For the peevish mistrust she had shown; + But he only said, as her tearful face + Upon his shoulder lay, + "The good old way is the best way, wife; + We'll stick to the good old way." + + + + +EXTRACT FROM BLAINE'S ORATION ON JAMES A. GARFIELD. + + [Delivered in the City of Washington, Monday, February + 27, 1882.] + + +On the morning of Saturday, July 2, the President was a contented and happy +man--not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly happy. On his +way to the railroad station, to which he drove slowly, in conscious +enjoyment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted sense of leisure and +keen anticipation of pleasure, his talk was all in the grateful and +congratulatory vein. He felt that after four months of trial his +administration was strong in its grasp of affairs, strong in popular favor +and destined to grow stronger; that grave difficulties confronting him at +his inauguration had been safely passed; that trouble lay behind him and +not before him; that he was soon to meet the wife whom he loved, now +recovering from an illness which had but lately disquieted and at times +almost unnerved him; that he was going to his Alma Mater to renew the most +cheerful associations of his young manhood and to exchange greetings with +those whose deepening interest had followed every step of his upward +progress from the day he entered upon his college course until he had +attained the loftiest elevation in the gift of his countrymen. + +Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this +world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a +happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of +danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One +moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully +out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to +weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave. + +Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the +very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he +was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its +aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death--and he did +not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, +he could give up life hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days +of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because +silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he looked into his open +grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes whose lips may +tell--what brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high ambitions, what +sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter rending of +sweet household ties! Behind him a proud expectant nation; a great host of +sustaining friends; a cherished and happy mother, wearing the full, rich +honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of his youth, whose whole life +lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged from childhood's days of +frolic; the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into +closest companionship, claiming every day and every day rewarding a +father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet +all demands. Before him, desolation and great darkness! And his soul was +not shaken. His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound and +universal sympathy. Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the centre +of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love +and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the +winepress alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing +tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's +bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the +Divine decree. + +As the end drew near his early craving for the sea returned. The stately +mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he +begged to be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling +air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love +of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the +sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its heaving +billows, within sound of its manifold voices. With wan, fevered face +tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze he looked out wistfully upon the +ocean's changing wonders; on its far sails, whitening in the morning light; +on its restless waves, rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the +noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening, arching low to the horizon; on +the serene and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think that his dying +eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know. +Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard the great +waves breaking on a farther shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow +the breath of the eternal morning. + + + + +HOW SHALL I LOVE YOU? + +WILL C. FERRIL. + + + How shall I love you? I dream all day + Dear, of a tenderer, sweeter way; + Songs that I sing to you, words that I say, + Prayers that are voiceless on lips that would pray; + These may not tell of the love of my life; + How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife? + + How shall I love you? Love is the bread + Of life to a woman--the white and the red + Of all the world's roses, the light that is shed + On all the world's pathways, till life shall be dead! + The star in the storm and the strength in the strife; + How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife? + + Is there a burden your heart must bear? + I shall kneel lowly and lift it, dear! + Is there a thorn in the crown that you wear? + Let it hide in my heart till a rose blossom there! + For grief or for glory--for death or for life, + So shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife. + + + + +THE LITTLE BROWN CURL. + + + A quaint old box with a lid of blue, + All faded and worn with age; + A soft little curl of a brownish hue, + A yellow and half-written page. + + The letters, with never a pause nor dot, + In a school-boy's hand are cast; + The lines and the curl I may hold to-day, + But the love of the boy is past. + + It faded away with our childish dreams, + Died out like the morning mist, + And I look with a smile on the silken curl + That once I had tenderly kissed. + + One night in the summer--so long ago-- + We played by the parlor door, + And the moonlight fell, like a silver veil, + Spreading itself on the floor. + + And the children ran on the graveled walk + At play in their noisy glee; + But the maddest, merriest fun just then + Was nothing to John and me. + + For he was a stately boy of twelve, + And I was not quite eleven-- + We thought as we sat by the parlor door + We had found the gate to heaven. + + That night when I lay on my snowy bed, + Like many a foolish girl, + I kissed and held to my little heart + This letter and silken curl. + + I slept and dreamed of the time when I + Should wake to a fairy life; + And sleeping, blushed, when I thought that John + Had called me his little wife. + + I have loved since then with a woman's heart, + Have known all a woman's bliss, + But never a dream of the after life + Was ever so sweet as this. + + The years went by with their silver feet, + And often I laughed with John + At the vows we made by the parlor door + When the moon and stars looked on. + + Ah? boyish vows were broken and lost, + And a girl's first dream will end, + But I dearly loved his beautiful wife, + While he was my husband's friend. + + When at last I went to my childhood's home + Far over the bounding wave, + I missed my friend, for the violets grew + And blossomed over his grave. + + To-day as I opened the old blue box, + And looked on this soft brown curl, + And read of the love John left for me + When I was a little girl, + + There came to my heart a throb of pain, + And my eyes grew moist with tears, + For the childish love and the dear, dear friend, + And the long-lost buried years. + + + + +DE PINT WID OLE PETE. + + +Upon the hurricane deck of one of our gunboats, an elderly looking darkey, +with a very philosophical and retrospective cast of countenance, squatted +on his bundle, toasting his shins against the chimney, and apparently +plunged into a state of profound meditation. Finding, upon inquiry, that he +belonged to the Ninth Illinois, one of the most gallantly behaved and heavy +losing regiments at the Fort Donelson battle, I began to interrogate him +upon the subject. + +"Were you in the fight?" + +"Had a little taste of it, sa." + +"Stood your ground, did you?" + +"No, sa, I runs." + +"Run at the first fire, did you?" + +"Yes, sa; and would hab run soona, had I know'd it was comin'." + +"Why, that wasn't very creditable to your courage." + +"Massa, dat isn't my line, sa; cookin's my profeshun." + +"Well, but have you no regard for your reputation?" + +"Yah, yah! reputation's nuffin to me by de side ob life." + +"Do you consider _your_ life worth more than other people's?" + +"It is worth more to me, sa." + +"Then you must value it very highly?" + +"Yes, sa, I does; more dan all dis world, more dan a million ob dollars, +sa; for what would dat be wuth to a man wid the bref out ob him? +Self-preserbation am de fust law wid me." + +"But why should you act upon a different rule from other men?" + +"Because different men set different values upon deir lives; mine is not in +the market." + +"But if you lost it, you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you +died for your country." + +"What satisfaction would dat be to me when de power ob feelin' was gone?" + +"Then patriotism and honor are nothing to you?" + +"Nuffin whatever, sa; I regard them as among the vanities." + +"If our soldiers were like you, traitors might have broken up the +government without resistance." + +"Yes, sa; dar would hab been no help for it." + +"Do you think any of your company would have missed you, if you had been +killed?" + +"Maybe not, sa; a dead white man ain't much to dese sogers, let alone a +dead nigga; but I'd a missed myself, and dat was de pint wid me." + + + + +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," quote Farmer Brown, + As he sat 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 your born, + Nor mend a rod of broken fence-- + For my part give me common sense." + + But his wife was bound the roast 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 his brothers, who went to the city school, + Came home to live with "mother's fool." + + + + +AN HOUR OF HORROR. + + +It was close upon the hour of midnight. + +A man sat alone in an upper room in a tumble-down tenement--a man whose +face showed by his furrowed brow, glaring eyes and pallid lips the effects +of a terrible mental struggle going on within him. + +Before him were several pages of manuscript, and his nervous hand +convulsively clutching a pen, was rapidly adding to them. + +Close to his right hand and frequently touched by it as he plied his pen, +was a gleaming, glittering object--ivory, silver and steel--a loaded +revolver. + +The window beside him was open, and through it the cool breeze entered and +fanned his fevered brow. The night without was calm and placid. Nature was +lovely, bathed in the light of the summer moon; but the man was oblivious +of the beauties of the night. He glanced at the clock now and then, and +observing the long hand climbing up the incline toward the figure twelve, +he redoubled his labor at his manuscript. + +Anon he glanced at the revolver on the desk beside him. He touched its +ivory handle as if faltering in his resolution; and then went on with his +writing. + +Hark! + +What sound is that that is borne upon the breeze of the summer night? A +long, low wail, like the cry of a woman in mortal anguish. + +The man started like a guilty soul, dashed the dews of perspiration from +his clammy brow, and uttered an incoherent exclamation. + +Again! again, that moaning, uncanny cry! + +The man heard it and groaned aloud. He dashed aside the last page of his +manuscript, and glanced again at the clock. The hands marked the hour of +midnight. He grasped the revolver with a resolute air and exclaimed through +his clenched teeth: + +"It must be done!" + +And, going to the window, he fired twice. * * * There was a scattering +sound in the backyard, and the next day a gray cat was found dead close to +the woodshed. The story and the deed were done. + + + + +GO VAY, BECKY MILLER, GO VAY! + + + I don'd lofe you now von schmall little bit, + My dream vas blayed oudt, so blease git up und git; + Your false-heardted vays I can't got along mit-- + Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! + + Vas all der young vomans so false-heardted like you, + Mit a face nice und bright, but a heart black und plue, + Und all der vhile schworing you lofed me so drue-- + Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! + + Vy, vonce I t'ought you vas a shtar vay up high; + I liked you so better as gogonut bie: + But oh, Becky Miller, you hafe profed von big lie-- + Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! + + You dook all de bresents vat I did bresent, + Yes, gobbled up efery virst thing vot I sent; + All der vhile mit anoder young rooster you vent-- + Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! + + Vhen first I found oudt you vas such a big lie, + I didn't know vedder to schmudder or die; + Bud now, by der chingo, I don't efen cry-- + Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! + + Don'd dry make belief you vas sorry aboudt, + I don'd belief a dings vot coomes oudt by your moudt; + Und besides I don'd care, for you vas blayed oudt-- + Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! + + + + +IT IS A WINTER NIGHT. + +BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. + + + It is a winter night, + And the stilly earth is white, + With the blowing of the lilies of the snow; + Once it was as red, + With the roses summer shed; + But the roses fled with summer, long ago. + + We sang a merry tune, + In the jolly days of June, + As we danced adown the garden in the light, + But now December's come, + And our hearts are dark and dumb, + As we huddle o'er the embers here to-night. + + + + +WHAT THE LITTLE GIRL SAID. + + +"Ma's upstairs changing her dress," said the freckle-faced little girl, +tying her doll's bonnet strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large +enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person. + +"Oh, your mother needn't dress up for me," replied the female agent of the +missionary society, taking a self-satisfied view of herself in the mirror. +"Run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her every-day clothes, +and not stand on ceremony." + +"Oh, but she hasn't got on her every-day clothes. Ma was all dressed up in +her new brown silk dress, 'cause she expected Miss Dimmond to-day. Miss +Dimmond always comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma doesn't +mean to get left. When ma saw you coming she said, 'the dickens!' and I +guess she was mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new dress, she'd +have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don't have silk, and you'd ask +her for money to buy hymn books to send 'em. Say, do the nigger ladies use +hymn-book leaves to do their hair up on and make it frizzy? Ma says she +guesses that's all the good the books do 'em, if they ever get any books. I +wish my doll was a heathen." + +"Why, you wicked little girl! what do you want of a heathen doll?" inquired +the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the +parlor to get material for a homily on worldly extravagance. + +"So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to +have her going about naked. Then she'd have hair to frizz, and I want a +doll with truly hair and eyes that roll up like Deacon Silderback's when +he says amen on Sunday. I ain't a wicked girl, either, 'cause Uncle +Dick--you know Uncle Dick, he's been out West and swears awful and smokes +in the house--he says I'm a holy terror, and he hopes I'll be an angel +pretty soon. Ma'll be down in a minute, so you needn't take your cloak off. +She said she'd box my ears if I asked you to. Ma's putting on that old +dress she had last year, 'cause she didn't want you to think she was able +to give much this time, and she needed a muff worse than the queen of the +cannon-ball islands needed religion. Uncle Dick says you oughter get to the +islands, 'cause you'd be safe there, and the natives would be sorry they +was such sinners anybody would send you to 'em. He says he never seen a +heathen hungry enough to eat you, 'less 'twas a blind one, an' you'd set a +blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never hanker after any more missionary. +Uncle Dick's awful funny, and makes ma and pa die laughing sometimes." + +"Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved wretch, and ought to have remained +out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a horrid example for +little girls like you." + +"Oh, I think he's nice. He showed me how to slide down the banisters, and +he's teaching me to whistle when ma ain't around. That's a pretty cloak +you've got, ain't it? Do you buy all your clothes with missionary money? +Ma says you do." + +Just then the freckle-faced girl's ma came into the parlor and kissed the +missionary lady on the cheek and said she was delighted to see her, and +they proceeded to have a real sociable chat. The little girl's ma cannot +understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the missionary +agent does should go right over to Miss Dimmond's and say such ill-natured +things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip. + + + + +"WE'RE BUILDING TWO A DAY!" + +BY REV. ALFRED J. HOUGH. + + [During the Freethinkers' Convention, at Watkins, N. + Y., in response to statements that the churches + throughout the land were losing all aggressive power, a + message was received from Chaplain McCabe, of the + Methodist Episcopal Church Extension Board saying in + substance and speaking only of his own denomination, + "All hail the power of Jesus' name; we're building two + a day!"] + + + The infidels, a motley band, + In council, met and said: + "The churches die all through the land, + The last will soon be dead." + When suddenly a message came, + It filled them with dismay: + "All hail the power of Jesus' name! + We're building two a day." + + "We're building two a day," and still, + In stately forests stored, + Are shingle, rafter, beam, and sill, + For churches of the Lord; + And underpinning for the same, + In quarries piled away; + "All hail the power of Jesus' name! + We're building two a day." + + The miners rend the hills apart, + Earth's bosom is explored, + And streams from her metallic heart + In graceful molds are poured, + For bells to sound our Saviour's fame + From towers,--and, swinging, say, + "All hail the power of Jesus' name! + We're building two a day." + + The King of saints to war has gone, + And matchless are His deeds; + His sacramental hosts move on, + And follow where He leads; + While infidels His church defame, + Her corner-stones we lay; + "All hail the power of Jesus' name! + We're laying two a day." + + The Christless few the cross would hide, + The light of life shut out, + And leave the world to wander wide + Through sunless realms of doubt. + The pulpits lose their ancient fame, + Grown obsolete, they say; + "All hail the power of Jesus' name! + We're building two a day." + + "Extend," along the line is heard, + "Thy walls, O Zion, fair!" + And Methodism heeds the word, + And answers everywhere. + + A new church greets the morning's flame, + Another evening's gray. + "All hail the power of Jesus' name! + We're building two a day." + + When infidels in council meet + Next year, with boastings vain, + To chronicle the Lord's defeat, + And count His churches slain, + Oh then may we with joy proclaim, + If we His call obey: + "All hail the power of Jesus' name! + We're building THREE a day." + + + + +THE MODERN BELLE. + + + The daughter sits in the parlor, + And rocks in her easy-chair; + She is dressed in silks and satins, + And jewels are in her hair; + She winks, and giggles, and simpers, + And simpers, and giggles, and winks; + And though she talks but little, + It's vastly more than she thinks. + + Her father goes clad in russet-- + All brown and seedy at that; + His coat is out at the elbows, + And he wears a shocking bad hat. + He is hoarding and saving his dollars, + So carefully, day by day, + While she on her whims and fancies + Is squandering them all away. + + She lies in bed of a morning + Until the hour of noon, + Then comes down, snapping and snarling + Because she's called too soon. + Her hair is still in papers, + Her cheeks still bedaubed with paint-- + Remains of last night's blushes + Before she attempted to faint. + + Her feet are so very little, + Her hands so snowy white, + Her jewels so very heavy, + And her head so very light; + Her color is made of cosmetics-- + Though this she'll never own; + Her body is mostly cotton, + And her heart is wholly stone. + + She falls in love with a fellow + Who swells with a foreign air; + He marries her for her money, + She marries him for his hair-- + One of the very best matches; + Both are well mated in life; + She's got a fool for a husband, + And he's got a fool for a wife. + + + + +THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. + +ANONYMOUS. + +_A Humorous Recitation._ + + +One who does not believe in immersion for baptism was holding a protracted +meeting, and one night preached on the subject of baptism. In the course of +his remarks he said that some believe it necessary to go down in the water, +and come up out of it, to be baptized. But this he claimed to be fallacy, +for the preposition "into" of the Scriptures should be rendered +differently, as it does not mean into at all times. "Moses," he said, "we +are told, went up into the mountain; and the Saviour was taken up into a +high mountain, etc. Now we do not suppose either went into a mountain but +went unto it. So with going down into the water; it means simply going down +close by or near to the water, and being baptized in the ordinary way, by +sprinkling or pouring." He carried this idea out fully, and in due season +closed his discourse, when an invitation was given for any one so disposed +to rise and express his thoughts. Quite a number of his brethren arose and +said they were glad they had been present on this occasion, that they were +well pleased with the sound sermon they had just heard, and felt their +souls greatly blessed. Finally, a corpulent gentleman of Teutonic +extraction, a stranger to all, arose and broke the silence that was almost +painful, as follows: + +"Mister Breacher, I is so glad I vash here to-night, for I has had +explained to my mint some dings dat I never could pelief pefore. Oh, I is +so glad dat into does not mean into at all, but shust close py or near to, +for now I can pelief many dings vot I could not pelief pefore. We reat, Mr. +Breacher, dat Taniel vos cast into de ten of lions, and came out alife. +Now I neffer could pelief dat, for wilt peasts would shust eat him right +off; but now it is fery clear to my mint. He vash shust close py or near +to, and tid not get into de ten at all. Oh, I ish so glad I vash here +to-night. Again we reat dat de Heprew children vas cast into de firish +furnace, and dat always look like a beeg story too, for they would have +been purnt up; but it ish all blain to my mint now, for dey was shust cast +py or close to de firish furnace. Oh, I vas so glad I vos here to-night. +And den, Mister Breacher, it ish said dat Jonah vash cast into de sea, and +taken into de whale's pelly. Now I neffer could pelief dat. It alwish +seemed to me to be a beeg fish story, but it ish all blain to my mint now. +He vash not into de whale's pelly at all, but shump onto his pack and rode +ashore. Oh, I vash so glad I vash here to-night. + +"And now, Mister Breacher, if you will shust exblain two more bassages of +Scriptures, I shall be oh so happy dat I vas here to-night! One of dem ish +vere it saish de vicked shall be cast into a lake dat burns mit fire and +primstone alwish. Oh, Mister Breacher, shall I be cast into dat lake if I +am vicked, or shust close py or near to--shust near enough to be +comfortable? Oh, I hope you tell me I shall be cast only shust py a good +veys off, and I vill pe so glad I vash here to-night. Do oder bassage is +dat vich saish blessed are they who do these commandments, dat dey may +have right to de dree of life, and enter in droo de gates of the city, and +not shust close py or near to--shust near enough to see vat I have +lost--and I shall pe so glad I vash here to-night." + + + + +THE FAST MAIL AND THE STAGE. + +BY JOHN H. YATES. + + + Lay by the weekly, Betsey, it's old like you and I, + And read the morning's daily, with its pages scarcely dry. + While you and I were sleepin', they were printing them to-day, + In the city by the ocean, several hundred miles away. + + "How'd I get it?" Bless you, Betsey, you needn't doubt and laugh; + It didn't drop down from the clouds nor come by telegraph; + I got it by the lightning mail we've read about you know, + The mail that Jonathan got up about a month ago. + + We farmers livin' 'round the hill went to the town to-day + To see the fast mail catch the bags that hung beside the way; + Quick as a flash from thundering clouds, whose tempest swept the sky, + The bags were caught on board the train as it went roarin' by. + + We are seein' many changes in our fast declinin' years; + Strange rumors now are soundin' in our hard-of-hearin' ears. + Ere the sleep that knows no wakin' comes to waft us o'er the stream, + Some great power may be takin' all the self-conceit from steam. + + Well do we remember, Betsey, when the post-man carried mails, + Ridin' horseback through the forest 'long the lonely Indian trails, + How impatiently we waited--we were earnest lovers then-- + For our letters comin' slowly, many miles through wood and glen. + + Many times, you know, we missed them--for the post-man never came-- + Then, not knowin' what had happened, we did each the other blame; + Long those lover quarrels lasted, but the God who melts the proud + Brought our strayin' hearts together and let sunshine through the cloud. + + Then at last the tidings reached us that the faithful post-man fell + Before the forest savage with his wild terrific yell, + And your letters lay and moldered, while the sweet birds sang above, + And I was savin' bitter things about a woman's love. + + Long and tedious were the journeys--few and far between, the mails, + In the days when we were courtin'--when we thrashed with wooden flails; + Now the white winged cars are flyin' long the shores of inland seas. + And younger lovers read _their_ letters 'mid luxury and ease. + + We have witnessed many changes in our three-score years and ten; + We no longer sit and wonder at the discoveries of men; + In the shadow of life's evenin' we rejoice that our dear boys + Are not called to meet the hardships that embittered half our joys. + + Like the old mail through the forest, youthful years go slowly by; + Like the fast mail of the present, manhood's years how swift they fly; + We are sitting in the shadows; soon shall break life's brittle cord-- + Soon shall come the welcome summons by the fast mail of the Lord. + + + + +STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN. + +BY MRS. WHITNEY. + + +Well, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould country, +livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be herself, a +little rid hin. Nice an' quiet she was, and niver did no kind o' harrum in +her life. An' there lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, a +crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould villain iv a fox, he laid +awake o' nights, and he prowled around shly iv a day-time, thinkin' always +so busy how he'd git the little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile her up +for his shupper. But the wise little rid hin niver went intil her bit iv a +house, but she locked the door afther her and pit the kay in her pocket. So +the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, an' he prowled, an' he laid awake +nights, till he came all to skin an' bone, an' sorra a ha'porth o' the +little rid hin could he git at. But at lasht there came a shcame intil his +wicked ould head, an' he tuk a big bag one mornin', over his shouldher, an' +he says till his mother, says he, "Mother, have the pot all bilin' agin' I +come home, for I'll bring the little rid hin to-night for our shupper." An' +away he wint, over the hill, an' came crapin' shly an' soft through the +woods to where the little rid hin lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An' +shure, jist at the very minute that he got along, out comes the little rid +hin out iv the door, to pick up shticks to bile her tay-kettle. "Begorra, +now, but I'll have yees," says the shly ould fox, an' in he shlips, +unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides behind the door. An' in comes the +little rid hin, a minute afther, with her apron full of shticks, an' shuts +too the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in her pocket. An' thin she +turns round,--an' there stands the baste iv a fox in the corner. Well, +thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a +great fright and flutter to the big bame acrass the inside o' the roof, +where the fox couldn't git at her! + +"Ah, ha!" says the fox, "I'll soon bring you out o' that!" An' he began to +whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter, an' fashter, an' fashter, on +the floor, afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got so dizzy +wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox whipped +her up and popped her intil his bag, and stharted off home in a minute. An' +he wint up the wood and down the wood, half the day long, with the little +rid hin shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a know she knowed where she +was at all, at all. She thought she was all biled an' ate up, an' finished +shure! But, by an' by, she remimbered herself, an' pit her hand in her +pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, and shnipped a big hole in +the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone an' popped it +intil the bag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door. + +An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big stone at his back +thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the little rid hin +was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in sight iv his +din in the rocks' and shpied his ould mother awatchin' for him at the door, +he says, "Mother! have ye the pot bilin'?" An' the ould mother says, +"Sure, an' it is; an' have ye the little rid hin?" "Yes, jist here in me +bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in," says he. + +An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid o' the pot, an' the rashkill +untied the bag, and hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk in the +big, heavy shtone. An' the bilin' wather shplashed up all over the rogue iv +a fox, an' his mother, an' schalded them both to death. An' the little rid +hin lived safe in her house foriver afther. + + + + +ONLY A SONG. + + + It was only a simple ballad, + Sung to a careless throng; + There were none that knew the singer, + And few that heeded the song; + Yet the singer's voice was tender + And sweet as with love untold; + Surely those hearts were hardened + That it left so proud and cold. + + She sang of the wondrous glory + That touches the woods in spring, + Of the strange, soul-stirring voices + When "the hills break forth and sing;" + Of the happy birds low warbling + The requiem of the day, + And the quiet hush of the valleys + In the dusk of the gloaming gray. + + And one in a distant corner-- + A woman worn with strife-- + Heard in that song a message + From the spring-time of her life. + Fair forms rose up before her + From the mist of vanished years; + She sat in a happy blindness, + Her eyes were veiled in tears. + + Then, when the song was ended, + And hushed the last sweet tone, + The listener rose up softly + And went on her way alone + Once more to her life of labor + She passed; but her heart was strong; + And she prayed, "God bless the singer! + And oh, thank God for the song!" + + + + +THE BICYCLE RIDE. + +BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. + + [Whether bicycle riding on Sunday be sinful or not, + depends entirely upon the spirit in which it is done + and the associations of the ride.] + + + You have read of the ride of Paul Revere, + And of Gilpin's ride, so fraught with fear; + Skipper Ireson's ride in a cart, + And the ride where Sheridan played a part; + Calendar's ride on a brazen hack, + And Islam's prophet on Al Borak; + The fateful ride to Aix from Ghent, + And a dozen others of like portent, + But you never have heard of a bicycle spin + Which was piously ended, though started in sin. + + Tom was a country parson's son, + Fresh from college and full of fun, + Fond of flirting with bright-eyed girls, + Raving, in verse, over golden curls, + Sowing a wild oat, here and there, + In a way that made the parson stare + And chide him sternly, when face to face, + While, in private, he laughed at the young scape-grace. + But the wildest passion the boy could feel + Was the love he bore for his shining wheel. + + He rode it by night and he rode it by day, + If he went two rods or ten miles away; + And Deacon Smith was heard to remark + That he met that "pesky thing in the dark + And it went right by with a glint and a gleam + And a wild 'hoot-toot' that made him scream; + In spite of the fact that he knew right well + That evil spirits were all in--well-- + He wouldn't meet that thing again + For a corn-crib full of good, ripe grain." + + One Sunday morning, the sun was bright, + The bird's throats bursting with glad delight, + The parson-mounted his plump old bay + And jogged to the church, two miles away, + While Tom wheeled round, ten miles or more + And hid his wheel by the chancel door, + And he thought, as he sat in the parson's pew, + "I wonder what makes dad look so blue," + Till it came like a flash to his active mind, + He left his sermon and specs behind. + + Now the parson was old and his eyes were dim + And he couldn't have read a line or a hymn, + Without his specs for a mint of gold, + And his head turned hot while his toes turned cold, + And right in the midst of his mental shock, + The parson deceived his trusting flock, + And gave them eternal life and a crown + From the book he was holding upside down. + Tom, the rascal, five minutes before, + Like an arrow had shot from the chancel door. + + The horses he frightened I never can tell, + Nor how the old church folk were shocked, as well, + And they said they feared that the parson's lad + "Was a-gettin' wild" and would go to the bad, + For 'twas wicked enough to set folks in a craze + Without "ridin' sech races on Sabbath days," + And they thought the length of the parson's prayer + Had something to do with his fatherly care. + While the truth of it was, which he afterwards dropped, + He didn't know what he could do when he stopped. + + Of course you know how the story will end, + The prayer was finished and duly "Amen'd," + When Tom, all dust, to the pulpit flew + And laid down the specs and the sermon too. + Then the parson preached in a timid way, + Of sinful pleasure on Sabbath-day, + And he added a postscript, not in the text. + Saying that, when they were sore perplexed, + Each must decide as he chanced to feel. + And Tom chuckled: "Sundays, I'll ride my wheel." + + + + +THE LAND OF OUR BIRTH. + +BY LILLIE E. BARR. + + + O! where is the land that each mortal loves best, + The land that is dearest and fairest on earth? + It is North, it is South, it is East, it is West; + For this beautiful land is the land of our birth. + + 'Tis the home of our childhood; the fragrance and dew + Of our innocent days are all linked with the spot; + And its fields were so green, and its mountains so blue, + That our hearts must be cold ere that land is forgot. + + We have wandered, perchance, far away from the place, + But how often we see it in thought and in dreams! + Feel its winds, as of old, blowing cool on our face, + Hear the songs of its birds, and the plash of its + streams. + + We may build grander homes than the home of our youth, + On far loftier objects our eyes may be cast; + But we never forget all its love and its truth; + It has charms that will hallow it unto the last. + + We may learn other tongues, but that language is best + That we lisped with our mothers in infancy's days-- + The language she sung when she rocked us to rest, + And gave us good counsel and comfort and praise. + + We may love other lands, but wherever we be + The land that is greenest and fairest on earth + Is the one that, perhaps, we may never more see-- + The home of our fathers--the land of our birth. + + May its daughters and sons grow in beauty and worth! + May the blessing of God give it freedom and rest! + Be it northward, or southward, or eastward, or west, + The land of our birth is of all lands the best. + + + + +THE TEACHER'S DIADEM. + + + Sitting 'mid the gathering shadows, weary with the Sabbath's care; + Weary with the Sabbath's burdens, that she dearly loves to bear; + For she sees a shining pathway, and she gladly presses on; + 'Tis the first Great Teacher's footprints--it will lead where He has gone; + With a hand that's never faltered, with a love that's ne'er grown dim, + Long and faithfully she's labored, to His fold the lambs to bring. + + But to-night her soul grows heavy; through the closed lids fall the tears, + As the children pass before her, that she's taught these many years; + And she cries in bitter anguish: "Shall not one to me be given, + To shine upon my coronet amid the hosts of heaven! + Hear my prayer to-night, my Saviour, in Thy glorious home above; + Give to me some little token--some approval of Thy love." + + Ere the words were scarcely uttered, banishing the evening gloom, + Came a soft and shining radiance, bright'ning all within the room; + And an angel in white raiment, brighter than the morning sun, + Stood before her, pointing upward, while he softly whispered, "Come." + As he paused, she heard the rustle of his starry pinions bright, + And she quickly rose and followed, out into the stilly night; + + Up above the dim blue ether; up above the silver stars; + On, beyond the golden portals; through the open pearly doors; + Far across the sea of crystal, to the shining sapphire Throne, + Where she heard amid the chorus, "Welcome, child; thy work's well done." + Surely 'tis her Saviour speaking; 'tis His hands, aye, 'tis His feet; + And she cries: "Enough! I've seen Him; all my joys are now complete." + + All forgot earth's care and sorrow; all forgot the starry crown; + 'Twas enough e'en to be near Him; to behold Him on His Throne. + "Not enough," the Saviour answered; "thou wouldst know through + all these years, + If in vain has been thy teaching, all thy labor and thy prayers; + That from thee the end was hidden, did thy faith in me grow less? + Thou hast asked some little token, I will grant thee thy request." + + From out a golden casket, inlaid with many a gem, + He took--glist'ning with countless jewels--a regal diadem; + Bright a name shone in each jewel, names of many scholars dear, + Who she thought had passed unheeded all her earnest thought and care. + "But," she asked, "how came these names here--names I never saw before?" + And the Saviour smiling answered, "'Tis the fruit thy teachings bore; + + "'Tis the seed thy love hath planted, tended by my faithful hand; + Though unseen by thee, it's budded, blossoming in many lands. + Here are names from darkened Egypt, names from Afric's desert sands; + Names from isles amid the ocean, names from India's sunny strands; + Some from Greenland's frozen mountains, some from burning tropic plains; + From where'er man's found a dwelling, here you'll find some chosen name. + When thine earthly mission's ended, that in love to thee was given, + This is the crown of thy rejoicing, that awaits thee here in heaven." + + Suddenly the bright light faded; all was dark within the room; + And she sat amid the shadows of the Sabbath evening gloom; + But a peaceful, holy incense rested on her soul like dew; + Though the end from her was hidden, to her Master she'd be true; + Sowing seed at morn and even, pausing not to count the gain; + If her bread was on the waters, God would give it back again; + If the harvest she had toiled for other hands than hers should reap, + He'd repay her for her labor, who had bade her, "Feed my sheep." + + + + +TOBE'S MONUMENT. + +BY ELIZABETH KILHAM. + + +It was "after taps," a sultry, Southern-summer night. On the extreme edge +of the encampment, on the side nearest the enemy, a sentinel paused in his +walk, and peered cautiously out into the darkness. "Pshaw!" he said; "it's +nothing but a dog." He was resuming his walk, when the supposed quadruped +rose suddenly, and walked along on two feet in a manner so unmistakably +human, that the sentinel lowered his musket once more, and shouted, "Halt! +Advance, and give the counter-sign!" A faint, childish voice said, "Ain't +got none, massa." + +"Well, there now!" said the sentinel, "if it ain't just a little darkey, +and I guess I've frightened him half to death. Come here, snowball." + +The child crept up, and said, tremblingly: "'Deed, massa, I ain't got +nuffin ter gib yer." + +"Well, who asked you to give me anything?" + +"Yer don ax me fer gib yer suffin jes' now; and I ain't got nuffin 'cep' my +close what I got on." + +"Well, you needn't fret; I don't want 'em. Corporal of the guard! Post +two." + +The corporal hastened to "post two," and found the sentinel with his hand +on the shoulder of a little black boy, who, between fear, fatigue, and +hunger, was unable to give any account of himself. "I'll take him to +Captain Leigh," the corporal said; "he's officer of the day. Maybe he'll be +able to get something out of him." + +The captain stood in front of his tent, looking out into the night, when +the corporal and his charge approached. + +"Captain," said he, "here's a boy just come into the lines." + +"Very well; you can leave him here." + +At the first sound of the captain's voice the boy drew nearer to him, as +knowing instinctively that he had found a friend. + +"You can go into that tent and sleep till morning," said the captain. + +"What is your name!" was Captain Leigh's first question the next morning. + +"Name Tobe." + +"Is that all?" + +"Dat's all, Mass Cap'n." + +"How old are you?" + +"Dunno, Massa Cap'n. Nobody nebber done tole me dat ar." + +"Where have you come from?" + +"Come fum de back o' Richmon', Mass Cap'n." + +"What did you come here for?" + +"All de res' ob 'em runned away; an' ole mass he wor so mad, I wor jes' +feared o' my life. 'Sides, I t'ought I mought fin' my mammy ef I got 'mong +der Unions." + +"Where is your mother?" + +"Dunno, Mass Cap'n. Ole mass done sol' her down in Georgy las' +corn-shuckin', an' I ain't nebber heerd ob her sence. But I t'ought mebby +she mought ha' runned 'way too, an' I'd fin' her wid der Unions." + +"Well, now, what are you going to do?" + +"Dunno, Mass Cap'n. I'd like ter stay 'long wid you." + +"What can you do?" + +"Kin wait on yer, Mass Cap'n; kin shine up boots, an'"--brightening up as +his eyes, wandering round caught sight of the horses--"kin clean de hosses +right smart." * * * + +"If I keep you with me you must be a good boy, and do as I tell you." + +"'Deed I will, Mass Cap'n. I'se do ebery work yer say, sho's yer born." + +So when the troops left Harrison's Landing, Tobe went too, in charge of the +captain's horse and baggage; and, when the steamer was fairly under way, he +brightened into a new creature as every revolution of the wheel placed a +greater distance between himself and "old massa." * * * + +It proved that Tobe had told the truth about his skill in taking care of +horses. Captain Leigh's horse had never looked so well as now, and the +captain was delighted. Tobe turned out, moreover, to be a very good boy. +But the army is not a very good place for boys. So one day Captain Leigh +said:-- + +"Tobe, how would you like to go North?" + +"Whar's it at, Mass Cap'n?" + +"I mean my home at the North." + +"When is yer gwine, Mass Cap'n?" + +"I am not going at all now." + +"Does yer mean ter sen' me away from yer, Mass Cap'n?" + +Captain Leigh was touched, and answered him very gently,-- + +"Yes, I want to send you away from me now, because it will be better for +you. But, when the war is over, I shall go home, and then you can stay with +me always if you are a good boy." + +"I allus does jes' de t'ings yer tell me, Mass Cap'n." + +"I know you do. And, just because you do what I tell you so well I want to +send you to my home, to run errands for my wife, and do what work she will +give you in the house. And I have three little children--two little girls +and a baby boy. I want you to go with them when they go out to play and +take care of them. My home is in a very pleasant place in the country. +Don't you think you would like to go there?" + +"Ef yer goes too, Mass Cap'n." + +"But, my boy, I can't possibly go now." + +"I'se do jes de t'ing yer say, Mass Cap'n. Ef yer tells me to go, I'se go. +An' I'se jest do ebery word the missus say, an' I look af'r de chillens de +bes' I knows, ontel yer comes dar. On'y please come right soon, Mass +Cap'n." + +And, as the captain left the tent, Tobe laid his head upon his arm and +cried as if his heart would break. + +Captain Leigh found a brother officer who was expecting to go home on a +furlough, and who readily agreed to take charge of the boy in whom his +friend was so deeply interested. + +But that night came news that made everybody give up the idea of a +"furlough," or "going home." The Richmond government, being determined to +"make the North feel the war as she had not felt it," had organized the +"grand raid." + +An order came for Captain Leigh's regiment to march at daylight. + +"Tobe," said the captain, "you can go in one of the baggage-wagons. Strap +up my blanket and poncho, and take them along; and these boots, take +particular care of them, for it's not often I can get a pair of cavalry +boots to fit as they do." + +"Yer needn't be feared, Mass Cap'n; I'se take care of 'em de bes' I knows." + +The main body of the raiders were reported on the line of the South +Mountains, making for Gettysburg. Scouting expeditions were sent out from +the Northern army in all directions, and a body of troops, including +Captain Leigh's regiment, was ordered to proceed by the shortest route to +Gettysburg and head the rebels off. One of the baggage-wagons broke down. +The driver of another wagon stopped to help his comrade. The troops passed +on, and the two wagons were left alone on the mountain. In one of them was +Tobe with the captain's boots, over which he kept constant watch. The men +worked busily at the wagon and Tobe sat watching them. Suddenly a tramping +of horses' feet was heard, and a party of cavalry came round a turn in the +road. + +"That's good," said one of the men; "there's some of the boys. If they'll +wait a few minutes we can go along with 'em." + +"'Tain't none of our boys," said the other, after a keen glance; "them's +rebs." + +At the word, Tobe slid down in the bottom of the wagon under some blankets, +and lay silent and motionless with the boots clasped in his arms. + +As the soldiers advanced the officer said, apparently in reply to a +question, "No, let the men go; we can't do anything with prisoners here. +But we'll look through the wagon, and, if the Yanks have anything we want, +'all's fair in war.'" + +They reined their horses by the wagon, and, after a few short, sharp +questions, proceeded to break open trunks and bags, and appropriate their +contents. + +The soldiers were about finishing their examination, when one of them said, +"What's that under the seat of that wagon?" + +"Oh! nothing but a torn blanket," said another. "'Tain't worth taking. We +have got all we want." + +"There may be something under it, though." + +He pushed aside the blanket with his sabre, and there lay Tobe endeavoring, +but unsuccessfully, to hide the boots under him. + +"Ah!" said the officer, "this is worth while. Here's just what I wanted. +Come, boy, hand over those boots, quick." + +"'Deed, massa," said Tobe, "I can't gib 'em ter yer. Dey 'longs ter Mass +Cap'n, an' he tole me take keer ob 'em mos' partic'lar." + +"Can't help that. I've got to have them, so pass them along." + +"Please, Massa," began Tobe; but the rebel cut him short. + +"Will you give me those boots? If you don't do it, and in double-quick +time, too, I'll put a ball through your black skin. I won't ask you again. +Now, will you give them up?" and he pulled out his pistol. + +"'Deed, massa, I can't, case Massa Cap'n"-- + +There was a sharp click, a flash, a long, sobbing moan, and Tobe lay +motionless, the boots still clasped in his arms, and great drops of blood +slowly gathering upon them. + +"Enemy in sight," shouted a picket riding up. + +The officer hastily gave an order, and the rebels dashed off at a furious +speed a few moments before a party of Union cavalry, with Captain Leigh at +their head, appeared, riding from the opposite direction. + +A few words sufficed for explanation. Captain Leigh laid his hand on Tobe's +shoulder, and spoke his name. At the sound of the voice he loved so well, +his eyes opened, and he said faintly, "Mass Cap'n, I done de bes' I knowed. +I keep de boots.'" + +"O Tobe!" groaned the captain, "I wish you had given them up. I would have +lost everything rather than have had this." + +"Mass Cap'n." + +"Yes, Tobe, what is it?" + +"De little chillens, Mass Cap'n; I meaned ter wait on 'em right smart. Tell +'em"--His voice grew fainter, and his eyes closed. + +"Yes, my boy: what shall I tell them?" + +"Tell 'em I didn't lose de boots; I kep 'em de bes'--I knowed." + +There was a faint sigh, a flutter of the eyelids, and the little life that +had been so truly "de bes' he knowed" (ah! if we could all say that!) was +ended. + +Very reverently Captain Leigh lifted the boots, all wet and stained with +blood. "I will never wear those boots again," he said; "but I will never +part with them. They shall be Tobe's monument." + +In the hall of Captain Leigh's house is a deep niche, and in it, on a +marble slab covered with a glass case, stands a pair of cavalry boots with +dark stains upon them, and on the edge of the slab, in golden letters, is +the inscription: + + "In memory of Tobe, + Faithful unto death." + + + + +THE CROWDED STREET. + +BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + + Let me move slowly through the street, + Filled with an ever-shifting train, + Amid the sound of steps that beat + The murmuring walks like autumn rain. + + How fast the flitting figures come! + The mild, the fierce, the stony face-- + Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some + Where secret tears have left their trace. + + They pass to toil, to strife, to rest-- + To halls in which the feast is spread-- + To chambers where the funeral guest + In silence sits beside the dead. + + And some to happy homes repair, + Where children pressing cheek to cheek, + With mute caresses shall declare + The tenderness they cannot speak. + + And some, who walk in calmness here, + Shall shudder as they reach the door + Where one who made their dwelling dear, + Its flower, its light, is seen no more. + + Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, + And dreams of greatness in thine eye! + Go'st thou to build an early name, + Or early in the task to die? + + Keen son of trade, with eager brow! + Who is now fluttering in thy snare? + Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, + Or melt the glittering spires in air? + + Who of this crowd to-night shall tread + The dance till daylight gleam again? + Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? + Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? + + Some, famine-struck, shall think how long + The cold, dark hours, how slow the light; + And some, who flaunt amid the throng, + Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. + + Each where his tasks or pleasures call, + They pass, and heed each other not. + There is who heeds, who holds them all + In His large love and boundless thought. + + These struggling tides of life, that seem + In wayward, aimless course to tend, + Are eddies of the mighty stream + That rolls to its appointed end. + + + + +BESSIE KENDRICK'S JOURNEY. + +BY MRS. ANNIE A. PRESTON. + + +"Cars stop twenty minutes!" called out Conductor Richardson at Allen's +Junction. Then, as the train came to a dead halt, he jumped down upon the +depot platform, ran along to the front of the long line of passenger cars, +to where the engine was standing, and, swinging himself up into the cab, +said to the engineer: + +"Frank; I want you to come back to the first passenger coach, and see a +little girl that I don't know hardly what to make of." + +Frank nodded, and, without speaking, deliberately wiped his oily hands in a +bunch of waste, took a look at his grim, dusty face in a narrow little +mirror that hung beside the steam gauge, pulled off his short frock, put on +a coat, changed his little black, greasy cap for a soft felt, taking these +"dress-up" articles from the tender-box, where an engineer has something +stowed away for all emergencies, and went back to the cars as requested. + +He entered the car and made his way to the seat where the conductor sat +talking to a bright-looking little girl, about nine years old, oddly +dressed in a woman's shawl and bonnet. + +Several of the passengers were grouped around the seat, evidently much +interested in the child, who wore a sad, prematurely old countenance, but +seemed to be neither timid nor confused. + +"Here is the engineer," said the conductor, kindly, as Frank approached. + +She held up her hand to him, with a winsome smile breaking over her pinched +little face, and said: + +"My papa was an engineer before he became sick and went to live on a farm +in Montana. He is dead, and my mamma is dead. She died first, before Willie +and Susie. My papa used to tell me that after he should be dead there would +be no one to take care of me, and then I must get on the cars and go to +his old home in Vermont. And he said, 'cause I hadn't any ticket, I must +ask for the engineer and tell him I am James Kendrick's little girl, and +that he used to run on the M. & S. road." + +The pleading blue eyes were now suffused with tears; but she did not cry +after the manner of childhood in general. + +Engineer Frank stooped down and kissed her very tenderly; and then, as he +brushed the tears from his own eyes, said: + +"Well, my dear, so you are little Bessie Kendrick. I rather think a +merciful Providence guided you on board this train." + +Then, turning around to the group of passengers, he went on: + +"I knew Jim Kendrick well. He was a man out of ten thousand. When I first +came to Indiana, before I got acclimated, I was sick a great part of the +time, so that I could not work, and I got homesick and discouraged. Could +not keep my board bill paid up, to say nothing of my doctor's bill, and I +didn't much care whether I lived or died. + +"One day, when the pay car came along and the men were getting their +monthly pay, and there wasn't a cent coming to me, for I hadn't worked an +hour for the last month, I felt so 'blue' that I sat down on a pile of +railroad ties and leaned my elbows on my knees, with my head in my hands, +and cried like a boy, out of sheer homesickness and discouragement. + +"Pretty soon one came along and said, in a voice that seemed like sweet +music in my ears, for I hadn't found much real sympathy, although the boys +were all good to me in their way: 'You've been having a rough time of it, +and you must let me help you out.' + +"I looked up, and there stood Jim Kendrick, with his month's pay in his +hand. He took out from the roll of bills a twenty-dollar note and held it +out to me. + +"I knew he had a sickly wife and two or three children, and that he had a +hard time of it himself to pull through from month to month, so I said, +half-ashamed of the tears that were still streaming down my face, 'Indeed, +I cannot take the money; you must need it yourself.' + +"'Indeed, you will take it, man,' said Jim. 'You will be all right in a few +days, and then you can pay it back. Now come home with me to supper and see +the babies. It will do you good.' + +"I took the note and accepted the invitation, and after that went to his +house frequently, until he moved away, and I gradually lost sight of him. + +"I had returned the loan, but it was impossible to repay the good that +little act of kindness did me, and I guess Jim Kendrick's little girl here +won't want for anything if I can prevent it." + +Then turning to the child, whose bright eyes were wide open now, the +engineer said to her: + +"I'll take you home with me when we get up to Wayne. My wife will fix you +up, and we'll find out whether these Vermont folks want you or not. If they +do, Mary or I shall go with you. But, if they don't care much about having +you, you shall stay with us and be our girl, for we have none of our own. +You look very much like your father, God bless him." + +Just then the eastern train whistled, Engineer Frank vanished out of the +car door and went forward to the engine, wiping the tears with his coat +sleeve, while the conductor and passengers could not suppress the tears +this little episode evoked during the twenty minutes' stop at Allen's +Junction. + + + + +THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. + + + There is a tongue in every leaf, + A voice in every rill-- + A voice that speaketh everywhere, + In flood, and fire, through earth and air! + A tongue that's never still! + + 'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused + Through everything we see, + That with our spirits communeth + Of things mysterious--life and death, + Time and eternity! + + I see Him in the blazing sun, + And in the thunder-cloud; + I hear Him in the mighty roar + That rusheth through the forest hoar + When winds are raging loud. + + I feel Him in the silent dews, + By grateful earth betray'd; + I feel Him in the gentle showers, + The soft south wind, the breath of flowers, + The sunshine and the shade. + + I see Him, hear Him, everywhere, + In all things--darkness, light, + Silence and sound; but, most of all, + When slumber's dusty curtains fall, + I' the silent hour of night. + + + + +LET US GIVE THANKS. + +BY ELLEN ISABELLA TUPPER. + + + For all that God in mercy sends: + For health and children, home and friends, + For comfort in the time of need, + For every kindly word and deed, + For happy thoughts and holy talk, + For guidance in our daily walk-- + For everything give thanks! + + For beauty in this world of ours, + For verdant grass and lovely flowers, + For song of birds, for hum of bees, + For the refreshing summer breeze, + For hill and plain, for streams and wood, + For the great ocean's mighty flood-- + In everything give thanks! + + For the sweet sleep which comes with night, + For the returning morning's light, + For the bright sun that shines on high, + For the stars glittering in the sky; + For these and everything we see, + O Lord! our hearts we lift to Thee + For everything give thanks! + + + + +LITTLE FEET. + + + Up from all the city's by-ways, + From the breathless, sickening heat, + To the wide-swung gate of heaven, + Eager throng the little feet. + + Not a challenge has the warder + For these souls so sinless white; + Round each brow the Saviour's blessing + Circles like a crown of light. + + See, the Lord Himself stands waiting, + Wide His loving arms are spread; + On his heart of hearts is pillowed + Every weary baby's head. + + But below, with tear-wet faces, + And with hearts all empty grown, + Stand the mourning men and women, + Vainly calling back their own. + + Upward floats the voice of mourning-- + "Jesus, Master, dost thou care?" + Aye, He feels each drop of anguish-- + "He doth all our sorrows bear." + + Wipe thine eyes, O heavy laden; + Look beyond the clouds and see, + With your dear one on His bosom, + Jesus stands and calls to thee. + + Waits with yearning, all unfathomed-- + Love you cannot understand, + Lures you upward with the beckoning + Of your buried baby's hand. + + + + +A RAINY DAY. + + + Patter, patter, patter, + On the window-pane; + Drip, drip, drip, + Comes the heavy rain. + + Now the little birdies + Fly away to bed, + And each tender blossom + Droops its pretty head. + + But the little rootlets, + In the earth below, + Open wide their tiny mouths + Where the rain-drops flow; + + And the thirsty grasses + Soon grow fresh and green, + With the pretty daisies + Springing up between. + + + + +FASHIONABLE. + + + A fashionable woman + In a fashionable pew; + A fashionable bonnet + Of a fashionable hue; + A fashionable mantle + And a fashionable gown; + A fashionable Christian + In a fashionable town; + A fashionable prayer-book. + And a fashionable choir; + A fashionable chapel + With a fashionable spire; + A fashionable preacher + With a fashionable speech; + A fashionable sermon + With a fashionable reach; + A fashionable welcome + At the fashionable door; + A fashionable penny + For the fashionable poor; + A fashionable heaven + And a fashionable hell; + A fashionable Bible + For this fashionable belle; + A fashionable kneeling + And a fashionable nod; + A fashionable everything, + But no fashionable God. + + + + +RESURGAM. + +BY EBEN E. REXFORD. + + + "There is no God," he said, and turned away + From those who sought to lead him to the light; + "Here is a violet, growing for a day, + When winter comes, and all the world is white, + It will be dead. And I am like the flower, + To-day, here am I, and to-morrow, dust. + Is life worth living for its little hour + Of empty pleasure, if decay we must?" + + The autumn came, and under fallen leaves + The little violet was hid away. + "Dead! dead!" cried he. "Alas, all nature grieves + For what she loves is destined to decay. + Soon like the violet, in soft, damp earth + I shall be hidden, and above my head + A stone will tell the record of my birth + And of my nothingness when I am dead." + + Spring came, and from the mold the little flower + He had thought dead, sprung up to sweetest bloom. + He saw it, and his heart was touched that hour, + And grasped the earth-old mystery of the tomb. + "God of the flower," he said, with reverent voice, + "The violet lives again, and why not I? + At last my blind eyes see, and I rejoice. + The soul within me was not born to die!" + + + + +THE FAULT OF THE AGE. + +BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. + + + The fault of the age is a mad endeavor + To leap to heights that were made to climb; + By a burst of strength or a thought that is clever + We plan to outwit and forestall Time. + + We scorn to wait for the thing worth having; + We want high noon at the day's dim dawn, + We find no pleasure in toiling and saving + As our forefathers did in the good times gone. + + We force our roses before their season + To bloom and blossom that we may wear; + And then we wonder and ask the reason + Why perfect buds are so few and rare. + + We crave the gain, but despise the getting; + We want wealth, not as reward, but dower; + And the strength that is wasted in useless fretting + Would fell a forest or build a tower. + + To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning; + To thirst for glory, yet fear the fight-- + Why, what can it lead to at last but sinning, + To mental languor and moral blight? + + Better the old slow way of striving + And counting small gains when the year is done, + Than to use our forces all in contriving + And to grasp for pleasures we have not won. + + + + +THE BOOK CANVASSER. + +BY MAX ADELER. + + +He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the +table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged +handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively +gloomy, he said: "Mr. ----, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait +Gallery; splendid work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains +pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to +the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't +take your name. + +"Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book and +pointing to an engraving, "That's--lemme see--yes, that's Columbus, perhaps +you've heard sumfin' about him? The publisher was telling me to-day before +I started out that he discovered--No; was it Columbus that dis--Oh! yes. +Columbus, he discovered America--was the first man here. He came over in a +ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he stayed on deck because +his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted +to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a +photograph, all of 'em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are +kinder odd but they say that's the way they dressed in them days. Look at +this one. Now isn't that splendid? William Penn, one of the early settlers. +I was reading t'other day about him. When he first arrived he got a lot of +Indians up a tree, and when they shook some apples down, he set one on top +of his son's head, and shot an arrow plump through it and never fazed him. +They say it struck them Indians cold; he was such a terrific shooter. Fine +countenance, hasn't he? Face shaved clean; he didn't wear a mustache, I +believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is, +that every man ought to have a picture of that Patriarch so's to see how +the fust settlers looked and what kind of weskets they yoused to wear. See +his legs; too! Trousers a little short maybe, as if he was going to wade in +a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. +Subscription list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you? There's +something nice. That I think, is--is--that's a--a--yes, to be sure, +Washington--you recollect him, of course? Some people call him Father of +his Country, George--Washington. He had no middle name, I believe. He lived +about two hundred years ago and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher +telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton, and +seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about it myself. He was +courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights +to see her when the old man was asleep. The girl's family were down on him, +I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don't he? He's got it in his eye. +If it'd been me I'd gone over on a bridge, but he probably wanted to show +off afore her; some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you'll conclude +to take this I'll get the publisher to write out some more stories about +him, and bring 'em round to you, so's you can study up on him. I know he +did ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so awful +poor. + +"Less see! Who have we next? Ah! Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was one of +the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he is +celebrated for, but I think it was a flying a--oh! yes, flying a kite, +that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a kite, +you know, like boys do now-a-days, and while she was a flickering up in the +sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree and hit +him on the head;--then he discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think +they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you or me'd a been hit, it'd just a +made us mad like as not and set us a ravin'. But men are so different. One +man's meat's another man's pison. See what a double chin he's got. No beard +on him, either, though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round +face. He hasn't got on a sword and I reckon he was no soldier;--fit some +when he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a +regular warrior. I ain't one, myself, and I think all the better of him for +it. Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn't +that gorgeous? See, how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while +he lays on the ground, and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him +up. Talk about woman's love! There it is for you. Modocs, I believe, Anyway +some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the publisher tells me that +Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is there, was going to bang old +Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on +Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and jumped forward and says to the +man with the stick, 'Why don't you let John alone? Me and him are going to +marry, and if you kill him I'll never speak to you as long as I live,' or +words like them, and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a +preacher and were married and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, +isn't it? A good wife she made him, too, I'll bet, if she was a little +copper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture? But Smith +appears kinder sick, evidently thinks his goose is cooked, and I don't +wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a discouraging club. +And now we come to--to ah--to--Putnam--General Putnam:--he fought in the +war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his guard, +and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked the horse +like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down +about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam +lying there nearly skeered to death. Leastways the publisher said somehow +that way, and I oncet read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I +reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me +is he didn't break his neck, but maybe it was a mule, for they're pretty +sure footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through, +ain't it? Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father +shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New +Orleans. Broke up the rebel Legislature, and then when the Ku Kluxes got +after him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em 'til they +couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad. Hit straight +from the shoulder and fetched his man every time. Andrew, his fust name +was; and look how his hair stands up. And then, here's John Adams and +Daniel Boone and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures, so +you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won't you?" + + + + +THE MISNOMER. + +BY JOSIE C. MALOTT. + + + It sounds rather queer, I must freely confess, + To hear a man ask kind heaven to bless + Himself and his neighbor, when over the way + His drinking saloon stands open all day. + + _You_ may call it a "drug store," but doesn't God know? + Can you hide from _His_ eye the sorrow and woe-- + The pain and the anguish, the grief and the shame + That comes from the house with a high-sounding name? + + Such ill gotten wealth will surely take wing + And leave naught behind but the deadliest sting; + And oh, the account must be settled some day, + For the drug store saloon kept over the way. + + Can you face the just Judge and the souls you have wrecked? + Oh, pause ere too late and note the effect. + Do you know you're destroying both body and soul + Of the men whose honor and manhood you've stole? + + Does the hard accusation arouse you to fright? + Have you never looked at yourself in the light + Of a thief, nay, worse, a murderer, too? + God brands you as such, and you know it is true! + + They're the deadliest poisons you have for sale-- + The liquors you keep--yet you always fail + To mark them as such, and the men who drink + Can have what they want if they bring you the "chink." + + _Don't_ call such a place a _drug store_, pray; + But "drinking saloon," and you'd better say + On the sign o'er the door in letters clear, + "Ye abandon all hope who enter here!" + + + + +THE DOORSTEP. + +BY E. C. STEDMAN. + + + The conference-meeting through at last, + We boys around the vestry waited + To see the girls come tripping past + Like snowbirds willing to be mated. + + Not braver he that leaps the wall + By level musket-flashes litten, + Than I, who stepped before them all, + Who longed to see me get the mitten. + + But no; she blushed and took my arm! + We let the old folks have the highway, + And started toward the Maple Farm + Along a kind of lover's by-way. + + I can't remember what we said, + 'Twas nothing worth a song or story; + Yet that rude path by which we sped + Seemed all transformed and in a glory. + + The snow was crisp beneath our feet, + The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; + By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, + Her face with youth and health was beaming. + + The little hand outside her muff-- + O sculptor, if you could but mould it! + So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, + To keep it warm I had to hold it. + + To have her with me there alone,-- + 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended. + At last we reached the foot-worn stone + Where that delicious journey ended. + + The old folks, too, were almost home; + Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, + We heard the voices nearer come, + Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. + + She took her ringlets from her hood, + And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled; + But yet I knew she understood + With what a daring wish I trembled. + + A cloud past kindly overhead, + The moon was slyly peeping through it, + Yet hid its face, as if it said, + "Come, now or never! do it! _do it_!" + + My lips till then had only known + The kiss of mother and of sister, + But somehow full upon her own + Sweet, rosy, darling mouth--I kissed her! + + Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, + O, listless woman! weary lover! + To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill + I'd give--but who can live youth over? + + + + +HOW "OLD MOSE" COUNTED EGGS. + + +Old Mose, who sold eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, +is as honest an old negro as ever lived, but he has got the habit of +chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes +in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small +cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of +Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the gate to make the +purchases. + +"Have you any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?" she asked. + +"Yes, indeed I has. Jest got in ten dozen from the kentry." + +"Are they fresh?" + +"I gua'ntee 'em. I knows dey am fresh jest the same as ef I had led 'em +myself." + +"I'll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket." + +"All right, mum." He counts, "One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, +eight, nine, ten. You kin rely on dem bein fresh. How's your son coming on +at de school? He mus' be mos' grown." + +"Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank at Galveston." + +"Why, how ole am de boy?" + +"He is eighteen." + +"You don't tole me so. Eighteen and getting a salary already, eighteen +(counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, +twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's yore gal comin' on? She was mos' growed +up de las' time I seed her." + +"She is married and living in Dallas." + +"Wall, I declar'. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has childruns? +Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be jess about--" + +"Thirty-three." + +"Am dat so?" (counting), "firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, +firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, +forty-free. Hit am so singular dat you has sich old childruns. I can't +b'leeve you has granchildruns. You don't look more den forty yeahs ole +yerseff." + +"Nonsense, old man, I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be +fifty-three years old----" + +"Fifty-free? I jess dun gwinter beleeve hit, fifty-free, fifty-foah, +fifty-five, fifty-six--I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs, so +dar'll be no mistake--fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-tree, +sixty-foah--Whew. Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time ob yeah when I feels +I'se gettin' old myself. I ain't long fer dis world. You comes from an old +family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years ole." + +"Seventy-two." + +"Dat's old, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, +sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine--and your mudder? +She was one ob the noblest looking ladies I ebber see. You reminds me ob +her so much. She libbed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done pass a +centurion when she died." + +"No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died." + +"Den she warn't no chicken when she died. I know dat--ninety-six, +ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, +five, six, seben, eight--dar 108 nice fresh eggs--jess nine dozen, and here +am one moah egg in case I has discounted myself." + +Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said +to her husband: + +"I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied she steals +the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day +before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there +and heard Old Mose count them myself and there were nine dozen." + + + + +ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. + +BY MRS. SOPHIA P. SNOW. + + + 'Twas the eve before Christmas, "Good-night" had been said, + And Annie and Willie had crept into bed; + There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes, + And each little bosom was heaving with sighs, + For to-night their stern father's command had been given + That they should retire precisely at seven + Instead of at eight--for they troubled him more + With questions unheard of than ever before: + He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, + No such a creature as "Santa Claus" ever had been. + And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear + How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year. + And this was the reason that two little heads + So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. + Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten, + Not a word had been spoken by either till then, + When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, + And whispered, "Dear Annie, is 'ou fast as'eep?" + "Why no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies, + "I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes, + For somehow it makes me so sorry because + Dear papa has said there is no 'Santa Claus,' + Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, + For he came every year before mamma died; + But, then, I've been thinking that she used to pray, + And God would hear everything mamma would say, + And maybe she asked him to send Santa Claus here + With the sack full of presents he brought every year." + "Well, why tan't we p'ay dest as mamma did den, + And ask Dod to send him with p'esents aden?" + "I've been thinking so too," and without a word more + Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, + And four little knees the carpet pressed, + And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. + + "Now Willie, you know we must firmly believe + That the presents we asked for we're sure to receive; + You must wait very still till I say the 'Amen,' + And by that you will know that your turn has come then." + + "Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me, + And grant us the favor we are asking of thee. + I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, + And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring. + Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see + That Santa Claus loves us as much as does he; + Don't let him get fretful and angry again + At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen." + + "Please, Desus, 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night, + And b'ing us some p'esents before it is light; + I want he should div' me a nice 'ittie s'ed, + With bright shinin' 'unners, and all painted red; + A box full of tandy, a book, and a toy, + Amen, and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy." + + Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads, + And with hearts light and cheerful, again sought their beds. + They were lost soon in slumber, both peaceful and deep, + And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep. + + Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten, + Ere the father had thought of his children again: + He seems now to hear Annie's half-suppressed sighs, + And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. + "I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, + "And should not have sent them so early to bed; + But then I was troubled; my feelings found vent, + For bank stock to-day has gone down ten per cent + But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this, + And that I denied them the thrice-asked-for kiss: + But, just to make sure, I'll go up to their door, + For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." + So saying, he softly ascended the stairs, + And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers; + His Annie's "Bless papa" drew forth the big tears, + And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears. + "Strange--strange--I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh, + "How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh." + "I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, + "By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed." + Then he turned to the stairs and softly went down, + Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown, + Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street-- + A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet! + + Nor stopped he until he had bought every thing, + From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring; + Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store, + That the various presents outnumbered a score. + Then homeward he turned, when his holiday load, + With Aunt Mary's help, in the nursery was stowed. + Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree, + By the side of a table spread out for her tea; + A work-box well filled in the centre was laid + And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed. + A soldier in uniform stood by a sled + "With bright shining runners, and all painted red." + There were balls, dogs, and horses, books pleasing to see, + And birds of all colors were perched in the tree! + While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top, + As if getting ready more presents to drop. + And as the fond father the picture surveyed, + He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid, + And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear, + "I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year; + I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before, + What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent more + Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe, + To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas Eve." + So thinking, he gently extinguished the light, + And, tripping down stairs, retired for the night. + + As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun + Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one. + Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, + And at the same moment the presents espied; + Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, + And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found. + They laughed and they cried, in their innocent glee, + And shouted for papa to come quick and see + What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night + (Just the things that they wanted), and left before light; + "And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low, + "You'll believe there's a 'Santa Claus,' papa, I know;" + While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, + Determined no secret between them should be, + And told in soft whispers how Annie had said + That their dear blessèd mamma, so long ago dead, + Used to kneel down by the side of her chair, + And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer. + "Den we dot up and prayed dust well as we tould, + And Dod answered our prayers: now wasn't He dood?" + "I should say that He was if He sent you all these, + And knew just what presents my children would please. + (Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, + 'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.)" + + Blind father! who caused your stern heart to relent, + And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent? + 'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly up stairs, + And made you His agent to answer their prayers. + + + + +THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. + +BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH. + + + How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, + When fond recollection presents them to view! + The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, + And every loved spot which my infancy knew; + The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, + The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell; + The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, + And e'en the rude bucket, which hung in the well. + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. + + That moss-covered bucket I hail as a treasure; + For often, at noon, when returned from the field, + I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, + The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. + How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! + And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; + Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, + And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well. + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. + + How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, + As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! + Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, + Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. + And now, far removed from the loved situation, + The tear of regret will intrusively swell, + As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, + And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; + The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, + The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well. + + + + +MR. WINKLE PUTS ON SKATES. + +BY CHARLES DICKENS. + + +"Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, "what say you to an hour on +the ice? We shall have plenty of time." + +"Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen. + +"Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer. + +"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle. + +"Ye-yes; O yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I--I--am rather out of practice!" + +"O, do skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so much." + +"O, it is so graceful," said another young lady. A third young lady said it +was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was "swanlike." + +"I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I have +no skates." + +This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pairs, and +the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down stairs; +whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely +uncomfortable. + +Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and +Mr. Weller having shoveled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it +during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity +which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvelous, and described circles with his +left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without +once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing +devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman and the +ladies; which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when old Wardle and +Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic +evolutions which they called a reel. + +All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had +been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates +on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated +and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather +less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of +Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and +Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet. + +"Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone, "off with you, and show +'em how to do it." + +"Stop, Sam, stop!" said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold +of Sam's arm with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it is, Sam!" + +"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up, sir!" + +This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration Mr. +Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the +air, and dash the back of his head on the ice. + +"These--these--are very awkward skates," said Mr. Winkle, staggering. + +"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was +anything the matter. "Come; the ladies are all anxiety." + +"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming." + +"Just going to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. "Now, +sir, start off!" + +"Just hold me at first, Sam, will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There--that's +right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam--not too +fast!" + +Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being +assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller in a very singular and un-swanlike +manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite +bank--"Sam!" + +"Sir!" shouted back Mr. Weller. + +"Here! I want you." + +"Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor calling? Let go, +sir." + +With a violent effort Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the +agonized Pickwickian, and in so doing administered a considerable impetus +to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or +practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down +into the centre of the reel at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was +performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. + +Mr. Winkle struck Wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell +heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his +feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in skates. +He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish +was depicted on every lineament of his countenance. + +"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety. + +"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard. + +"I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness. + +"No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle, hurriedly. + +"I really think you had better," said Allen. + +"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle; "I'd rather not." + +"What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer. + +Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller and said, +in a stern voice, "Take his skates off!" + +"No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle. + +"Take his skates off!" repeated Mr. Pickwick, firmly. + +The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it, in +silence. + +"Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise. + +Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and, beckoning +his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him and uttered in a +low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words: + +"You're a humbug, sir!" + +"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting. + +"A humbug, sir! I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir!" + +With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel and rejoined his +friends. + + + + +MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. + +BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. + + + This book is all that's left me now! + Tears will unbidden start,-- + With faltering lip and throbbing brow + I press it to my heart. + For many generations past, + Here is our family tree: + My mother's hand this Bible clasped; + She, dying, gave it me. + + Ah! well do I remember those + Whose names these records bear, + Who round the hearthstone used to close + After the evening prayer, + And speak of what these pages said, + In tones my heart would thrill! + Though they are with the silent dead, + Here are they living still! + + My father read this holy book + To brothers, sisters, dear; + How calm was my poor mother's look, + Who leaned God's word to hear. + Her angel-face--I see it yet! + What thronging memories come! + Again that little group is met + Within the halls of home! + + Thou truest friend man ever knew, + Thy constancy I've tried; + Where all were false I found thee true, + My counsellor and guide. + The mines of earth no treasure give + That could this volume buy: + In teaching me the way to live, + It taught me how to die. + + + + +AFTER-DINNER SPEECH BY A FRENCHMAN. + + +"Milors and Gentlemans--You excellent chairman, M. le Baron de +Mount-Stuart, he have say to me, 'Make de toast.' Den I say to him dat I +have no toast to make; but he nudge my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is +von toast dat nobody but von Frenchman can make proper; and, derefore, wid +your kind permission, I vill make de toast. 'De brevete is de sole of de +feet,' as you great philosophere, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing +little vork of his, de Pronouncing Dictionaire; and, derefore, I vill not +say ver moch to de point. + +"Ah! mes amis! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration +magnifique of your Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von +great privilege for von étranger to sit at de same table, and to eat de +same food, as dat grand, dat majestique man, who are de tereur of de +voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis, and who is also, I for to +suppose, a halterman and de chief of you common scoundrel. Milors and +gentlemans, I feel that I can perspire to no greatare honueur dan to be von +common scoundrelman myself; but, hélas! dat plaisir are not for me, as I +are not freeman of your great cité, not von liveryman servant of von you +compagnies joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast. + +"Milors and Gentlemans! De immortal Shakispeare he have write, 'De ting of +beauty are de joy for nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is +more entrancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking eye of de +beautiful lady! It is de ladies who do sweeten the cares of life. It is de +ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do +cheer but not inebriate, and, derefore, vid all homage to dere sex, de +toast dat I have to propose is, 'De Ladies! Heaven bless dem all!'" + + + + +THE WHIRLING WHEEL. + +BY TUDOR JENKS. + + + Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind! + We rise in the morning only to find + That Monday's but Tuesday, and Wednesday's the same, + And Thursday's a change in nothing but name; + A Friday and Saturday wind up the week; + On Sunday we rest, and attempt to look meek. + So set a firm shoulder + And push on the wheel! + The mill that we're grinding + Works for our weal. + + And although the dull round is a kind of a grind, + It has compensations that we may find. + Famine and slaughter and sieges no more + Are likely to leave their cards at the door. + Let others delight in adventurous lives-- + We read their sore trials at home to our wives. + So set a firm shoulder + And push on the wheel! + The mill that we're grinding + Works for our weal. + + The regular round, though a kind of a grind, + Brings thoughts of contentment to quiet the mind: + The babies sleep soundly in snug little beds; + There's a tight little roof o'er the ringletted heads; + The wife's welcome comes with the set of the sun, + And the worker may rest, for the day's work is done. + So set a firm shoulder + And push on the wheel! + The mill that we're grinding + Works for our weal. + + Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind, + But the world's scenes are shifted by workmen behind. + The star who struts central may show no more art + Than the sturdy "first citizen" filling his part. + When the king to our plaudits has graciously bowed, + The crowd sees the king, while the king sees the crowd. + So set a firm shoulder + And push on the wheel! + The mill that we're grinding + Works for our weal. + + When the great mill has stopped, and the work is complete, + And the workers receive the reward that is meet, + Who can tell what the Master shall say is the best? + We but know that the worker who's aided the rest, + Who has kept his wheel turning from morning to night, + Who has not wronged his fellow, is not far from right. + So set a firm shoulder + And push on the wheel! + The mill that we're grinding + Shall work out our weal. + + + + +THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER. + +BY CHARLES SHEPPARD. + + +It was the seventh of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, +gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. It +was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky was +cloudless; the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and gold; the +buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of +legions shook the ground; from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle +barrel; on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet. + +Gates was sad and thoughtful as he watched the evolutions of the two +armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground, and a +chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of +death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, +tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden +folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart. + +Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which +they stood came a rider, upon a black horse, rushing toward the distant +battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider +that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade +quivers through the air--he points to the distant battle, and, lo! he is +gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. +Wherever the fight is the thickest, there, through intervals of cannon +smoke, you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on +his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood +he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting +in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading +the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight to see +that strange soldier and that noble black horse, dashing like a meteor, +down the long columns of battle? Let us look for a moment into those dense +war clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, +their rude farmer coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by +the way, they flee before that company of redcoat hirelings, who come +rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle +light. In this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the +plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches right in the +path of a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now! cowards! advance another step +and I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol +in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British +soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you +down." This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his +comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty +men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. "Now, +upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer. They spring forward +at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their +rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider is heard: "Now let +them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are +down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some +speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles and +charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, +followed by the militiamen. Then a confused conflict--a cry for quarter, +and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, +greeting him with cheers. + +Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, +there followed victory. At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis +of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemiss' Heights, must be +won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep--that death is +too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans +have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on +his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment when +all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes the black horse and his +rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with +sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's +shoulder, and, as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he +seized his rifle and started toward the rock. And now look! now hold your +breath, as that Black Steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed +quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still +on toward the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men +of Quebec! come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are +on the rock. Now British cannon pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens +and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if +you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears +away, stands the Black Horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced +by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts +up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, +"Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg +shattered by a cannon-ball. Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you +not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you +shall see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received +in the storming of Quebec. That rider of the Black Horse was Benedict +Arnold. + + + + +SHE CUT HIS HAIR. + + +You can always tell a boy whose mother cuts his hair. Not because the edges +of it look as if it had been chewed off by an absent-minded horse; but you +can tell it by the way he stops on the streets and wriggles his shoulders. +When a fond mother has to cut her boy's hair she is careful to guard +against any annoyance and muss by laying a sheet on the carpet. It has +never yet occurred to her to set him over a bare floor and put the sheet +around his neck. Then she draws the front hair over his eyes, and leaves it +there while she cuts that which is at the back; the hair which lies over +his eyes appears to be surcharged with electric needles, and that which is +silently dropping down over his shirtband appears to be on fire. She has +unconsciously continued to push his head forward until his nose presses his +breast, and is too busily engaged to notice the snuffling sound that is +becoming alarmingly frequent. In the meantime he is seized with an +irresistible desire to blow his nose, but recollects that his handkerchief +is in the other room. Then a fly lights on his nose, and does it so +unexpectedly that he involuntarily dodges and catches the points of the +shears in his left ear. At this he commences to cry and wish he was a man. +But his mother doesn't notice him. She merely hits him on the other ear to +inspire him with confidence and goes on with the work. When she is through +she holds his jacket-collar back from his neck, and with her mouth blows +the short bits of hair from the top of his head down his back. He calls +her attention to this fact, but she looks for a new place on his head and +hits him there, and asks him why he didn't use a handkerchief. Then he +takes his awfully disfigured head to the mirror and looks at it, and, young +as he is, shudders as he thinks of what the boys on the street will say. + + + + +AN APPEAL FOR LIBERTY. + +BY JOSEPH STORY. + + +I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors--by the dear +ashes which repose in this precious soil--by all you are, and all you hope +to be--resist every object of disunion, resist every encroachment upon your +liberties, resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother your +public schools, or extinguish your system of public instruction. + +I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in woman, the love of +your off-spring; teach them, as they climb your knees, or lean on your +bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear them at the altar, as with their +baptismal vows, to be true to their country, and never to forget or forsake +her. + +I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons you are; whose +inheritance you possess. Life can never be too short, which brings nothing +but disgrace and oppression. Death never comes too soon, if necessary in +defence of the liberties of your country. + +I call upon you, old men, for your counsels, and your prayers, and your +benedictions. May not your gray hairs go down in sorrow to the grave, with +the recollection that you have lived in vain. May not your last sun sink in +the west upon a nation of slaves. + +No; I read in the destiny of my country far better hopes, far brighter +visions. We, who are now assembled here, must soon be gathered to the +congregation of other days. The time of our departure is at hand, to make +way for our children upon the theatre of life. May God speed them and +theirs. May he who, at the distance of another century, shall stand here to +celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, happy, and virtuous +people. May he have reason to exult as we do. May he, with all the +enthusiasm of truth as well as of poetry, exclaim, that here is still his +country. + + + + +OLD UNCLE JAKE. + + +He was bowed by many a year of service; he was white-woolled, thick-lipped, +and a true son of Africa, yet a grand and knightly soul animated that dusky +breast--a soul that many a scion of the blood royal might envy. + +The children loved him, the neighbors respected him, his own color looked +up to him as a superior being, and they whose goods and chattels he had +formerly been, were sure to heed his counsels in all important family +matters. Aye, he had an honorable record. If his skin was black, his soul +was white as the whitest and from lusty boyhood to the present there had +been no need of "stripes" for Uncle Jake. + +He had been the playmate of "young marster," the boon companion in all +'possum hunts and fishing frolics, and when each had arrived at man's +estate the goodfellowship contracted in youth knew no surcease. + +When the tocsin of war resounded through the South, and the call for +volunteers was made, "marster" was one of the first to buckle on his armor +and hasten to the front--doing so with greater heart as Uncle Jake was left +in charge of those dearer than life to him. + +And royally did the poor unlettered African fulfil the trust committed to +his keeping. He took upon himself the burden of all plantation matters and +sooner than one hair on the heads of "missus or chillun" should be injured, +he would have sacrificed his life freely any day. And when the war was over +he positively refused to join in the hegira of his brethren, preferring +rather to live on in the same old place that had witnessed his birth and +the strength of his manhood's prime. + +In grateful recognition of his long servitude a comfortable cottage was +built for him in a secluded nook of the plantation, in which, with his +faithful old wife, he lived a peaceful and contented life, tilling the few +acres which had been granted him and doing all sorts of odd jobs out of the +pure love he bore old marse. + +But Uncle Jake was getting old now--more and more heavily the weight of +years fell upon him--the whiter grew his locks until at last the time came +when he could no longer pursue his accustomed duties, and all reluctant and +unwilling he took to his bed never to rise again. + +For weeks and months he lingered on the "Border Land," attended by loving +hands, and his slightest wish was gratified; indeed, so long he hovered +between life and death, that those who loved him best began to cherish a +faint hope that he would be spared to them. + +But the fiat had gone forth--Uncle Jake must die. + +One evening, just as the setting sun was flooding the fair landscape with +his golden beams, a tearful group were assembled at his bedside, who had +been hastily summoned thither to bid farewell to one who had been so true a +friend to them all. + +There were marster and missus and their children and Jake's own wife and +children, with a few of his fellow servants, all united in a democracy of +grief that knew no distinction of caste in the supreme moment. + +No sound was heard save a half-suppressed sob now and then--the tick-tick +of the clock on the rude mantel and the labored breathing of the dying man. + +For hours he had lain in a sort of stupor, broken only at intervals by +delirious mutterings, when suddenly his eyes, in which was a preternatural +brightness, opened and fixed themselves long and earnestly in turn upon +each one of the faces bent so sorrowfully over him. + +Then in a feeble, fluttering voice, like the last effort of an expiring +taper, he addressed his master, who was tenderly wiping the moisture from +his brow: + +"Ole marse, I'se been a good and faithful servant to yer all dese years, +has I not?" + +"Yes, Jake." + +"Ebber since we was boys togedder I'se lubed yer, and stuck to yer through +thick and thin, and now dat Jake is goin' home yer doan' treasure up +nothin' agin me, do yer, marse?" + +"No, no, Jake." + +"Old missus, come nearer, honey, Jake's eyes is gettin' mighty dim now, and +he kan't see yer. Yer'll nebber forgit how Jake tuk keer of yer an' de +chilluns when ole marster gone to de war? An' yer'll be kind to my wife and +chilluns for my sake, won't yer?" + +"Yes, yes, Jake, I'll be kind to them, and I will never forget your +fidelity, old friend." + +"T'ank de Lawd! I kin die happy now, when I'se know dat yer an' master will +'member me an' be kind to dem I'se leaving behind. An' de chillun--whar's +de chillun? I'se wants ter tell 'em all goodby an' say a las' few words to +dem, too." + +And in his eagerness, with a strength born of death, the old man half arose +upon his elbow and laid a trembling hand upon the head of each of the +awe-struck children. + +"God bless yer, chillun, one an' all. I lubs my own little picaninnies, but +I lubs old marster's just as well. I doan' want none o' yer to forgit how +Uncle Jake has trotted yer on his knee an' toted yer on his back an' keep' +a watchful eye on yer, les' yet git into mischief by yer pranks. Promise +me, chillun, dat you'll nebber forgit dese ting. It pleases Uncle Jake to +think yer'll 'member him arter he's gone from yer sight for ebber." + +As well as they were able for their tears, the little ones gave the +required promise, and greatly pleased, the old man sank back exhausted upon +his pillow. + +After lying a few minutes with closed eyes, as if in sleep, he suddenly +whispered: + +"Dinah, whar is you? I wants yer to cum closer ter me, honey, an' put yer +arms around my neck an' lay yer cheek ter mine like yer used ter do when we +was courtin' down in de huckleberry patch. I wants ter die in yer arms, ole +wife. Yer is black, an' de white folks mought not be able ter see any booty +in yer, but Jake knows what a true an' lovin' wife you'se bin ter him, an' +he can see de booty dat's hidden out o' sight. I'se gwine ter cross ober +der great wide ribber dey call Death, into a kentry whar' dere'll nebber be +any mo' black skins--whar' I'll wear de white robe and de golden crown, an' +I'se got ter wait fur yer dere. Dinah, my lub! my lub! Hark, honey! doan' +yer hear de bells ob heaven a-ringing? An' doan' yer see de pearly gates +a-openin' to let ole black Jake go frew? I'se a comin', holy angels--I'se a +comin', blessed Lawd! Glory hallelewger! Ole Jake's mos' got ober de +ribber. His feet is touchin' de water--but it's gettin' so cold, Dinah, +honey--I can't feel de clasp of yer arms any mo'. I'se--" + +And with a last, long, fluttering sigh, as knightly and true a soul as ever +dwelt in human breast took its light to a realm where there is indeed +neither black nor white, nor bond nor free, but all are like unto the +angels. + + + + +THE HOT AXLE. + +BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE. + + +The express train was flying from Cork to Queenstown; it was going like +sixty--that is, about sixty miles an hour. No sight of Irish village to +arrest our speed, no sign of a breakdown; and yet the train halted. We +looked out of a window; saw a brakeman and a crowd of passengers gathering +around the locomotive, and a dense smoke arising. What was the matter? _A +hot axle!_ + +I thought then, as I think now, that is what is the matter with people +everywhere. In this swift, "express" American life, we go too fast for our +endurance. We think ourselves getting on splendidly, when, in the midst of +our success, we come to a dead halt. What is the matter? The nerves or +muscles or our brain give out; we make too many revolutions in an hour. _A +hot axle!_ + +Men make the mistake of working according to their opportunities, and not +according to their capacity of endurance. Can I be a merchant, and +president of a bank, and a director in a life insurance company, and a +school commission, and help edit a paper, and supervise the politics of our +ward, and run for Congress? "I can!" the man says to himself. The store +drives him; the bank drives him; the school drives him; politics drive him. +He takes all the scoldings and frets and exasperations of each position. +Some day, at the height of the business season, he does not come to the +store. From the most important meeting of the bank directors he is absent. +In the excitement of the most important political canvass he fails to be at +the place appointed. What is the matter? His health has broken down; the +train halts long before it gets to the station. _A hot axle!_ + +Literary men have great opportunities opening in this day. If they take all +that open, they are dead men, or worse--_living_ men that ought to be dead. +The pen runs so easy when you have good ink and smooth paper, and an easy +desk to write on, and the consciousness of an audience of one, two, or +three hundred thousand readers. So great is the invitation to literary +work, that the professional men of the day are overdone. They sit, faint +and fagged out, on the verge of newspapers and books; each one does the +work of three. And these men sit up late nights and choke down chunks of +meat without mastication, and scold their wives through irritability, and +maul innocent authors, and run the physical machinery with a liver +miserably given out. The driving shaft has gone fifty times a second. They +stop at no station. The steam-chest is hot and swollen. The brain and +digestion begins to smoke. Stop, ye flying quills! "Down brakes!" _A hot +axle!_ + +Some of our young people have read--till they are crazed--of learned +blacksmiths who at the forge conquered thirty languages; and shoemakers +who, pounding sole-leather, got to be philosophers; and of milliners who, +while their customers were at the glass trying on their spring hats, wrote +a volume of first-rate poems. The fact is, no blacksmith ought to be +troubled with more than five languages; and, instead of shoemakers becoming +philosophers, we would like to turn our surplus supply of philosophers into +shoemakers; and the supply of poetry is so much greater than the demand, +that we wish milliners would stick to their business. Extraordinary +examples of work and endurance may do us much good. Because Napoleon slept +only four hours a night, hundreds of students have tried the experiment; +but, instead of Austerlitz and Saragossa, there came of it only a sick +headache and a botch of a recitation. + +Let us not go beyond our endurance, cutting short our days and making a +wreck of our life work, but labor earnestly, zealously, intelligently for +success; and in the twilight of old age peace and happiness will be +ours--not the shattered and praised remains of a career disastrously +checked. + + + + +THE CHILDREN.[2] + +BY CHARLES DICKENS. + + + When the lessons and tasks are 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 a tender embrace! + Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, + Shedding sunshine and 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. + + Oh, my heart grows weak as a woman's, + And the fountain of feelings 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 tempests 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 beams in their eyes; + Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven, + They have made me more manly and mild, + And I know how Jesus could liken + The kingdom of God to a child. + + Seek not a life for the dear ones + All radiant, as others have done, + But that life may have just as much 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 a dungeon of darkness, + Where I shut them from 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 I shall 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 the green and the flowers + That are brought every morning to me. + + I shall miss them at morn and eve, + Their songs in the school and the street, + Shall miss the low hum of their voices, + And the tramp of their delicate feet. + When lessons and tasks 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. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[2] Found in the desk of Charles Dickens after his death. + + + + +CHARITY. + + + When you meet with one suspected + Of some secret deed of shame, + And for this by all rejected + As a thing of evil fame, + Guard thine every look and action, + Speak no word of heartless blame, + For the slanderer's vile detraction + Yet may soil thy goodly name. + + When you meet with one pursuing + Ways the lost have entered in, + Working out his own undoing + With his recklessness and sin; + Think, if placed in his condition, + Would a kind word be in vain, + Or a look of cold suspicion + Win thee back to truth again? + + There are spots that bear no flowers, + Not because the soil is bad, + But the Summer's genial showers + Never made their bosoms glad. + Better have an act that's kindly + Treated sometimes with disdain, + Than, in judging others blindly, + Doom the innocent to pain. + + + + +NO OBJECTION TO CHILDREN. + + +It was a block of yellow-brown houses in South Boston, looking as much like +a sheet of gingerbread as anything. + +An express-wagon had just backed up to No. 21 in that block, and the +driver, unloosing ropes here and there, proceeded to unpack the luggage. + +"What have we here?" exclaimed Mrs. Bacon, the downstairs tenant. "A +menagerie, I do believe. Come here, John." + +There was, indeed, on the very top of the load a gray horse that in the +twilight looked very real till one noticed the rockers on which it stood. +But there was a kennel with a live terrier's head at the window, a +bird-cage with its fluttering tenant, a crib and high chair besides, +suggesting that the folks in the other part might, in the language of Mrs. +Bacon, "make music." + +Now, the downstairs tenants, Mr. and Mrs. Bacon, were precise, orderly +people, living, like many other city people, in desert-island fashion, and +only hoping that everybody else would mind their own business. It had been +for weeks their great comfort that the other part was unoccupied, and now +this load of household goods brimming over with pets and their belongings +was an unwelcome sight. + +There were no young Bacons--no, indeed! Plants did not flourish in their +shaded windows nor canary birds splash water from their tiny baths upon the +clear glass. No dog barked a noisy welcome when his master returned at +night. No cat purred in her mistress's lap. The housekeeping of the Bacons +was a fight against dirt, dust, sunshine and noise; and somehow pets bring +all these. + +"Well, John," said Mrs. Bacon as she turned from the window and pulled the +shade over the sacred glass, "there's an end to peace and quiet. We must +keep the entry doors locked; and don't you be whistling round to attract a +child. Give them an inch and they'll take an ell. If folks must have +rocking horses and what goes with them, they ought to move into the +country, where they will not be pestering other people." + +But, to the surprise of the Bacons, they were not pestered, only by the +patter of little feet overhead, or a woman's voice singing cradle-songs or +joining in her child's laughter. Crying there was, too, sometimes, but it +was so soon hushed in motherly caresses that it seemed a sort of rainbow +grievance only. + +At night, when the father came home, there was quite a joyful noise +upstairs, at which time John's face was a little wistful. But the new +family did not intrude for ever so small a favor. + +Mrs. Bacon took good care to keep out of sight whenever the new tenants +were passing through the entry-way. One small pair of boots had +considerable traveling to do up and down the stairs for a stroll on the +sidewalk or to old Dorchester Heights, just beyond, for spoils of wild +flowers. + +One day Little Boots came back from this favorite resort, and instead of +climbing the stairs, as usual, strayed hesitatingly toward Mrs. Bacon's +kitchen door. + +"Smells the gingerbread," soliloquized Mrs. Bacon, grimly. "Glad the door +is locked." She glanced toward it to be sure; yes, it was locked, though +the key had been transferred to another door. But shining through the +keyhole was a very bright and sweet-looking star of an eye. Only a moment +it twinkled, and then there was thrust in very gently the stem of a +dandelion, and the small boots scampered away up the stairs. + +"Little mischief!" exclaimed Mrs. Bacon, and she would have pushed the +intruding stem outside, but her hands were in the dough. "If he wanted a +piece of gingerbread, why didn't he say so? Mebbe he was afraid of me; cats +run like all possessed when they see me. I can't have my key-holes choked +up with dandelion stems--that's so. Soon's I get my hands out of this it +will walk into the stove, that dandelion will." But the dandelion was too +fresh and perfect, and brought back the old childhood days to Mrs. Bacon so +clearly that she changed her mind. There was an old horseradish bottle on +the pantry-shelf which, filled with water, received the dandelion. There, +resting in the kitchen window, it smiled all day. + +There was quite a commotion upstairs that night, and John and his wife, +drowsily hearing it, thanked their stars that they were not routed by +children's ails. The next day Mrs. Bacon's watchful ear caught the sound of +"Little Boots" on the stairs, and again the blue eyes twinkled at the +keyhole. This time the door opened in response: + +"Well, child, what is it? Want some gingerbread?" + +"Oh no, thank you, dear," said the little voice--a very hoarse little voice +it was, and the throat was all wrapped in flannel. + +"I wanted to know if you liked my f'ower?" + +"See?" Mrs. Bacon pointed to the glorified horseradish bottle. + +"Is your name Mrs. Bacon, dear?" + +"Bacon--no 'dear' about it." + +"I like to call you 'dear.' Don't your little boy call you so?" + +"No." + +"Ally! Ally, child!" called the mother anxiously; "come back, darling; +you'll get cold." + +"I'll take him up," responded Mrs. Bacon; and taking with unwonted +tenderness the three-years-old darling, she landed him safely upstairs. + +"It's the croup," explained the mother. "He got cold yesterday, out for +dandelions--his favorite flower, ma'am. Calls 'em preserved sunshine; saw +me put up fruit last fall--there's where he got the idea; though, as to +telling where he gets all his ideas, that beats me. The doctor says he's +that kind of a child the croup is likely to go hard with. Scares me to +death to hear him cough." + +"Goose oil is good for croup," remarked Mrs. Bacon. + +"Did you ever try it?" asked the new neighbor, innocently. + +"Me? No use for it. Got a bottle, though. Have it if you like." + +Alas! the doctor's prophecy was true. The fatal disease developed that very +night. + + * * * * * + +Little boots are still and starry eyes shine afar off now. As he lay in his +beautiful last sleep, a flower amid the white flowers, a woman's brown hand +slipped a few dandelions tenderly--oh, so tenderly!--into the dainty cold +fingers. + +"That is right, Mrs. Bacon, dear," said the poor mother. "'Preserved +sunshine!' That's what he is to us." + +The new tenants have moved into the country, and No. 21, upper tenement, is +again to let. + +Mrs. Bacon hopes the landlord will add to his advertisement, "No objection +to children." + + + + +BANFORD'S BURGLAR-ALARM. + + +"Another Daring Burglary!" read Mrs. Banford, as she picked up the morning: +paper. "Lucullus," she said, turning to her husband, "this is the fourth +outrage of the kind in this town within a week, and if you don't procure a +burglar-alarm, or adopt some other means of security, I shall not remain in +this house another night. Some morning we'll get up and find ourselves +murdered and the house robbed if we have to depend on the police for +protection." + +Banford assured his wife that he would have the matter attended to at once. +Then he left the house and didn't return until evening. When Mrs. B. asked +him if he had given a second thought to the subject which she had broached +in the morning, he drew a newspaper from his pocket, and said: "See here, +Mirandy! There's no use o' foolin' away money on one o' those new-fangled +burglar-alarms. Economy is wealth. Here's a capital idea suggested in this +paper--cheap, simple and effective." + +And then he read the suggestion about hanging a tin pan on the +chamber-door. + +"I tell you, Mirandy! the man who conceived that brilliant notion is a +heaven-born genius--a boon to mankind; and his name should go ringing down +the corridors of time with those of such brilliant intellect as Watt, +Morse, Edison, and other successful scientific investigators. You see, the +least jar of the door will dislodge the pan, and the noise occasioned +thereby will not only awaken the occupants of the room, but will also scare +the burglar half to death, and perhaps the pan will strike him on the head +and fracture his skull. It is a glorious scheme, and the fact that it was +not utilized years ago is the most remarkable thing about it." + +"Well," assented Mrs. B. in less sanguine tones, "it may be better than +nothing, and it won't cost anything; and as Susan has gone out to spend the +night with her sick sister, and we'll be all alone, I'll hunt up the pans +now." + +Accordingly, each inside door was crowned with a tin pan and left slightly +ajar. Banford also thoughtfully placed a six-shooter under his pillow and +stood a base-ball bat within easy reach. + +"Now, Mirandy," he courageously observed, as they were preparing to retire, +"if you are awakened by a noise during the night, don't scream and jump out +of bed. Just lie still, or some o' the bullets I fire at the burglar may go +through you and kill you. Let me wrestle with the intruder, and I'll soon +make him regret that he had not postponed being born for a few centuries!" + +Then they turned down the gas with a feeling of increased security, and +were soon asleep. About half-past midnight they were awakened by a noise +that sounded like a sharp clap of thunder, followed by a wail that almost +chilled the marrow in their bones. + +"Goodness!" screamed Mrs. B., in a voice swollen with terror, as she dived +under the bed-clothes. "We'll be murdered in a minute. Shoot him, Lucullus! +Quick--shoot him!" + +Banford, after considerable nervous fumbling under the pillow, grasped his +revolver with an unsteady hand and discharged its six barrels in rapid +succession, but not with very gratifying results. One bullet shattered the +mirror in the bureau; another plowed a furrow along the ceiling; another +splintered the bed-post; a fourth perforated a portrait of his wife's +mother; and the other two left their imprint on the walls. + +"D-d-don't be fuf-fuf-frightened, M-mirandy," said Banford, encouragingly, +his articulation sounding as if it had "collided" with an Arctic wave: "I +gug-guess I've kik-kik-killed him. He'll not kik-kik-come here--" + +At this juncture there was a noise in an adjoining room, as if a two-ton +meteorite had crashed through a boiler-foundry, and Mrs. B. uttered a +series of ear-piercing shrieks that would have scared the life out of any +burglar. + +"M-mirandy," stammered the frightened and demoralized Banford, grasping the +base-ball bat and swinging it around with such reckless promiscuousness +that he struck his terror-stricken wife on the head, "Mum-mirandy, the +house is fuf-full of midnight mum-marauders, and we'll be bub-bub-butchered +in cold bub-bub-blood! Save yourself and don't mum-mind about me!" And +leaping out of bed, he sprang through a window on to the roof of a back +building, and accidentally rolled off into the yard, fifteen feet below, +just as another burglar-alarm went off with a clamor almost as deafening +and harrowing as an amateur orchestra. Mrs. B., thinking she had been hit +by the burglar, emitted a fresh outburst of shrieks, while her husband lay +groaning in the back yard, with a sprained ankle and a frightful gash in +his head. + +A policeman had now been awakened by the uproar, and boldly mounting the +front stoop, he pulled the door-bell out by the roots without evoking a +response. Then he hesitated. + +"If a foul murder has been committed," he mused, "the assassin has already +made good his escape." + +This thought gave him courage, and he forced an entrance. In the entry he +collided with a hat-rack, which he mistook for the outlaw, and almost +demolished it with several whacks of his club. Then he made a careful +reconnaissance, and dislodged one of the burglar-alarms. + +"Spare my life," he yelled to his imaginary assailant, "and I'll let you +escape!" + +He thought he had been stabbed with a frying-pan. He rushed out of the +house and secured the assistance of four of his fellow-officers, and a +search of the building was resumed. Mrs. Banford was found in bed +unconscious. Her husband was found in the yard in nearly a similar +condition; and the burglar was found under the sofa, shivering with fear, +and with his tail clasped tightly between his legs. + +The cause of the panic was soon explained. Mrs. Banford had overlooked the +presence of her pet dog in the house, and this innocent animal, in running +from one room to another, had dislodged the "cheap and effective" +burglar-alarms. + + + + +BETTER THINGS. + +BY GEORGE MACDONALD. + + + Better to smell the violet cool, than sip the glowing wine; + Better to hark a hidden brook, than watch a diamond shine. + + Better the love of a gentle heart, than beauty's favor proud; + Better the rose's living seed, than roses in a crowd. + + Better to love in loneliness, than to bask in love all day; + Better the fountain in the heart, than the fountain by the way. + + Better be fed by a mother's hand, than eat alone at will; + Better to trust in God, than say: "My goods my storehouse fill." + + Better to be a little wise, than in knowledge to abound; + Better to teach a child, than toil to fill perfection's round. + + Better to sit at a master's feet, than thrill a listening State; + Better suspect that thou art proud, than be sure that thou art great. + + Better to walk the real unseen, than watch the hour's event; + Better the "Well done!" at the last, than the air with shouting rent. + + Better to have a quiet grief, than a hurrying delight; + Better the twilight of the dawn, than the noonday burning bright. + + Better a death when work is done, than earth's most favored birth; + Better a child in God's great house, than the king of all the earth. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Recitations for the Social Circle, by +James Clarence Harvey + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RECITATIONS FOR THE SOCIAL CIRCLE *** + +***** This file should be named 38579-8.txt or 38579-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/5/7/38579/ + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Josephine Paolucci, Marilynda +Fraser-Cunliffe and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team at https://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 +https://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 1.F.3. 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 are 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 https://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 +https://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 https://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 https://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 including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was 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: + + https://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. |