Poems Teachers Ask For
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Title: Poems Teachers Ask For
Author: Various
Release date: July 26, 2006 [eBook #18909]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18909
Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR ***
Produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR
Selected by
READERS OF "NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS"
COMPRISING THE POEMS MOST FREQUENTLY REQUESTED FOR PUBLICATION IN THAT
MAGAZINE ON THE PAGE "POEMS OUR READERS HAVE ASKED FOR"
INDEX
Abou Ben Adhem _Hunt_ 30
Abraham Lincoln _T. Taylor_ 16
All Things Bright and Beautiful _Alexander_ 41
American Flag, The _Drake_ 133
Answer to "Rock Me to Sleep" 103
Arrow and the Song, The _Longfellow_ 74
Asleep at the Switch _Hoey_ 56
At School-Close _Whittier_ 65
Aunt Tabitha 45
Autumn Woods _Bryant_ 48
Baby, The _Macdonald_ 22
Barbara Frietchie _Whittier_ 71
Barefoot Boy, The _Whittier_ 176
Bay Billy _Gassaway_ 104
Be Strong _Babcock_ 174
Better Than Gold _Smart_ 143
Bingen on the Rhine _Norton_ 121
Blue and the Gray, The _Finch_ 183
Bluebird's Song, The _E.H. Miller_ 73
Bobby Shaftoe 8
Boy and His Stomach, A 93
Boy's Song, A _Hogg_ 172
"Breathes There the Man" _Scott_ 185
Brier-Rose _Boyesen_ 144
Brook, The _Tennyson_ 162
Brown Thrush, The _Larcom_ 181
Bugle Song, The _Tennyson_ 183
Builders, The _Longfellow_ 181
Building of the Ship, The _Longfellow_ 63
Burial of Sir John Moore, The _Wolfe_ 190
Calf Path, The _Foss_ 110
Casey at the Bat _Thayer_ 100
Casey's Revenge _Wilson_ 101
Chambered Nautilus, The _Holmes_ 169
Character of the Happy Warrior _Wordsworth_ 165
Charge of the Light Brigade, The _Tennyson_ 166
Children's Hour, The _Longfellow_ 70
Children, The _Dickinson_ 53
Child's Thought of God, A _E.B. Browning_ 183
Christ in Flanders 18
Christmas Everywhere _Brooks_ 158
Cloud, The _Shelley_ 159
College Oil Cans _McGuire_ 122
Columbus _Joaquin Miller_ 83
Concord Hymn, The _Emerson_ 99
Corn Song, The _Whittier_ 171
Crossing the Bar _Tennyson_ 186
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night _Thorpe_ 24
Custer's Last Charge _Whittaker_ 91
Daffodils _Wordsworth_ 179
Darius Green and His Flying Machine _Trowbridge_ 153
Day Well Spent, A 38
Dead Pussy Cat, The _Short_ 64
Diffidence 23
Don't Give Up _P. Cary_ 182
Driving Home the Cows _Osgood_ 88
Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge 49
Each in His Own Tongue _Carruth_ 58
Echo _Saxe_ 20
Engineers Making Love _Burdette_ 21
Eternal Goodness, The _Whittier_ 87
Fable, A _Emerson_ 177
Face Upon the Floor, The _D'Arcy_ 108
Fairies, The _Allingham_ 173
Fence or an Ambulance, A _Malins_ 127
First Settler's Story, The _Carleton_ 197
First Snow-fall, The _Lowell_ 99
Flag Goes By, The _Bennett_ 45
Fountain, The _Lowell_ 186
Four-leaf Clover, The _Higginson_ 134
Frost, The _Gould_ 171
Give Us Men _Holland_ 33
God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop _Southey_ 124
Golden Keys 134
Good Night and Good Morning _Houghton_ 184
Gradatim _Holland_ 96
Green Mountain Justice, The _Reeves_ 74
Guilty or Not Guilty 22
Hand That Rules the World, The _Wallace_ 113
House by the Side of the Road, The _Foss_ 56
How Cyrus Laid the Cable _Saxe_ 58
How He Saved St. Michael's _Stansbury_ 119
Huskers, The _Whittier_ 152
If-- _Kipling_ 51
I Like Little Pussy _J. Taylor_ 178
Incident of the French Camp _R. Browning_ 182
In Flanders Fields _McCrae_ 195
In Flanders Fields: An Answer _Galbreath_ 195
In School-Days _Whittier_ 31
Inventor's Wife, An _Ewing_ 13
Invictus _Henley_ 29
Is It Worth While? _Joachim Miller_ 36
I Want to Go to Morrow 72
Jane Conquest _Milne_ 76
Jane Jones _King_ 59
Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson _Waterman_ 62
June _Lowell_ 163
Kate Ketchem _P. Cary_ 81
Kate Shelly _Hall_ 25
Katie Lee and Willie Grey 30
Kentucky Belle _Woolson_ 10
Kentucky Philosophy _Robertson_ 32
Kid Has Gone to the Colors, The _Herschell_ 9
King Robert of Sicily _Longfellow_ 147
Lady Moon _Houghton_ 185
Landing of the Pilgrims, The _Hemans_ 8
Lasca _Desprez_ 129
Last Hymn, The _Faringham_ 126
Leak in the Dike, The _P. Cary_ 187
Leap for Life, A _Morris_ 74
Leap of Roushan Beg, The _Longfellow_ 60
Leedle Yawcob Strauss _Adams_ 35
Legend of Bregenz, A _Procter_ 141
Legend of the Organ-Builder, The _Dorr_ 106
L'Envoi _Kipling_ 67
Life's Mirror _Bridges_ 37
Lips That Touch Liquor, The _Young_ 79
Little Birdie _Tennyson_ 173
Little Black-Eyed Rebel, The _Carleton_ 37
Little Boy Blue _Field_ 195
Little Brown Hands _Krout_ 71
Little Plant, The _Brown_ 192
Lost Chord, The _Procter_ 69
Love of Country _Scott_ 185
("Breathes There the Man")
Main Truck, The _Morris_ 74
Mandalay _Kipling_ 82
Man With the Hoe, The _Markham_ 115
Maud Muller _Whittier_ 205
Miller of the Dee, The _Mackay_ 39
Moo Cow Moo, The _Cooke_ 40
Mother's Fool 31
Mothers of Men _Joaquin Miller_ 43
Mount Vernon's Bells _Slade_ 95
Mr. Finney's Turnip 96
My Love Ship _Wilcox_ 114
My Mother 138
Nathan Hale _Finch_ 78
Never Trouble Trouble _Windsor_ 33
Nobility _A. Cary_ 169
"Not Understood" 136
November _A. Cary_ 173
O Captain! My Captain _Whitman_ 7
October's Bright Blue Weather _Jackson_ 144
Old Clock on the Stairs, The _Longfellow_ 17
Old Ironsides _Holmes_ 61
Old Red Cradle, The _Grannies_ 39
O Little Town of Bethlehem _Brooks_ 168
On His Blindness _Milton_ 172
On the Shores of Tennessee _Beers_ 93
Opportunity _Ingalls_ 175
Opportunity _Malone_ 175
Order for a Picture, An _A. Cary_ 41
Our Folks _Beers_ 107
Out in the Fields _E.B. Browning_ 73
Over the Hill to the Poorhouse _Carleton_ 131
Overworked Elocutionist, The 9
Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The _Lear_ 170
Owl Critic, The _Fields_ 64
Paul Revere's Ride _Longfellow_ 193
Penny Ye Mean to Gie, The 34
Perfect Day, A _Bond_ 80
Pippa's Song _R. Browning_ 185
Plain Bob and a Job _Foley_ 44
Planting of the Apple-Tree _Bryant_ 164
Poet's Prophecy, A _Tennyson_ 7
Polonius' Advice to Laertes _Shakespeare_ 177
Poorhouse Nan _Blinn_ 116
Psalm of Life, A _Longfellow_ 61
Quality of Mercy, The _Shakespeare_ 181
Raggedy Man, The _Riley_ 203
Recessional, The _Kipling_ 86
Ride of Jennie M'Neal, The _Carleton_ 111
Riding on the Rail _Saxe_ 62
Rivers of France, The 46
Robert of Lincoln _Bryant_ 189
Robert Reese (The Overworked Elocutionist) 9
Rock Me to Sleep _Allen_ 102
Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth _Clough_ 39
Second Table _Waterman_ 52
Seein' Things _Field_ 203
Seven Times One _Ingelow_ 46
Seven Times Two _Ingelow_ 47
Seven Times Three _Ingelow_ 47
Seven Times Four _Ingelow_ 48
Sheridan's Ride _Read_ 167
She Walks in Beauty _Byron_ 180
Sister and I 207
Sister's Best Feller _Lincoln_ 84
Sleep, Baby, Sleep _Elizabeth Prentiss_ 69
Smack in School, The _Palmer_ 128
Somebody's Mother _Brine_ 136
Song of Our Flag, A _Nesbit_ 89
Song of the Camp, The _B. Taylor_ 180
Song of the Sea _Cornwall_ 23
Song of the Shirt _Hood_ 157
Song: The Owl _Tennyson_ 174
So Was I _Smiley_ 36
Suppose _P. Cary_ 178
Sweet and Low _Tennyson_ 175
Tapestry Weavers, The _Chester_ 85
Teacher's Dream, The _Venable_ 140
Telling the Bees _Whittier_ 135
Thanatopsis _Bryant_ 196
Thanksgiving-Day _Child_ 178
There's But One Pair of Stockings 27
To a Butterfly _Wordsworth_ 179
To a Skylark _Shelley_ 160
To a Waterfowl _Bryant_ 137
To-day _Carlyle_ 191
To-day _Waterman_ 35
To the Fringed Gentian _Bryant_ 179
Tree, The _Bjornson_ 186
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star _J. Taylor_ 185
Two Glasses, The _Wilcox_ 15
Village Blacksmith, The _Longfellow_ 97
Visit from St. Nicholas, A _Moore_ 54
Walrus and the Carpenter, The _Carroll_ 138
We Are Seven _Wordsworth_ 19
What I Live For _Banks_ 114
What is Good _O'Reilly_ 34
When the Cows Come Home _Mitchell_ 90
When the Minister Comes to Tea _Lincoln_ 89
When the Teacher Gets Cross 86
Where the West Begins _Chapman_ 85
Whistling in Heaven 67
White-Footed Deer, The _Bryant_ 94
Who Won the War? _Pulsifer_ 43
Why Should the Spirit of Mortal
Be Proud! _Knox_ 118
Wild White Rose, The _Willis_ 66
Wind and the Moon, The _Macdonald_ 191
Wind, The _Rossetti_ 170
Wishing _Allingham_ 190
Woman's Question, A _Lathrop_ 129
Wonderful World, The _Rands_ 174
Woodman, Spare That Tree _Morris_ 70
You and You _Wharton_ 97
Young Man Waited, The _Cooke_ 28
Your Mission _Gates_ 55
PREFACE
Seldom does a book of poems appear that is definitely a response to
demand and a reflection of readers' preferences. Of this collection that
can properly be claimed. For a decade NORMAL INSTRUCTOR-PRIMARY PLANS
has carried monthly a page entitled "Poems Our Readers Have Asked For."
The interest in this page has been, and is, phenomenal. Occasionally
space considerations or copyright restrictions have prevented compliance
with requests, but so far as practicable poems asked for have been
printed. Because it has become impossible to furnish many of the earlier
issues of the magazine, the publishers decided to select the poems most
often requested and, carefully revising these for possible errors, to
include them in the present collection. In some cases the desired poems
are old favorite dramatic recitations, but many of them are poems that
are required or recommended for memorizing in state courses of study.
This latter feature will of itself make the book extremely valuable to
teachers throughout the country. We are glad to offer here certain
poems, often requested, but too long for insertion on our magazine
Poetry Page. We are pleased also to be able to include a number of
popular copyright poems. Special permission to use these has been
granted through arrangement with the authorized publishers, whose
courtesy is acknowledged below in detail:
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY--_The Raggedy Man_, from "The Biographical
Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley," copyright 1918.
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS--_Seein' Things_ and _Little Boy Blue_, by
Eugene Field; _Gradatim_ and _Give Us Men_, from "The Poetical Works of
J.G. Holland"; and _You and You_, by Edith Wharton, copyright 1919.
HARPER AND BROTHERS--_Over the Hill to the Poor-House_, _The Ride of
Jennie M'Neal_, _The Little Black-Eyed Rebel_, and _The First Settler's
Story_, by Will Carleton.
THE DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY--_The Moo Cow Moo_ and _The Young Man
Waited_, by Edmund Vance Cooke.
LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY--_The House by the Side of the Road_
and _The Calf Path_, by Sam Walter Foss.
LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY--_October's Bright Blue Weather_, by Helen
Hunt Jackson.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY--Poems by John G. Whittier, Alice Cary, Phoebe
Cary, James T. Fields, and Lucy Larcom.
THE PUBLISHERS.
POEMS TEACHERS ASK FOR
* * * * *
O Captain! My Captain!
(_This poem was written in memory of Abraham Lincoln._)
O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But, O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen, cold and dead.
O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen, cold and dead.
_Walt Whitman._
A Poet's Prophecy
For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;
Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales;
Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;
Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm,
With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunderstorm;
Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battleflags were furl'd
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.
There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.
_Tennyson, "Locksley Hall," 1842._
The Landing of the Pilgrims
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came,--
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storms they sang;
And the stars heard, and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free.
The ocean eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roared--
This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band:
Why had they come to wither there
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--
They sought a faith's pure shrine.
Ay, call it holy ground,--
The soil where first they trod!
They have left unstained what there they found--
Freedom to worship God!
_Felicia Hemans._
Bobby Shaftoe
"Marie, will you marry me?
For you know how I love thee!
Tell me, darling, will you be
The wife of Bobby Shaftoe?"
"Bobby, pray don't ask me more,
For you've asked me twice before;
Let us be good friends, no more,
No more, Bobby Shaftoe."
"If you will not marry me,
I will go away to sea;
And you ne'er again shall be
A friend of Bobby Shaftoe."
"Oh, you will not go away
For you've said so twice to-day.
Stop! He's gone! Dear Bobby, stay!
Dearest Bobby Shaftoe!
"Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea,
Silver buckles on his knee,
But he'll come back and marry me,
Pretty Bobby Shaftoe.
"He will soon come back to me,
And how happy I shall be,
He'll come back and marry me,
Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."
"Bobby Shaftoe's lost at sea,
He cannot come back to thee.
And you ne'er again will see
Your dear Bobby Shaftoe.
"Oh, we sadly mourn for thee,
And regret we ne'er shall see
Our friend Bobby, true and free,
Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."
"Bobby Shaftoe's lost at sea.
And can ne'er come back to me,
But I'll ever faithful be,
True to Bobby Shaftoe."
"Darling, I've come home from sea,
I've come back to marry thee,
For I know you're true to me,
True to Bobby Shaftoe."
"Yes, I always cared for thee,
And now you've come back to me,
And we will always happy be,
Dearest Bobby Shaftoe."
"Bobby Shaftoe's come from sea,
And we will united be,
Heart and hand in unity,
Mr. and Mrs. Shaftoe."
The Overworked Elocutionist
(Or "ROBERT REESE")
Once there was a little boy
Whose name was Robert Reese,
And every Friday afternoon
He had to speak a piece.
So many poems thus he learned
That soon he had a store
Of recitations in his head
And still kept learning more.
Now this it is what happened:
He was called upon one week
And totally forgot the piece
He was about to speak.
His brain he vainly cudgeled
But no word was in his head,
And so he spoke at random,
And this is what he said;
My beautiful, my beautiful,
Who standest proudly by,
It was the schooner Hesperus
The breaking waves dashed high.
Why is the Forum crowded?
What means this stir in Rome?
Under a spreading chestnut tree
There is no place like home.
When Freedom from her mountain height
Cried, "Twinkle, little star,"
Shoot if you must this old gray head,
King Henry of Navarre.
If you're waking, call me early
To be or not to be,
Curfew must not ring to-night,
Oh, woodman, spare that tree.
Charge, Chester, Charge! On, Stanley, on!
And let who will be clever,
The boy stood on the burning deck
But I go on for ever.
The Kid Has Gone to the Colors
The Kid has gone to the Colors
And we don't know what to say;
The Kid we have loved and cuddled
Stepped out for the Flag to-day.
We thought him a child, a baby
With never a care at all,
But his country called him man-size
And the Kid has heard the call.
He paused to watch the recruiting,
Where, fired by the fife and drum,
He bowed his head to Old Glory
And thought that it whispered: "Come!"
The Kid, not being a slacker,
Stood forth with patriot-joy
To add his name to the roster--
And God, we're proud of the boy!
The Kid has gone to the Colors;
It seems but a little while
Since he drilled a schoolboy army
In a truly martial style,
But now he's a man, a soldier,
And we lend him a listening ear,
For his heart is a heart all loyal,
Unscourged by the curse of fear.
His dad, when he told him, shuddered,
His mother--God bless her!--cried;
Yet, blest with a mother-nature,
She wept with a mother-pride,
But he whose old shoulders straightened
Was Granddad--for memory ran
To years when he, too, a youngster,
Was changed by the Flag to a man!
_W.M. Herschell._
Kentucky Belle
Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away--
Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay--
We lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've seen;
Roschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.
Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle.
How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell--
Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave her to me
When I rode north with Conrad, away from the Tennessee.
Conrad lived in Ohio--a German he is, you know--
The house stood in broad cornfields, stretching on, row after row.
The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be;
But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of the Tennessee.
Oh, for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill!
Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still!
But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky--
Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye!
From east to west, no river to shine out under the moon,
Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon:
Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn;
Only the rustle, rustle, as I walked among the corn.
When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more,
But moved away from the cornlands, out to this river shore--
The Tuscarawas it's called, sir--off there's a hill, you see--
And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee.
I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like mad
Over the bridge and up the road--Farmer Rouf's little lad.
Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say,
"Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way.
"I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind;
He sweeps up all the horses--every horse that he can find.
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men,
With bowie knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!"
The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door;
The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor;
Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone.
Nearer, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!
Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture bar.
"Kentuck!" I called--"Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far!
I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right,
And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.
As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound--
The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground--
Coming into the turnpike out from the White Woman Glen--
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.
As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm;
But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my arm.
They came, they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along--
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.
Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day;
Pushing on east to the river, many long miles away,
To the border strip where Virginia runs up into the West,
And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest.
On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance;
Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance.
And I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain,
When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.
Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face,
As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place.
I gave him a cup, and he smiled--'twas only a boy, you see;
Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Tennessee.
Only sixteen he was, sir--a fond mother's only son--
Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun!
The damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boyish mouth;
And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South.
Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through;
Boasted and bragged like a trooper; but the big words wouldn't do;--
The boy was dying, sir, dying as plain as plain could be,
Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.
But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South,
Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth.
"Do you know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistful began to say;
Then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted dead away.
I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to;
I fed him, and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do;
And when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was gone,
Morgan's men--were miles; away, galloping, galloping on.
"Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away!
Morgan--Morgan is waiting for me; Oh, what will Morgan say?"
But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door--
The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.
And on, on, came the soldiers--the Michigan cavalry--
And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,--
They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night;
But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.
And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days;
For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways--
Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west,
Through river-valleys and cornland farms, sweeping away her best.
A bold ride and a long ride; but they were taken at last.
They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast;
But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford,
And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.
Well, I kept the boy till evening--kept him against his will--
But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still.
When it was cool and dusky--you'll wonder to hear me tell--
But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle.
I kissed the star on her forehead--my pretty gentle lass--
But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue-Grass.
A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had,
And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad.
I guided him to the southward as well as I know how;
The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow;
And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell,
As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!
When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high;
Baby and I were both crying--I couldn't tell him why--
But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall,
And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall.
Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me;
He knew I couldn't help it--'twas all for the Tennessee,
But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass--
A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue-Grass.
The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle;
And Kentuck, she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well;
He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur.
Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her!
_Constance F. Woolson._
An Inventor's Wife
I remember it all so very well, the first of my married life,
That I can't believe it was years ago--it doesn't seem true at all;
Why, I just can see the little church where they made us man and wife,
And the merry glow of the first wood-fire that danced on our cottage
wall.
_We were happy?_ Yes; and we prospered, too; the house belonged
to Joe,
And then, he worked in the planing mill, and drew the best of pay;
And our cup was full when Joey came,--our baby-boy, you know;
So, all went well till that mill burned down and the owner moved away.
It wasn't long till Joe found work, but 'twas never quite the same,--
Never steady, with smaller pay; so to make the two ends meet
He fell to inventin' some machine--I don't recall the name,
But he'd sit for hours in his little shop that opens toward the
street,--
Sit for hours, bent over his work, his tools all strewn about.
I used to want to go in there to dust and sweep the floor,
But 'twas just as if 'twas the parson there, writing his sermon out;
Even the baby--bless the child!--learned never to slam that door!
People called him a clever man, and folks from the city came
To look at his new invention and wish my Joe success;
And Joe would say, "Little woman,"--for that was my old pet-name,--
"If my plan succeeds, you shall have a coach and pair, and a fine silk
dress!"
I didn't want 'em, the grand new things, but it made the big tears start
To see my Joe with his restless eyes, his fingers worn away
To the skin and bone, for he wouldn't eat; and it almost broke my heart
When he tossed at night from side to side, till the dawning of the day.
Of course, with it all he lost his place. I couldn't blame the man,
The foreman there at the factory, for losing faith in Joe,
For his mind was never upon his work, but on some invention-plan,
As with folded arms and his head bent down he wandered to and fro.
Yet, he kept on workin' at various things, till our little money went
For wheels and screws and metal casts and things I had never seen;
And I ceased to ask, "Any pay, my dear?" with the answer, "Not a cent!"
When his lock and his patent-saw had failed, he clung to that great
machine.
I remember one special thing that year. He had bought some costly tool,
When we wanted our boy to learn to read--he was five years old, you
know;
He went to his class with cold, bare feet, till at last he came from
school
And gravely said, "Don't send me back; the children tease me so!"
I hadn't the heart to cross the child, so, while I sat and sewed
He would rock his little sister in the cradle at my side;
And when the struggle was hardest and I felt keen hunger's goad
Driving me almost to despair--the little baby died.
Her father came to the cradle-side, as she lay, so small and white;
"Maggie," he said, "I have killed this child, and now I am killing you!
I swear by heaven, I will give it up!" Yet, like a thief, that night
He stole to the shop and worked; his brow all wet with a clammy dew.
I cannot tell how I lived that week, my little boy and I,
Too proud to beg; too weak to work; and the weather cold and wild.
I can only think of one dark night when the rain poured from the sky,
And the wind went wailing round the house, like the ghost of my buried
child.
Joe still toiled in the little shop. Somebody clicked the gate;
A neighbor-lad brought in the mail and laid it on the floor,
But I sat half-stunned by my heavy grief crouched over the empty grate,
Till I heard--the crack of a pistol-shot; and I sprang to the workshop
door.
That door was locked and the bolt shut fast. I could not cry, nor speak,
But I snatched my boy from the corner there, sick with a sudden dread,
And carried him out through the garden plot, forgetting my arms were weak,
Forgetting the rainy torrent that beat on my bare young head;
The front door yielded to my touch. I staggered faintly in,
Fearing--_what_? He stood unharmed, though the wall showed a
jagged hole.
In his trembling hand, his aim had failed, and the great and deadly sin
Of his own life's blood was not yet laid on the poor man's tortured soul.
But the pistol held another charge, I knew; and like something mad
I shook my fist in my poor man's face, and shrieked at him, fierce and
wild,
"How can you dare to rob us so?"--and I seized the little lad;
"How can you dare to rob your wife and your little helpless child?"
All of a sudden, he bowed his head, while from his nerveless hand
That hung so limp, I almost feared to see the pistol fall.
"Maggie," he said in a low, low voice, "you see me as I stand
A hopeless man. My plan has failed. That letter tells you all."
Then for a moment the house was still as ever the house of death;
Only the drip of the rain outside, for the storm was almost o'er;
But no;--there followed another sound, and I started, caught my breath;
As a stalwart man with a heavy step came in at the open door.
I shall always think him an angel sent from heaven in a human guise;
He must have guessed our awful state; he couldn't help but see
There was something wrong; but never a word, never a look in his eyes
Told what he thought, as in kindly way he talked to Joe and me.
He was come from a thriving city firm, and they'd sent him here to say
That _one_ of Joe's inventions was a great, successful thing;
And which do you think? His window-catch that he'd tinkered up one day;
And we were to have a good per cent on the sum that each would bring.
And then the pleasant stranger went, and we wakened as from a dream.
My man bent down his head and said, "Little woman, you've saved my life!"
The worn look gone from his dear gray eyes, and in its place, a gleam
From the sun that has shone so brightly since, on Joe and his happy
wife!
_Jeannie Pendleton Ewing._
The Two Glasses
There sat two glasses filled to the brim
On a rich man's table, rim to rim,
One was ruddy and red as blood,
And one was clear as the crystal flood.
Said the Glass of Wine to his paler brother:
"Let us tell tales of the past to each other;
I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth,
Where I was king, for I ruled in might;
For the proudest and grandest souls of earth
Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;
From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.
I have blasted many an honored name;
I have taken virtue and given shame;
I have tempted youth with a sip, a taste,
That has made his future a barren waste.
Far greater than any king am I,
Or than any army beneath the sky.
I have made the arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from the iron rail.
I have made good ships go down at sea.
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;
And my might and power are over all!
Ho, ho, pale brother," said the Wine,
"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"
Said the Water Glass: "I cannot boast
Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host;
But I can tell of hearts that were sad,
By my crystal drops made bright and glad;
Of thirsts I have quenched and brows I have laved,
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.
I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,
Slipped from the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain,
I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,
And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.
I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
That ground out the flour, and turned at my will.
I can tell of manhood debased by you
That I have uplifted and crowned anew;
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid,
I gladden the heart of man and maid;
I set the wine-chained captive free,
And all are better for knowing me."
These are the tales they told each other,
The Glass of Wine, and its paler brother,
As they sat together, filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim.
_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._
Abraham Lincoln
(_Written after Lincoln's death by Tom Taylor, famous cartoonist of the
London "Punch."_)
_You_ lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier!
_You_, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the self-complacent British sneer,
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,
His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,
His lack of all we prize as debonair,
Of power or will to shine, of art to please!
_You_, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step, as though the way were plain;
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,
Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain!
Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourners at his head and feet--
Say, scurril jester, is there room for you?
Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer--
To lame my pencil and confute my pen--
To make me own this hind, of princes peer,
This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men.
My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,
Noting how to occasion's height he rose;
How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true,
How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows;
How humble, yet how hopeful he could be;
How in good fortune and in ill the same;
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,
Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.
He went about his work--such work as few
Ever had laid on head, and heart, and hand--
As one who knows where there's a task to do,
Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;
Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,
That God makes instruments to work His will,
If but that will we can arrive to know,
Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.
So he went forth to battle, on the side
That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,
As in his peasant boyhood he had plied
His warfare with rude nature's thwarting mights;--
The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,
The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe,
The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil,
The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,
The ambushed Indian and the prowling bear--
Such were the needs that helped his youth to train:
Rough culture--but such trees large fruit may bear,
If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.
So he grew up, a destined work to do,
And lived to do it: four long, suffering years
Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,
And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,
The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,
And took both with the same unwavering mood;
Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,
And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,
A felon hand, between the goal and him,
Beached from behind his back, a trigger prest--
And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!
The words of mercy were upon his lips,
Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,
When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse
To thoughts of peace on earth, goodwill to men.
The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high;
Sad life, cut short as its triumph came!
The Old Clock on the Stairs
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat;
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw;
And, from its station in the hall,
An ancient timepiece says to all,
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands,
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say at each chamber door,
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;
His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
There groups of merry children played;
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay, in his shroud of snow;
And, in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
All are scattered, now, and fled,--
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,--
"Forever--never!
Never-forever!"
Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time, shall disappear,--
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
_H.W. Longfellow._
Christ in Flanders
We had forgotten You, or very nearly--
You did not seem to touch us very nearly--
Of course we thought about You now and then;
Especially in any time of trouble--
We knew that you were good in time of trouble--
But we were very ordinary men.
And there were always other things to think of--
There's lots of things a man has got to think of--
His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife;
And so we only thought of You on Sunday--
Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday--
Because there's always lots to fill one's life.
And, all the while, in street or lane or byway--
In country lane, in city street, or byway--
You walked among us, and we did not see.
Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements--
How did we miss Your footprints on our pavements?--
Can there be other folk as blind as we?
Now we remember; over here in Flanders--
(It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders)--
This hideous warfare seems to make things clear.
We never thought about You much in England--
But now that we are far away from England--
We have no doubts, we know that You are here.
You helped us pass the jest along the trenches--
Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches--
You touched its ribaldry and made it fine.
You stood beside us in our pain and weakness--
We're glad to think You understand our weakness--
Somehow it seems to help us not to whine.
We think about You kneeling in the Garden--
Ah, God, the agony of that dread Garden--
We know You prayed for us upon the cross.
If anything could make us glad to bear it--
'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it--
Pain--death--the uttermost of human loss.
Though we forgot You--You will not forget us--
We feel so sure that You will not forget us--
But stay with us until this dream is past.
And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon--
Especially, I think, we ask for pardon--
And that You'll stand beside us to the last.
_L.W. in London "Spectator."_
We Are Seven
--A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."
Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'T was throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
_William Wordsworth._
Echo
"I asked of Echo, t'other day
(Whose words are often few and funny),
What to a novice she could say
Of courtship, love and matrimony.
Quoth Echo plainly,--'Matter-o'-money!'
"Whom should I marry? Should it be
A dashing damsel, gay and pert,
A pattern of inconstancy;
Or selfish, mercenary flirt?
Quoth Echo, sharply,--'Nary flirt!'
"What if, aweary of the strife
That long has lured the dear deceiver,
She promise to amend her life,
And sin no more; can I believe her?
Quoth Echo, very promptly,--'Leave her!'
"But if some maiden with a heart
On me should venture to bestow it,
Pray should I act the wiser part
To take the treasure or forego it?
Quoth Echo, with decision,--'Go it!'
"But what if, seemingly afraid
To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,
She vow she means to die a maid,
In answer to my loving letter?
Quoth Echo, rather coolly,-'Let her!'
"What if, in spite of her disdain,
I find my heart entwined about
With Cupid's dear, delicious chain
So closely that I can't get out?
Quoth Echo, laughingly,--'Get out!'
"But if some maid with beauty blest,
As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,
Will share my labor and my rest
Till envious Death shall overtake her?
Quoth Echo (sotto voce),--'Take her!'"
_John G. Saxe._
Engineers Making Love
It's noon when Thirty-five is due,
An' she comes on time like a flash of light,
An' you hear her whistle "Too-tee-too!"
Long 'fore the pilot swings in sight.
Bill Madden's drivin' her in to-day,
An' he's calling his sweetheart far away--
Gertrude Hurd lives down by the mill;
You might see her blushin'; she knows it's Bill.
"Tudie, tudie! Toot-ee! Tudie, tudie! Tu!"
Six-five, A.M. there's a local comes,
Makes up at Bristol, runnin' east;
An' the way her whistle sings and hums
Is a livin' caution to man and beast.
Every one knows who Jack White calls,--
Little Lou Woodbury, down by the falls;
Summer or Winter, always the same,
She hears her lover callin' her name--
"Lou-ie! Lou-ie! Lou-iee!"
But at one fifty-one, old Sixty-four--
Boston express, runs east, clear through--
Drowns her rattle and rumble and roar
With the softest whistle that ever blew.
An' away on the furthest edge of town
Sweet Sue Winthrop's eyes of brown
Shine like the starlight, bright and clear,
When she hears the whistle of Abel Gear,
"You-oo! Su-u-u-u-u-e!"
Along at midnight a freight comes in,
Leaves Berlin sometime--I don't know when;
But it rumbles along with a fearful din
Till it reaches the Y-switch there and then
The clearest notes of the softest bell
That out of a brazen goblet fell
Wake Nellie Minton out of her dreams;
To her like a wedding-bell it seems--
"Nell, Nell, Nell! Nell, Nell, Nell!"
Tom Willson rides on the right-hand side,
Givin' her steam at every stride;
An' he touches the whistle, low an' clear,
For Lulu Gray on the hill, to hear--
"Lu-Lu! Loo-Loo! Loo-oo!"
So it goes all day an' all night
Till the old folks have voted the thing a bore;
Old maids and bachelors say it ain't right
For folks to do courtin' with such a roar.
But the engineers their kisses will blow
From a whistle valve to the girls they know,
An' stokers the name of their sweethearts tell;
With the "Too-too-too" and the swinging bell.
_R.J. Burdette._
Guilty or Not Guilty
She stood at the bar of justice,
A creature wan and wild,
In form too small for a woman,
In features too old for a child;
For a look so worn and pathetic
Was stamped on her pale young face,
It seemed long years of suffering
Must have left that silent trace.
"Your name?" said the judge, as he eyed her
With kindly look yet keen,--
"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir."
And your age?"--"I am turned fifteen."
"Well, Mary," and then from a paper
He slowly and gravely read,
"You are charged here--I'm sorry to say it--
With stealing three loaves of bread.
"You look not like an offender,
And I hope that you can show
The charge to be false. Now, tell me,
Are you guilty of this, or no?"
A passionate burst of weeping
Was at first her sole reply.
But she dried her eyes in a moment,
And looked in the judge's eye.
"I will tell you just how it was, sir:
My father and mother are dead,
And my little brothers and sisters
Were hungry and asked me for bread.
At first I earned it for them
By working hard all day,
But somehow, times were bad, sir,
And the work all fell away.
"I could get no more employment.
The weather was bitter cold,
The young ones cried and shivered--
(Little Johnny's but four years old)--
So what was I to do, sir?
I am guilty, but do not condemn.
I _took_--oh, was it _stealing?_--
The bread to give to them."
Every man in the court-room--
Gray-beard and thoughtless youth--
Knew, as he looked upon her,
That the prisoner spake the truth;
Out from their pockets came kerchiefs,
Out from their eyes sprung tears,
And out from their old faded wallets
Treasures hoarded for years.
The judge's face was a study,
The strangest you ever saw,
As he cleared his throat and murmured
_Something_ about the _law_;
For one so learned in such matters,
So wise in dealing with men,
He seemed, on a simple question,
Sorely puzzled, just then.
But no one blamed him or wondered,
When at last these words he heard,
"The sentence of this young prisoner
Is, for the present, deferred."
And no one blamed him or wondered
When he went to her and smiled
And tenderly led from the court-room,
Himself, the "guilty" child.
The Baby
Where did you come from, baby dear?
_Out of the everywhere into the here._
Where did you get your eyes so blue?
_Out of the sky as I came through._
What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
_Some of the starry spikes left in._
Where did you get that little tear?
_I found it waiting when I got here._
What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
_A soft hand stroked it as I went by._
What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
_Something better than anyone knows._
Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
_Three angels gave me at once a kiss._
Where did you get that pearly ear?
_God spoke, and it came out to hear._
Where did you get those arms and hands?
_Love made itself into hooks and bands._
Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?
_From the same box as the cherubs' wings._
How did they all just come to be you?
_God thought about me, and so I grew._
But how did you come to us, you dear?
_God thought of you, and so I am here._
_George Macdonald._
Song of the Sea
The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies,
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!
I am where I would ever be;
With the blue above and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go.
If a storm should come and awake the deep
What matter? _I_ shall ride and sleep.
I love, oh, how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloud his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the southwest blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And back I flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she _was_, and _is_, to me,
For I was born on the open sea!
I've lived, since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought nor sighed for change;
And Death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea.
_Barry Cornwall._
Diffidence
"I'm after axin', Biddy dear--"
And here he paused a while
To fringe his words the merest mite
With something of a smile--
A smile that found its image
In a face of beauteous mold,
Whose liquid eyes were peeping
From a broidery of gold.
"I've come to ax ye, Biddy dear,
If--" then he stopped again,
As if his heart had bubbled o'er
And overflowed his brain.
His lips were twitching nervously
O'er what they had to tell,
And timed the quavers with the eyes
That gently rose and fell.
"I've come--" and then he took her hands
And held them in his own,
"To ax--" and then he watched the buds
That on her cheeks had blown,--
"Me purty dear--" and then he heard
The throbbing of her heart,
That told how love had entered in
And claimed its every part.
"Och! don't be tazin' me," said she,
With just the faintest sigh,
"I've sinse enough to see you've come,
But what's the reason why?"
"To ax--" and once again the tongue
Forbore its sweets to tell,
"To ax--_if Mrs. Mulligan,
Has any pigs to sell_."
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night
Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day,
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,--
He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night."
"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp and cold,
"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh;
Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white
As she breathed the husky whisper: "Curfew must not ring to-night."
"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton--every word pierced her young heart
Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart,--
"Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour;
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right;
Now I'm old I will not falter,--curfew, it must ring to-night."
Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow.
As within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh:
"At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die."
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
In an undertone she murmured, "Curfew must not ring to-night."
With quick step she bounded forward, sprung within the old church door,
Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before;
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow
Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro,--
As she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light,
Up and up,--her white lips saying: "Curfew must not ring to-night."
She has reached the topmost ladder; o'er her hangs the great, dark bell;
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging--'tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! flash her eyes with sudden light,
As she springs and grasps it firmly--"Curfew shall not ring to-night!"
Out she swung--far out; the city seemed a speck of light below,
There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro;
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
Sadly thought, "That twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell."
Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips so white,
Said, to hush her heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring to-night."
It was o'er; the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the dark old ladder where, for hundred years before
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
Should be told long ages after; as the rays of setting sun
Crimson all the sky with beauty, aged sires with heads of white,
Tell the eager, listening children, "Curfew did not ring that night."
O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow,
Lately white with fear and anguish, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn;
And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light:
"Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell, "Curfew shall not ring to-night."
Wide they flung the massive portal; led the prisoner forth to die,--
All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the darkening English sky
Bessie comes with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet;
Kneeling on the turf beside him, lays his pardon at his feet.
In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned
and white,
Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me--curfew will not ring to-night."
_Rose Hartwick Thorpe._
Kate Shelly
Have you heard how a girl saved the lightning express--
Of Kate Shelly, whose father was killed on the road?
Were he living to-day, he'd be proud to possess
Such a daughter as Kate. Ah! 'twas grit that she showed
On that terrible evening when Donahue's train
Jumped the bridge and went down, in the darkness and rain.
She was only eighteen, but a woman in size,
With a figure as graceful and lithe as a doe,
With peach-blossom cheeks, and with violet eyes,
And teeth and complexion like new-fallen snow;
With a nature unspoiled and unblemished by art--
With a generous soul, and a warm, noble heart!
'Tis evening--the darkness is dense and profound;
Men linger at home by their bright-blazing fires;
The wind wildly howls with a horrible sound,
And shrieks through the vibrating telegraph wires;
The fierce lightning flashes along the dark sky;
The rain falls in torrents; the river rolls by.
The scream of a whistle; the rush of a train!
The sound of a bell! a mysterious light
That flashes and flares through the fast falling rain!
A rumble! a roar! shrieks of human affright!
The falling of timbers! the space of a breath!
A splash in the river; then darkness and death!
Kate Shelly recoils at the terrible crash;
The sounds of destruction she happens to hear;
She springs to the window--she throws up the sash,
And listens and looks with a feeling of fear.
The tall tree-tops groan, and she hears the faint cry
Of a drowning man down in the river near by.
Her heart feebly flutters, her features grow wan,
And then through her soul in a moment there flies
A forethought that gives her the strength of a man--
She turns to her trembling old mother and cries:
"I must save the express--'twill be here in an hour!"
Then out through the door disappears in the shower.
She flies down the track through the pitiless rain;
She reaches the river--the water below
Whirls and seethes through the timbers. She shudders again;
"The bridge! To Moingona, God help me to go!"
Then closely about her she gathers her gown
And on the wet ties with a shiver sinks down.
Then carefully over the timbers she creeps
On her hands and knees, almost holding her breath.
The loud thunder peals and the wind wildly sweeps,
And struggles to hurry her downward to death;
But the thought of the train to destruction so near
Removes from her soul every feeling of fear.
With the blood dripping down from each torn, bleeding limb,
Slowly over the timbers her dark way she feels;
Her fingers grow numb and her head seems to swim;
Her strength is fast failing--she staggers! she reels!
She falls--Ah! the danger is over at last,
Her feet touch the earth, and the long bridge is passed!
In an instant new life seems to come to her form;
She springs to her feet and forgets her despair.
On, on to Moingona! she faces the storm,
She reaches the station--the keeper is there,
"Save the lightning express! No--hang out the red light!
There's death on the bridge at the river to-night!"
Out flashes the signal-light, rosy and red;
Then sounds the loud roar of the swift-coming train,
The hissing of steam, and there, brightly ahead,
The gleam of a headlight illumines the rain.
"Down brakes!" shrieks the whistle, defiant and shrill;
She heeds the red signal--she slackens, she's still!
Ah! noble Kate Shelly, your mission is done;
Your deed that dark night will not fade from our gaze;
An endless renown you have worthily won;
Let the nation be just, and accord you its praise,
Let your name, let your fame, and your courage declare
What a _woman_ can do, and a _woman_ can dare!
_Eugene J. Hall._
There's But One Pair of Stockings to Mend To-Night
An old wife sat by her bright fireside,
Swaying thoughtfully to and fro
In an easy chair, whose creaky craw
Told a tale of long ago;
While down by her side, on the kitchen floor,
Stood a basket of worsted balls--a score.
The good man dozed o'er the latest news
Till the light in his pipe went out;
And, unheeded, the kitten with cunning paws
Rolled and tangled the balls about;
Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,
Swaying to and fro in the fire-light glare.
But anon, a misty teardrop came
In her eyes of faded blue,
Then trickled down in a furrow deep
Like a single drop of dew;
So deep was the channel--so silent the stream--
That the good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.
Yet marveled he much that the cheerful light
Of her eye had heavy grown,
And marveled he more at the tangled balls,
So he said in a gentle tone:
"I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow,
Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."
Then she spoke of the time when the basket there
Was filled to the very brim;
And now, there remained of the goodly pile
But a single pair--for him;
"Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light,
There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.
"I cannot but think of the busy feet
Whose wrappings were wont to lay
In the basket, awaiting the needle's time--
Now wandering so far away;
How the sprightly steps to a mother dear,
Unheeded fell on the careless ear.
"For each empty nook in the basket old
By the hearth there's a vacant seat;
And I miss the shadows from off the wall,
And the patter of many feet;
'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight,
At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.
"'Twas said that far through the forest wild,
And over the mountains bold,
Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves
Were gemmed with the rarest gold;
Then my first-born turned from the oaken door--
And I knew the shadows were only four.
"Another went forth on the foaming wave,
And diminished the basket's store;
But his feet grew cold--so weary and cold,
They'll never be warm any more.
And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me
To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.
"Two others have gone toward the setting sun,
And made them a home in its light,
And fairy fingers have taken their share,
To mend by the fireside bright;
Some other baskets their garments will fill--
But mine, ah, mine is emptier still.
"Another--the dearest, the fairest, the best--
Was taken by angels away,
And clad in a garment that waxeth not old,
In a land of continual day;
Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light,
When I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."
The Young Man Waited
In the room below the young man sat,
With an anxious face and a white cravat,
A throbbing heart and a silken hat,
And various other things like that
Which he had accumulated.
And the maid of his heart was up above
Surrounded by hat and gown and glove,
And a thousand things which women love,
But no man knoweth the names thereof--
And the young man sat and--waited.
You will scarce believe the things I tell,
But the truth thereof I know full well,
Though how may not be stated;
But I swear to you that the maiden took
A sort of half-breed, thin stove-hook,
And heated it well in the gaslight there.
And thrust it into her head, or hair.
Then she took something off the bed,
And hooked it onto her hair, or head,
And piled it high, and piled it higher,
And drove it home with staples of wire!
And the young man anxiously--waited.
Then she took a thing she called a "puff"
And some very peculiar whitish stuff,
And using about a half a peck,
She spread it over her face and neck,
(Deceit was a thing she hated!)
And she looked as fair as a lilied bower,
Or a pound of lard or a sack of flour;--
And the young man wearily--waited.
Then she took a garment of awful shape
And it wasn't a waist, nor yet a cape,
But it looked like a piece of ancient mail,
Or an instrument from a Russian jail,
And then with a fearful groan and gasp,
She squeezed herself in its deathly clasp--
So fair and yet so fated!
And then with a move like I don't know what,
She tied it on with a double knot;--
And the young man wofully--waited.
Then she put on a dozen different things,
A mixture of buttons and hooks and strings,
Till she strongly resembled a notion store;
Then, taking some seventeen pins or more,
She thrust them into her ruby lips,
Then stuck them around from waist to hips,
And never once hesitated.
And the maiden didn't know, perhaps,
That the man below had had seven naps,
And that now he sleepily--waited.
And then she tried to put on her hat,
Ah me, a trying ordeal was that!
She tipped it high and she tried it low,
But every way that the thing would go
Only made her more agitated.
It wouldn't go straight and it caught her hair,
And she wished she could hire a man to swear,
But alas, the only man lingering there
Was the one who wildly--waited.
And then before she could take her leave,
She had to puff up her monstrous sleeve.
Then a little dab here and a wee pat there.
And a touch or two to her hindmost hair,
Then around the room with the utmost care
She thoughtfully circulated.
Then she seized her gloves and a chamoiskin,
Some breath perfume and a long stickpin,
A bonbon box and a cloak and some
Eau-de-cologne and chewing-gum,
Her opera glass and sealskin muff,
A fan and a heap of other stuff;
Then she hurried down, but ere she spoke,
Something about the maiden broke.
So she scurried back to the winding stair,
And the young man looked in wild despair,
And then he--evaporated.
_Edmund Vance Cooke._
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
_William E. Henley._
Katie Lee and Willie Grey
Two brown heads with tossing curls,
Red lips shutting over pearls,
Bare feet, white and wet with dew,
Two eyes black, and two eyes blue;
Little girl and boy were they,
Katie Lee and Willie Grey.
They were standing where a brook,
Bending like a shepherd's crook,
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks
Of willow fringed its mossy banks;
Half in thought, and half in play,
Katie Lee and Willie Grey.
They had cheeks like cherries red;
He was taller--'most a head;
She, with arms like wreaths of snow,
Swung a basket to and fro
As she loitered, half in play,
Chattering to Willie Grey.
"Pretty Katie," Willie said--
And there came a dash of red
Through the brownness of his cheek--
"Boys are strong and girls are weak,
And I'll carry, so I will,
Katie's basket up the hill."
Katie answered with a laugh,
"You shall carry only half";
And then, tossing back her curls,
"Boys are weak as well as girls."
Do you think that Katie guessed
Half the wisdom she expressed?
Men are only boys grown tall;
Hearts don't change much, after all;
And when, long years from that day,
Katie Lee and Willie Grey
Stood again beside the brook,
Bending like a shepherd's crook,--
Is it strange that Willie said,
While again a dash of red
Crossed the brownness of his cheek,
"I am strong and you are weak;
Life is but a slippery steep,
Hung with shadows cold and deep.
"Will you trust me, Katie dear,--
Walk beside me without fear?
May I carry, if I will,
All your burdens up the hill?"
And she answered, with a laugh,
"No, but you may carry half."
Close beside the little brook,
Bending like a shepherd's crook,
Washing with its silver hands
Late and early at the sands,
Is a cottage, where to-day
Katie lives with Willie Grey.
In a porch she sits, and lo!
Swings a basket to and fro--
Vastly different from the one
That she swung in years agone,
_This_ is long and deep and wide,
And has--_rockers at the side_.
Abou Ben Adhem
Abou Ben Adhem--may his tribe increase!--
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made all of sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel.--Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed:
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
_Leigh Hunt._
In School-Days
Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry vines are running.
Within, the master's desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;
The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!
Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting.
It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.
For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled:
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.
Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered;--
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.
"I'm sorry that I spelt the word:
I hate to go above you,
Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,--
"Because, you see, I love you!"
Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl: the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!
He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her,--because they love him.
_John Greenleaf Whittier._
Mother's Fool
"Tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife,
"These boys will make their mark in life;
They were never made to handle a hoe,
And at once to a college ought to go;
There's Fred, he's little better than a fool,
But John and Henry must go to school."
"Well, really, wife," quoth Farmer Brown,
As he set his mug of cider down,
"Fred does more work in a day for me
Than both his brothers do in three.
Book larnin' will never plant one's corn,
Nor hoe potatoes, sure's you're born;
Nor mend a rod of broken fence--
For my part, give me common sense."
But his wife was bound the roost to rule,
And John and Henry were sent to school,
While Fred, of course, was left behind,
Because his mother said he had no mind.
Five years at school the students spent;
Then into business each one went.
John learned to play the flute and fiddle,
And parted his hair, of course, in the middle;
While his brother looked rather higher than he,
And hung out a sign, "H. Brown, M.D."
Meanwhile, at home, their brother Fred
Had taken a notion into his head;
But he quietly trimmed his apple trees,
And weeded onions and planted peas,
While somehow or other, by hook or crook,
He managed to read full many a book;
Until at last his father said
He was getting "book larnin'" into his head;
"But for all that," added Farmer Brown,
"He's the smartest boy there is in town."
The war broke out, and Captain Fred
A hundred men to battle led,
And when the rebel flag came down,
Went marching home as General Brown.
But he went to work on the farm again,
And planted corn and sowed his grain;
He shingled the barn and mended the fence,
Till people declared he had common sense.
Now common sense was very rare,
And the State House needed a portion there;
So the "family dunce" moved into town--
The people called him Governor Brown;
And the brothers who went to the city school
Came home to live with "mother's fool."
Kentucky Philosophy
You Wi'yam, cum 'ere, suh, dis instunce.
Wu' dat you got under dat box?
I do' want no foolin'--you hear me?
Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n but _rocks_?
'Peah ter me you's owdashus p'ticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine.
I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline?
_I_ calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it
growed;
It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road.
You stole it, you rascal--you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot.
En time I gets th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease spot!
I'll fix you. Mirandy! Mir_an_dy! go cut me a hick'ry--make 'ase!
En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place.
I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yam Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young
sinner,
Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner!
Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'lf sur? I is, I's 'shamed you's my son!
En de holy accorjan angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done;
En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters--
"One water-million stoled by Wi'yam Josephus Vetters."
En wut you s'posen Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school,
'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule?
Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black
villiun?
I's s'prised dat a chile er yo mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million.
En I's now gwinter cut it right open, en you shain't have nary bite,
Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions--en dat in de day's broad light--
Ain't--_Lawdy!_ it's _green!_ Mirandy!
Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch!
Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yeered tell er des
sich?
Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey
is green;
But w'en dey go _punk_, now you mine me, dey's ripe--en dat's des wut
I mean.
En nex' time you hook water-millions--_you_ heered me, you ign'ant, you
hunk,
Ef you do' want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"!
_Harrison Robertson._
Give Us Men
God give us men; a time like this demands
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands.
Men whom the lust of office cannot kill;
Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy;
Men who possess opinions and a will;
Men who have honor; men who will not lie;
Men who can stand before a demagogue,
And brave his treacherous flatteries without winking;
Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog,
In public duty and in private thinking;
For while the rabble, with its thumb-worn creeds,
Its large professions, and its little deeds,
Mingle in selfish strife--lo! Freedom weeps,
Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps.
_J.G. Holland._
Never Trouble Trouble
My good man is a clever man, which no one will gainsay;
He lies awake to plot and plan 'gainst lions in the way,
While I, without a thought of ill, sleep sound enough for three,
For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.
A holiday we never fix but he is sure 'twill rain;
And when the sky is clear at six he knows it won't remain.
He is always prophesying ill to which I won't agree,
For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.
The wheat will never show a top--but soon how green the field!
We will not harvest half a crop--yet have a famous yield!
It will not sell, it never will! but I will wait and see,
For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.
We have a good share of worldly gear, and fortune seems secure,
Yet my good man is full of fear--misfortune's coming sure!
He points me out the almshouse hill, but cannot make me see,
For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.
He has a sort of second sights and when the fit is strong,
He sees beyond the good and right the evil and the wrong.
Heaven's cop of joy he'll surely spill unless I with him be,
For I never trouble trouble till trouble troubles me.
_Fannie Windsor._
What is Good
"What is the real good?" I asked in musing mood.
Order, said the law court;
Knowledge, said the school;
Truth, said the wise man;
Pleasure, said the fool;
Love, said the maiden;
Beauty, said the page;
Freedom, said the dreamer;
Home, said the sage;
Fame, said the soldier;
Equity, the seer.
Spake my heart full sadly:
"The answer is not here."
Then within my bosom
Softly this I heard:
"Each heart holds the secret:
Kindness is the word."
_John Boyle O'Reilly._
The Penny Ye Mean to Gie
There's a funny tale 'of a stingy man,
Who was none too good but might have been worse,
Who went to his church, on a Sunday night
And carried along his well-filled purse.
When the sexton came with the begging plate,
The church was but dim with the candle's light;
The stingy man fumbled all thro' his purse,
And chose a coin by touch and not by sight.
It's an odd thing now that guineas should be
So like unto pennies in shape and size.
"I'll gie a penny," the stingy man said:
"The poor must not gifts of pennies despise."
The penny fell down with a clatter and ring!
And back in his seat leaned the stingy man.
"The world is full of the poor," he thought,
"I can't help them all--I give what I can."
Ha! ha! how the sexton smiled, to be sure,
To see the gold guinea fall in the plate;
Ha! ha! how the stingy man's heart was wrung,
Perceiving his blunder--but just too late!
"No matter," he said; "in the Lord's account
That guinea of gold is set down to me--
They lend to him who give to the poor;
It will not so bad an investment be."
"Na, na, mon," the chuckling sexton cried out,
"The Lord is na cheated--he kens thee well;
He knew it was only by accident
That out o' thy fingers the guinea fell!
"He keeps an account, na doubt, for the puir;
But in that account He'll set down to thee
Na mair o' that golden guinea, my mon,
Than the one bare penny ye mean to gie!"
There's comfort, too, in the little tale--
A serious side as well as a joke--
A comfort for all the generous poor
In the comical words the sexton spoke;
A comfort to think that the good Lord knows
How generous we really desire to be,
And will give us credit in his account,
For all the pennies we long "to gie."
Leedle Yawcob Strauss
I haf von funny leedle poy
Vot gomes shust to my knee,--
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue
As efer you dit see.
He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings
In all barts off der house.
But vot off dot? He vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He gets der measels und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot's oudt;
He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut;
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese--
Dot vas der roughest chouse;
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He dakes der milkban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo
To make der schticks to beat it mit--
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart
He kicks oup sooch a touse;
But nefer mind der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.
He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?
Who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?
Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene'er der glim I douse?
How gan I all dese dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?
I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest
Und beaceful dimes enshoy.
But ven he vas asleep in ped,
So quiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord, "Dake any dings,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."
_Charles F. Adams._
To-day
We shall do so much in the years to come,
But what have we done to-day?
We shall give out gold in princely sum,
But what did we give to-day?
We shall lift the heart and dry the tear,
We shall plant a hope in the place of fear,
We shall speak with words of love and cheer,
But what have we done to-day?
We shall be so kind in the after while,
But what have we been to-day?
We shall bring to each lonely life a smile,
But what have we brought to-day?
We shall give to truth a grander birth,
And to steadfast faith a deeper worth,
We shall feed the hungering souls of earth,
But whom have we fed to-day?
_Nixon Waterman._
So Was I
My name is Tommy, an' I hates
That feller of my sister Kate's,
He's bigger'n I am an' you see
He's sorter lookin' down on me,
An' I resents it with a vim;
I think I am just as good as him.
He's older, an' he's mighty fly,
But's he's a kid, an' so am I.
One time he came,--down by the gate,
I guess it must have been awful late,--
An' Katie, she was there, an' they
Was feelin' very nice and gay,
An' he was talkin' all the while
About her sweet an' lovin' smile,
An' everythin' was as nice as pie,
An' they was there, an' so was I.
They didn't see me, 'cause I slid
Down underneath a bush, an' hid,
An' he was sayin' that his love
Was greater'n all the stars above
Up in the glorious heavens placed;
An' then His arms got 'round her waist,
An' clouds were floatin' in the sky,
And they was there, an' so was I.
I didn't hear just all they said,
But by an' by my sister's head
Was droopin' on his shoulder, an'
I seen him holdin' Katie's hand,
An' then he hugged her closer, some,
An' then I heerd a kiss--yum, yum;
An' Katie blushed an' drew a sigh,
An' sorter coughed,--an' so did I.
An' then that feller looked around
An' seed me there, down on the ground,
An'--was he mad? well, betcher boots
I gets right out of there an' scoots.
An' he just left my sister Kate
A-standin' right there by the gate;
An' I seen blood was in his eye,
An' he runned fast--an' so did I.
I runned the very best I could,
But he cotched up--I's 'fraid he would--
An' then he said he'd teach me how
To know my manners, he'd allow;
An' then he shaked me awful. Gee!
He jest--he frashed the ground with me.
An' then he stopped it by and by,
'Cause he was tired--an' so was I,
An' then he went back to the gate
An' couldn't find my sister Kate
'Cause she went in to bed, while he
Was runnin' 'round an' thumpin' me.
I got round in a shadder dim,
An' made a face, an' guffed at him;
An' then the moon larfed, in the sky,
'Cause he was there, an' so was I.
_Joseph Bert Smiley._
Is It Worth While?
Is it worth while that we jostle a brother.
Bearing his load on the rough road of life?
Is it worth while that we jeer at each other
In blackness of heart that we war to the knife?
God pity us all in our pitiful strife.
God pity as all as we jostle each other;
God pardon us all for the triumph we feel
When a fellow goes down 'neath his load on the heather,
Pierced to the heart: Words are keener than steel,
And mightier far for woe than for weal,
Were it not well, in this brief little journey
On over the isthmus, down into the tide,
We give him a fish instead of a serpent,
Ere folding the hands to be and abide
Forever and aye in dust at his side?
Look at the roses saluting each other;
Look at the herds all at peace on the plain;
Man, and man only, makes war on his brother,
And laughs in his heart at his peril and pain,
Shamed by the beasts that go down on the plain.
Is it worth while that we battle to humble
Some poor fellow down into the dust?
God pity us all! Time too soon will tumble
All of us together, like leaves in a gust,
Humbled, indeed, down into the dust.
_Joaquin Miller._
Life's Mirror
There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave,
There are souls that are pure and true;
Then give to the world the best you have,
And the best will come back to you.
Give love, and love to your life will flow,
A strength in your utmost need;
Have faith, and a score of hearts will show
Their faith in your work and deed.
Give truth, and your gift will be paid in kind;
And honor will honor meet,
And the smile which is sweet will surely find
A smile that is just as sweet.
Give pity and sorrow to those who mourn;
You will gather in flowers again
The scattered seeds from your thought outborne,
Though the sowing seemed in vain.
For life is the mirror of king and slave;
'Tis just what we are and do;
Then give to the world the best you have,
And the best will come back to you.
_Madeline S. Bridges._
The Little Black-Eyed Rebel
A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down
With food to feed the people of the British-governed town;
And the little black-eyed rebel, so cunning and so sly,
Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye.
His face was broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough,
The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough;
But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh,
And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye.
He drove up to the market, he waited in the line--
His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine.
But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy,
Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye.
"Now, who will buy my apples?" he shouted, long and loud;
And, "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd.
But from all the people round him came no word of reply,
Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.
For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day
Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away,
Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain, or die;
And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye.
But the treasures--how to get them? crept the question through her mind,
Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find;
And she paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh,
Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.
So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red--
"May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said;
And the brown face flushed to scarlet, for the boy was somewhat shy,
And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye.
"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he.
"I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she.
And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by,
With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye.
Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small,
And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl!
Carry back again _this_ package, and be sure that you are spry!"
And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye.
Loud the motley crowd was laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak;
And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak.
And "Miss, I have good apples," a bolder lad did cry;
But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye.
With the news from loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet,
Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street.
"There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try,"
Thought the little black-eyed rebel with a twinkle in her eye.
_Will Carleton._
A Day Well Spent
If you sit down at set of sun
And count the deeds that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying act, one word that eased the heart of him that heard;
One glance most kind, which felt like sunshine where it went,
Then you may count that day well spent.
But if through, all the livelong day
You've eased no heart by yea or nay,
If through it all you've nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face,
No act most small that helped some soul and nothing cost,
Then count that day as worse than lost.
Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth
Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main,
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.
_A.H. Clough._
The Miller of the Dee
There dwelt a miller, hale and bold,
Beside the river Dee;
He worked and sang from morn till night--
No lark more blithe than he;
And this the burden of his song
Forever used to be:
"I envy nobody--no, not I--
And nobody envies me!"
"Thou'rt wrong, my friend," said good King Hal,
"As wrong as wrong can be;
For could my heart be light as thine,
I'd gladly change with thee.
And tell me now, what makes thee sing,
With voice so loud and free,
While I am sad, though I'm a king,
Beside the river Dee?"
The miller smiled and doffed his cap,
"I earn my bread," quoth he;
"I love my wife, I love my friend,
I love my children three;
I owe no penny I cannot pay,
I thank the river Dee
That turns the mill that grinds the corn
That feeds my babes and me."
"Good friend," said Hal, and sighed the while,
"Farewell, and happy be;
But say no more, if thou'dst be true
That no one envies thee;
Thy mealy cap is worth my crown,
Thy mill my kingdom's fee;
Such men as thou art England's boast,
O miller of the Dee!"
_Charles Mackay._
The Old Red Cradle
Take me back to the days when the old red cradle rocked,
In the sunshine of the years that are gone;
To the good old trusty days, when the door was never locked,
And we slumbered unmolested till the dawn.
I remember of my years I had numbered almost seven,
And the old cradle stood against the wall--
I was youngest of the five, and two were gone to heaven,
But the old red cradle rocked us all.
And if ever came a day when my cheeks were flushed and hot,
When I did not mind my porridge or my play,
I would clamber up its side and the pain would be forgot,
When the old red cradle rocked away.
It has been a hallowed spot where I've turned through all the years,
Which have brought me the evil with the good,
And I turn again to-night, aye, and see it through my tears,
The place where the dear old cradle stood.
By its side my father paused with a little time to spare.
And the care-lines would soften on his brow,
Ah! 't was but a little while that I knew a father's care,
But I fancy in my dreams I see him now.
By my mother it was rocked when the evening meal was laid,
And again I seem to see her as she smiled;
When the rest were all in bed, 'twas there she knelt and prayed,
By the old red cradle and her child.
Aye, it cradled one and all, brothers, sisters in it lay,
And it gave me the sweetest rest I've known;
But to-night the tears will flow, and I let them have their way,
For the passing years are leaving me alone.
And it seems of those to come, I would gladly give them all
For a slumber as free from care as then,
Just to wake to-morrow morn where the rising sun would fall
Round the old red cradle once again.
But the cradle long has gone and the burdens that it bore,
One by one, have been gathered to the fold;
Still the flock is incomplete, for it numbers only four,
With one left out straying in the cold.
Heaven grant again we may in each other's arms be locked,
Where no sad tears of parting ever fall;
God forbid that one be lost that the old red cradle rocked;
And the dear old cradle rocked us all.
_Annie J. Granniss._
The Moo Cow Moo
My papa held me up to the Moo Cow Moo
So close I could almost touch,
And I fed him a couple of times or so,
And I wasn't a fraid-cat, much.
But if my papa goes in the house,
And my mamma she goes in too,
I keep still like a little mouse
For the Moo Cow Moo might Moo.
The Moo Cow's tail is a piece of rope
All raveled out where it grows;
And it's just like feeling a piece of soap
All over the Moo Cow's nose.
And the Moo Cow Moo has lots of fun
Just switching his tail about,
But if he opens his mouth, why then I run,
For that's where the Moo comes out.
The Moo Cow Moo has deers on his head,
And his eyes stick out of their place,
And the nose of the Moo Cow Moo is spread
All over the Moo Cow's face.
And his feet are nothing but fingernails,
And his mamma don't keep them cut,
And he gives folks milk in water pails,
When he don't keep his handles shut.
But if you or I pull his handles, why
The Moo Cow Moo says it hurts,
But the hired man sits down close by
And squirts, and squirts, and squirts.
_Edmund Vance Cooke._
All Things Bright and Beautiful
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,--
The Lord God made them all.
Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,--
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings.
The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them, high or lowly,
And ordered their estate.
The purple-headed mountain,
The river running by,
The morning, and the sunset
That lighteth up the sky,
The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden,--
He made them, every one.
The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water
We gather every day,--
He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Almighty,
Who hath made all things well.
_Cecil Frances Alexander._
An Order for a Picture
Oh, good painter, tell me true,
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?
Aye? Well, here is an order for you.
Woods and cornfields, a little brown,--
The picture must not be over-bright,--
Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room,
Under their tassels,--cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,--
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)--
These, and the little house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide,--
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush:
Perhaps you have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way,
Out of a wilding, wayside bush.
Listen closer. When you have done
With woods and cornfields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon you must paint for me:
Oh, if I could only make you see
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul, and the angel's face
That are beaming on me all the while,
I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,--
She is my mother: you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.
Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir: one like me,--
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise:
At ten years old he went to sea,--
God knoweth if he be living now;
He sailed in the good ship "Commodore,"--
Nobody ever crossed her track
To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, it is twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck:
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother's knee:
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea!
Out in the fields one summer night
We were together, half afraid
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade
Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,--
Loitering till after the low little light
Of the candle shone through the open door,
And over the hay-stack's pointed top,
All of a tremble and ready to drop,
The first half-hoar, the great yellow star,
That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,
Had often and often watched to see
Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree,
Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,--
Dead at the top, just one branch full
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,
From which it tenderly shook the dew
Over our heads, when we came to play
In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day.
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,--
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat:
The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,
But cried and cried, till we held her bill,
So slim and shining, to keep her still.
At last we stood at our mother's knee.
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?
If you can, pray have the grace
To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that is likest me:
I think 'twas solely mine, indeed:
But that's no matter,--paint it so;
The eyes of our mother--(take good heed)--
Looking not on the nestful of eggs,
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs,
But straight through our faces down to our lies,
And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise!
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though
A sharp blade struck through it.
You, sir, know
That you on the canvas are to repeat
Things that are fairest, things most sweet,--
Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree,--
The mother,--the lads, with their bird at her knee:
But, oh, that look of reproachful woe!
High as the heavens your name I'll shout,
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.
_Alice Cary._
Who Won the War?
Who won the war?
'T was little Belgium stemmed the tide
Of ruthless hordes who thought to ride
Her borders through and prostrate France
Ere yet she'd time to raise her lance.
'T was plucky Belgium.
Who won the war?
Italia broke the galling chain
Which bound her to the guilty twain;
Then fought 'gainst odds till one of these
Lay prone and shattered at her knees.
'T was gallant Italy.
Who won the war?
Old England's watch dogs of the main
Their vigil kept, and not in vain;
For not a ship their wrath dared brave
Save those which skulked beneath the wave.
'T was mighty England.
Who won the war?
'T was France who wrote in noble rage
The grandest words on history's page,
"They shall not pass"--the devilish Hun;
And he could never pass Verdun.
'T was sturdy France.
Who won the war?
In darkest hour there rose a cry,
"Liberty, sweet Liberty, thou shalt not die!"
Thank God! they came across the sea,
Two million men and victory!
'T was glorious America.
Who won the war?
No one of these; not one, but all
Who answered Freedom's clarion call.
Each humble man who did his bit
In God's own book of fame is writ.
These won the war.
_Woodbury Pulsifer._
Mothers of Men
The bravest battle that ever was fought!
Shall I tell you where and when?
On the map of the world you will find it not,
'Twas fought by the mothers of men.
Nay, not with cannon or battle shot,
With sword or nobler pen,
Nay, not with eloquent words or thought
From mouths of wonderful men;
But deep in the walled-up woman's heart--
Of woman that would not yield,
But bravely, silently, bore her part--
Lo, there is the battle field!
No marshaling troup, no bivouac song,
No banner to gleam or wave,
But oh, these battles, they last so long--
From babyhood to the grave.
Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars,
She fights in her walled-up town--
Fights on and on in the endless wars,
Then, silent, unseen, goes down.
Oh, ye with banner and battle shot,
And soldiers to shout and praises
I tell you the kingliest victories fought
Were fought in those silent ways.
Oh, spotless in a world of shame,
With splendid and silent scorn,
Go back to God as white as you came--
The kingliest warrior born!
_Joaquin Miller._
Plain Bob and a Job
Bob went lookin' for a job--
Didn't want a situation; didn't ask a lofty station:
Didn't have a special mission for a topnotcher's position;
Didn't have such fine credentials--but he had the real essentials--
Had a head that kept on workin' and two hands that were not shirkin';
Wasn't either shirk or snob;
Wasn't Mister--just plain Bob,
Who was lookin' for a job.
Bob went lookin' for a job;
And he wasn't scared or daunted when he saw a sign--"Men Wanted,"
Walked right in with manner fittin' up to where the Boss was sittin',
And he said: "My name is Bob, and I'm lookin' for a job;
And if you're the Boss that hires 'em, starts 'em working and that
fires 'em,
Put my name right down here, Neighbor, as a candidate for labor;
For my name is just plain 'Bob,
And my pulses sort o' throb
For that thing they call a job."
Bob kept askin' for a job,
And the Boss, he says: "What kind?" And Bob answered: "Never mind;
For I am not a bit partic'ler and I never was a stickler
For proprieties in workin'--if you got some labor lurkin'
Anywhere around about kindly go and trot it out.
It's, a job I want, you see--
Any kind that there may be
Will be good enough for me."
Well, sir, Bob he got a job.
But the Boss went 'round all day in a dreamy sort of way;
And he says to me: "By thunder, we have got the world's Eighth Wonder!
Got a feller name of Bob who just asked me for a job--
Never asks when he engages about overtime in wages;
Never asked if he'd get pay by the hour or by the day;
Never asked me if it's airy work and light and sanitary;
Never asked me for my notion of the chances of promotion;
Never asked for the duration of his annual vacation;
Never asked for Saturday half-a-holiday with pay;
Never took me on probation till he tried the situation;
Never asked me if it's sittin' work or standin', or befittin'
Of his birth and inclination--he just filed his application,
Hung his coat up on a knob,
Said his name was just plain Bob--
And went workin' at a job!"
_James W. Foley._
Aunt Tabitha
Whatever I do and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me it isn't the way
When _she_ was a girl (forty summers ago);
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.
Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice!
But I like my own way, and I find it _so_ nice!
And besides, I forget half the things I am told;
But they all will come back to me--when I am old.
If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;
_She_ would never endure an impertinent stare--
It is _horrid_, she says, and I mustn't sit there.
A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,
But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone;
So I take a lad's arm--just for safety you know--
But Aunt Tabitha tells me _they_ didn't do so.
How wicked we are, and how good they were then!
They kept at arm's length those detestable men;
What an era of virtue she lived in!--But stay--
Were the _men_ all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?
If the men _were_ so wicked, I'll ask my papa
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma;
Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows?
And what shall _I_ say, if a wretch should propose?
I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin,
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been!
And her grand-aunt--it scares me--how shockingly sad
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!
A martyr will save us, and nothing else can,
Let _me perish_--to rescue some wretched young man!
Though when to the altar a victim I go,
Aunt Tabitha'll tell me _she_ never did so!
The Flag Goes By
Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,
A flash of color beneath the sky:
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!
Blue and crimson and white it shines,
Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines.
Hats off!
The colors before us fly;
But more than the flag is passing by.
Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great,
Fought to make and to save the State;
Weary marches and sinking ships;
Cheers of victory on dying lips;
Days of plenty and years of peace,
March of a strong land's swift increase:
Equal justice, right and law,
Stately honor and reverent awe;
Sign of a nation, great and strong,
To ward her people from foreign wrong;
Pride and glory and honor, all
Live in the colors to stand or fall.
Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,
And loyal hearts are beating high:
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!
_H.H. Bennett._
The Rivers of France
The rivers of France are ten score and twain,
But five are the names that we know:
The Marne, the Vesle, the Oureq and the Aisne,
And the Somme of the swampy flow.
The rivers of France, from source to sea,
Are nourished by many a rill,
But these five, if ever a drouth there be
The fountains of sorrow would fill.
The rivers of France shine silver white,
But the waters of five are red
With the richest blood, in the fiercest fight
For freedom that ever was shed.
The rivers of France sing soft as they run,
But five have a song of their own,
That hymns the fall of the arrogant one
And the proud cast down from his throne.
The rivers of France all quietly take
To sleep in the house of their birth,
But the carnadined wave of five shall break
On the uttermost strands of earth.
Five rivers of France--see! their names are writ
On a banner of crimson and gold,
And the glory of those who fashioned it
Shall nevermore cease to be told.
_H.J.M., in London "Times."_
Seven Times One
There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven;
I've said my "seven times" over and over:
Seven times one are seven.
I am old, so old I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done;
The lambs play always, they know no better,
They are only one times one.
O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing
And shining so round and low;
You were bright! but your light is failing,
You are nothing now but a bow.
You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven,
That God has hidden your face?
I hope if you have, you'll soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.
O velvet Bee, you're a dusty fellow;
You've powdered your legs with gold!
O brave Marshmary buds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold!
O Columbine, open your folded wrapper
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!
O Cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell!
And show me your nest, with the young ones in it,
I will not steal them away;
I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,
I am seven times one to-day.
_Jean Ingelow._
Seven Times Two
You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,
How many soever they be,
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges,
Come over, come over to me.
Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling
No magical sense conveys,
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling
The fortune of future days.
"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily.
While a boy listened alone;
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily
All by himself on a stone.
Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,
And mine, they are yet to be;
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover:
You leave the story to me.
The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,
Preparing her hoods of snow:
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:
Oh, children take long to grow.
I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster,
Nor long summer bide so late;
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,
For some things are ill to wait.
I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head:
"The child is a woman, the book may close over,
For all the lessons are said."
I wait for my story--the birds cannot sing it,
Not one, as he sits on the tree;
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it!
Such as I wish it to be.
_Jean Ingelow._
Seven Times Three
LOVE
I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover,
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate;
"Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover--
Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait
Till I listen and hear
If a step draweth near,
For my love he is late!
"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?
Let the star-clusters grow,
Let the sweet waters flow.
And cross quickly to me.
"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;
You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep.
Ah, my sailor, make haste,
For the time runs to waste,
And my love lieth deep,
"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."
By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover;
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight;
But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.
_Jean Ingelow._
Seven Times Four
MATERNITY
Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall!
When the wind wakes, how they rock in the grasses,
And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small!
Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses
Eager to gather them all.
Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups!
Mother shall thread them a daisy chain;
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow,
That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain;
Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow,"--
Sing once, and sing it again.
Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,
Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow;
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters,
And haply one musing doth stand at her prow,
O bonny brown son, and O sweet little daughters,
Maybe he thinks on you now!
Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall!
A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,
And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall!
Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure,
God that is over us all!
_Jean Ingelow._
Autumn Woods
Ere, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.
The mountains that infold,
In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.
I roam the woods that crown
The upland, where the mingled splendors glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.
My steps are not alone
In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown
Along the winding way.
And far in heaven, the while,
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,--
The sweetest of the year.
Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?
Let in through all the trees
Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright;
Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze,
Twinkles, like beams of light.
The rivulet, late unseen,
Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
Shines with the image of its golden screen
And glimmerings of the sun.
But 'neath yon crimson tree,
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,
Her blush of maiden shame.
Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad?
Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed
Forever in thy colored shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft southwest
To rove and dream for aye;
And leave the vain low strife
That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.
_William Cullen Bryant._
The Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge
Did you ever hear of the Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge, who lay
With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of
that terrible day?
They were firing above him and firing below, and the tempest of shot
and shell
Was raging like death, as he moaned in his pain, by the breastworks
where he fell.
"Go back with your corps," our colonel had said, but he waited the
moment when
He might follow the ranks and shoulder a gun with the best of us
bearded men;
And so when the signals from old Fort Wood set an army of veterans wild,
He flung down his drum, which spun down the hill like the ball of a
wayward child.
And then he fell in with the foremost ranks of brave old company G,
As we charged by the flank, with our colors ahead, and our columns
closed up like a V,
In the long, swinging lines of that splendid advance, when the flags
of our corps floated out,
Like the ribbons that dance in the jubilant lines of the march of a
gala day rout.
He charged with the ranks, though he carried no gun, for the colonel
had said him nay,
And he breasted the blast of the bristling guns, and the shock of the
sickening fray;
And when by his side they were falling like hail he sprang to a comrade
slain,
And shouldered his musket and bore it as true as the hand that was dead
in pain.
'Twas dearly we loved him, our Drummer Boy, with a fire in his bright,
black eye,
That flashed forth a spirit too great for his form--he only was just so
high,
As tall, perhaps, as your little lad who scarcely reaches your shoulder--
Though his heart was the heart of a veteran then, a trifle, it may be,
bolder.
He pressed to the front, our lad so leal, and the works were almost won,
A moment more and our flags had swung o'er the muzzle of murderous gun;
But a raking fire swept the van, and he fell 'mid the wounded and slain,
With his wee wan face turned up to Him who feeleth His children's pain.
Again and again our lines fell back, and again with shivering shocks
They flung themselves on the rebels' works as ships are tossed on rocks;
To be crushed and broken and scattered amain, as the wrecks of the
surging storm.
Where none may rue and none may reck of aught that has human form.
So under the ridge we were lying for the order to charge again,
And we counted our comrades missing, and we counted our comrades slain;
And one said, "Johnny, our Drummer Boy, is grievously shot and lies
Just under the enemy's breastwork; if left on the field he dies."
Then all the blood that was in me surged up to my aching brow,
And my heart leaped up like a ball in my throat--I can feel it even now,
And I said I would bring that boy from the field, if God would spare my
breath,
If all the guns in Mission Ridge should thunder the threat of death.
I crept and crept up the ghastly ridge, by the wounded and the dead,
With the moans of my comrades right and left, behind me and yet ahead,
Till I came to the form of our Drummer Boy, in his blouse of dusty blue,
With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, where the blast of
the battle blew.
And his gaze as he met my own just there would have melted a heart of
stone,
As he tried like a wounded bird to rise, and placed his hand in my own;
And he said in a voice half smothered, though its whispering thrills
me yet,
"I think in a moment more that I would have stood on that parapet.
"But now I nevermore will climb, and, Sergeant, when you see
The men go up those breastworks there, just stop and waken me;
For though I cannot make the charge and join the cheers that rise,
I may forget my pain to see the old flag kiss the skies."
Well, it was hard to treat him so, his poor limb shattered sore,
But I raised him on my shoulder and to the surgeon bore;
And the boys who saw us coming each gave a shout of joy,
And uttered fervent prayers for him, our valiant Drummer Boy.
When sped the news that "Fighting Joe" had saved the Union right,
With his legions fresh from Lookout; and that Thomas massed his might
And forced the rebel center; and our cheering ran like wild;
And Sherman's heart was happy as the heart of a little child;
When Grant from his lofty outlook saw our flags by the hundred fly
Along the slopes of Mission Ridge, where'er he cast his eye;
And when we heard the thrilling news of the mighty battle done,
The fearful contest ended, and the glorious victory won;
Then his bright black eyes so yearning grew strangely rapt and wide,
And in that hour of conquest our little hero died.
But ever in our hearts he dwells, with a grace that ne'er is old,
For him the heart to duty wed can nevermore grow cold!
And when they tell of heroes, and the laurels they have won,
Of the scars they are doomed to carry, of the deeds that they have done;
Of the horror to be biding among the ghastly dead,
The gory sod beneath them, the bursting shell o'erhead,
My heart goes back to Mission Ridge and the Drummer Boy who lay
With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of
that terrible day;
And I say that the land that bears such sons is crowned and dowered
with all
The dear God giveth nations to stay them lest they fall.
Oh, glory of Mission Ridge, stream on, like the roseate light of morn,
On the sons that now are living, on the sons that are yet unborn!
And cheers for our comrades living, and tears as they pass away!
And three times three for the Drummer Boy who fought at the front that
day!
If--
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream and not make dreams your master;
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch and toss.
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
_Rudyard Kipling._
Second Table
Some boys are mad when comp'ny comes to stay for meals. They hate
To have the other people eat while boys must wait and wait,
But I've about made up my mind I'm different from the rest,
For as for me, I b'lieve I like the second table best.
To eat along with comp'ny is so trying, for it's tough
To sit and watch the victuals when you dassent touch the stuff.
You see your father serving out the dark meat and the light
Until a boy is sure he'll starve before he gets a bite.
And when, he asks you what you'll have,--you've heard it all before,--
You know you'll get just what you get and won't get nothing more;
For, when you want another piece, your mother winks her eye,
And so you say, "I've plenty, thanks!" and tell a whopping lie.
When comp'ny is a-watching you, you've got to be polite,
And eat your victuals with a fork and take a little bite.
You can't have nothing till you're asked and, 'cause a boy is small,
Folks think he isn't hungry, and he's never asked at all.
Since I can first remember I've been told that when the cake
Is passed around, the proper thing is for a boy to take
The piece that's nearest to him, and so all I ever got,
When comp'ny's been to our house, was the smallest in the lot.
It worries boys like everything to have the comp'ny stay
A-setting round the table, like they couldn't get away.
But when they've gone, and left the whole big shooting match to me,
Say! ain't it fun to just wade in and help myself? Oh, gee!
With no one round to notice what you're doing--bet your life!--
Boys don't use forks to eat with when they'd rather use a knife,
Nor take such little bites as when they're eating with the rest
And so, for lots of things, I like the second table best
_Nixon Waterman._
The Children
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed,
And the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good night and be kissed;
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
My neck in their tender embrace!
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,
Shedding sunshine of love on my face!
And when they are gone, I sit dreaming
Of my childhood, too lovely to last;
Of love that my heart will remember
When it wakes to the pulse of the past,
Ere the world and its wickedness made me
A partner of sorrow and sin,--
When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.
All my heart grows weak as a woman's
And the fountains of feeling will flow,
When I think of the paths steep and stony,
Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild;
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child!
They are idols of hearts and of households;
They are angels of God in disguise;
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
His glory still gleams in their eyes;
Oh, these truants from home and from heaven,--
They have made me more manly and mild;
And I know now how Jesus could liken
The kingdom of God to a child!
I ask not a life for the dear ones
All radiant, as others have done,
But that life may have just enough shadow
To temper the glare of the sun;
I would pray God to guard them from evil,
But my prayer would bound back to myself;
Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner,
But a sinner must pray for himself.
The twig is so easily bended,
I have banished the rule and the rod;
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge,
They have taught me the goodness of God.
My heart is the dungeon of darkness,
Where I shut them for breaking a rule;
My frown is sufficient correction;
My love is the law of the school.
I shall leave the old house in the autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah! how shall I sigh for the dear ones
That meet me each morn at the door!
I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee.
The group on its green, and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.
I shall miss them at morn and at even,
Their song in the school and the street;
I shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tread of their delicate feet.
When the lessons of life are all ended,
And death says, "The school is dismissed!"
May the little ones gather around me
To bid me good night and be kissed!
_Charles M. Dickinson._
A Visit from St. Nicholas
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,--
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a luster of midday to objects below:
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Dasher! now Dancer! now, Prancer! now Vixen!
On, Comet, on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!--
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!
Now, dash away, dash sway, dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too,
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes how they twinkled; his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump--a right jolly old elf--
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spake not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere they drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
_Clement C. Moore._
Your Mission
If you cannot on the ocean
Sail among the swiftest fleet,
Rocking on the highest billows,
Laughing at the storms you meet,
You can stand among the sailors,
Anchored yet within the bay,
You can lend a hand to help them,
As they launch their boats away.
If you are too weak to journey
Up the mountain steep and high,
You can stand within the valley,
While the multitudes go by;
You can chant in happy measure,
As they slowly pass along;
Though they may forget the singer,
They will not forget the song.
If you have not gold and silver
Ever ready to command,
If you cannot towards the needy
Reach an ever-open hand,
You can visit the afflicted,
O'er the erring you can weep,
You can be a true disciple,
Sitting at the Savior's feet.
If you cannot in the conflict,
Prove yourself a soldier true,
If where fire and smoke are thickest,
There's no work for you to do,
When the battle-field is silent,
You can go with careful tread,
You can bear away the wounded,
You can cover up the dead.
Do not then stand idly waiting
For some greater work to do,
Fortune is a lazy goddess,
She will never come to you.
Go and toil in any vineyard,
Do not fear to do or dare,
If you want a field of labor,
You can find it anywhere.
_Ellen H. Gates._
The House by the Side of the Road
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the peace of their self-content;
There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran;
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by,
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban;
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan;
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan.
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by;
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish--so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
_Sam Walter Foss._
Asleep at the Switch
The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away,
With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as much as to
say:
"Come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now depend upon you.
Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you are sending
them to.
Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of the father and
son,
Think of the lover and the loved one too, think of them doomed every one
To fall (as it were by your very hand) into yon fathomless ditch,
Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now lies asleep at
the switch."
I sprang up amazed--scarce knew where I stood, sleep had o'ermastered
me so;
I could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep river dashing below,
I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the tempest were
fanned,
But what was that noise in the distance? That, I could not understand.
I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some muffled drum,
Then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my very ears hum;
What is this light that surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain?
What whistle's that, yelling so shrill? Ah! I know now; it's the train.
We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to the place;
So I stood--with this demon before me, its heated breath scorching my
face;
Its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like the eyes of
some witch,--
The train was almost upon me before I remembered the switch.
I sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast down the track;
The switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed holding it back;
On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like a flash;
I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing after the crash.
How long I lay there unconscious 'twas impossible for me to tell;
My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a hell,--
For then I heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of husbands and wives,
And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I must account for
their lives;
Mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes glaring madly and wild;
Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like a child;
Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they sped,
And lips, that could form naught but "Mamma," were calling for one
perhaps dead.
My mind was made up in a moment, the river should hide me away,
When, under the still burning rafters I suddenly noticed there lay
A little white hand; she who owned it was doubtless an object of love
To one whom her loss would drive frantic, though she guarded him now
from above;
I tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one side;
How little she thought of her journey when she left for this dark, fatal
ride!
I lifted the last log from off her, and while searching for some spark
of life,
Turned her little face up in the starlight, and recognized--Maggie, my
wife!
O Lord! my scourge is a hard one, at a blow thou hast shattered my pride;
My life will be one endless nightmare, with Maggie away from my side.
How often I'd sat down and pictured the scenes in our long, happy life;
How I'd strive through all my lifetime, to build up a home for my wife;
How people would envy us always in our cozy and neat little nest;
How I should do all the labor, and Maggie should all the day rest;
How one of God's blessings might cheer us, how some day I perhaps should
be rich:--
But all of my dreams had been shattered, while I lay there asleep at the
switch!
I fancied I stood on my trial, the jury and judge I could see;
And every eye in the court room was steadily fixed upon me;
And fingers were pointed in scorn, till I felt my face blushing blood-red,
And the next thing I heard were the words, "Hanged by the neck until
dead."
Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my hand caught tight hold of a
dress,
And I heard, "What's the matter, dear Jim? You've had a bad nightmare, I
guess!"
And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a scar from the ditch,
I'd been taking a nap in my bed, and had not been "asleep at the switch."
_George Hoey._
Each in His Own Tongue
A fire-mist and a planet,
A crystal and a cell,
A jellyfish and a saurian,
And caves where the cavemen dwell;
Then a sense of law and beauty,
And a face turned from the clod,--
Some call it Evolution,
And others call it God.
A haze in the far horizon,
The infinite, tender sky;
The ripe, rich tints of the cornfields,
And the wild geese sailing high;
And all over upland and lowland
The charm of the goldenrod,--
Some of us call it Nature,
And others call it God.
Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,
When the moon is new and thin,
Into our hearts high yearnings
Come welling and surging in,--
Come from the mystic ocean.
Whose rim no foot has trod,--
Some of us call it Longing,
And others call it God.
A picket frozen on duty,
A mother starved for her brood,
Socrates drinking the hemlock,
And Jesus on the rood;
The millions who, humble and nameless,
The straight, hard pathway trod,--
Some call it Consecration,
And others call it God.
_William Herbert Carruth._
How Cyrus Laid the Cable
Come, listen all unto my song;
It is no silly fable;
'Tis all about the mighty cord
They call the Atlantic Cable.
Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he,
I have a pretty notion
That I can run the telegraph
Across the Atlantic Ocean.
Then all the people laughed, and said
They'd like to see him do it;
He might get half-seas over, but
He never could go through it;
To carry out his foolish plan
He never would be able;
He might as well go hang himself
With his Atlantic Cable.
But Cyrus was a valiant man,
A fellow of decision;
And heeded not their mocking words,
Their laughter and derision.
Twice did his bravest efforts fail,
And yet his mind was stable;
He wa'n't the man to break his heart
Because he broke his cable.
"Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried;
"_Three times!_--you know the fable,--
(_I'll make it thirty_," muttered he,
"But I will lay this cable!")
Once more they tried--hurrah! hurrah!
What means this great commotion?
The Lord be praised! the cable's laid
Across the Atlantic Ocean.
Loud ring the bells,--for, flashing through
Six hundred leagues of water,
Old Mother England's benison
Salutes her eldest daughter.
O'er all the land the tidings speed,
And soon, in every nation,
They'll hear about the cable with
Profoundest admiration!
* * * * *
And may we honor evermore
The manly, bold, and stable;
And tell our sons, to make them brave,
How Cyrus laid the cable.
_John G. Saxe._
Jane Jones
Jane Jones keeps talkin' to me all the time,
An' says you must make it a rule
To study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd learn,
An' never be absent from school.
Remember the story of Elihu Burritt,
An' how he clum up to the top,
Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had
Down in a blacksmithing shop?
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!
Mebbe he did--
I dunno!
O' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top,
Is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop.
She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor,
But full of ambition an' brains;
An' studied philosophy all his hull life,
An' see what he got for his pains!
He brought electricity out of the sky,
With a kite an' a bottle an' key,
An' we're owing him more'n any one else
For all the bright lights 'at we see.
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!
Mebbe he did--
I dunno!
O' course what's allers been hinderin' me
Is not havin' any kite, lightning er key.
Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all,
An' used to split rails when a boy;
An' General Grant was a tanner by trade
An' lived 'way out in Illinois.
So when the great war in the South first broke out
He stood on the side o' the right,
An' when Lincoln called him to take charge o' things,
He won nearly every blamed fight.
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!
Mebbe he did--
I dunno!
Still I ain't to blame, not by a big sight,
For I ain't never had any battles to fight.
She said 'at Columbus was out at the knees
When he first thought up his big scheme,
An' told all the Spaniards 'nd Italians, too,
An' all of 'em said 'twas a dream.
But Queen Isabella jest listened to him,
'Nd pawned all her jewels o' worth,
'Nd bought him the Santa Maria 'nd said,
"Go hunt up the rest o' the earth!"
Mebbe he did--
I dunno!
O' course that may be, but then you must allow
They ain't no land to discover jest now!
_Ben King._
The Leap of Roushan Beg
Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet,
His chestnut steed with four white feet,
Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,
Son of the road and bandit chief,
Seeking refuge and relief,
Up the mountain pathway flew.
Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed,
Never yet could any steed
Reach the dust-cloud in his course.
More than maiden, more than wife,
More than gold and next to life
Roushan the Robber loved his horse.
In the land that lies beyond
Erzeroum and Trebizond,
Garden-girt his fortress stood;
Plundered khan, or caravan
Journeying north from Koordistan,
Gave him wealth and wine and food.
Seven hundred and fourscore
Men at arms his livery wore,
Did his bidding night and day,
Now, through regions all unknown,
He was wandering, lost, alone,
Seeking without guide his way.
Suddenly the pathway ends,
Sheer the precipice descends,
Loud the torrent roars unseen;
Thirty feet from side to side
Yawns the chasm; on air must ride
He who crosses this ravine,
Following close in his pursuit,
At the precipice's foot
Reyhan the Arab of Orfah
Halted with his hundred men,
Shouting upward from the glen,
"La Illah illa Allah!"
Gently Roushan Beg caressed
Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast,
Kissed him upon both his eyes;
Sang to him in his wild way,
As upon the topmost spray
Sings a bird before it flies.
"O my Kyrat, O my steed,
Round and slender as a reed,
Carry me this peril through!
Satin housings shall be thine,
Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,
O thou soul of Kurroglou!
"Soft thy skin as silken skein,
Soft as woman's hair thy mane,
Tender are thine eyes and true;
All thy hoofs like ivory shine,
Polished bright; O life of mine,
Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!"
Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet,
Drew together his four white feet,
Paused a moment on the verge,
Measured with his eye the space,
And into the air's embrace
Leaped, as leaps the ocean surge.
As the ocean surge o'er sand
Bears a swimmer safe to land,
Kyrat safe his rider bore;
Rattling down the deep abyss,
Fragments of the precipice
Rolled like pebbles on a shore.
Roushan's tasseled cap of red
Trembled not upon his head,
Careless sat he and upright;
Neither hand nor bridle shook,
Nor his head he turned to look,
As he galloped out of sight.
Flash of harness in the air,
Seen a moment like the glare
Of a sword drawn from its sheath;
Thus the phantom horseman passed,
And the shadow that he cast
Leaped the cataract underneath.
Reyhan the Arab held his breath
While this vision of life and death
Passed above him. "Allahu!"
Cried he. "In all Koordistan
Lives there not so brave a man
As this Robber Kurroglou!"
_Henry W. Longfellow._
Old Ironsides
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar;--
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave!
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
_Oliver Wendell Holmes._
A Psalm of Life
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
_Henry W. Longfellow._
Johnny's Hist'ry Lesson
I think, of all the things at school
A boy has got to do,
That studyin' hist'ry, as a rule,
Is worst of all, don't you?
Of dates there are an awful sight,
An' though I study day an' night,
There's only one I've got just right--
That's fourteen ninety-two.
Columbus crossed the Delaware
In fourteen ninety-two;
We whipped the British, fair an' square,
In fourteen ninety-two.
At Concord an' at Lexington.
We kept the redcoats on the run,
While the band played Johnny Get Your Gun,
In fourteen ninety-two.
Pat Henry, with his dyin' breath--
In fourteen ninety-two--
Said, "Gimme liberty or death!"
In fourteen ninety-two.
An' Barbara Frietchie, so 'tis said,
Cried, "Shoot if you must this old, gray head,
But I'd rather 'twould be your own instead!"
In fourteen ninety-two.
The Pilgrims came to Plymouth Rock
In fourteen ninety-two,
An' the Indians standin' on the dock
Asked, "What are you goin' to do?"
An' they said, "We seek your harbor drear
That our children's children's children dear
May boast that their forefathers landed here
In fourteen ninety-two."
Miss Pocahontas saved the life--
In fourteen ninety-two--
Of John Smith, an' became his wife
In fourteen ninety-two.
An' the Smith tribe started then an' there,
An' now there are John Smiths ev'rywhere,
But they didn't have any Smiths to spare
In fourteen ninety-two.
Kentucky was settled by Daniel Boone
In fourteen ninety-two,
An' I think the cow jumped over the moon
In fourteen ninety-two.
Ben Franklin flew his kite so high
He drew the lightnin' from the sky,
An' Washington couldn't tell a lie,
In fourteen ninety-two.
_Nixon Waterman._
Riding on the Rail
Singing through the forests, rattling over ridges,
Shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges,
Whizzing through the mountains, buzzing o'er the vale,--
Bless me! this is pleasant, riding on the rail!
Men of different stations in the eye of Fame,
Here are very quickly coming to the same;
High and lowly people, birds of every feather,
On a common level, traveling together!
Gentlemen in shorts, blooming very tall;
Gentlemen at large, talking very small;
Gentlemen in tights, with a loosish mien;
Gentlemen in gray, looking very green!
Gentlemen quite old, asking for the news;
Gentlemen in black, with a fit of blues;
Gentlemen in claret, sober as a vicar;
Gentlemen in tweed, dreadfully in liquor!
Stranger on the right looking very sunny,
Obviously reading something very funny.
Now the smiles are thicker--wonder what they mean?
Faith, he's got the Knickerbocker Magazine!
Stranger on the left, closing up his peepers;
Now he snores again, like the Seven Sleepers;
At his feet a volume gives the explanation,
How the man grew stupid from "association"!
Ancient maiden lady anxiously remarks
That there must be peril 'mong so many sparks;
Roguish-looking fellow, turning to the stranger,
Says 'tis his opinion _she_ is out of danger!
Woman with her baby, sitting _vis a vis_;
Baby keeps a-squalling, woman looks at me;
Asks about the distance--says 'tis tiresome talking,
Noises of the cars are so very shocking!
Market woman, careful of the precious casket,
Knowing eggs are eggs, tightly holds her basket;
Feeling that a smash, if it came, would surely
Send her eggs to pot rather prematurely.
Singing through the forests, rattling over ridges,
Shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges,
Whizzing through the mountains, buzzing o'er the vale,--
Bless me! this is pleasant, riding on the rail!
_J.G. Saxe._
The Building of the Ship
EXTRACT
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
'Tis of the wave and not the rock;
'Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!
In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith truiumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee,--are all with thee!
_H.W. Longfellow._
The Dead Pussy Cat
You's as stiff an' as cold as a stone,
Little cat!
Dey's done frowed you out an' left you alone,
Little cat!
I's a-strokin' you's fur,
But you don't never purr
Nor hump up anywhere,
Little cat.
W'y is dat?
Is you's purrin' an' humpin'-up done?
An' w'y fer is you's little foot tied,
Little cat?
Did dey pisen you's tummick inside,
Little cat?
Did dey pound you wif bricks,
Or wif big nasty sticks,
Or abuse you wif kicks,
Little cat?
Tell me dat,
Did dey holler at all when you cwied?
Did it hurt werry bad w'en you died,
Little cat?
Oh, w'y didn't yo wun off and hide,
Little cat?
I is wet in my eyes,
'Cause I most always cwies
W'en a pussy cat dies,
Little cat,
Tink of dat,
An' I's awfully solly besides!
Dest lay still dere in de sof gwown',
Little cat,
W'ile I tucks de gween gwass all awoun',
Little cat.
Dey can't hurt you no more
W'en you's tired an' so sore,
Dest sleep twiet, you pore
Little cat,
Wif a pat,
An' fordet all de kicks of de town.
_Marion Short._
The Owl Critic
"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop;
The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;
The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading
The _Daily_, the _Herald_, the _Post_, little heeding
The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;
Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;
And the barber kept on shaving.
"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"
Cried the youth, with a frown,
"How wrong the whole thing is,
How preposterous each wing is.
How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is--
In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis!
I make no apology; I've learned owleology.
I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,
And cannot be blinded to any deflections
Arising from unskilful fingers that fail
To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.
Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down,
Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
"I've _studied_ owls,
And other night fowls,
And I tell you
What I know to be true:
An owl cannot roost
With his limbs so unloosed;
No owl in this world
Ever had his claws curled,
Ever had his legs slanted,
Ever had his bill canted,
Ever had his neck screwed
Into that attitude.
He can't _do_ it, because
'Tis against all bird laws.
Anatomy teaches,
Ornithology preaches,
An owl has a toe
That _can't_ turn out so!
I've made the white owl my study for years,
And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!
Mister Brown, I'm amazed
You should be so gone crazed
As to put up a bird
In that posture absurd!
To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness;
The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
"Examine those eyes.
I'm filled with surprise
Taxidermists should pass
Off on you such poor glass;
So unnatural they seem
They'd make Audubon scream,
And John Burroughs laugh
To encounter such chaff.
Do take that bird down;
Have him stuffed again, Brown!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
"With some sawdust and bark
I could stuff in the dark
An owl better than that.
I could make an old hat
Look more like an owl
Than that horrid fowl,
Stuck up here so stiff like a side of coarse leather.
In fact, about _him _there's not one natural feather."
Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,
The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,
Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic
(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,
And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:
"Your learning's at fault this time, anyway;
Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.
I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
_James T. Fields._
At School-Close
The end has come, as come it must
To all things; in these sweet June days
The teacher and the scholar trust
Their parting feet to separate ways.
They part: but in the years to be
Shall pleasant memories cling to each,
As shells bear inland from the sea
The murmur of the rhythmic beach.
One knew the joys the sculptor knows
When, plastic to his lightest touch,
His clay-wrought model slowly grows
To that fine grace desired so much.
So daily grew before her eyes
The living shapes whereon she wrought,
Strong, tender, innocently wise,
The child's heart with the woman's thought.
And one shall never quite forget
The voice that called from dream and play,
The firm but kindly hand that set
Her feet in learning's pleasant way,--
The joy of Undine soul-possessed,
The wakening sense, the strange delight
That swelled the fabled statue's breast
And filled its clouded eyes with sight!
O Youth and Beauty, loved of all!
Ye pass from girlhood's gate of dreams;
In broader ways your footsteps fall,
Ye test the truth of all that seems.
Her little realm the teacher leaves,
She breaks her wand of power apart,
While, for your love and trust, she gives
The warm thanks of a grateful heart.
Hers is the sober summer noon
Contrasted with your morn of spring;
The waning with the waxing moon,
The folded with the outspread wing.
Across the distance of the years
She sends her God-speed back to you;
She has no thought of doubts or fears;
Be but yourselves, be pure, be true,
And prompt in duty; heed the deep,
Low voice of conscience; through the ill
And discord round about you, keep
Your faith in human nature still.
Be gentle: unto griefs and needs
Be pitiful as woman should,
And, spite of all the lies of creeds,
Hold fast the truth that God is good.
Give and receive; go forth and bless
The world that needs the hand and heart
Of Martha's helpful carefulness
No less than Mary's better part.
So shall the stream of time flow by
And leave each year a richer good,
And matron loveliness outvie
The nameless charm of maidenhood.
And, when the world shall link your names
With gracious lives and manners fine,
The teacher shall assert her claims,
And proudly whisper, "These were mine!"
_John G. Whittier._
The Wild White Rose
Oh, that I might have my request, and that God would grant me the thing
that I long for.--_Job 6:8._
It was peeping through the brambles, that little wild white rose,
Where the hawthorn hedge was planted, my garden to enclose.
All beyond was fern and heather, on the breezy, open moor;
All within was sun and shelter, and the wealth of beauty's store.
But I did not heed the fragrance of flow'ret or of tree,
For my eyes were on that rosebud, and it grew too high for me.
In vain I strove to reach it through the tangled mass of green,
It only smiled and nodded behind its thorny screen.
Yet through that summer morning I lingered near the spot:
Oh, why do things seem sweeter if we possess them not?
My garden buds were blooming, but all that I could see
Was that little mocking wild rose, hanging just too high for me.
So in life's wider garden there are buds of promise, too,
Beyond our reach to gather, but not beyond our view;
And like the little charmer that tempted me astray,
They steal out half the brightness of many a summer's day.
Oh, hearts that fail with longing for some forbidden tree,
Look up and learn a lesson from my white rose and me.
'Tis wiser far to number the blessings at my feet,
Than ever to be sighing for just one bud more sweet.
My sunbeams and my shadows fall from a pierced Hand,
I can surely trust His wisdom since His heart I understand;
And maybe in the morning, when His blessed face I see,
He will tell me why my white rose grew just too high for me.
_Ellen H. Willis._
L'Envoi
When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it--lie down for an aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!
And those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from--Magdalene, Peter and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all.
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!
_Rudyard Kipling._
Whistling in Heaven
You're surprised that I ever should say so?
Just wait till the reason I've given
Why I say I sha'n't care for the music,
Unless there is whistling in heaven.
Then you'll think it no very great wonder,
Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit,
That unless there's a boy there a-whistling,
Its music will not be complete.
It was late in the autumn of '40;
We had come from our far Eastern home
Just in season to build us a cabin,
Ere the cold of the winter should come;
And we lived all the while in our wagon
That husband was clearing the place
Where the house was to stand; and the clearing
And building it took many days.
So that our heads were scarce sheltered
In under its roof when our store
Of provisions was almost exhausted,
And husband must journey for more;
And the nearest place where he could get them
Was yet such a distance away,
That it forced him from home to be absent
At least a whole night and a day.
You see, we'd but two or three neighbors,
And the nearest was more than a mile;
And we hadn't found time yet to know them,
For we had been busy the while.
And the man who had helped at the raising
Just staid till the job was well done;
And as soon as his money was paid him
Had shouldered his axe and had gone.
Well, husband just kissed me and started--
I could scarcely suppress a deep groan
At the thought of remaining with baby
So long in the house alone;
For, my dear, I was childish and timid,
And braver ones might well have feared,
For the wild wolf was often heard howling.
And savages sometimes appeared.
But I smothered my grief and my terror
Till husband was off on his ride,
And then in my arms I took Josey,
And all the day long sat and cried,
As I thought of the long, dreary hours
When the darkness of night should fall,
And I was so utterly helpless,
With no one in reach of my call.
And when the night came with its terrors,
To hide ev'ry ray of light,
I hung up a quilt by the window,
And, almost dead with affright,
I kneeled by the side of the cradle,
Scarce daring to draw a full breath,
Lest the baby should wake, and its crying
Should bring us a horrible death.
There I knelt until late in the evening
And scarcely an inch had I stirred,
When suddenly, far in the distance,
A sound as of whistling I heard.
I started up dreadfully frightened,
For fear 'twas an Indian's call;
And then very soon I remembered
The red man ne'er whistles at all.
And when I was sure 'twas a white man,
I thought, were he coming for ill,
He'd surely approach with more caution--
Would come without warning, and still.
Then the sound, coming nearer and nearer,
Took the form of a tune light and gay,
And I knew I needn't fear evil
From one who could whistle that way.
Very soon I heard footsteps approaching,
Then came a peculiar dull thump,
As if some one was heavily striking
An ax in the top of a stump;
And then, in another brief moment,
There came a light tap on the door,
When quickly I undid the fast'ning,
And in stepped a boy, and before
There was either a question or answer
Or either had time to speak,
I just threw my glad arms around him,
And gave him a kiss on the cheek.
Then I started back, scared at my boldness.
But he only smiled at my fright,
As he said, "I'm your neighbor's boy, Ellick,
Come to tarry with you through the night.
"We saw your husband go eastward,
And made up our minds where he'd gone,
And I said to the rest of our people,
'That woman is there all alone,
And I venture she's awfully lonesome,
And though she may have no great fear,
I think she would feel a bit safer
If only a boy were but near.'
"So, taking my axe on my shoulder,
For fear that a savage might stray
Across my path and need scalping,
I started right down this way;
And coming in sight of the cabin,
And thinking to save you alarm,
I whistled a tune, just to show you
I didn't intend any harm.
"And so here I am, at your service;
But if you don't want me to stay,
Why, all you need do is to say so,
And should'ring my axe, I'll away."
I dropped in a chair and near fainted,
Just at thought of his leaving me then,
And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle
As he said, "I guess I'll remain."
And then I just sat there and told him
How terribly frightened I'd been,
How his face was to me the most welcome
Of any I ever had seen;
And then I lay down with the baby,
And slept all the blessed night through,
For I felt I was safe from all danger
Near so brave a young fellow, and true.
So now, my dear friend, do you wonder,
Since such a good reason I've given,
Why I say I sha'n't care for the music,
Unless there is whistling in heaven?
Yes, often I've said so in earnest,
And now what I've said I repeat,
That unless there's a boy there a-whistling,
Its music will not be complete.
Sleep, Baby, Sleep
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy father's watching the sheep,
Thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree,
And down drops a little dream for thee.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep!
The large stars are the sheep,
The little stars are the lambs, I guess,
The bright moon is the shepherdess.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy Savior loves His sheep;
He is the Lamb of God on high
Who for our sakes came down to die.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
_Elizabeth Prentiss._
The Lost Chord
Seated one day at the organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.
I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.
It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an angel's psalm;
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.
It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.
It linked all perplexing meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loth to cease.
I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,
That came from the soul of the organ,
And entered into mine.
It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again;
It may be that only in Heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen.
_Adelaide A. Procter._
The Children's Hour
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
_Henry W. Longfellow._
Woodman, Spare That Tree!
Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'T was my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand.
Thy ax shall harm it not!
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea--
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand--
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,
Thy ax shall harm it not!
_George Pope Morris_.
Little Brown Hands
They drive home the cows from the pasture,
Up through the long shady lane,
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,
That are yellow with ripening grain.
They find, in the thick waving grasses,
Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.
They gather the earliest snowdrops,
And the first crimson buds of the rose.
They toss the new hay in the meadow,
They gather the elder-bloom white,
They find where the dusky grapes purple
In the soft-tinted October light.
They know where the apples hang ripest,
And are sweeter than Italy's wines;
They know where the fruit hangs the thickest
On the long, thorny blackberry vines.
They gather the delicate sea-weeds,
And build tiny castles of sand;
They pick up the beautiful sea shells--
Fairy barks that have drifted to land.
They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops,
Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings,
And at night time are folded in slumber
By a song that a fond mother sings.
Those who toil bravely are strongest;
The humble and poor become great;
And so from these brown-handed children
Shall grow mighty rulers of state.
The pen of the author and statesman,--
The noble and wise of the land,--
The sword, and the chisel, and palette,
Shall be held in the little brown hand.
_Mary H. Krout._
Barbara Frietchie
Up from the meadows rich with corn
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,--
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind; the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
"Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country's flag," she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word:
"Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog; march on!" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet;
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it a warm good night.
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er.
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of freedom and Union wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town.
_John G. Whittier._
I Want to Go to Morrow
I started on a journey just about a week ago,
For the little town of Morrow, in the State of Ohio.
I never was a traveler, and really didn't know
That Morrow had been ridiculed a century or so.
I went down to the depot for my ticket and applied
For the tips regarding Morrow, not expecting to be guyed.
Said I, "My friend, I want to go to Morrow and return
Not later than to-morrow, for I haven't time to burn."
Said he to me, "Now let me see if I have heard you right,
You want to go to Morrow and come back to-morrow night.
You should have gone to Morrow yesterday and back to-day,
For if you started yesterday to Morrow, don't you see,
You could have got to Morrow and returned to-day at three.
The train that started yesterday--now understand me right--
To-day it gets to Morrow, and returns to-morrow night."
Said I, "My boy, it seems to me you're talking through your hat,
Is there a town named Morrow on your line? Now tell me that."
"There is," said he, "and take from me a quiet little tip--
To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour trip.
The train that goes to Morrow leaves to-day eight-thirty-five;
Half after ten to-morrow is the time it should arrive.
Now if from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour jump,
Can you go to-day to Morrow and come back to-day, you chump?"
Said I, "I want to go to Morrow; can I go to-day
And get to Morrow by to-night, if there is no delay?"
"Well, well," said he, "explain to me and I've no more to say;
Can you go anywhere to-morrow and come back from there to-day?"
For if to-day you'd get to Morrow, surely you'll agree
You should have started not to-day, but yesterday, you see.
So if you start to Morrow, leaving here to-day, you're flat,
You won't get to Morrow till the day that follows that.
"Now if you start to-day to Morrow, it's a cinch you'll land
To-morrow into Morrow, not to-day, you understand.
For the train to-day to Morrow, if the schedule is right,
Will get you into Morrow by about to-morrow night."
Said I, "I guess you know it all, but kindly let me say,
How can I go to Morrow, if I leave the town to-day?"
Said he, "You cannot go to Morrow any more to-day,
For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way."
FINALE
I was so disappointed I was mad enough to swear;
The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there.
The man was right in telling me I was a howling jay;
I didn't go to Morrow, so I guess I'll go to-day.
Out in the Fields
The little cares that fretted me,
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields above the seas,
Among the winds at play;
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.
The foolish fears of what might happen,--
I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay;
Among the husking of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born,
Out in the fields with God.
_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._
The Bluebird's Song
I know the song that the bluebird is singing,
Out in the apple tree where he is swinging.
Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary--
Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.
Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat!
Hark! was there ever so merry a note?
Listen a while, and you'll hear what he's saying,
Up in the apple tree swinging and swaying.
"Dear little blossoms down under the snow,
You must be weary of winter I know.
Listen, I'll sing you a message of cheer!
Summer is coming! and springtime is here!
"Little white snowdrop! I pray you arise;
Bright yellow crocus! please open your eyes;
Sweet little violets, hid from the cold,
Put on your mantles of purple and gold;
Daffodils! Daffodils! say, do you hear?--
Summer is coming, and springtime is here!"
_Emily Huntington Miller._
The Main Truck, or a Leap for Life
Old Ironsides at anchor lay,
In the harbor of Mahon;
A dead calm rested on the bay,--
The waves to sleep had gone;
When little Hal, the Captain's son,
A lad both brave and good,
In sport, up shroud and rigging ran,
And on the main truck stood!
A shudder shot through every vein,--
All eyes were turned on high!
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,
Between the sea and sky;
No hold had he above, below;
Alone he stood in air:
To that far height none dared to go,--
No aid could reach him there.
We gazed, but not a man could speak,--
With horror all aghast,--
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,--
We watched the quivering mast.
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,
And of a lurid hue;--
As riveted unto the spot,
Stood officers and crew.
The father came on deck:--he gasped,
"Oh, God; thy will be done!"
Then suddenly a rifle grasped,
And aimed it at his son.
"Jump, far out, boy, into the wave!
Jump, or I fire," he said;
"That only chance your life can save;
Jump, jump, boy!" He obeyed.
He sunk,--he rose,--he lived,--he moved,--
And for the ship struck out.
On board we hailed the lad beloved,
With many a manly shout.
His father drew, in silent joy,
Those wet arms round his neck,
And folded to his heart his boy,--
Then fainted on the deck.
_Morris._
The Arrow and the Song
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
_H.W. Longfellow._
The Green Mountain Justice
"The snow is deep," the Justice said;
"There's mighty mischief overhead."
"High talk, indeed!" his wife exclaimed;
"What, sir! shall Providence be blamed?"
The Justice, laughing, said, "Oh no!
I only meant the loads of snow
Upon the roofs. The barn is weak;
I greatly fear the roof will break.
So hand me up the spade, my dear,
I'll mount the barn, the roof to clear."
"No!" said the wife; "the barn is high,
And if you slip, and fall, and die,
How will my living be secured?--
Stephen, your life is not insured.
But tie a rope your waist around,
And it will hold you safe and sound."
"I will," said he. "Now for the roof--
All snugly tied, and danger-proof!
Excelsior! Excel--But no!
The rope is not secured below!"
Said Rachel, "Climb, the end to throw
Across the top, and I will go
And tie that end around my waist."
"Well, every woman to her taste;
You always would be tightly laced.
Rachel, when you became my bride,
I thought the knot securely tied;
But lest the bond should break in twain,
I'll have it fastened once again."
Below the arm-pits tied around,
She takes her station on the ground,
While on the roof, beyond the ridge,
He shovels clear the lower edge.
But, sad mischance! the loosened snow
Comes sliding down, to plunge below.
And as he tumbles with the slide,
Up Rachel goes on t'other side.
Just half-way down the Justice hung;
Just half-way up the woman swung.
"Good land o' Goshen!" shouted she;
"Why, do you see it?" answered he.
The couple, dangling in the breeze,
Like turkeys hung outside to freeze,
At their rope's end and wits' end, too,
Shout back and forth what best to do.
Cried Stephen, "Take it coolly, wife;
All have their ups and downs in life."
Quoth Rachel, "What a pity 'tis
To joke at such a thing as this!
A man whose wife is being hung
Should know enough to hold his tongue."
"Now, Rachel, as I look below,
I see a tempting heap of snow.
Suppose, my dear, I take my knife,
And cut the rope to save my life?"
She shouted, "Don't! 'twould be my death--
I see some pointed stones beneath.
A better way would be to call,
With all our might, for Phebe Hall."
"Agreed!" he roared. First he, then she
Gave tongue; "O Phebe! Phebe! _Phe-e-be_ Hall!" in tones both fine
and coarse.
Enough to make a drover hoarse.
Now Phebe, over at the farm,
Was sitting, sewing, snug and warm;
But hearing, as she thought, her name,
Sprang up, and to the rescue came;
Beheld the scene, and thus she thought:
"If now a kitchen chair were brought,
And I could reach the lady's foot,
I'd draw her downward by the boot,
Then cut the rope, and let him go;
He cannot miss the pile of snow."
He sees her moving toward his wife.
Armed with a chair and carving-knife,
And, ere he is aware, perceives
His head ascending to the eaves;
And, guessing what the two are at,
Screams from beneath the roof, "Stop that!
You make me fall too far, by half!"
But Phebe answers, with a laugh,
"Please tell a body by what right
You've brought your wife to such a plight!"
And then, with well-directed blows,
She cuts the rope and down he goes.
The wife untied, they walk around
When lo! no Stephen can be found.
They call in vain, run to and fro;
They look around, above, below;
No trace or token can they see,
And deeper grows the mystery.
Then Rachel's heart within her sank;
But, glancing at the snowy bank,
She caught a little gleam of hope,--
A gentle movement of the rope.
They scrape away a little snow;
What's this? A hat! Ah! he's below;
Then upward heaves the snowy pile,
And forth he stalks in tragic style,
Unhurt, and with a roguish smile;
And Rachel sees, with glad surprise,
The missing found, the fallen rise.
_Rev. Henry Reeves._
Jane Conquest
About the time of Christmas
(Not many months ago),
When the sky was black
With wrath and rack,
And the earth was white with snow,
When loudly rang the tumult
Of winds and waves of strife,
In her home by the sea,
With her babe on her knee,
Sat Harry Conquest's wife.
And he was on the ocean,
Although she knew not where,
For never a lip
Could tell of the ship,
To lighten her heart's despair.
And her babe was fading and dying;
The pulse in the tiny wrist
Was all but still,
And the brow was chill,
And pale as the white sea mist.
Jane Conquest's heart was hopeless;
She could only weep and pray
That the Shepherd mild
Would take her child
Without a pain away.
The night was dark and darker,
And the storm grew stronger still,
And buried in deep
And dreamless sleep
Lay the hamlet under the hill.
The fire was dead on the hearthstone
Within Jane Conquest's room,
And still sat she,
With her babe on her knee,
At prayer amid the gloom.
When, borne above the tempest,
A sound fell on her ear,
Thrilling her through,
For well she knew
'Twas the voice of mortal fear.
And a light leaped in at the lattice,
Sudden and swift and red;
Crimsoning all,
The whited wall,
And the floor, and the roof o'erhead.
For one brief moment, heedless
Of the babe upon her knee,
With the frenzied start
Of a frightened heart,
Upon her feet rose she.
And through the quaint old casement
She looks upon the sea;
Thank God that the sight
She saw that night
So rare a sight should be!
Hemmed in by many a billow
With mad and foaming lip,
A mile from shore,
Or hardly more,
She saw a gallant ship.
And to her horror she beheld it
Aflame from stem to stern;
For there seemed no speck
On all that wreck
Where the fierce fire did not burn;
Till the night was like a sunset,
And the sea like a sea of blood,
And the rocks and shore
Were bathed all o'er
And drenched with the gory flood.
She looked and looked, till the terror
Went creeping through every limb;
And her breath came quick,
And her heart grew sick,
And her sight grew dizzy and dim;
And her lips had lost their utterance,
For she tried but could not speak;
And her feelings found
No channel of sound
In prayer, or sob, or shriek.
Once more that cry of anguish
Thrilled through the tempest's strife,
And it stirred again
In heart and brain
The active thinking life;
And the light of an inspiration
Leaped to her brightened eye,
And on lip and brow
Was written now
A purpose pure and high.
Swiftly she turns, and softly
She crosses the chamber floor,
And faltering not,
In his tiny cot
She laid the babe she bore.
And then with a holy impulse,
She sank to her knees, and made
A lowly prayer,
In the silence there,
And this was the prayer she prayed:
"O Christ, who didst bear the scourging,
And who now dost wear the crown,
I at Thy feet,
O True and Sweet,
Would lay my burden down.
Thou bad'st me love and cherish
The babe Thou gavest me,
And I have kept
Thy word, nor stept
Aside from following Thee.
"And lo! my boy is dying!
And vain is all my care;
And my burden's weight
Is very great,
Yea, greater than I can bear!
O Lord, Thou know'st what peril
Doth threat these poor men's lives,
And I, a woman,
Most weak and human,
Do plead for their waiting wives.
"Thou canst not let them perish;
Up, Lord, in Thy strength, and save
From the scorching breath
Of this terrible death
On this cruel winter wave.
Take Thou my babe and watch it,
No care is like to Thine;
And let Thy power
In this perilous hour
Supply what lack is mine."
And so her prayer she ended,
And rising to her feet,
Gave one long look
At the cradle nook
Where the child's faint pulses beat;
And then with softest footsteps
Retrod the chamber floor,
And noiselessly groped
For the latch, and oped,
And crossed the cottage door.
And through the tempest bravely
Jane Conquest fought her way,
By snowy deep
And slippery steep
To where her duty lay.
And she journeyed onward, breathless,
And weary and sore and faint,
Yet forward pressed
With the strength, and the zest,
And the ardor of a saint.
Solemn, and weird, and lonely
Amid its countless graves,
Stood the old gray church
On its tall rock perch,
Secure from the sea and its waves;
And beneath its sacred shadow
Lay the hamlet safe and still;
For however the sea
And the wind might be,
There was quiet under the hill.
Jane Conquest reached the churchyard,
And stood by the old church door,
But the oak was tough
And had bolts enough,
And her strength was frail and poor;
So she crept through a narrow window,
And climbed the belfry stair,
And grasped the rope,
Sole cord of hope,
For the mariners in despair.
And the wild wind helped her bravely,
And she wrought with an earnest will,
And the clamorous bell
Spoke out right well
To the hamlet under the hill.
And it roused the slumbering fishers,
Nor its warning task gave o'er
Till a hundred fleet
And eager feet
Were hurrying to the shore.
And then it ceased its ringing,
For the woman's work was done,
And many a boat
That was now afloat
Showed man's work had begun.
But the ringer in the belfry
Lay motionless and cold,
With the cord of hope.
The church-bell rope,
Still in her frozen hold.
How long she lay it boots not,
But she woke from her swoon at last
In her own bright room.
To find the gloom,
And the grief, and the peril past,
With the sense of joy within her,
And the Christ's sweet presence near;
And friends around,
And the cooing sound
Of her babe's voice in her ear.
And they told her all the story,
How a brave and gallant few
O'ercame each check,
And reached the wreck,
And saved the hopeless crew.
And how the curious sexton
Had climbed the belfry stair,
And of his fright
When, cold and white,
He found her lying there;
And how, when they had borne her
Back to her home again,
The child she left
With a heart bereft
Of hope, and weary with pain,
Was found within his cradle
In a quiet slumber laid;
With a peaceful smile
On his lips the while,
And the wasting sickness stayed.
And she said "Twas the Christ who watched it,
And brought it safely through";
And she praised His truth
And His tender ruth
Who had saved her darling too.
Nathan Hale
To drum beat and heart beat,
A soldier marches by,
There is color in his cheek,
There is courage in his eye;
Yet to drum beat and heart beat,
In a moment he must die.
By starlight and moonlight,
He seeks the Britons' camp;
He hears the rustling flag,
And the armed sentry's tramp;
And the starlight and moonlight
His silent wanderings lamp.
With a slow tread and still tread,
He scans the tented line,
And he counts the battery guns
By the gaunt and shadowy pine,
And his slow tread and still tread
Gives no warning sign.
The dark wave, the plumed wave,
It meets his eager glance;
And it sparkles 'neath the stars,
Like the glimmer of a lance--
A dark wave, a plumed wave,
On an emerald expanse.
A sharp clang, a steel clang,
And terror in the sound!
For the sentry, falcon-eyed,
In the camp a spy has found;
With a sharp clang, a steel clang,
The patriot is bound.
With calm brow, steady brow,
He listens to his doom.
In his look there is no fear,
Nor a shadow trace of gloom,
But with calm brow, steady brow,
He robes him for the tomb.
In the long night, the still night,
He kneels upon the sod;
And the brutal guards withhold
E'en the solemn word of God!
In the long night, the still night,
He walks where Christ hath trod.
'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,
He dies upon the tree;
And he mourns that he can give
But one life for liberty;
And in the blue morn, the sunny morn
His spent wings are free.
But his last words, his message words,
They burn, lest friendly eye
Should read how proud and calm
A patriot could die.
With his last words, his dying words,
A soldier's battle cry.
From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
From monument and urn,
The sad of earth, the glad of Heaven,
His tragic fate shall learn;
And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
The name of Hale shall burn.
_Francis M. Finch._
The Lips That Touch Liquor Must Never Touch Mine
You are coming to woo me, but not as of yore,
When I hastened to welcome your ring at the door;
For I trusted that he who stood waiting me then,
Was the brightest, the truest, the noblest of men.
Your lips on my own when they printed "Farewell,"
Had never been soiled by "the beverage of hell";
But they come to me now with the bacchanal sign,
And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
I think of that night in the garden alone,
When in whispers you told me your heart was my own,
That your love in the future should faithfully be
Unshared by another, kept only for me.
Oh, sweet to my soul is the memory still
Of the lips which met mine, when they murmured "I will";
But now to their pressure no more they incline,
For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine!
O John! how it crushed me, when first in your face
The pen of the "Rum Fiend" had written "disgrace";
And turned me in silence and tears from that breath
All poisoned and foul from the chalice of death.
It scattered the hopes I had treasured to last;
It darkened the future and clouded the past;
It shattered my idol, and ruined the shrine,
For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
I loved you--Oh, dearer than language can tell,
And you saw it, you proved it, you knew it too well!
But the man of my love was far other than he
Who now from the "Tap-room" comes reeling to me;
In manhood and honor so noble and right--
His heart was so true, and his genius so bright--
And his soul was unstained, unpolluted by wine;
But the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
You promised reform, but I trusted in vain;
Your pledge was but made to be broken again:
And the lover so false to his promises now,
Will not, as a husband, be true to his vow.
The word must be spoken that bids you depart--
Though the effort to speak it should shatter my heart--
Though in silence, with blighted affection, I pine,
Yet the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine!
If one spark in your bosom of virtue remain,
Go fan it with prayer till it kindle again;
Resolved, with "God helping," in future to be
From wine and its follies unshackled and free!
And when you have conquered this foe of your soul,--
In manhood and honor beyond his control--
This heart will again beat responsive to thine,
And the lips free from liquor be welcome to mine.
_George W. Young._
A Perfect Day
When you come to the end of a perfect day
And you sit alone with your thought
While the chimes ring out with a carol gay
For the joy that the day has brought,
Do you think what the end of a perfect day
Can mean to a tired heart?
When the sun goes down with a flaming ray
And the dear friends have to part?
Well, this is the end of a perfect day,
Near the end of a journey, too;
But it leaves a thought that is big and strong,
With a wish that is kind and true;
For mem'ry has painted this perfect day
With colors that never fade,
And we find, at the end of a perfect day,
The soul of a friend we've made.
_Carrie Jacobs Bond._
_Kate Ketchem_
Kate Ketchem on a winter's night
Went to a party dressed in white.
Her chignon in a net of gold,
Was about as large as they ever sold.
Gayly she went, because her "pap"
Was supposed to be a rich old chap.
But when by chance her glances fell
On a friend who had lately married well,
Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast--
A wish she wouldn't have had made known,
To have an establishment of her own.
Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng,
With chestnut hair, worn pretty long.
He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd,
And knowing her slightly, stopped and bowed;
Then asked her to give him a single flower,
Saying he'd think it a priceless dower.
Out from those with which she was decked,
She took the poorest she could select.
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
To call attention to her gown.
"Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought how dear
Flowers must be at that time of year.
Then several charming remarks he made,
Asked if she sang, or danced, or played;
And being exhausted, inquired whether
She thought it was going to be pleasant weather.
And Kate displayed her "jewelry,"
And dropped her lashes becomingly;
And listened, with no attempt to disguise
The admiration in her eyes.
At last, like one who has nothing to say,
He turned around and walked away.
Kate Ketchem smiled, and said, "You bet.
I'll catch that Fudge and his money yet.
He's rich enough to keep me in clothes,
And I think I could manage him as I chose.
He could aid my father as well as not,
And buy my brother a splendid yacht.
My mother for
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